No one answered.
“Come, come. Have you never walked along a beach? Never been in Judaea? What a bunch of parochials! Well, the tide comes in and destroys everything built of sand. All the little houses children construct—they’re washed away. Children aren’t the only ones who build of sand. What are the Egyptian villages made of? Sun-dried brick. What happens when brick gets wet?” He gestured toward a tub of water that was standing near the mysterious plant, waiting for his demonstration. Then he tossed a mud brick into it, sending a spray of water out onto the floor. “Watch this. In an hour or two it will revert to mud.”
The other scholars drew up the hems of their gowns. “Must you be so vehement?” one of them asked.
“I wish to make a point,” he said. “Thus the buildings will collapse. No great loss or expense, if in advance new ones are built out of reach of the floodwaters. Unlike the floods of poetry, this one comes gradually. There is time to prepare.” He paced a little before whirling around and announcing, “Standing water, however, is quite different from running water.”
This fellow was quite a showman, I thought. But what he was saying needed no flourishes.
“It breeds insects, frogs, and scum. It stinks. Diseases rise up out of it. It seeps into things out of its reach as it creeps underground. Stored grain, unless it is kept some distance away, will become wet and moldy. Then mice will multiply like mad. There will be a plague of mice!” His voice rose like a thunderclap.
“Calm yourself,” said Olympos. “They are not scurrying beneath your feet.”
“And what will come then?” Telesikles continued, ignoring the gibe. “Snakes! A plague of serpents!” He grabbed an old man’s arm and pulled him out of the crowd of scholars. “Tell them, Aischines! Tell them about the serpents!”
The old man had skin like ancient papyrus: it was all lined and flaking and seemed brittle. His voice was likewise fragile and brittle. “The snakes! The snakes!” he muttered. “The storehouse of venomous serpents will open and pour forth her treasures!” He blinked and looked around, clearly measuring his audience. It must have been a well-prepared recital. “We live in a part of the world the deadliest of serpents calls home,” he whispered. “Is not the asp the symbol of Egypt? The sacred snake, whose spread hood hovers over the brow of every Pharaoh, protecting him? His bite renders the Pharaoh immortal, should he choose that way of death, and gives him the blessing of Amun-Re. The asp!” Now his very voice seemed like the dry sifting of leaves in a sepulcher. “It induces sleep with its concentrated poison. Death is swift. In sudden darkness its victim departs to join the dead, when bitten by this serpent of the Nile.”
He suddenly whirled around and stabbed his scrawny finger in another direction. “But the Seps! The horror of its bite! For its poison dissolves the very bones within the body. A person melts! And when the body is burned on a funeral pyre, no bones can be found! Other poisons remove life, but the Seps removes the body as well.”
Olympos rolled his eyes in disbelief, but Mardian’s were growing large in fascination. I did not know what to think. Was any of this true?
“Then there’s the Prester snake,” the old man said, now lowering his voice almost to a whisper. Everyone strained forward to hear it. “It causes such extreme swelling that a man will blow up to giant size, so that his features are buried in the shapeless mass. He cannot even be put in a tomb, because the body just keeps growing and growing.”
Olympos gave a great hoot of laughter, and so did many others. But the laughter was nervous.
The speaker held up his hand and glared at them. “Do you laugh? But you have never seen a victim. Had you, there would be no laughter, I assure you. I suppose you haven’t seen a man bitten by a Haemorrhois, either? It turns a person into one big wound—blood gushes everywhere. His very tears are blood! His sweat is blood! And what about the Dipsas? Its venom drinks up the moisture of the body and turns a man’s innards into a scorching desert! It is a thirsty poison! A victim will cut open his own veins to drink his own blood!”
“This is most informative,” I said, cutting off his recitation. “But we already know that men die of poisonous snakebites. Not all the snakes that will arise to eat the mice are poisonous. In fact, the snakes do us a favor by eating the mice. It is the mice that cause us to lose our food, not the snakes.”
“Yes, snakes are not our enemies,” said Mardian, finding his voice at last. “They also seldom attack unless they are threatened. As a boy, I kept snakes and I know their ways. I think we need not worry about the snakes.”
“The mice and rats are a different matter,” I said. “Still, should the proliferation of the vermin cause villagers to be bitten by a poisonous snake, is there not a group of snake-handlers that can help them?”
“You refer to the Psylli of Marmarica,” said the old man, haughtily. He had not appreciated having his speech interrupted, and now he made a show of his hurt feelings. “They are immune to the poison of snakes. I was going to tell you that they can render a site harmless by incantation to drive away the serpents, and by a medicated fire that will guard the borders. And if anyone is bitten, their saliva can counteract the poison in the wound, and they can also suck it out. So skilled are they that by the taste alone they can detect which type of serpent bit the victim! I was going to tell you where to find the Psylli, but now, since you think you are in no danger from the snakes…” He shrugged majestically and stepped back into the group of scientists.
“We would welcome the information,” I said, to soothe him. “Pray, you must tell us. But it seems to me that we must first secure our food supply. The grain remaining from last year’s harvest must be transported to new storehouses. These must be built hurriedly. How difficult will this be? Can anyone estimate?”
“I have anticipated this question,” said a voice from the back. A Nubian stepped forward. “I have already done the calculations.”
“Very well. Tell us.”
“The storehouses are not even a quarter full at this time of year. Most of the grain has already been consumed or shipped abroad. I estimate there are around a thousand storehouses up and down the Nile. But we would have to build only two hundred fifty full-sized ones to accommodate all the grain left. And they would not have to be well built. Any sort of structure would serve, as long as it is dry and enclosed.” He had a deep, sonorous voice that made his figures sound authoritative.
“How long would it take?”
“Not long,” he said. “It takes only a few days for mud bricks to dry, and then the building could proceed quickly.”
“Is it possible to estimate how far out the floodwaters will spread? We want to build the emergency warehouses at a safe site, but no farther away than necessary. Transporting all that grain will be difficult enough,” I said.
“Your Majesty, I am sorry to say I don’t think there is very much grain,” he said. “Therefore transporting it will not take long.”
And should we need to import grain, was there any place to buy it? It was Egypt that fed the world, not vice versa. Some could be procured from Sicily or Numidia. But would it be enough?
“We will have to set up food distribution centers, and appoint overseers,” I said. “We must ration the remaining grain. I shall appoint officers to do so in each district. And I will personally visit each of the centers.”
Suddenly I felt very tired. The task before me, and all Egypt, was a formidable one. “I thank you all for your help. I appreciate your preparing the information so carefully and thoughtfully,” I said. I glanced over at the water tub. “Pray, show us what has happened to the brick,” I requested.
With a theatrical gesture, Telesikles stepped forward. “Behold!” he said, dragging an empty tub. He then bent down and picked up the other one, pouring its dark contents out into the waiting receptacle. Once all the water was gone, nothing remained on the bottom but a thick layer of pure brown mud.
“Your dwellings and storehouses!” he said. “See their ruin!”
18
The sun was sinking. I sat waiting by the side of the sacred lake of an Upper Egyptian temple—a lake that tonight would be swallowed up by the Nile, an unwilling offering to the angry god. Perhaps that would appease him.
My legs were tucked up under me as I hunched on the stone bench that overlooked the lake. Water was ankle-deep around the base of it. That meant that no officials, no priests, no servants or advisors were likely to stand there, looking over my shoulder. I was alone—blessedly, wonderfully alone. It felt like purest balm rubbed over my body, massaged into my skin. Alone. Alone. Alone.
For the past few weeks I had been surrounded by people at all times. My visitations up and down the river meant that I was always a guest in someone’s home, always being officially welcomed with some ceremony or other, always having to make speeches or read reports or confer gifts, and never betraying any weakness, boredom, or fatigue. In its own way, it was worse than war for wearing me down. The truth is, I found it a trial to be pleasant all the time. Perhaps I am not naturally a pleasant person!
No, I think it is more that I need a certain amount of privacy every day—a few minutes completely alone—in the same way I need food or sleep. Just as everyone’s need for food and sleep varies, so, apparently, does everyone’s need for privacy. I have noticed that some people seem never to have an instant to themselves, and their humor is none the worse for it. I envy those people. But I am not one of them.
Tonight I would swim in a sacred lake. It was something I had always wanted to do, but did not think would ever be possible, for doing so would profane the waters. But tonight the Nile was going to taint it, and before this lake could ever be used again for religious purposes, it would have to be reconsecrated.
The flat, rectangular surface of the lake gave back the fading colors of the sky. It lay tranquil in the twilight, waiting serenely, never suspecting that it was about to be violated. Its waters were supposed to be carried away only by priests in silver buckets, to be used for purifying the temple and the priests themselves, and only a miniature barque of the god was allowed to sail upon it in the mystery plays. Now I would enter it, swim in its forbidden waters.
Along with privacy, I had longed for a bathe during this whole journey. In the palace we had pools exclusively for swimming, but once I left Alexandria there was no such thing to be found. In each district I was usually a guest of the head official. His house was invariably a fine structure of whitewashed mud brick, with an enclosed walled garden and an ornamental fish pond, bordered with palms and acadias. It provided a cool, pleasant place to sit in the evenings, but the fish would have been startled indeed had a person suddenly joined them.
Children swim for fun, but adults generally do not—most likely because of few opportunities. In Rome I was told—and later saw for myself—that going to the baths was an important part of the day. But their type of bath was neither pure sport—as the Greeks would have—nor pure diversion, as children would have. The Romans managed to turn baths, like everything else, into a hotbed of political intrigue and gossip.
But enough about the Romans. Why am I letting them intrude on my memories of that dusk in Upper Egypt? I remember waiting, silently, for the evening star to come out. When I saw it, I rose from the bench and walked over to the edge of the lake. My bare feet made ripples as I waded through the encroaching flood. About ten feet remained before river and lake would meet.
I made my way over to the flight of steps descending into the water, where the priests in their vestments bend to fill their sacramental vessels. I stood and looked down, at the water so dark and unknown. I had no idea how deep the waters were. I assumed they would be well over my head, but I had long since lost my fear of water.
One foot in, then the next. The water was warm, as it soaked up the sun all day long. Now it was hard to tell just where the air ended and the water began, so nearly alike were they in temperature. The hem of my gown floated out around my legs, white and delicate, like the sacred water lily. I took another step down; now the water was at my knees. Ripples spread out over the wide surface of the lake, smoothly reaching for the far corners. They made no sound.
I moved farther down the steps, until the warm waters were lapping at my shoulders, soothing them like the gentle touch of Charmian. How monumentally calm it felt. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Tomorrow, tomorrow I would think about the flood and the people and taxation and relief for the oppressed. But now I need think of nothing, nothing, nothing….
I pushed away from the steps and hung suspended in the water. It was deep; I pointed my toes and still could feel nothing beneath them, not even the hint of a bottom. Slowly I began to move my arms, to swim languidly and keep myself afloat. I had no desire to do anything other than float, drift, give myself up to the stillness.
The sky had darkened; one by one the stars were coming out. In a few moments I would not be able to see the edge of the lake, or be able to tell how near I was to the side. I could still see the faint trace of white where my wet gown waved around me, but soon even that would be gone. No one could reach me, no one could see me, and no one would even know I was there.
I should make for safety while I could still see my way, but still I lingered in the warm water, turning slowly, feeling weightless. Weightless, that was what I wanted to be. I was tired of the weight of the kingdom, tired of carrying what felt like the load of ten men. I had thought to help Caesar carry the burden of the world. It is too much for one man, I had said to myself. Let me help you carry it. What a fool I had been! I could barely carry Egypt, and I offer to help shoulder Caesar’s world as well?
But you are only twenty-two, came the voice from inside my head. And Egypt is not just any country, but one of the largest in the world, and still the richest. And the gods have not been kind to Egypt since you came to the throne; they have sent famine and now a flood. And there is the aftermath of war….
Silence, I told that voice. The strong look for more strength, the weak for excuses. The truth is that any country is more difficult to rule than it would first appear. Even a small village has its problems. Nothing is easy.
Inside the nearby temple, I saw a flicker of light. Torches were being lit, and reflections of fire danced on the water. The thick sandstone columns seemed to glow. I saw the outline of black figures moving between columns, and even from this distance could smell the sweet-burnt smell of camphor incense. The priests were preparing the statue of the god in his shiny black stone sanctuary for the night.
I could also hear a faint grunting and wheezing coming from some distance away. The sacred crocodiles! Their pond lay on the far side of the temple, with strong fences around it—if I remembered correctly. But when the Nile rose higher—might not the crocodiles swim free? It would seem a blessing for them, and they would doubtless praise the Nile for his kindness.
I swam silently toward the far corner of the lake, making for the other set of steps. I bumped up against them and sat on one that allowed me to remain nearly all submerged. Now that I had found my way to safety, I had no desire to quit the waters entirely. I could stay there as long as I liked.
It was thoroughly dark by the time I finally climbed the stairs, water streaming from me as from a sea god’s daughter. Now the air felt strange to be so light and cold; water had come to seem natural.
Yes, it was cold out here. I shivered as I remembered I had a long walk back to the town, and I had not even brought a mantle. During the day in Upper Egypt it is so hot you cannot believe you will not always be comfortable in the sheerest linen, and so it is easy to forget to bring a covering.
Yet I was glad to feel the cold, to learn what my subjects who cannot afford a mantle must feel. I have been told it is common to share a mantle, one staying at home in bed while the other goes out. What must that be like? And Egypt is the richest country in the world! They say the poor in Rome are indescribable in their misery.
But I’ll not think of Rome now, I told myself sternly. No.
Not now. It is far away, and it may come about that I shall never see it.
There now remained only a small strip of dry path between the river and the sacred lake; while I had swum, the river had silently risen. I splashed through it, kicking up waves and spray. I felt like a child again, playing in forbidden places, jumping in puddles, not thinking about Rome or diplomatic dispatches.
When I reached the village administrator’s house, my idyll came to an end. They were all waiting for me: Senenmut, the secretary; Ipuy, the district official; and even Mereruka, the governor of the bureaucratic jurisdiction. The walled house, the grandest in the village, was nonetheless barely big enough for all of them to sit in the garden comfortably, where they were playing a board game called “snake” by the light of a smoky lamp. They all leapt up when I entered, and Mereruka sputtered, “A covering! A covering for the Queen!” Then he clucked, “What has happened? Did you have an accident in the Nile?” Clearly he was terrified that I might perish within the boundaries of his jurisdiction, and punishment would follow swiftly.
I shook my hair, still wet. “No.” Should I tell them? “I have been swimming. It was delightful—I found all my cares were borne away on the water.”
“In the dark?” cried Senenmut. “With the crocodiles?”
“Not with the crocodiles,” I assured him. “They are still behind their fences, although I heard them thrashing about.”
“Where, then?” demanded Mereruka.
“In a secret place,” I replied, in my most imperious tone. “Now, my good ministers, what have you been discussing here in the dark?” It was my turn to interrogate them.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 26