Cleopatra Confesses

by Carolyn Meyer

  “Charm?” I ask her. “I know what intelligence is, but please explain charm to me.”

  Lady Amandaris is mixing the ingredients for perfumed oils, and she pauses to consider her answer. “To listen well, to think quickly, but to speak with just the right amount of wit, in order to amuse without wounding.”

  “Unless your intent is to wound,” Charmion interrupts.

  “But that, you see, is no longer charming,” her mother reminds her. She offers me a sample of scented ointment for my hair. “Princess Cleopatra, you will learn in time that you have a wide range of ways of speaking to achieve your desired ends—whether it is one man in particular you wish to charm, a whole army, or an entire nation.”

  Conversations like this are but one reason I hate to leave the harem to return to my lonely palace, where Monifa and Irisi do what they can to calm my restless spirit. The other reason is that here, with Charmion and Lady Amandaris, I feel that I am loved and accepted for who I am—not as a princess, but as a young woman. This is my true family.

  With Father far away and her beloved Nebtawi long dead, Arsinoë seems forlorn and often tags along after me. I make it a point to spend more time with her. She is thirteen, no longer a child. It is possible that she will someday become a beauty. We now have little in common but our blood ties, but I try to change that.

  I begin to take Arsinoë with me when I go out to the royal stables. Nebibi, the stable master, helps Arsinoë onto a horse he has chosen for her, just as he used to help me. He shows her how to grip the horse with her knees. But she is stiff and clumsy, and the horse does not respond the way she wants. “Wretched horse!” she cries, pounding its flanks with her heels.

  Nebibi brings another horse, but the results are no better. “I would do very well if I had a horse just like Bucephala,” she insists, and she whines until I give in and allow her to ride my little mare. Suddenly, she finds that on Bucephala’s smooth back she can ride like the wind. Nebibi and I watch in amazement. I am not surprised when Arsinoë decides that she wants Bucephala for her own.

  “You must learn to ride your own horse,” I tell her. “There is an entire stable of well-trained horses. No doubt you’ll soon find one that is perfect for you.”

  Nebibi leads out one horse after another, but the only one that pleases Arsinöe is my Bucephala. She begs me to give her my mare, but I am unwilling to part with it. Arsinoë is a stubborn, willful girl, and she coaxes, wheedles, bribes, and threatens me whenever she sees me. But I do not give in.

  One day I persuade her to accompany me to the great Library. She takes little interest in the papyrus scrolls stacked along each wall as high as the ceiling, but, curiously, she has learned the art of making the papyrus itself. When we return to the palace, she demonstrates for me how it is done, skillfully cutting a thick stalk of papyrus into thin strips, laying out the strips in a crisscross pattern, pounding them into a long, flat sheet, and finally smoothing the sheet with a stone. She becomes so involved in what she is doing that I deceive myself into thinking she has forgotten about Bucephala.

  I praise her efforts extravagantly, but nothing I say inspires her to read more than she absolutely must. And she refuses to learn to speak any language other than Greek.

  “Ganymede says I don’t have to,” she says smugly. “Ganymede says Greek is all I will ever need and that all my servants will speak Greek to me. He says it is not a good use of time to learn Egyptian and all those other languages.”

  My dislike of her tutor has just increased by several degrees. “When Father comes back, he’ll be speaking Latin,” I tell her. “I’m sure he’d be pleased if you could learn it too.”

  “Father isn’t coming back,” she says flatly.

  “Who told you that? Ganymede?”

  “No—it was Berenike. She says he’ll stay in the temple of Artemis in Ephesus for the rest of his life because it’s the only place he’s safe.”

  He may be safe in Ephesus, but I know Father, and I know that he will not be content to stay there for long. “Berenike may hope that’s true,” I say, “but she is wrong.”

  Arsinoë regards me with narrowed eyes. “I’m going to tell her what you said if you don’t give me Bucephala.”

  “Go ahead and tell her. She knows I’m right.” I am not surprised by her scheming.

  Arsinoë does not like to be denied. “Then I’ll tell her that you go to the harem almost every day to see that dancer and her mother.”

  She knows that she has hit her mark. Perhaps it does not matter much. Berenike’s spies are everywhere. The queen already knows my every move. But I do not want to risk making any sort of difficulty for Charmion and Lady Amandaris.

  “You may have Bucephala,” I tell Arsinoë. “Treat her well.”

  I have traded my little mare for the sake of my dear friend and her mother. If anything should happen to Charmion and Lady Amandaris, I would never forgive myself. And I would truly be completely alone.

  Chapter 32

  THE KING’S RETURN

  Father may soon come home.

  Rumors fly that King Ptolemy is planning his return to Egypt, as dangerous as that will certainly be—especially for those close to him. Monifa rushes in from the marketplace with the news that Father has bribed the governor of Syria, a Roman province, to send an army into Egypt to put down any resistance to his return. “Ten thousand talents, borrowed once more from a Roman moneylender,” Monifa reports. “Everyone is talking about it.”

  Ten thousand talents! Surely that rumor is false—or at least an exaggeration. How will Father ever pay it back? And what will happen if he does not?

  Worse than that: The Syrian soldiers Father has hired will be fighting against his own people, and mine.

  I am happy to learn that Father is coming home at last, even at the cost of so much money, but there will certainly be bloodshed, and I worry that my father may be killed in battle. I nervously await word of what is happening and keep watch for any messengers who might arrive at Queen Berenike’s palace with news and fail to tell me. But such an important secret cannot be kept long from the marketplace. Soon I learn that the hired Syrian soldiers, led by a Roman officer, have massed outside the walls of Pelusium, an Egyptian seaport on the far eastern edge of the delta.

  “No need to be troubled,” Demetrius assures me. “Pelusium is strongly fortified. It will successfully resist any attack.”

  Pelusium seems far away from Alexandria, and for a short time I feel reassured. Perhaps this will all end peacefully, with few lives lost and Father safely home.

  But several days later there is more news: Pelusium has fallen. Demetrius was wrong. Now the Syrian soldiers and their Roman officers are on their way to Alexandria.

  Queen Berenike’s husband, Archelaus, has put himself at the head of the Egyptian army, determined to repel the invaders—invaders sent by my father against his own city! Berenike arranges a banquet as a farewell for Archelaus, and after the usual feasting she makes a grand speech about honor and bravery. A huge crowd gathers the next morning to cheer as Archelaus rides off at the head of an army of foot soldiers and charioteers. Berenike looks on proudly.

  Alexandrians wait anxiously for more news. Nerves are on edge in the royal quarter and in the marketplace. I can sense the unease in everyone I speak to. At last a filthy and exhausted runner stumbles into the queen’s palace: The Syrian soldiers have reached the gates of our city. King Ptolemy is waiting offshore in his ship for Alexandria to fall to the invaders.

  The battle rages. I feel torn. I want Father to be here, to be safe, but at what cost? What will happen next?

  I hear a slow, steady drumbeat, and from the roof of my palace, where I pace anxiously with Monifa and Irisi, I see a somber procession making its way toward Queen Berenike’s palace. They are bearing a body wrapped in royal robes. For one terrible moment I fear that this is Father’s homecoming. Then I recognize the robes. It is Archelaus, killed at the height of battle.

  Berenike comes out to
meet the procession. She begins to howl, a long wail that sends a shudder through me.

  Much later, toward nightfall, Father comes ashore. He moves slowly, as though he is weary, nearly exhausted. But then he straightens his shoulders and quickens his step. He is in charge again. He is our king! Many of his subjects died in the effort to prevent his return, and his welcome is subdued, nothing like his return from Rome a few years earlier. But the city is his once more.

  Alert and sleepless, I await his summons. It is long in coming. When he finally does summon me three days later, I find that we are nearly strangers.

  PART VI

  FATHER’S RETURN

  Alexandria, in my sixteenth year

  Chapter 33

  YEAR 27 OF PTOLEMY XII

  Having Father back in Alexandria after his long exile proves difficult for us all. I am nearly sixteen, a grown woman, and Father has aged greatly. His face is deeply lined and haggard, his hair is streaked with gray, his eyes bloodshot and baggy. That both of us have changed is obvious.

  Though they are not fond of Queen Berenike, few Egyptians want to see the man they call Auletes occupy the throne, even though it is rightfully his. Father has always had his loyal supporters as well as the bitter enemies who drove him into exile. The people are still deeply divided in their loyalties, but at this point King Ptolemy XII has the force of an entire army behind him.

  I can only imagine his mood as he strides through his palace—the palace that Berenike had done over for herself—and observes the changes made in his absence. He could not have expected an enthusiastic welcome—he is aware that some of his former friends have seized power—but he must be enraged to see that his own daughter has replaced him on the throne. I am very glad not to be in Berenike’s position.

  Father summons his children to what was once his throne room and is now Berenike’s, and he lines up the five of us. Tryphaena, of course, is missing, but he does not mention this. The boys stare uneasily at him. Ptolemy XIII and Ptolemy XIV do not recognize Father. He has been away for most of their lives. Arsinoë, at thirteen, is so excited she can hardly contain herself. She giggles and twitters until he turns on her abruptly and growls, “Be quiet, girl! You utter only nonsense!” Her nervous laughter dissolves into tears.

  Then his eyes come to rest upon me, and he gazes at me thoughtfully. I bow low and touch his feet, murmuring, “My lord.” Father says nothing but merely nods and smiles faintly. I let my breath out slowly, and relief flows through me to the tips of my fingers.

  Next, he turns his attention to Berenike. She is as pale as death. When she follows my example and bows, reaching out to touch his feet, her hands are trembling. “Welcome back, dear father,” she says. Her voice is trembling too.

  “Thank you, Queen Berenike.” He utters the word “queen” as though it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and waits for her to say more.

  Father’s black look cuts through her like a dagger. She sees it and understands its meaning. She drops to her knees, weeping, and crouches in front of him. “My lord,” she says. She sounds as though she is choking. “I beg you to realize that I meant only to do all I could to take care of our beloved country while you were away, so that when you returned you would find everything just as you would have desired—”

  “Silence, liar!” Father roars suddenly, startling everyone. The little Ptolemies jump, Arsinoë gasps, and Berenike falls forward, flat on the floor, babbling incoherently. Father leans down and seizes a handful of her linen tunic and jerks her to her feet. Her eyes are rolling wildly. He releases her, and she staggers, trying to catch her balance. Her teeth are chattering. She is terrified. Now she must face the consequences of seizing power that was not hers to take.

  “Explain to me first, please, what has become of your sister Princess Tryphaena?” Father says softly. It would have been less frightening if he had shouted. “I wish to hear from her lips what her intentions were on the day that the two of you decided to appoint yourselves corulers in my absence.”

  Berenike sees a way out of her dilemma. “It was Tryphaena’s idea, my king,” she says. “I swear to you that I did all I could to dissuade my sister, argued with her that we had no right, no authority! But she was the eldest, the next in line to rule, she had so much more power than I did! But you know how she was, always headstrong, willful, rebellious—”

  Suddenly, Berenike turns to me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Would you not agree, Cleopatra? You saw her, did you not? Always demanding more servants, more jewels, more of everything? She was so self-indulgent! And all the time I worked ceaselessly, devoting myself to doing everything possible for our people. It was Tryphaena who hungered for attention and an opulent life, not I! Is that not true, Cleopatra?” she sobs. “Is it not?”

  “You describe our sister truthfully,” I say, regarding her levelly, this sister who for more than three years has kept me in a constant state of fear for my life. “But now, Berenike, you must describe yourself just as truthfully. Speak to King Ptolemy of your desire for power. Tryphaena wanted luxury and attention, that much is true. But you wanted power, always more of it, and you ridded yourself of her. You had Tryphaena killed—and Titus, too.”

  King Ptolemy fixes his gaze on Berenike. “You are a traitor and a usurper, Berenike, and for that you must die,” he says coldly. He nods to the Roman cavalry officer standing nearby with a half-dozen Syrian soldiers. I had scarcely noticed them until then. “Seize her,” the king commands. His voice shows no feeling. It is as though this second daughter is a total stranger to him.

  The soldiers instantly surround her. “No! No!” Berenike cries. She screams and struggles as they clamp iron chains onto her wrists. She turns to me, her mouth open in a silent plea, and I see the desperation in her eyes. I pity her. I cannot save her, even if I should wish to, and I do not. I look away as the soldiers drag her off.

  Arsinoë anxiously grips my hand. The little Ptolemies stand rigidly, their eyes round with fright. Father dismisses his four remaining children with a wave of his hand. It takes an effort to walk away, especially with Arsinoë clinging to me. The cavalry officer in command of the soldiers steps into my path.

  “Marcus Antonius at your service, Princess Cleopatra,” he says with a disarming smile.

  But I am too distracted to pay the officer any attention. I want to get as far as possible from my father until his anger cools and is replaced by the warmth and tender affection I remember from my childhood. But will that day ever come?

  Chapter 34

  THE NEW QUEEN

  Tension grips Alexandria for days after Father’s return and the death of Queen Berenike. Rumors spring up out of nowhere, spread quickly, and disappear just as fast. Irisi and Monifa bring me news from the marketplace, but the rumors change almost daily. It is known throughout the city that Berenike was murdered by order of the king.

  Demetrius says the scholars of the Museion are all talking about the Roman officer Marcus Antonius. It was this officer who persuaded King Ptolemy to be compassionate to the defeated people of Pelusium. It was Marcus Antonius who insisted that Archelaus be given a respectful burial after he was killed in battle. But Marcus Antonius bowed to the king’s wishes and ordered his lieutenant to end Berenike’s life with a dagger through her heart.

  Antonius is unable to prevent the murder of many of Father’s enemies. “All who opposed me must die,” he has decreed. Among them is Antiochus, the grand vizier who served Father for many years. After his death, his property is seized to help pay off the king’s enormous debts.

  During these turbulent days, I meet Charmion only once, again in the zoological garden near the elephant’s cage. I am unsure if some of Berenike’s former spies may now be working for someone else.

  “We have so much to talk about,” I tell Charmion during our brief time together. “I miss seeing you.”

  “Don’t worry, Cleopatra,” Charmion says. “There will be time for us to talk later. You have your studies, and I must help the you
nger dancers.”

  A month later, the Roman governor of Syria arrives in Alexandria. His name is Gabinius, and he has come to collect the money promised him by King Ptolemy for his help in restoring the king to his throne. Father invites hundreds of people to a banquet in honor of Gabinius, the cavalry commander Marcus Antonius, and a number of visiting Romans. It is the most extravagant banquet since the king’s return. Father clearly wants to impress these Romans.

  I, too, wish to impress the handsome commander Marcus Antonius. I have had frequent glimpses of him, a few smiles, and even an occasional brief exchange of greetings. Though I have no experience with men, I am strongly attracted to him. I want more.

  I dress carefully for the banquet. Father tells me that bare breasts are not the fashion in Rome, and so, though my breasts have become full and I would like to display them as Egyptian women do, I choose not to appear at this banquet in the Egyptian style. Father has brought me a gift from Ephesus, a Grecian gown made of fine silk that hangs in graceful folds. I instruct my hairdresser to arrange my hair as Charmion did, in waves and little curls. Irisi and Monifa go through the jewel chests that once belonged to my two older sisters and select the finest pieces, more beautiful than anything of mine. On each upper arm they clasp a wide cuff made of beaten gold in the shape of a cobra with emeralds for eyes. Around my neck Monifa fastens a collar of gold set with deep blue lapis, and Irisi places the golden circlet of a high-ranking princess on my head.

  Because I am fifteen, I am old enough to wear whatever cosmetics I choose, and I like to prepare and apply them myself, as Lady Amandaris taught me. Irisi decorates my feet with henna in pretty patterns, but I decide to leave my hands unadorned, the better to show off the gold and emerald rings that were once Berenike’s. The sun has sunk low in the western sky before I am ready. On my way to the banquet hall I stop by a shallow pool and study my reflection in the still water, and I am well pleased with the image of the young woman who smiles back at me. Some may even find me beautiful.