Cleopatra Confesses

by Carolyn Meyer

  “Dear Charmion, you’re right!” I admit, laughing. “Nevertheless, I do order you to take this collar. I believe our father would want you to have it.”

  I fasten the collar around her neck, and I am about to refill our glasses when Arsinoë bursts upon us, uninvited and unannounced. “What are you two talking about?” she demands rudely.

  “How beautiful you have become, Princess Arsinoë,” Charmion replies smoothly, and begs our permission to leave. I grant it reluctantly, though I can understand why she would not want to stay.

  Arsinoë does not fail to notice the gold collar Charmion is wearing. “You gave her that, didn’t you? You give her, a common dancer, more than you give me,” she complains. “Her mother is nothing more than a concubine!”

  I hold Ganymede responsible for Arsinoë’s insolence. But to quiet her I make her a gift of a bracelet that once belonged to Berenike, and she leaves the forecourt with an air of victory.

  Chapter 41

  CHALLENGES

  I had not expected ruling my country to be so difficult. The problems I am confronting have tangled roots that reach back years. Most pressing is another poor harvest. The Inundation again fell far below normal and the grain crops failed, as they often have in recent years. Now farmers cannot pay their taxes, people are hungry, and peasants are leaving their lands and streaming into the city, demanding food. This angers the Alexandrians, who blame me for the shortages and the unrest—as though I have the power to command the waters of the Nile to rise and the crops to flourish!

  There is also the problem of my brother, Ptolemy XIII. In the months after Father’s death, when I first became queen, it was easy to ignore my ten-year-old brother and to rule alone, as I intended. But now, over a year into my reign, Ptolemy has grown increasingly arrogant, and I blame this on his three regents. Though I mistrusted them all along, I underestimated them. Their treachery becomes evident when, in order to quell the growing turmoil in the city, I issue a decree ordering grain in the nomes to be shipped only to Alexandria. Until now, mine has been the sole signature on official documents. Now I discover that Ptolemy’s regents have succeeded in placing his name on the decree, where I should sign.

  “How dare you!” I demand when I see what has been done. I toss aside the stylus, refusing to add my signature.

  “Because I am king,” retorts my brother smugly. “And you are only the queen.”

  Smirking, Theodotus retrieves the stylus and holds it out to me. I snatch it from him, scrawl my signature on the papyrus, and stalk out of the hall.

  That is only the beginning. My brother’s popularity among the people seems to be growing. Nothing is turning out as I planned. If only the rains would fall far to the south in the headwaters of the Nile and the floods would return and nourish the land, then the granaries would again burst with grain to feed the people!

  But it does not happen, and I do not know what to do. My advisors argue among themselves. Egypt has always fed the world, and now it cannot feed itself.

  Adding to my burden, the news reaching us from Rome is deeply disturbing. The crushing debt incurred by my father—ten thousand talents plus the interest, which I have not even bothered to calculate—has not been reduced by so much as a single silver drachma. Moreover, two of the Roman triumvirs are reported to be at each other’s throats, Julius Caesar against Pompey. How I wish Father were here to offer counsel! He knew these men well—Pompey had become his friend, even taking him into his home. Would he have approved my decision to send military aid to Pompey, which has further enraged the Alexandrians?

  The months pass, and the people question everything I do. The latest decree on my writing table does not even require my signature. My brother’s stands alone.

  It is a dangerous time. I am twenty, I have been the ruling queen for two years, and I find I cannot even trust my own advisors. Who is my friend and who is my enemy? Is my grand vizier, Yuya, plotting behind my back? I invite members of my court to banquets, as I am expected to do, but I am always on guard for poison in my cup or the sudden thrust of a dagger.

  Charmion remains my sole confidante. I often send for her late at night, after I have dismissed my servants and sleep will not come. She prepares a warm infusion of mint and honey that helps me to relax, and she listens, saying little, while I talk.

  “The people question everything I do!” I tell her, pacing restlessly. “Pothinus slyly turns them against me. What shall I do? Tell me, dear friend! What do you advise?”

  Charmion is silent, her feet curled under her, sipping her warm drink as I continue to pace. “Perhaps you should leave Alexandria,” she says quietly.

  I stop short and whirl to face her. “What? And let my enemies see that they have defeated me? Never!” I commence pacing again.

  “Just temporarily,” she replies. “Only for a little while, until people have had a chance to calm themselves. Let them see the trouble Ptolemy will create in your absence. They will come to their senses soon enough.”

  “And if they don’t?” I stare at her. “If you were not my best friend, I would have you seized as a traitor.”

  “But I am your best friend, and I think you should finish your tea and lie down. I will stay here and watch over you while you sleep. We will talk again in the morning.”

  I obey, too tired to object. “You know, Charmion,” I murmur as she draws a silk coverlet over me, “sometimes I wonder if my life would not be easier if I had a true partner to share the burden of ruling. Not my dull-witted brother, who is merely the puppet of his advisors, but a strong, intelligent man.”

  “Have you anyone in mind for the role?” she asks, smiling.

  “No,” I confess, though a fleeting image of the handsome Roman officer I met nearly a half-dozen years ago passes through my mind.

  And then, grateful for her presence, I sleep.

  Chapter 42

  PTOLEMY’S BANQUET

  It becomes a ritual. I work ceaselessly, meeting with subjects who wait their turn to complain and to plead, listening to my advisors, poring over official documents, struggling to avoid a direct confrontation with my brother’s regents. Then, late at night, too tired even to sleep, I send for Charmion.

  One night my messenger, Yafeu, runs back from the harem with a message, not from Charmion but from Lady Amandaris: “Charmion has been ordered to dance for the king’s banquet.”

  “The king’s banquet?” This is a surprise, and not a pleasant one. “I know nothing of this. What is the occasion? Where is it being held? Who is attending? I want the answers, without delay!”

  Yafeu hurries off again, and I pace the rooms of my palace, growing angrier and angrier, until at last he returns with a report. “The banquet is in the great hall of the king’s palace in celebration of Year 1 of the reign of King Ptolemy XIII. The three regents sit by the king’s side on the dais. The highest nobility are present.” Yafeu hesitates.

  “Yes? Is there more?”

  “It is my duty to tell you, my queen, that the banquet has been going on for some time. The guests are . . . somewhat overindulged in wine.”

  I am so furious I can scarcely speak. Year 1 of the king’s reign! Outrageous! It is, in fact, Year 2 of my rule. “By whose order is it no longer the rule of Queen Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator?”

  Poor Yafeu backs away from my rage. “I do not know, my queen.” He waits stoically for my next order. Mustering my self-control, I dismiss him with thanks. Then I awaken Irisi and Monifa to help me dress. Still half-asleep, the women protest feebly that my gowns have not been hung up and prepared, that the hairdresser is not available, that no one is around who can apply my cosmetics.

  “I shall do it myself,” I snap. I snatch up the first gown I lay my hands on and begin to put it on.

  Irisi comes to assist me. “What is happening, mistress?” she asks sleepily.

  “My brother is entertaining at a banquet celebrating his reign. He has neither invited me nor notified me of this insult.”

&nb
sp; Usually, I take great care applying cosmetics, but on this night I dash a smear of malachite on my eyelids, hastily outline my eyes with a thick line of kohl, and set the gold circlet with the upright cobra, symbol of my queenship, on my brow. I remember my royal ring, but in my rush I forget my sandals.

  Hurrying barefoot across the open courtyard toward the great hall, I see Charmion running toward me, her long braid flying. “Please do not go there, my queen, I beg you,” she says, making a quick bow. “It may be a trap.”

  I am much too incensed to take her advice. “Wait for me in my quarters,” I tell her. “I’ll talk with you later.” And I hurry on.

  Some of the royal musicians are resting by the entrance to the hall. They glance up—startled, I suppose, to see me—but they remember to bow low.

  “Play something,” I shout at them.

  “But King Ptolemy has dismissed us,” one of the horn players says.

  “And I, Queen Cleopatra, order you to play! Where are the cymbals? The drums? Come, come, musicians, announce the arrival of your queen!”

  The trumpeters obediently sound the notes signaling the arrival of the sovereign, and I sweep into the great hall. The hall is crowded, as it was when Father held banquets here, and I recognize almost everyone present: courtiers, noblemen, the wealthy and influential of Alexandria, those who fawned over Father when he was alive and spoke ill of him as long as he was in exile. Ptolemy’s three regents, Theodotus, Achillas, and Pothinus, are lounging on their elbows in the manner of the Romans and gaze at me with bemused expressions. My brother is drunk, barely able to sit upright on his throne. Who decided to give the boy too much wine?

  I expect them all to rise and bow, but no one stirs. Finally, fat Pothinus pushes himself to his feet and waddles toward me. “Welcome to King Ptolemy’s banquet, Queen Cleopatra,” he lisps. He pronounces my title with heavy sarcasm and wiggles his ringed fingers. “We were just about to send for you, were we not, my king?”

  Ptolemy rouses briefly, his eyes unfocused, and mumbles something unintelligible. His head droops down on his chest again.

  “Then I am happy to have arrived at precisely the right moment, Pothinus. Please continue with your celebration. But first, perhaps you should tell me just what it is you are celebrating without me.”

  This time Ptolemy wakes up. “I’m king now, Cleopatra,” he says. His words are slurred, but I understand him perfectly. “The power’s all mine now, not yours.” He waves toward his three regents. “Just ask them.”

  General Achillas answers before I can demand an explanation. “The tide has turned against you, Cleopatra.” Not Queen Cleopatra; just Cleopatra. I suck in my breath when I hear the change in his tone. “The Alexandrians no longer believe in you. You would be well advised to gather up your supporters—if you still have any—and leave this city.”

  I glance toward Theodotus, whom I have known since my own childhood. He will not look at me. “Yes,” he says, his eyes averted. “Go, Cleopatra.”

  I turn my back on Ptolemy and the three regents and stride out of the hall as regally as one can when barefoot. I have come to fear my brother, deeply influenced as he is by the three men who obviously have neither love nor loyalty for me. Too young to realize what he is doing, Ptolemy has been manipulated into declaring himself the sole ruler. But the Alexandrians are supporting him, and this wounds me. Alexandria, my birthplace, my city, my heart! I understand that Charmion is right: I have no choice but to leave it—for now.

  PART VIII

  THE QUEEN’S FLIGHT

  Ashkelon, the land of the Philistines, at the start of my twenty-first year

  Chapter 43

  AT SEA

  There is no sleep for me that night, after Ptolemy’s banquet. Irisi and Monifa, now wide awake, take charge of the packing. My bodyguards, Sepa and Hasani, have been alerted, as have cooks, stewards, and other servants. I send Yafeu to contact the few people I am absolutely certain are loyal to me. Captain Mshai has been ordered to round up a crew, saying that the queen is planning a leisurely journey up the Nile. To mislead Ptolemy XIII and his three regents, should they decide to pursue me, we plant rumors that I am leaving Alexandria and am on my way to Thebes. But Thebes is not my destination. I intend to leave Egypt.

  Within three days everything is ready for my departure. I do wonder if anyone will try to stop me, tie me up, and throw me into prison—or worse.

  Charmion insists on going too, though I have warned her it could well be a dangerous journey. I am glad she will be with me. “You seem very calm, mistress,” she remarks when she returns from bidding Lady Amandaris good-bye. We climb into our chairs to be carried to the royal boat. The stars are beginning to fade in the pink-tinted dawn sky.

  “Do I?” I ask with a smile. “I’ve never been more afraid, Charmion. But this is not the time to yield to fear. It’s the time to act.”

  Our bearers, alert for threatening figures in the shadows, make their way to Lake Mareotis. I board the gilded boat without any of the ceremony that usually accompanies the comings and goings of royalty. The captain guides the boat through the web of canals connecting the spreading branches of the mouth of the Nile, until we reach a protected inlet near the Mediterranean at a point halfway between Alexandria and Pelusium. Those two harbors are well guarded, and it would be impossible to sail out of either city undetected.

  In the marshy delta we leave the royal boat. It is large and luxurious, but it is designed for river travel and is not suitable for navigating rough seas and ocean storms. Young Mshai, the captain’s son, had gone on ahead and prepared a seagoing galley for us. While the elder Mshai takes the royal boat toward Thebes, without passengers and with only a skeleton crew, to deceive my brother and his regents, my friends and I board the smaller but more rugged ship. Our voyage continues eastward, following the coast, by sail when the winds are favorable and by oar when they are not. We are heading toward the land of the Philistines.

  I have never been at sea. If I were not so worried about what lies ahead, I might enjoy the steady pitch and roll as the ship plows through the choppy waters. But I have too much on my mind to take pleasure in this new experience. On one of these restless nights at sea, I note that I am now twenty-one years old, and I contemplate—as I always do on the anniversary of my birth—what the coming year may hold for me and for Egypt.

  Chapter 44

  ASHKELON

  After several days of rough seas with the sturdy galley pitching and rolling sickeningly, we arrive in the port of Ashkelon at the eastern end of the Mediterranean. The anchor is let down, and I am rowed ashore to be welcomed by the governor of this Philistine city-state and by whatever other officials have gathered to witness the unexpected arrival of a queen. I plan to establish my headquarters here while I prepare my next move, though I have only the vaguest idea of what that will be. Charmion and I settle into the simple lodgings offered by the governor, probably the best he has available. But I am not concerned by the lack of luxury. At last I feel safe. No one will harm me here.

  Monifa and Irisi wander through the marketplace, alert for rumors, while my bodyguards pass their time by the docks, where traders exchange news as well as goods. For a time we learn nothing of interest. In fact, several months pass with little news and nothing to occupy me. I am restless. I wonder about the mood in Egypt and worry about what my brother-king is doing. It is now the season of Inundation in Egypt, hot and humid in Alexandria but even hotter in Ashkelon. I move into a tent near the beach, hoping for the cool sea breezes I enjoyed in my palace. There are none. Every day, I grow more impatient, more irritable. This is surely not what my father intended.

  “I should be back in Alexandria,” I fret to Charmion. “The people need me.”

  “You must be patient, Cleopatra. You will know when the time is right,” she assures me, and I try to accept her wisdom. But the restlessness stays with me. I cannot imagine how my father endured years of exile.

  Then, one day, my bodyguards rush back
from the water-front with the report that two armies led by generals of the Roman triumvirate, Pompey and Julius Caesar, have met and clashed in Greece.

  “Pompey had twice as many men as Caesar,” Hasani tells me. “The bloody battle raged through a long day. But Caesar proved to be the better general and easily defeated Pompey.”

  “So it is over, then. Caesar is the victor.” I cannot see that this has anything to do with me or with Egypt. I reach for a bunch of grapes and pluck them off one by one.

  “Not entirely finished, my queen. Pompey is on his way to Egypt to visit your brother. They say he expects a hero’s welcome from the son of his old friend Ptolemy XII.”

  “In Alexandria?” I ask, suddenly alert.

  “No, my queen. Pompey’s ship is already well to the east of Alexandria. Ptolemy and his army are marching toward Pelusium, where they expect to meet your army and defeat you. Or so everyone says. And that is where Pompey hopes to meet young Ptolemy.”

  My army? My thirteen-year-old brother wants to go to war against me? The news stuns me. Ptolemy must be mad! “Hasani, as you well know, I do not have an army!”

  My guard smiles. “I have every confidence that Queen Cleopatra will soon raise one.”

  It is not easy to raise an army under such circumstances, but the alternative is to give in to my enemies and allow my brother to rule in my place. I return the guard’s smile, my mind already racing. “You are right, Hasani. I will do exactly that.”

  Now I know what my next move will be.

  I set to work immediately. I have learned that I can be remarkably persuasive when I must.

  I arrange a banquet, to which I invite the high officials of Ashkelon and neighboring Philistine towns and villages. My cooks begin preparing a feast. Charmion finds talented young girls in the city and teaches them some simple dances; the musicians who travel with my small court are capable of producing fine music with few instruments. On the night of the banquet the guests gather in a large tent I have had set up and well furnished. When everything is ready, the musicians signal my entrance. I appear among my guests dressed simply but elegantly, wearing little jewelry but the gold crown with the cobra symbol. Still, I sense that my guests are suspicious of me and wonder what I want of them.