Cleopatra Confesses

by Carolyn Meyer

  For an entire day the boat travels almost directly east before turning to the south. Finally, after another day and another bend, we enter the westward leg as the river turns back on itself. During this challenging stretch, the captain stops only when darkness falls and it is too dangerous to continue. There are no banquets, no music, no dancers. The air fairly hums with tension.

  On the third day, just before the king’s boat completes the dangerous loop and resumes its southward journey, Demetrius touches my arm and points ahead. “There it is,” he says. “Thebes of the Hundred Gates.”

  The ancient capital of Upper Egypt comes slowly into view, gigantic pylons and towering obelisks silhouetted against the lavender sky. “I have never seen anything like this,” I whisper.

  “And you likely never will again,” Demetrius agrees.

  PART III

  UPPER EGYPT

  Thebes and Dendara, in my eleventh year

  Chapter 15

  CHARMION

  After sunset on our fiftieth day on the Nile, we finally reach Thebes. The captain ties up the royal boat at the dock illuminated by torches for the pharaoh’s arrival. A group of musicians plays with spirit. Everyone is in a good mood, and after being on a boat, even a luxurious one, for almost two months, we are eager to spend time ashore. But the lavender twilight has faded and it is too dark to see much, even with the torches. The king decides that we will stay on the boat until morning and invites the musicians aboard to entertain us.

  The next morning the welcoming speeches and ceremonies go on longer than usual. When I become queen, I will order these ceremonies to be much shorter, and I believe everyone will love me for it. Finally, King Ptolemy is escorted in a grand procession to Ipet-Isut, “the biggest religious complex in the whole world,” according to Demetrius, who has been stuffing my head with information about this place for days. The construction of Ipet-Isut was begun by a pharaoh who lived fifteen hundred years ago. Since then more than thirty pharaohs have added to it.

  “Now they will expect me to contribute another structure,” Father says with a grimace.

  But I wonder—not for the first time—How does he plan to pay for it? Day after day, at every stop the royal boat has made on this journey, the local people sent delegations to complain to the king about their burdensome taxes, pointing out several years of poor harvests. If the farmers have no way to pay these taxes, then where will the money come from to build the new temples Father has promised? And what about the enormous sum of money he owes to the Roman moneylender? I long to ask Father these questions. If I am to become queen, I must understand these things, and I have a mind for them, as my sisters certainly do not. And yet, as the third daughter, and one who is not even yet a woman, I must wait for him to decide to tell me. It is hard for me to keep silent.

  The grand procession moves slowly toward Ipet-Isut. Tryphaena and Berenike have made sure they are near the front, and Arsinoë is with them, but I prefer to take a place far to the back, almost at the end. When I think no one will notice, I try to slip away. Unfortunately, Monifa does notice and shakes a warning finger. Sometimes she is strict with me and sometimes indulgent. I am never sure which way it will be.

  But now, with a complicit smile, she instructs me to put my royal jewelry in her basket so that I will not be recognized as a princess. We follow the grand procession at a little distance and make our way up a broad avenue between a double row of ramheaded sphinxes. The avenue ends at a massive wall supporting gilded poles with streaming scarlet banners. We dawdle and lag behind while the rest of the procession disappears beyond the gate. We are free.

  We are staring up at this wall, awestruck by its enormous size, when a young priest, his hairless head glistening with oil, steps forward. “Welcome to the temple of Amun,” he says with a bow, and offers to show it to us.

  “Do you think he knows who I am?” I whisper to Monifa in Greek. She understands enough to communicate with me.

  She shakes her head. That pleases me.

  We follow the young priest through the gate in the thick wall—he calls it a pylon, explaining that it represents the horizon—and enter a huge open courtyard filled with gigantic stone columns and colossal statues.

  “There is nothing like this in Alexandria,” Monifa whispers, squeezing my arm. “These must be the biggest statues in the world!”

  I repeat what Demetrius told me: “You will never see anything like this again.”

  The priest wants to be sure we miss nothing, but the sun is now directly overhead, and Monifa is hot and tired and needs to rest. I suggest that we find the marketplace, and the priest obligingly points the way.

  The marketplace is smaller than Alexandria’s but just as crowded, and it rings with the sounds of bargaining, arguing, shouts, and laughter. The sun beats down mercilessly. Monifa settles gratefully on a low stone wall and drops a few coins in my hand, for as usual I have none. I hurry off to buy her a fruit drink. We both know that she should be serving me, but I prefer it this way and she allows it. I bring her the drink and a sweet cake and promise to return soon.

  “Do not go far, Cleopatra,” she warns, the kind of warning she always gives me.

  “I won’t.” It is the kind of promise I rarely keep. “Please don’t worry,” I add, though I know she will. I know myself, too—how much I enjoy being on my own, away from the royal boat and the confinement of my royal rank.

  I wander through the section where shoppers hover over sacks of dried chickpeas and lentils, spices brought overland from the East in donkey trains, jars of oil, heaps of onions, radishes, leeks, and lettuce, baskets of fresh eggs, piles of flatbread, and loaves of several shapes. Pungent smells of cooking drift through the dusty air.

  I leave the food booths and stroll over to the vendors of clothing and jewelry. If I had enough money, I would buy a plain dress like the ones worn by local women. My dress of fine pleated linen marks me as a rich man’s daughter. I consider trading a little gold ring, the only jewelry I am still wearing, but that would make the vendors suspicious.

  Then I recognize a girl kneeling before a large basket of shells under the watchful eye of a barefoot old man in a dirty robe. She is one of the dancers who perform at Father’s banquets. She glances up as I approach and leaps to her feet, bowing low. The old man stares at us and then slowly appears to realize that she and I are strangers in Thebes. Though he cannot guess I am the pharaoh’s daughter, he nearly topples over in his effort to show his respect.

  I acknowledge their greetings and turn to the dancer. “I enjoy myself more if I appear to be like everyone else,” I tell her, speaking Egyptian.

  She smiles broadly. Her skin is nut brown, and her teeth are even and white. “I understand,” she replies in Egyptian. “Unfortunately, mistress, you do not look like everyone else. Anyone can see that you are a princess! May I help you with something? Where are your servants? I thought you never went anywhere without them.”

  “I’m not supposed to, but Monifa is tired and I persuaded her to let me go for a little while. The problem is that I have no money, so I can’t buy anything.”

  “I have a little money,” the girl says. “Do you want some shells? I am buying them to make a hip belt, to wear when I dance. I have some colored beads”—she opens a small bag to show me—“and I can teach you how to make a hip belt for yourself, if you like. It will protect your fertility.”

  The shell seller looks eagerly from one of us to the other, knowing there is money to be made.

  The dancer bargains with the old man to sell her twice as many cowrie shells as she has money to pay for, convincing him without much difficulty that half are for Princess Cleopatra. We walk off together, chatting like old friends, though she continues to address me in a formal manner, as she should.

  “My name is Charmion,” she says. “It will be my honor to buy us each a cooling drink, and we can sit in the shade of a sycamore and refresh ourselves.”

  Charmion tells me that she lives with her mot
her in the royal harem, the place where women dwell. She is twelve, a year older than I am, and has been training as a dancer since early childhood. “My mother is in charge of the king’s dancers.”

  She spreads a cloth on the ground and arranges two rows of cowrie shells. “Let us look at the shells, you decide which ones you want, and I will show you how to make the hip belt.” I watch her deftly string the shells on a strand of linen thread, placing a knot and a brightly colored bead between each shell. Her hands are pretty, with long, shapely fingers. She knots a thread at one end and hands it to me.

  My fingers are not nearly as clever or as quick, and I must concentrate on not dropping the beads and losing them in the dust. “What I really want,” I confide to Charmion as we work, “is to learn your dances. Will you teach me?”

  She glances up at me, eyebrows raised. “There are many who would not approve,” she says softly. “King Ptolemy, for one. The grand vizier, for another. Almost anyone I can think of.”

  “I don’t care,” I reply impatiently. “It’s what I want.”

  Charmion is quiet for a moment, concentrating on the shells. “I can teach you some things, mistress,” she says slowly, picking among the glazed beads. “When you are ready, we shall begin your training.” She touches her fingertips to her lips, a sign of her promise.

  Chapter 16

  THE BATH

  While Monifa and I visited the temple and the marketplace, our servants erected a village of tents near the riverbank. My tent is made of reed mats fastened to a framework of wooden poles. A thick carpet covers the dirt floor. My bed has been moved into the tent, along with the chest holding my dresses and jewels, and I have told Irisi to find me a table and chair so that I can read and write. Nearby is the dining pavilion, a pair of red and yellow striped pennants flying above it. Beyond it, the kitchen tent stands next to a pit for roasting meat. Still farther away are the tents of the servants and workmen.

  Late in the afternoon, several girls playing harps usher my sisters and me to a luxurious bath by the river. Small statues of dolphins stand between stone seats arranged in a circle around a mosaic floor. Our servants help us undress. Pipes carry deliciously warm water from a nearby tank, and our servants stand ready with clay jars to pour the water over us. Naked, we step down into the bath.

  Berenike stares at my waist. Irisi is also staring. In fact, every eye is on the hip belt I made with Charmion’s help.

  “What is that you’re wearing?” Berenike asks.

  “It’s to protect my fertility,” I tell her airily.

  She rolls her eyes. Tryphaena stifles a laugh. Arsinoë says, “I want one too!”

  “Do tell us about this fertility belt, Cleopatra,” Berenike says in the mocking tone she has adopted whenever she speaks to me.

  “You don’t have any breasts to speak of,” says Tryphaena. “You’re not even a woman yet. So why are you concerned with your fertility?”

  I know that my sisters are taunting me, simply to see me get angry or maybe even cry. But I am determined not to let them have their way. “I will be a woman soon enough,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. “And it isn’t too soon to think about my fertility. It will be my duty, as it is every queen’s, to produce heirs.”

  I realize, too late, that I have made a mistake. I should never have mentioned a queen’s duty. Berenike leaps upon my words, her eyes gleaming like the eyes of a cat about to seize a fish.

  “Dear Cleopatra,” she purrs, “there is no reason for you to have the least thought about your fertility or the duties of a queen. Should you ever desire to be a bearer of children, I wish you well, of course. But you will never be queen of Egypt! Never!”

  Tryphaena rises from the bath. “You’re always being praised for your intelligence, Cleopatra,” she says, stretching lazily. “I have no idea who puts such stupid ideas into your head, but it would be better for you to rid yourself of such thoughts. They can only bring you harm.”

  Tryphaena and Berenike exchange a glance that sends a shiver of fear up my spine. Fear is transforming my dislike of my sisters into hatred. And now my sisters have made me furiously angry. I am tempted to reply with Father’s words to me on that first night on the river: My wish is for you to rule Egypt, but I recognize that doing so would only increase their malevolence. And so, with an effort, I remain silent and close my ears to my older sisters’ laughter.

  Our servants dry us with soft linen towels and rub our bodies with perfumed oils, and we return to our tents.

  I fling myself on my bed and give in to wild tears. Monifa and Irisi try to comfort me, but I refuse to tell them what has upset me, and eventually they leave me alone to exhaust my rage in silence.

  Chapter 17

  TEMPLES

  My anger at my older sisters burns steadily, but I refuse to let it master me. We avoid one another as much as possible. Only Arsinoë notices, or speaks of it.

  “You hate them, don’t you?” she asks.

  “I don’t hate them,” I tell her. “We disagree, that’s all.”

  “But they hate you,” she says.

  “How do you know that, Arsinoë?” I ask.

  “I’ve heard them say so.” She looks away.

  Now she has my full attention. “What else do they say?”

  “That you want to be queen, but they won’t let it happen.”

  “Anything more?”

  Silence.

  “Will you tell me if they say anything else?”

  “Maybe,” she says, and skips away.

  I wonder what else she knows, what secrets a nine-year-old can keep. Is she in league with Tryphaena and Berenike? Does she carry tales to them, as she does to me? I recognize that I must be more watchful of Arsinoë.

  We stay in Thebes for several days. By my count, it is now the end of the second month of the journey. Father meets with local leaders, no doubt making all sorts of promises he does not intend to keep. While he is occupied, Demetrius and I explore not only the temple of the creator-god Amun, the main part of Ipet-Isut, but also those parts of the complex dedicated to Amun’s wife, the mother-god Mut.

  Even Demetrius is not able to explain the many gods and their qualities. I am relieved when my tutor grows weary and is ready to return to the royal tents. As we walk along the riverbank, where it is cooler, Demetrius stops to point across the river to the royal necropolis on the western bank. For almost two thousand years kings and queens and members of the nobility were buried in hidden tombs dug into the limestone. Yet in spite of every precaution, grave robbers found the tombs and stole their treasures. The tombs have been broken into so many times that guards are posted to keep out thieves.

  At the foot of a great limestone cliff an eerily deserted temple lies half-buried in drifting sand. It is not like any other temple I have seen and must have been quite beautiful in its time. As the desert sands continue to blow in, it may soon disappear entirely, like a dream.

  “The temple of Hatshepsut,” Demetrius explains. “She was an amazing queen, though little evidence remains of her rule. Only a few of the scholars at the Museion know anything about her. She dared to rule as pharaoh—she even wore the false beard and the royal kilt. I believe you would find much to admire about her, but you will not see her name on any of the king lists. Her statues were smashed and all representations of her erased, even from the walls of her own temple.”

  “Someone must have really hated her,” I murmur as we walk on.

  “Her stepson, probably. She overshadowed him, and he resented her.”

  “But why?”

  Demetrius lifts his shoulders in his familiar gesture. “Power, Cleopatra! Hatshepsut had it, and she was not afraid to use it.”

  I consider this as my tutor and I make our way back to our tents. I am beginning to understand that whoever has power also has enemies. Was Hatshepsut ever afraid? Would I have her courage? Because someday soon, I may need it.

  Irisi is waiting for me. “Do you wish to join your sisters
at the bath today?” she asks. “I have fresh linens ready for you.”

  The pleasure of bathing in the lovely warm water is appealing, but the idea of having to listen to the idle chatter of Tryphaena and Berenike and their gibes about my beaded belt ignites my anger all over again.

  “No,” I tell her. “I want to stay here in the tent and rest.” And avoid my hateful sisters, but I do not say that.

  I lie down on my bed, and Monifa draws the silk curtains. I hear the musicians come to escort my sisters to the bath and Monifa telling them that I am resting. I close my eyes, but they snap open at once when Tryphaena and Berenike rudely open the curtains and, laughing loudly, rush into my tent with Arsinoë just behind them.

  “Well, now, what’s this? Up, up, dear sister! What will people say if you’re not with us at the baths this afternoon?”

  “I was out exploring the temples with Demetrius, and I want to rest,” I tell them, though they do not deserve an explanation of what I have been doing. “Please, dear sisters, do go on without me.”

  “It won’t be half so amusing if you’re not there, Cleopatra. We want to see your fertility belt!” Berenike cries. “Are you wearing it now?” She snatches my coverlet, but I manage to hold on to it.

  “We’ve been thinking that we’d like to have them as well,” adds Tryphaena. “Where did you get it? Come, now, Cleopatra, tell us!”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything!” I am shouting, though I know this is a mistake. I try to lower my voice.

  My raised voice summons Monifa, who stares openmouthed at me clutching my coverlet while my sisters try to pull it off. Tryphaena turns on my servant. “What are you gaping at, old woman? Where did our sister get that cowrie-shell belt?” she demands.