Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  We arrived at a small brick building that Euphronius called their temple, though I would not have thought it so. In our Temple of Isis we had great brass doors that opened dramatically as if by the unseen hands of the Goddess, thanks to fire-driven machines created by the scientists at our Museion. Inside, giant lotus columns, thirty cubits high, soared into the sky. Morning light pouring in from the roof’s sun grate made the gold-leaf hieroglyphs on the walls shimmer with an otherworldly beauty. Immense painted statues of the gods reminded us of their power, majesty, and mystery. In contrast, the Hebrew temple, except for the marble columns in the entranceway, felt as if we had entered someone’s humble home. No paintings or statues of gods or goddesses adorned the walls; no niches were set off for private communion. Only a ceremonial flame by the altar hinted that it was a house of worship.

  A kindly-looking old man with a long, uncurled gray beard greeted us. “Welcome, welcome!” he said, his eyes crinkling with warmth. He led us into a side room away from where a group of men prayed with fervor, their eyes closed, lips moving, and bodies rocking ever so slightly back and forth.

  “I am Rabbi Yoseph ben Zakkai,” he said. “I met my good friend Euphronius at the Library when he and I debated the nature of the divine many years ago.”

  Learning that our teacher had a life outside of tutoring us always gave me a jolt. That Euphronius had friends was even more shocking.

  “Who won the debate?” Alexandros asked.

  “He did!” both men said, laughing as they pointed to each other.

  As we settled in the rabbi’s tablinum, the rabbi began, “My friend tells me his young charges need to learn a bit more about the world.”

  I bristled at the implication we were insulated, spoiled, overprotected little brats.

  The rabbi then explained the basics of his faith. “There is only one God who created and rules the world,” he said. “He is all knowing, all powerful, and in all places at all times. He is also just and merciful.”

  “Who is his consort-wife?” I asked, thinking of Isis and her husband, Osiris. “What is she like?”

  “Our God has no wife. There is no goddess. Hashem created the world and is responsible for its existence. We are here to obey His commandments and laws.”

  I blinked. No goddess? How could that be? “But the bearing of life is the province of women,” I said. “What does a male god know of these things?”

  “In my faith, the goddesses Anahit and Astghik are the bringers of life and love,” agreed Iotape. “Why would your male god not want a consort?” She looked at me and smiled as if for approval.

  “Our God supersedes all. There is only one God,” the rabbi repeated. “We owe everything to Him, he who has made us His chosen people and revealed His commandments to us.”

  The rabbi launched into the Hebrew story about their first man and woman. His god placed them in a Garden of Happiness and commanded them not to eat the fruit of a magic tree. But a serpent tempted them and both ate of the forbidden fruit. Their god was very angry and the man blamed the woman.

  “But if both the man and the woman ate of the fruit, why does the woman get all the blame?” I interrupted, sitting forward on the wooden bench. I did not look at Euphronius, guessing he was glaring at me.

  “Because she is weaker and tempted the man,” he said, seemingly surprised at the question. “Therefore, she is more evil.”

  “But—” Euphronius cleared his throat. I ignored him. “But wasn’t she just curious? Isn’t curiosity a useful human trait? Why would your god give humans curiosity and then tell them not to use it?”

  “Ah, but God was not testing their curiosity or intelligence. He was testing their obedience,” the rabbi explained. He took a breath to continue, but I jumped in.

  “But why would a god do this? And why would he test them without telling them he was testing them? Perhaps they might not have eaten from it if they understood what would happen if they disobeyed? And … and if he was all knowing, why did he not know that his creations would succumb to the temptation of curiosity? After all, didn’t he create them that way?”

  “Princess,” Euphronius interrupted. “I remind you, you are a guest in this holy man’s temple. Please do not …”

  But the old man smiled at me and waved Euphronius off. “No, no, this is excellent. Only through dialogue will we come to understand each other, yes?”

  I smiled back at him. Then the rabbi explained a concept I had not heard of before — one that he called “free will.”

  “God created man with the impulse to do good and the impulse to do evil. Free will is the ability to choose to act on either of these impulses. God commands us to follow the Torah and to choose goodness over sin.”

  “But how is it free will if mankind is commanded to choose a certain way?” I asked. “That’s like — that is like if I held two hands out for you to choose. In one, I held a pearl, in the other an emerald. If I commanded you to choose the pearl, then you are not freely choosing it, yes?”

  The rabbi shook his head. “It is the discernment — the knowledge of good and evil — that is at the heart of free will.” He unwound an ancient-looking scroll and scanned it, putting one finger up for us to wait. “Ah, yes. Here it is. Genesis. This is what happened after Adam and Eve disobeyed God.” He read aloud first in Hebrew and then translated it into Greek for us: “‘Behold, Adam has become as one of us, knowing good and evil.’“

  “But wait,” I interrupted. “Your holy book says your first man became ‘as one of us.’ I thought you said there was only one god. Why does it say ‘us’?”

  “A figure of speech,” the rabbi said with a quick flick of the wrist. “What is important is the idea that God will bless us if we follow Him, but if our hearts turn astray, we will be destroyed. Each man must choose every day.”

  “That is not so different than the Weighing of the Heart test Osiris says we must pass,” Alexandros pointed out. “If we live by ma’at, then we will not be devoured by the evil monster, Amut.”

  The rabbi paused. “This is different. There are no beast gods, there is only One God.”

  “And what does our Greek heritage say?” Euphronius asked us, as if he wanted to change the subject.

  “That we cannot outrun our fates,” I answered. “Hubris, the great crime against the gods, was thinking that we could. And hubris took down even the best of men, like Achilles and Oedipus.”

  My tutor nodded. A slave entered and poured watered wine into clay cups for us. “There are many slaves who live good lives,” I said to the rabbi. “But most did not choose to be slaves. And they cannot choose not to be slaves. Do they not have free will, then? Doesn’t this prove that their fates are already decided? Just like our own — that I will rule Egypt and Alexandros will rule Parthia and that the slave will always be a slave?”

  “No, see.” The rabbi smiled. “Even a slave can choose to obey God. Our only job is to love God and obey His commandments, no matter what the circumstances.”

  I was more confused than ever. How was it free will if your only job was to obey?

  “It is getting late, children, we must return,” Euphronius said. So the rabbi finished by explaining that a new age awaited humanity — that the Jews waited for a man they called Mashiach — a savior of the people, a man of God who would end all fighting and unite humanity as one.

  “Can the Mashiach be a woman?” I asked.

  Alexandros sniggered. Iotape elbowed him.

  “Well, no,” answered the rabbi.

  “Why not?”

  “Because … well, because the prophets say the Mashiach will be a man.”

  “But if your god truly wanted to test his people’s faith and obedience, then he could very well send a woman, couldn’t he?” As always, I thought only of Mother. If Mother could be “queen of kings,” then why could not another great woman be their Mashiach?

  “Theoretically, yes …”

  “Princess,” Euphronius interrupted with a tired edg
e in his voice. “We do not want to exhaust our most generous host. Let us save those questions for another time.”

  “But the Jews aren’t the only ones saying that a great new age is coming,” Alexandros jumped in. “Remember, Virgil says that a boy will usher in a golden age and rule a world ‘blessed’ with peace.”

  For our Latin studies, we had read the Roman poet Virgil’s fourth Eclogue, and Alexandros had great fun claiming he was this “Golden Child” the poem referred to. After all, wasn’t he named after the sun?

  I looked at Iotape, and she had crossed her arms in irritation with my brother too. That made me warm to her. But before I could respond, Alexandros said, “I repeat, sister, the poem says ‘boy’ not girl.’“

  I reached over to pinch the soft underside of his upper arm. “You arrogant little —”

  “Children!” Euphronius cried. “I do believe it is time to bid our honored host farewell.”

  Alexandros’s baiting and my experience at the Jewish temple opened my eyes to the fact that most men thought women inferior. After all, I had grown up under the shadow of the most powerful woman in the world. I saw great men prostrate themselves at her feet. I worshipped at the altar of the greatest Goddess of All, Isis.

  But I began paying more attention, and I grew confused by what I saw. Mother had no women in her court of advisers. Few petitioners were women. Occasionally, we saw a female scholar at the Great Library, but not often. And certainly, no women ambassadors visited the queen. What did it mean? And how had I not noticed it before?

  I asked Mother about it some days later when I visited her in the deep-dark. Mother read her correspondence while her servant Iras fought to stay awake and I paced the room, restless. I heard a scratching at the door to Mother’s inner chamber and opened it. Mother’s little sleek cat, Hekate, shot out. I looked in and spied Tata, unclothed and sprawled on his stomach on Mother’s sleeping couch. He snored and I jumped.

  “Close the door,” Mother said in a hushed tone.

  I obeyed. “Why is Tata sleeping in there?” I asked.

  “He’s not just sleeping, he’s sleeping it off,” muttered Iras.

  Mother’s head snapped toward her in surprise. Iras colored. “I am sorry, my lady, I meant no disrespect….”

  “Leave us,” Mother said in a voice so cold, my flesh prickled.

  Mother returned to her reading after Iras left, but I could tell by her furious scowl that her mood had shifted. After a minute, she threw the scroll on her desk. “Gods, child, stop that infernal pacing,” she said. “What is troubling you?”

  “Noth-nothing.”

  Mother rubbed the spot between her brows, then looked up at me. Her green-gold eyes glimmered in the flickering light of the hanging bronze lamp. “Euphronius reports you engaged in a debate with a holy man of the Jewish Quarter.”

  My stomach clenched. I’d had no idea that Euphronius reported our behavior to Mother. “I am sorry,” I sputtered. “It is just that … I only had some questions….”

  Mother waved her hand to stop me. “No. Never apologize for asking intelligent questions. Only you must learn how to do so without angering those whom you engage.”

  “But I did not anger the rabbi, I swear!”

  “Well, you angered your tutor.” Mother shifted her gaze to Hekate, who washed her paws with great delicacy. She added with a murmur, “I was very much like you when I was young.”

  I stared, not knowing how to react to this strange admission.

  “A curious, restless mind is good in a ruler,” she continued. “Perhaps not very conducive to sleep, true, but it does give you the ability to explore angles others have not yet considered.”

  I sat on a cushion opposite Mother, and Hekate sauntered onto my lap. I touched the little cat’s emerald-encrusted collar in embarrassed delight. Mother claimed I was like her! Nothing could have made me prouder. Mother was famous for her quick mind and audacious risk-taking. When her rivals for the Egyptian throne exiled her, she raised an army on foreign land. She escaped assassination by hiding in a rug to align herself with Caesarion’s tata, Julius Caesar. And she had, with expert negotiations, regained many of Egypt’s lost provinces at a time when Rome took land rather than returned it.

  “So tell me,” Mother said, snapping me out of my reverie. “What troubled you about the rabbi’s stories?”

  “Why do men blame everything on women?” I blurted.

  Mother’s eyebrows rose and she leaned forward. “Do they?”

  “Yes! In the rabbi’s religion, they blame a woman for a mistake the man made too. And … and look how we Greeks blame Pandora for all the ills of the world. And Iotape said that in her faith, the good god created man while the evil god created woman —”

  “And what is Isis blamed for?” Mother interrupted.

  My mouth hung open as I thought through all of the stories I had ever read or heard about the Great Goddess. I paused. “She … she is not ‘blamed’ for anything. She is honored for resurrecting her husband, Osiris, outwitting the Evil One, and protecting her son Horus so that he could rule Egypt, thus restoring order.”

  Mother leaned back and smiled. She looked so satisfied I almost expected to hear her purr as loudly as Hekate on my lap. I smiled back, not quite sure why this answer pleased her so much.

  “Now you see why Isis is my patron Goddess,” Mother said. “And why you must align yourself with the Great Goddess too.” She unfastened a chain around her neck and lifted the amulet I had often seen hanging between her breasts. She held it toward me. “The Queen of Heaven, the Lady of the Words of Power, is whom you must follow, not any of the lesser goddesses or gods. For you see, Isis alone is honored as not only an equal to her husband, but the one responsible for his resurrection. She is the true power of Egypt. One day you will become initiated into her Mysteries — as I was — and the Goddess herself will show you how you must live.”

  The golden amulet, bearing the sacred Knot of Isis, glimmered in the light as it swung from Mother’s fingers. “Come, take it,” she directed me. “It is even more powerful than the emerald I know you never cared for,” she added with a rueful smile.

  I scrambled to my feet, upending the cat. Hekate made a sound of irritation at the indignity. “I am sorry, Daughter of Bastet,” I murmured out of habit. I turned my back and lifted my hair while Mother fastened the golden chain around my neck. The amulet felt warm from Mother’s skin as it hung down almost to my waist. My throat tightened with a strange thrill, as if I had passed some sort of secret test. Mother turned me to face her.

  “You are a true Daughter of Isis.” Mother closed her eyes and murmured a sacred prayer in the ancient words of Old Egypt — a language I would learn upon my initiation into womanhood. I closed my eyes too, feeling the power of her words pulsating in the air between us.

  I will follow you, Mother, as I will follow Isis, unto my death, I swore to her then. May I live as you live, may I rule as you rule, may I die as you die.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sing O goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus —

  that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans

  to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls

  deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies

  carrion for dogs and birds —

  all in fulfillment of the will of Zeus.

  “Good,” Euphronius said, raising a hand to stop my recitation. “But before we move any further, let us discuss this murderous rage of Achilles.”

  I groaned inwardly and sat back down on my short stool. We had gone through the entire Iliad a number of times and were now starting again, this time reciting from memory. I hated it when Euphronius interrupted us to parse out every little line. I preferred it when we just focused on the story, the fighting, the great moments of sacrifice, bravery, and passion.

  We sat in a small shaded garden outside the reading rooms of the Great Library. I stared up, squinting into the brilliant blue of the sky as waving pal
m fronds skewered fluffy white clouds. The intermittent calls of shipmen and merchants drifted in from the Royal Harbor.

  “Now,” Euphronius continued, popping me out of my reverie, “how can Achilles’ great rage be the fulfillment of the will of Zeus?”

  “Because everything that happens, even bad things, must be the will of the gods, otherwise they would not happen,” Alexandros said after our tutor called on him.

  “Yes, but is there anything people can do when the gods have turned on them so viciously?” he pressed.

  “No, there is no escaping the fates the gods have set for us,” I said, even though Euphronius had looked at one of the other children who accompanied us in our lessons, sons and daughters of the most noble families of Alexandria. I responded out of turn because I was still mulling over what the old rabbi had said about “free will.” He was wrong. Fate set our futures.

  Euphronius turned to me. “And what happens when humans try to escape their fates? Someone else, this time, please,” he added.

  “They either end up dead like Achilles or blind like Oedipus,” said Euginia, my sometimes partner in trigon.

  “Yes. Now let us look a little closer at what we really mean by hubris …,” Euphronius continued. But again my attention wandered. I looked over at Euginia, her black ringlets arranged prettily past her shoulders, cascading down her fine yellow linen tunic. How long did she have to sit still, I wondered, while her nurse used heated tongs to create those perfect curls? This detail of her appearance always fascinated me, for she did not seem to me a girl overly concerned with her looks. Especially since she played such a mean game of trigon.

  Euginia must have felt me staring at her, for she looked at me and gave me a quick smile. I cut my eyes at Euphronius and made a face. Euginia looked down at the wax tablet on her lap, suppressing a grin.

  “So, then, if punishment — great suffering and death — is the inevitable result of trying to escape one’s fate, why do men continually try?” Euphronius droned on. “What, then, should our role be in relationship to the gods?”