by Karen Essex
“We anticipated a count of thirty thousand,” the priest whispered into Kleopatra’s ear as the boat slowly turned, heading straight for the Bucheum. “But I believe there are even more.”
Surely I will not be attacked on this sacred day in front of so many witnesses, Kleopatra thought, holding her breath, searching the face of the priest for any sign of betrayal. But he merely looked ahead, letting the sun warm his leathery brown skin. She eyed Redjedet’s red robe, wondering if its ample drapes sheathed a secret knife that might be used against her. She looked again at the multitude—thirty thousand people who despised the Greek tyrants—and fell against the priest’s arm. “Are you ill, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“No, it is merely that I did not sleep well,” she replied, with more composure than she thought possible.
The small brown priest was not much taller than the queen. He took her arm and leaned very close to her. “The point is not to sleep, Your Highness,” he said in Egyptian. “The temple is the place where Pharaoh comes to be united with Ka, his divine spirit—the spirit that gives him Divine Right to rule. If the union is successful, no sleep is necessary.” He turned away from the queen, letting his profile soak up the warmth of the sun god emanating from the east, closing his eyes, ending any possibility of conversation.
What was she to think now? She had been put to the test, and she had no way to gauge whether or not she had passed. If Kleopatra had been united with Ka during the night, the spirit had left no evidence. She was exhausted, empty, and terrified. Her stomach ached, her head felt as if a pair of invisible hands was squeezing her at the forehead and the nape of the neck, and her limbs were limp and useless. She could barely hold herself upright. She joined the high priest and Redjedet by turning her own face upward into the rays of the sun god, praying that she, too, would be blessed by his heat. She could think of no source of power to call upon but the Divine Lady, the Lady of One Thousand Names. Take away my fears, she prayed.
Instead of grace, she was struck with the worst kinds of visions. Even if she succeeded here and procured the loyalty of the Thebans, to what wickedness would she return? The revelation of her father’s death and her treachery in concealing it? The Royal Macedonian Household Troops or the Gabinian soldiers bribed into serving the government of Pothinus and her younger siblings? Hephaestion killed, or, worse, shown to be in conspiracy with the others? She might already be exiled from the city. She would not know until she tried to return. And to what was she returning? A eunuch’s dagger in her back? A hostile army at the palace gate? There was no sense in pursuing these horrible possibilities, yet she could not entirely block them from her mind. She took slow, deep breaths to push the fears away, but the hot air threw off her equilibrium even more.
Lady of Compassion, she prayed again. As Athena, the wise one, came to her beloved Odysseus in many disguises, always sending him the help he needed, mentoring him, befriending him, guiding him through the darkest moments of his journey—come to me now.
Was my father wrong to make me believe that the gods were good to those who honored them? Lady of Compassion, I am your daughter and this is my journey. Come to me as Athena came to her devoted Odysseus. Please do not forsake me, Mother of All.
The waters of the Nile, bluer now in the morning light, rushed past the boat like rough-cut sapphires. Feeling the weight of the goddess’s crown, Kleopatra balanced herself against the priest as the boat rocked into the harbor. She stood at the steps of the barge, blinded by the sun, waiting for the Egyptian military escort to help her descend, feeling safer once an officer’s warm, strong hand was on hers.
Despite the shaft of sunlight and the weightlessness in her head, she discerned the silhouette of the tremendous temple, the smooth pillars, the stark, bleached courtyard beyond, and the cavernous black windows that gaped like dark open mouths. Thousands of people waited at the gates to the sacred place, all dressed for the ceremony, a brilliant blanket of white against the vibrant reds and blues and greens of the painted pylons, with only a narrow path cut through the middle for the procession. Kleopatra realized that she would have to walk past them all. She closed her eyes against the harsh morning light, grateful for the momentary respite of blackness, feeling safety in the moment, and wishing she did not have to move from that spot.
Slowly, her dizziness tapered into clarity. With the escort leading her, balancing her, she descended the boat on a painted golden bridge hooked into the side of the vessel, its other end planted firmly on the shore. Kleopatra took very deliberate steps, feeling the planks beneath her feet, planting each foot firmly before the other, walking into the mass of Egyptians. She heard the bull snort as his hoofs hit the bridge, his step quickening as he descended behind her, and she hoped that he would not break his leather restraints and crush her from behind.
Steadily, she walked on toward the gates of the Bucheum. The shadows of its columns reached her, giving her eyes temporary umbrage from the brutally direct sun. The temple was huge, built high against a dry cliff that housed the mummified bodies of the many hundreds of sacred bulls who had presided over the temple though the ages. Kleopatra was closed enough now to see the eyes of the people in the crowd upon her—dark, curious ovals drawn like magnets to her face, but dropping quickly like nuts from a tree if she met their glance. Redjedet walked behind her, next to the bull, and Kleopatra heard the priestess whispering low murmuring sounds to calm the beast against the presence of the people. The guard before her called out to the crowd to widen the path to the temple. Though she knew that this courtesy was for the animal and not herself, she was grateful, for she was certain she would pass out cold if she had to walk through such a narrow passage, through such thick walls of human flesh. Through a body of people who probably did not care if she made it through their ranks alive.
She looked behind her to see if her own attendants were anywhere in her sight, but all she saw was the bull, his golden horns reflecting the god’s rays. Oh she was foolish. Why had she come on such short notice, so ill-prepared, so vulnerable? Well she would simply not do it. She was queen and she would prevail. The bull can lead himself, she thought. I am going back to my ship.
A congregation from the temple approached her. Male and female alike, they were costumed as soldiers of the god, their metallic breastplates blinding her, their muscular legs, wrapped tight under short brilliant white skirts, marching toward her. Some wore the headdress of the fierce and warlike lion-goddess, Sekhmet, lips frozen in a snarl, eyes wide and angry. Armed with golden bows and silver swords, they headed straight for their Greek queen, the last eight of them carrying what appeared to be a golden, slatted battering ram.
Kleopatra thought she might run. She turned around, but Redjedet was guiding the lumbering bull forward, blocking any escape. The Egyptian army strode directly up to the queen, its members flanking her sides until she was face-to-face with the giant, shimmering rammer. They turned the cylinder upright and stood aside. It was not a weapon, but a ladder, painted with a sparkling metallic alloy, and hung on both sides with garlands. Kleopatra stared at the strange object until the priest invited her to ascend it. She hesitated, wondering if they were putting her on this podium to stone her to death, or if this was part of the ceremony. She looked everywhere for her adviser, for her guard, but in the brilliant sunlight and in her dizzy condition, she could find no familiar faces. She was aware that all eyes were upon her. In the silence, she could feel the anticipation of the crowd. Praying for a sudden inspiration by which she might save herself, Kleopatra grabbed the sides of the ladder. Buoyed by the firmness of the wood, she carefully put one foot in front of the other as she climbed each small step. When she reached the top, she looked out over the swarm of people.
The sun struck her face like a blast of fire. She clutched at the top of the ladder and shut her eyes so tightly that her face shook, willing away the urge to give in to the heat and faint, when she realized that the sun was not draining her power, but fueling it. She turned her face up
ward like a flower and let its rays soak into her skin. She shivered as the heat ran down her body like lightning, and she felt so electrified that she let out an inaudible laugh. Laughing inside for the first time in so long, she let her lips fall open so that even her mouth could capture the blessings of the sun.
Suddenly, through her moment of joy, she heard the thunderous voice of the high priest crack the muffled hush of daybreak.
“All Hail King Kleopatra, Daughter of Isis, Daughter of Ra.”
The Egyptians began to chant her name. Kleopatra. Kleopatra. The priest cried out again in Greek. “All Hail Kleopatra, Daughter of Alexander, of Ptolemy the Savior, Lord of Alexandria and the Two Lands of Egypt.”
Kleopatra heard her name repeated by the crowd, first in the rows of people so close to her that their shadows crossed the steps of the ladder, and then, again and again through the layers of spectators. Soon the name Kleopatra seemed as if it were being chanted from the very walls of the temple, from the ground beneath her, from the banks, both east and west, of the river. She was surrounded by the sound of her own name as it waved through the crowd. It filled every breath of the hot desert air, and she felt embraced by the very sound of it.
Kleopatra, Kleopatra, Kleopatra. Glory to her father.
Slowly, cautiously, Kleopatra opened her eyes. The priests and priestesses, the lesser clergy, the sacred clerks, the officials both Egyptian and Greek, the peasant farmers, the military men, even Redjedet—all but the bull himself—were bowed low to the ground.
Part IV
EXILE
TWENTY
Sons of Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, welcome to Alexandria.”
Kleopatra received the young Romans in the Royal Reception Room favored by her late father, defying Hephaestion’s warning not to entertain important foreign visitors without a representative from her brother’s Regency Council. Let them find out about the Romans’ visit from their elaborate network of court spies, she had said.
Kleopatra had made no changes in her father’s government since the announcement of his death, but at that time, the lines of power were drawn. Pothinus the eunuch came into her office as she sat with Hephaestion making arrangements for the king’s funeral. Pothinus costumed his late-middle-age girth in voluminous painted robes, adorning himself with more silver-and-gold jewelry than the prostitutes in the Fayum. He clanked as he walked with the four attendants—two scribes, two slaves—who followed him at all times. On this day he was accompanied by a larger retinue that included Achillas, a commander of the army, a clever and handsome man with swarthy skin and white teeth, whom the queen did not quite like, and Theodotus, a small-minded Samian academician with a mouth pursed like old prunes, who now tutored the young Ptolemy brothers. Kleopatra wondered why Samos, the fair isle that gave the world Pythagoras, the genius architect Theodorus, and the fabulist Aesop, had long ago ceased to produce original minds.
The queen gave all leave to sit in her office, relieved when the motion terminated the jingling of Pothinus’s ornaments. Ceremoniously presenting her with a copy of the deceased king’s will, Pothinus said nothing, but waited for her reaction.
“All Egypt and much of Rome have seen this document, Pothinus,” Kleopatra said wearily, returning her attention to the review of the king’s death certificate. “Unless you’ve doctored it, it contains no surprises.”
“Your Majesty, we’ve come to see about the wedding.”
“Who is this ‘we’?” she asked, looking at Achillas, who had the audacity to smile at her. Theodotus could not meet her gaze. I will have trouble with him, she thought.
“We, the Regency Council of your brother and bridegroom, Ptolemy XIII the Elder.”
“By whose authority have you appointed yourselves Regency Council?”
“By our own, Your Majesty. We are the Chancellor,” he gestured to his own person. “And the guardianship of an underage king does fall under our sole jurisdiction.”
Kleopatra was well aware of the eunuch’s power but was still annoyed when she looked to the Prime Minister, who apologetically nodded confirmation of this fact of the government’s structure. She knew she was stalling for time, her mind racing for the best strategy to establish herself as this fop’s superior.
“Where are the proper formalities, Chancellor? You burst in upon my grief on the day of my father’s death without offering the consolations of the gods? I will see about having such an impious man in my government.”
“How unkind of me.” He sniffed, sat erect, and composed himself “May the gods carry the king swiftly across the River of Death on a winged chariot. May his earthly blessings follow him to the House of Eternity. May he justify himself to Lord Osiris, King of Life-Ever-After, and board the Divine Ship to the Underworld. May his eternal glory forever stay in the memory of those on Heaven and Earth.”
“May he safely reach the port of the land that loves silence,” Theodotus interjected nervously. “May the Lord of Brightness receive his Divine Essence—”
“Thank you both. May the gods bless you for your fervent prayers.”
Achillas suppressed another smile as Kleopatra interrupted them. She saw this and silently cursed his audacity. Was he trying to form some covert alliance with her? These days, her instincts in reading the motivations of others were rarely wrong. She rebuffed his complicit gaze, giving him no indication that she had picked up his signal.
“Your Majesty, may we focus on the interests of the living?” Pothinus asked condescendingly, his small black eyes opaque as onyx beads. “Ptolemy the Elder, heir to his father’s throne, has commanded that we set a date for the wedding ceremony.”
“We, not just my brother, are heirs to the throne. And I am already queen,” she replied. “I assume that is what you meant to say?”
Pothinus said nothing but glared through his eye makeup.
“As for my brother, he wastes no time mourning the dead king, does he? But for myself, even I cannot plan a funeral, a wedding, and a coronation on the same day,” Kleopatra continued. “Surely it would bring ill luck to us to set a wedding date on the day of the king’s death.”
“Nonetheless, it must be carried out according to your father’s wishes.” Pothinus had slipped into a tight-lipped, terse way of speaking that seemed completely foreign to his demeanor.
Kleopatra quickly took stock of her situation: Already she was queen; her brother required a ceremony to make him king. “You needn’t remind me of my father’s wishes,” she said. “I was at his side at the drawing of the will. We are in mourning; an elaborate ceremony would be in poor taste. According to Egyptian law, a marriage is legal upon the signing of the contract. No public display is necessary. Have the papers drawn up for me to sign. As you are aware, I am of age and require no guardian.”
She gave Pothinus a look that indicated that his business with her was concluded, whether he liked it or not.
“You may leave me now.”
“Your Majesty,” began Pothinus. “I do not know if your brother will accept these terms. He so looks forward to a ceremony. He believes it an important introduction to the people. For myself, I am certain the populace would be heartened at the sight of a boy king.”
“Have my brother see me if he wishes to discuss the matter.”
“But we are his Regency Council. I think it appropriate that we settle it here and now,” said the eunuch.
“You said it was my brother who would protest. Now I find that you are confused. You must learn to delineate between your own wishes and those of the future king.”
She dismissed them by returning her attention to the papers on her desk. The noise of Pothinus’s adornments echoed in her head long after he left the room. She said nothing.
“You must accept this marriage, even if you escape the ceremony,” Hephaestion advised.
“Must I?” she answered. “Must I really?” She had no intention of complying with any of them. Her plans did not include them, anyway, but she was not sure she should say this
to Hephaestion, who could be so very conventional when it came to matters of form. Why, she asked herself, should I subject myself to a ceremony that demonstrates that I am aligned with my brother and his council of freaks?
“My Lady, you’ve had your way with your father these last years. You’ve all but ruled alone. But your brother has as much legal and blood claim to the throne as you.”
“I can handle my tedious, schoolboy, Homer-quoting brother,” she said. “But I cannot govern with his Regency Council. I ruled this country with my father and then alone when my father lacked the interest. Why should I share the crown with a pompous eunuch, a dandy general, a second-rate philosopher, and a little boy?”
“In point of fact, the law favors the male heir regardless of age,” said Hephaestion, using his most reasonable tone.
“Laws are made by mortals and can be changed,” said Kleopatra. There was precedent for solitary female rulers; she had confirmed that on her recent voyage.
“I must warn you that if you will not cooperate with the Regency Council, you will bifurcate the government. You may threaten the peace your father established.”
“Let us not fool ourselves. Neither my brother nor I rule Egypt. Rome and its demands govern us all. I intend to continue my father’s policy, which Pothinus entirely opposes. I intend to secure the support of the Romans.”
“But why would Rome support you against your brother? That would be against the terms of your father’s will, which the Roman Pompey vowed to enforce. What is your strategy for getting their support?”
“The gods have not yet enlightened me,” she said. It was something her father might have said. “I can tell you one thing. I will not be manipulated by that lot. Alexandria cannot contain us all.”