Cleopatra Confesses

by Carolyn Meyer

  Reassured, I stride confidently toward the banquet hall. All the while, Marcus Antonius is on my mind.

  Guards swing open the doors with a flourish. I pause at the entrance. Instead of floor cushions, couches have been provided for the guests to recline on, leaning on the left elbow as they do in Rome. Court musicians begin to play the music reserved for the ranking princess. I am aware that conversation has halted. Heads turn, and every eye is fixed on me. My father rises from his couch as I approach the dais, and at this signal everyone stands. I notice Marcus Antonius near Father’s throne, arms folded over his muscular chest, smiling broadly, but I must not allow myself to be distracted. Father holds out his hands to welcome me.

  “My daughter Cleopatra, the new queen of Egypt,” he announces to his guests.

  Not Princess Cleopatra—Queen!

  I try to conceal my surprise. Father has not spoken to me of this since his return. I thought that perhaps he had changed his mind and decided to take a new wife to rule by his side. He has not had a wife since he sent away the mother of the little Ptolemies. I believed my time would come later. But now the applause of the crowd rings sweetly in my ears, and I acknowledge it with bows. Marcus Antonius seems to me to applaud more vigorously than anyone. I am deeply pleased. This is all just as Father promised years ago: When I do return, you and I will rule Egypt together. And when the day inevitably comes that Father is no longer by my side, I am confident that Egypt will thrive under my just and intelligent rule. The people will regard me as they have every pharaoh: half queen, half sacred goddess.

  The Romans raise their jewel-studded goblets in toasts to me, to King Ptolemy, to one another. Father spent enough time in Rome to know just what will dazzle his honored guests. The food is varied and plentiful—every dish one can think of, and a great deal of it. It is served on gold plates inset with carnelian and lapis. The excellent wine flows freely. A troupe of dancers enters, wearing nothing but their belts made of shells that jingle as they leap and sway. Charmion leads them. She does not even glance in my direction. But the performance seems to startle the Romans. Is this not the custom in their city?

  “One thing I learned during the time I spent in Rome is that the people don’t know how to enjoy themselves,” Father says to me later in the evening, after the dancers have finished and the feasting has resumed. His words are slurred. “Not the way we do.” He rises unsteadily to his feet, produces his aulos, and begins to play. Eyes closed, he dances to his own music, a hymn of praise to the god Dionysus.

  The Romans, I notice, look even more shocked than before—disgusted, in fact. Toward the end of the night, the only Roman who seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself is the cavalry commander.

  Marcus Antonius is an exceptionally fine-looking man—not in the delicate, almost feminine way of Titus or roughly shaggy like Archelaus, but ruggedly masculine. His bold, laughing eyes seem to follow me wherever I go. I cannot resist glancing his way whenever I think he will not notice, but he always does, and rewards me with a mischievous smile. I confess that I like the way he looks at me, admiring my beauty. I delight in his gaze. And I am drawn to him so strongly, I am almost breathless.

  Now that Father has returned from exile and taken his rightful place as pharaoh on the throne of Egypt, I feel liberated, free once again to come and go as I please. I plan to revel in this new freedom, not having constantly to look over my shoulder to see if one of Berenike’s spies is observing me, possibly about to seize me and murder me. I intend to go out to the royal stables and reclaim Bucephala, now that Arsinoë can no longer threaten me and seems to have lost interest in horses and riding. I will stroll at will through the marketplace, talking to the old woman who sells stew, and visit the harem to spend time with Charmion whenever I wish.

  My mind drifts often to Marcus Antonius. I find myself wondering what it might be like to be in his arms, to be kissed by him. I have never before experienced this powerful feeling. Suppose I invited him to ride out into the desert with me? But how do I go about arranging that? I will ask Charmion’s advice, and her mother’s.

  But I am mistaken about the freedom I plan to enjoy. I am now the queen of Egypt, expected to fill the role of consort to the king, and I have scarcely any time for myself. My days are full. My encounters with Marcus Antonius are fleeting and never private. Then, just before the commander leaves Alexandria, summoned to Rome by the triumvir Julius Caesar, we happen to meet by chance in the forecourt of the king’s palace. I confess that I have been hoping for such a moment. We have just one conversation.

  “Queen Cleopatra,” says Marcus Antonius, “I have traveled throughout much of the world, and you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He gets down on one knee and takes my hand in both of his. “You will always be the queen of my heart.”

  He rises, kisses my hand, bows, and leaves without waiting for a response.

  “But what did you say to him, Cleopatra?” Charmion asks when I finally have a chance to describe this scene to her.

  “Nothing! Not a word!”

  Charmion laughs. “The queen of Egypt struck dumb by the words of a Roman soldier? I can’t believe that!”

  “It’s true!” I protest. “What could I have said? That I have fallen in love with him?”

  “Have you?”

  “I don’t know, Charmion. But I have not ever felt this way before.”

  Charmion has no more words for me. And now the handsome Roman commander is gone. I watched his ship sail out of the harbor and stood gazing at the empty sea long after the ship had disappeared from sight. I doubt that I shall ever see Marcus Antonius again.

  Chapter 35

  STUDIES IN RULING

  Father has occupied his throne again for more than four months, and I have been at his side for three of them. So far there is little to show for it. Again this year the floods were too low, and as a result the harvest is falling far below normal. The fields are dry, but Egypt is drowning in ruinous debt. Making matters worse, Father has done something of which I strongly disapprove: He appointed Rabirius, the Roman moneylender to whom he owes enormous sums, as the new finance minister of Egypt. I point out the folly of this decision as diplomatically as I can, but Father waves away my suggestion. “You are my consort, not my advisor,” he says abruptly.

  Everyone despises Rabirius. He dismisses the Egyptians who have done the administrative work of the kingdom for many years, and installs his own men in those positions. He raises taxes again and again. I see the despair on the faces of every man and woman I pass as I make my way through the marketplace. The old woman who sold stew to hungry workers has been reduced to begging. She looks so ragged and sad that I hardly recognize her.

  “Young princess!” she calls out to me, forgetting or perhaps ignorant of the fact that I now bear the title of queen. “Please help us!” she pleads.

  “I will do my best,” I promise her, though there is nothing I can do. It has reached the point that I no longer enjoy strolling among the stalls.

  Father sometimes invites me to meetings with his advisors, but my role is simply to listen. Father calls me “queen,” yet I have no voice and no power. Privately, though, I have the king’s ear. He does not always follow my advice, but he is willing to hear me out.

  Father does not want to admit that he has made a serious error, first in borrowing such a vast amount of money, and then by placing the Roman moneylender in charge of Egypt’s finances. “Perhaps it would be best to let Rabirius return to Rome, and to bring back our former minister,” I suggest in carefully chosen words. “An Egyptian is more likely to place the prosperity of his country above his own.”

  At last he agrees to my suggestion, and Rabirius departs for Rome. The Syrian governor leaves too, though his soldiers stay on to help quell the unrest that always threatens. Then, even with Egypt’s finances near collapse, Father embarks on a massive program of restoring old temples and erecting new ones. The most ambitious building of all is his great marble tomb. I am un
able to persuade him to delay at least a year or two.

  “I want to be remembered by the people for the good I have done,” he tells me. “And I must be prepared for eternity.” He goes almost daily to check on the progress of the tomb and of the funerary boat in which his body will someday be carried. Sometimes I accompany him, at his request, a duty I do not like.

  Now he concerns himself with my education—not science and history and the languages that I have been studying for years with Demetrius, but subjects he considers more practical. “You are fifteen. You must learn all there is to know about the country you will someday rule,” he says. “Keep in mind that everything belongs to the pharaoh—every grain of wheat and barley that is gathered, every measure of silver and gold dug from the earth, every length of linen woven from the flax in the field.” He orders Demetrius to make sure I have a thorough knowledge of the forty-two districts, or nomes, into which Egypt is divided and the names of the nomarchs appointed by the king to administer them. My tutor and I pore over maps of the vast deserts to the east and west of the Nile, showing where gold, silver, copper, precious stones, and minerals lie buried, and I pay attention to how much each mine can be expected to yield. I study scrolls listing the granaries where the grain harvest is stored, the rates at which the farmers are taxed, the methods used to distribute the grain to each town and city.

  “Queen Cleopatra will someday make a brilliant ruler,” Demetrius boasts to King Ptolemy.

  Father is pleased. “I have never doubted it,” he says.

  Meanwhile, Father has begun trying to bring Arsinoë and me and our two brothers closer together, reminding us that in the eyes of the people we are not ordinary mortals but are semidivine. He gives us new descriptive titles in Greek, meant to emphasize our status and reinforce our power, so that we are worshipped as well as obeyed. This is necessary for me as queen, but I am not yet sure why he gives such titles to my sister and brothers. We are now “New Sibling-Loving Gods.” So far there has not been much love among siblings in our family, with two of my sisters dead. We do not speak of them or their deaths. Their names are never mentioned.

  When I suggest to Father that he may wish to take a new wife, he merely smiles and shakes his head.

  “I have you by my side at the celebration of temple rituals and when we receive visitors from foreign lands,” he tells me. “I need no more than that.”

  Chapter 36

  ILLNESS

  Two years pass, each day much like the one before it and the one that follows. It is officially Year 30 in the reign of King Ptolemy XII. By the age of seventeen I have settled into my role. Father calls me “my queen” and presents me to rulers from foreign lands who have come to visit our court. I am constantly by his side. Times are still difficult for Egypt—the harvest improved somewhat, though the burden on our people remains heavy. But the hardest thing for me is watching Father’s declining health. Every day he seems to grow thinner, paler, and weaker. He has become a shadow of the man he was when he returned from exile.

  To continue my education, Demetrius put me in the hands of a teacher-physician who tutored me in the art of healing. The physician taught me to find the little throb in the wrist and on the neck, calling it the voice of the heart. From Monifa I learned to make certain potions derived from plants believed to treat many ailments. But my skills are not sufficient to help Father.

  “Why has he suddenly become so thin?” I ask the royal physician. “His flesh melts from his bones; his speech is slurred even without wine. He seems so weary, and he complains of pain.”

  But the royal physician resents my presence and my questions, which he deigns to answer only vaguely. Father’s condition grows worse, almost by the day. When none of the physician’s remedies help, he sends for a priest who uses incantations and magic. The priest instructs Father to spend several days and nights in the Serapeum, the temple honoring the god Serapis, known for his powers of healing. Servants carry Father up the many steps to the golden-roofed temple, and he remains there for the recommended time. This does him neither harm nor good.

  The day comes when the royal physician takes me aside and tells me that King Ptolemy does not have much longer to live. It is early in the season of Emergence. The floods arrived fully this year, farmers celebrated with festivals, and we are all hopeful of a good harvest as we receive reports that the newly planted fields along the Nile are beginning to turn green.

  One evening at sunset, I leave my father’s bedside and go for a walk outside the palace. I am tired. The days have been long for me—not only am I the queen consort of a king too ill to perform even the ordinary duties of ruling, but I still spend hours in studies that will help me to be a good and just ruler and to bring prosperity back to my country. Demetrius, too, is growing old and tired, and I know that someday soon I will be alone, with all the problems of Egypt falling heavily on my shoulders.

  My walk takes me along the sea wall below my palace, and I recognize not far ahead of me my dear friend Charmion. I have not had time in many months to sit and talk with her as we used to do, to laugh and gossip and dream. I have seen her whenever the dancers entertain Father’s guests, but there is never a chance to exchange words, only an occasional knowing glance. With a rush of feeling I realize how much I have missed her, and I call out to her.

  “Charmion!”

  She turns at the sound of my voice. I dismiss my bodyguards, Sepa and Hasani, who now accompany me wherever I go, and run to meet her. Together we scramble over the rocks by the sea wall and find a little niche where we are protected from the wind that blows steadily from the sea, but we still have a clear view of the harbor. We talk about all that has happened since we were last together, but I notice that things feel slightly different between us. I realize that more than two seasons have gone by, and at least that long since the time before. She uses formal speech instead of the familiar form I asked her to use with me. But I say nothing about it then, because I am caught up in my worries about Father’s failing health and his efforts to keep the people from learning about his sickness.

  “It is true,” Charmion says. “He does not look well. His skin is yellowish.”

  Puzzled, I gaze at her for a moment. The king has taken great care not to let anyone see this latest symptom of his ill health.

  “Charmion, how do you know that?”

  “Because I have seen him,” she says.

  “But where have you seen him? You haven’t danced for him for at least two months. In that time he has scarcely left his palace.”

  She studies her feet, long and graceful in her sandals. The sandals are of high quality, and I notice that she wears a handsome gold ring set with a deep purple amethyst. The ring looks familiar. I reach out and touch her hand, near the ring. Charmion presses her lips together. I notice that her face is streaked with tears.

  “It was a gift of King Ptolemy,” she says, avoiding my eyes.

  “Because he admires your dancing?”

  She shakes her head. “Because he admires Lady Amandaris,” she says simply. “He comes to visit my mother at the harem—or did before he became so ill. They are lovers.”

  This comes as such a surprise that for a moment I am speechless. I supposed that my father has many concubines, but it had not occurred to me that he might also have a mistress, or someone he truly cares about. Little wonder he was so angry at Antiochus! I think of the elegant, dark-skinned woman with kind eyes who is Charmion’s mother. “Have they been lovers for long?” I ask, trying to sound merely curious.

  Her reply is barely above a whisper. “For more than twenty years—since before I was born.” She raises her eyes and looks straight into mine. “My mother is descended from Nubian royalty. King Ptolemy is my father,” she says.

  “You are my father’s daughter?” I stare at her, incredulous.

  “I am,” she says. “You and I are truly sisters, Cleopatra. But I cannot forget that you are my queen and I am your loyal servant.”

  She kne
els at my feet on the rough stones. I reach out to embrace her, and my heart swells with joy. For this moment at least, I am not alone.

  Chapter 37

  DEATH OF THE KING

  On the eighteenth anniversary of my birth, the Festival of Isis, I make a special offering to the goddess with whom I identify more and more closely. Months have passed with no improvement in Father’s health. I sit at his bedside for long hours as he drifts in and out of wakefulness. He whispers bits of advice, broken phrases, an occasional name. “The Romans,” he murmurs. “Pompey was my friend. Trouble between him and Julius Caesar. Caesar, most powerful man in Rome. Perhaps in the world. Your ally or your enemy.” Father smiles weakly and squeezes my hand. “Make him your friend.”

  When the time finally comes for King Ptolemy XII to draw his last breath, I am at his bedside. I am prepared for his death, but when I realize that his ka—his life force—has left his body, I am overcome by grief. Nevertheless, I gather my strength and go out to meet the members of his court. Thoughts of all that lies ahead of me must be set aside as we enact the ancient rituals of death.

  Everything has been well prepared. Soon after he returned from exile four years ago, Father ordered the construction of his tomb and the coffin in which his mummified body was to be laid, along with the four alabaster jars to contain his organs, and all the other objects and provisions to be placed with him for his journey through eternity. Now, for days after Father’s earthly life has ended, the high priests conduct the prescribed ceremonies with great solemnity. As King Ptolemy waits to enter the afterlife, his heart will be weighed against a feather by the goddess Maat. If his life has been good—and I believe that, in spite of his many faults, my father lived a decent life—then his akh, his transfigured spirit, will begin its celestial journey in the company of the Sun God Ra. The king is no longer semidivine; now he is wholly divine. In death the pharaoh has become a god.