Cleopatra Confesses

by Carolyn Meyer

  Father’s carefully prepared body has been placed in two mummy cases, one inside the other, both richly decorated with gold, and carried through the streets of Alexandria in a somber procession. I walk with Arsinöe and our two young brothers behind the king’s mummified body while a corps of drummers keeps a slow, steady beat. Not everyone in the crowds lining the Canopic Way looks as though he is mourning the death of a king, but I know at least two faces that are marked by grief: Charmion and Lady Amandaris. Our eyes meet for a moment before both of them bow deeply.

  I would give a great deal to have Charmion with me during these long ceremonies, but that is not possible—she is not recognized as the daughter of the king, because the king himself did not formally acknowledge her as his child. Instead, I must endure the presence of my sister and the two boys. Arsinoë, soon to be sixteen, is no longer the sweet, eager-to-please little girl I remember. She has changed a great deal. She does not have the calculated coldness of our older sisters, but she is shrewd and stubborn, and her tutor-guardian, Ganymede, makes the most of it. As I predicted, she is also beautiful. Whenever she happens to be around one of the Syrian officers, she smiles and flutters her eyelashes and tosses her curls, little habits she must have learned from Tryphaena and Berenike.

  I glance at our two brothers—Ptolemy XIII, just ten, and Ptolemy XIV, not yet nine—grimly enduring the long ceremony. They are under the guidance of their tutor, Theodotus, who has been with them for most of their lives. I have only slightly more regard for him than I do for Arsinoë’s Ganymede. The ambition of these guardians is boundless, and I know that I must be wary of them both.

  After Father’s body is placed in his tomb and the last rituals are performed, his will is read out. We all know what to expect: I am no longer simply queen consort, but coruler with Ptolemy XIII. Father did not wish me to rule alone, and according to the terms of his will, I must marry my ten-year-old brother, who will be advised by three regents. I intend to delay formalizing the union for as long as possible. Ptolemy XIII will be my husband in name only. By the time he is old enough to take on the roles of husband and king in five years, I shall have everything firmly in hand. I will bring to the throne the ancient traditions of a long line of Egyptian pharaohs stretching back thousands of years and blend those traditions with the brilliance of the Greeks, whose genius was first brought to Egypt from Macedonia, the land of my ancestors, by Alexander the Great.

  I am painfully aware that this glorious heritage has been tarnished in recent generations. Many place most of the blame on my father and the ruinous debt under which he has buried Egypt. But no matter where the fault lies, I will change all that. My deepest desire is to win back the trust and confidence of the people—Egyptians, Greeks, Jews, foreigners—and to restore Egypt to her former magnificence. I intend to be remembered as a great queen.

  Year 30 of Ptolemy XII has ended.

  Now begins Year 1 of the reign of Cleopatra VII.

  PART VII

  THE NEW PHARAOHS

  Upper and Lower Egypt in my eighteenth year

  Chapter 38

  CORONATION

  Soon after King Ptolemy XII’s death and burial, I show my devotion to my father’s memory in the Greek manner by adding the descriptive “Father Loving” to my name. I am now titled Queen Cleopatra VII Philopator. Then, during the festival of the Opening of the Year, between the end of the season of Harvest and the start of the Inundation, Ptolemy XIII and I travel with the royal court to Memphis in Lower Egypt, where pharaohs have traditionally been crowned. This is the first journey I have made on the royal boat in seven years, since my sisters and I traveled up and down the Nile with Father. It is my brother’s first time on board—a thrilling time for him, though a sad one for me as I remember all that has happened since then.

  Once in Memphis, Ptolemy XIII and I each accept the double crown of Egypt, the flat red cobra crown of Lower Egypt combined with the tall white vulture crown of Upper Egypt. The ceremony begins just before dawn with the appearance of Sirius, the Nile Star, in the eastern sky.

  Ptolemy XIII is filled with excitement—he hardly slept the night before the ceremony—but as the hours pass with the shaven-headed priests chanting their monotonous incantations, and the clamorous music of goat-skin drums and brass cymbals and trumpets, he begins to lose interest.

  “This crown is too heavy, Cleopatra,” he complains. “When does the feast begin? I’m hungry! Are those priests ever going to stop chanting?”

  I squint up at the sky: The sun has barely passed the zenith. We have reached the point in the ceremony where my brother and I are each handed the crook and the flail, symbols of kingship and emblems of the god Osiris, and we hold these symbols crossed over our chests. “There is still much that must happen,” I whisper. “We must take the sacred oath, and then the nobles and high officials will swear their loyalty. We kneel by the altar, and incense will be burned. Then we’ll be carried through the streets on litters. You’ll be expected to acknowledge the crowds that have come out to honor us. The feasting will start sometime after that.”

  This is not what my brother wants to hear. “Why don’t you just order the priest to go quickly?” Ptolemy whines.

  “That is not possible,” I tell him firmly. Then I am inspired to say, “See how the people are all kneeling with their foreheads pressed to the ground? Keep your eye on them. Anyone who looks up is cursed.”

  This diversion works for a little while, until he sees the ambassador from Carthaginia, or perhaps it is the minister of Babylonia, lift his head and peer around. “Look! I see one, Cleopatra!” crows the new pharaoh. “He’s cursed! Isn’t he? Now he will fall dead!”

  The high priest frowns in our direction. I shake my head to let him know nothing is wrong, and the seemingly endless ceremony continues. By the time it does finally end, just as the Great Ra touches the western horizon, young King Ptolemy XIII is sound asleep on his golden throne.

  But for me this marks the start of my new life. Let the celebration begin!

  Chapter 39

  BUCHIS

  When the coronation festivities in Memphis are finished, my brother and I continue up the Nile in the royal boat to Thebes for a second coronation in Upper Egypt. After a visit lasting half a month, I persuade Ptolemy to return to Alexandria with his regents. He is as eager to leave as I am to have him gone, and he leaps at the bribe I offer: He can stay on the royal boat under the command of Captain Mshai. I will sacrifice the luxury and make do with a smaller, faster, less well-appointed boat. Privately, I instruct Mshai to proceed as slowly as possible. “Allow my brother to stop as often as he likes and to stay as long as he wants. Do not let Theodotus hurry him.” Ptolemy thinks I have made him a great concession. But I do not want him to arrive much before I do.

  Then I set sail for the small city of Hermonthis, south of Thebes, going ashore often along the way to call on the local priests and announce my determination to finish many of the temples and other buildings begun by my father. Those building projects earned him the loyalty of the priests, and I hope it will do the same for me.

  Hermonthis is the home of the sacred bull, Buchis. When Buchis comes to the end of his life, throughout which he has been fed the finest food and cared for by a host of servants, he is mummified and buried with great ceremony. A young bull, which must have a pure white head and a solid black body, is brought forth and installed as the new Buchis.

  I remember when I was a child and word reached Alexandria that Buchis had died. When the new bull was to be dedicated, King Ptolemy sent one of his high-ranking noblemen to represent him in the solemn ceremonies. This time I will attend these ceremonies myself.

  I receive a fine welcome in Hermonthis, and my speeches, delivered in Egyptian, are greeted with cheers. Shaven-headed priests robed in white linen and wearing papyrus sandals—leather is not permitted—lead out the young bull. This new Buchis is unruly; several strong young men hang on ropes to keep him from charging into the crowd. Wreaths of
flowers are draped over his horns, and little girls run along beside him scattering flower petals for him to trample. Older girls keep up a rhythmic tinkling with finger cymbals, and little boys perform handsprings and somersaults over and around the bull while he snorts and stomps and tosses his massive head. Special attendants walk behind Buchis, collecting his droppings, which are considered sacred.

  The occasion is a solemn one, for this is a religious rite. The priests are pleased that I have come, and they show their pleasure by greeting me with thea—goddess—added to my title: Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, “The Goddess Who Loves Her Father.”

  In the eyes of these devout men I am not merely their queen and semidivine pharaoh but also the embodiment of the great goddess Isis, sister-wife of Osiris, mother of Horus. At the end of the Buchis ceremony I make a special offering to Isis with the promise to honor her in every possible way. It is my desire to live up to the priests’ high opinion of me, not only in their eyes but in my own. As I stand before them, arms raised, I am exultant. This adulation is what I have lived for, longed for, all my life. My people will not be disappointed.

  Because the country is still in mourning for King Ptolemy XII, I have ordered that no sumptuous feasts be held in my honor. “There will be time enough for that in the future,” I tell the priests.

  But the truth is that I must return to Alexandria as quickly as I can. My brother has half a month’s lead, and though he is in a much slower boat, he may have already arrived in the city. I am sure that Ptolemy’s three regents are plotting behind my back to seize control. Before he died, Father appointed a regency council to serve for my brother until he is fifteen and of age to rule. In addition to his guardian and tutor, Theodotus, who has traveled with him, the council consists of Achillas, a thin-lipped Roman general, and the eunuch Pothinus, round as a cook pot and cunning as a snake. All three barely disguise their lust for power. Since Ptolemy is only ten, his regents will have five years to exercise control. It is hard to say which of these men I dislike and distrust most, but they have already gained complete control over Ptolemy. I must find a way to break their hold on him and keep the reins of power in my own hands if I am to restore prosperity to Egypt. The welfare of the people rests entirely on me. I trust only myself, and I am ready.

  Chapter 40

  RULING

  Captain Mshai’s son, who is only a few years older than I am, commands the boat on which I am returning to Alexandria. He negotiates the dangerous passage near Dendara without incident, and I am sure he remembers as vividly as I do the whirlpools and the havoc they caused on our journey seven years earlier. He is still surprised, and very grateful, that King Ptolemy did not have his father put to death as a result.

  “Hurry,” I tell him now. “Hurry, hurry.”

  We are floating with the current, but young Mshai orders the rowers to assist.

  When we pass the Nilometer with the markings on the rock, I see that the water level has scarcely risen. The Nile should be in full flood in this first month of Inundation. I understand that the harvest will be poor again. From my visits to the administrators of each nome on the way up the river, I learned that Egypt faces serious famine. Last year’s harvest filled the granaries only halfway.

  Once back in Alexandria, I will have to deal immediately with the kingdom’s financial situation, the enormous debts our father accumulated over the years, and the burdensome taxes that weigh heavily on everyone, from the highest-ranking nobleman at court to the humblest peasant in the field.

  But first I must deal with Ptolemy and his three regents.

  “Hurry, hurry,” I implore the captain. Though I am young—just half a year past eighteen—I am well trained and fully confident of my ability to rule. I am impatient. But Mshai can do no more to make the boat move any faster.

  In a little more than a month I reach Alexandria, take part in the ceremonies welcoming my return, and lose no time in seeking out my brothers and sister. Arsinoë is plainly jealous of me and may soon become a problem. Ptolemy XIV, the youngest of the family, ignores me. I see at once that Ptolemy XIII comprehends none of the crises we face. He likes to strut around, wearing the double crown, which looks rather silly on such a small boy still with the sidelock of youth. The one thing my brother truly cares about is his stable of fine horses. He has been given a two-wheeled Roman chariot, and his greatest pleasure is racing through the streets and marketplaces of Alexandria, scattering donkeys, carts, vendors, and their wares in all directions. Being king is all a game to him. Fortunately, since he is not of age to rule, he stays out of my way. When we are together, he is insolent, which he had not been just months earlier. I have never been close to my brother-king, but I did not expect him to turn against me. I can see that under the influence of his regents he is doing exactly that.

  After Father’s return from exile until the day of his death, I spent most of my time with him. Now that he has gone on to the afterlife, sailing across the skies in his celestial boat, my days are taken up by meetings with various ministers. I have named an Egyptian, Yuya, as my grand vizier. He is an experienced administrator and probably as trustworthy as anyone I might have selected. I assume that my other advisors are mostly looking out for themselves. At least one of Ptolemy’s three regents attends every meeting. Pothinus is the worst, challenging everything I say.

  There are only a few people I can still trust. Demetrius, my lifelong tutor, is completely devoted, but he is growing old and can no longer see well. Monifa, who has been like a mother to me, complains of various aches and pains. Irisi serves me faithfully and agrees with everything I say in her efforts to please, but that does not make her a dependable confidante. At times, when I feel utterly alone and discouraged, I realize how much I miss Charmion. I have not had even a few private moments with her since before Father’s death. I have allowed myself to become distracted by my responsibilities, and I determine to change that.

  “Come quickly, dear sister-friend,” I write, and send the note with Yafeu, my loyal messenger. He returns with her reply: “Before the sun sets.”

  Charmion enters the forecourt, smiling shyly. She looks different—her hair is not in her usual single braid, and her skin glows as rich as honey. She appears more beautiful than ever. “My queen,” she says, bowing low, “it is my honor to serve you.”

  We settle onto cushions in the garden of the palace where I have lived since childhood. “I’ve ordered changes in the main palace that was Father’s—and, for a short time, Tryphaena’s and Berenike’s,” I explain in answer to her question. “When it’s finished, I’ll make it my official residence. Meanwhile, it’s easier to stay where I am.”

  A serving girl brings us fruit and refreshing drinks, and I send away the attendants with their ostrich-feather fans. I ask Charmion about the health of her mother. “She is well, my queen,” she replies, again returning to the formal style of speech.

  I interrupt her, taking her hand in mine. “I thought we agreed long ago that we’d talk together informally, as sisters do. Because we truly are sisters, dear Charmion.”

  “That was before you became Queen Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator,” she says. “Now pharaoh and sole ruler.”

  I frown at her. “Then I order you to speak to me as your sister and not as your queen!” I say sternly. She looks startled for a moment before both of us begin to laugh. Soon we are talking together in the intimate way we once did.

  “I understand that the king’s will requires you to marry your brother,” she says. “Has that taken place? I’ve heard nothing.”

  “I’m delaying as long as possible,” I tell her, grimacing. “At eighteen I’m expected to have a husband as coruler. Ptolemy XIII was Father’s solution to the problem, not mine. He thought it important to continue the Ptolemy line of rulers, and a king from outside the family would change that. Ptolemy XIII is still a child—only ten. The most I can hope for from the boy is that he races his chariot and leaves the ruling to me.” I lean toward her, confiding, �
�But I would give a great deal to have a man by my side who could be a real companion. My life is a solitary one, as you no doubt realize.”

  “A man like that handsome Roman cavalry officer,” she suggests with a knowing smile.

  I feel a rush of heat to my face. “I think of him often,” I confess. Marcus Antonius also visits me in my dreams, but I do not mention that.

  “And I’m certain he thinks of you as well,” she assures me. “Perhaps one day soon fate will bring him to you again.”

  We are silent for a moment, and then I spring to my feet and begin pacing. “Charmion, allow me to direct our thoughts away from the Roman officer with the winning smile. I’m asking you to come to live in my palace, not as a servant but as my friend and confidante. I badly need someone who will not simply tell me what I want to hear, and I know you are that person.” I remove the handsome gold collar I am wearing—a collar that Father gave me—and bend to place it around her neck. “Accept this as a token of my affection for you and the bond of blood that we share.”

  But she backs away from me, protesting, “My queen, I cannot accept this gift. I am honored that you wish to have me live near you, but I believe I can be of greatest service to you as a dancer at the royal banquets, with my eyes and ears open. And I will gladly come to you whenever you summon me.”

  Her refusal amazes me. “I could order you to do this,” I remind her, “and you would be forced to obey. But I see you’ve already gone against my order that you speak to me familiarly, like a sister.”

  “I’m sorry. I forget,” she says. “But my queen—Cleopatra—I believe you just said that you need someone who won’t just tell you what you want to hear. I’m truly that person. You cannot now order me to be someone else.”