He is not a man I would want for an enemy. Thus when I suddenly remembered that Pompey is my patron, that he was paid to protect us royal children, I felt enormous relief.
Since we are “friends”, maybe the soldiers will be satisfied with just camping on our shores until the trouble calms down.
Father now owes sixteen thousand talents. If it takes years for an Egyptian labourer to earn just one talent, it would take many labourers many years to pay Father’s debt. What does a poor man gain from his toil?
Now I understand why common, hardworking people hate my father so deeply. My heart despairs over this.
As I write this, Arrow has curled herself at my chair with one heavy paw resting on my foot. Her long, spotted tail is tucked under her chin like a cushion. What a good, old friend! Tomorrow I am going to ask the royal jeweller to make a new collar for her, a beautiful one, perhaps gold with royal purple stones.
The sand in my hourglass is almost at the bottom, my oil lamp is low. To bed now…
17 Januarius
I have turned my thoughts to what Olympus said the other day, and I believe him for he is wise beyond his years. He studies with learned men at the Mouseion and he is also friends with commoners such as cooks and chariot drivers. He listens to what people say. This is a quality that will make him a good physician, but in the meantime it makes him my valuable friend.
Since I wanted to see and hear for myself what our subjects are saying about Father, I planned a visit to the agora. With Neva’s help, I washed all colour from my face and replaced my gold necklace with a seashell pendant. She combed my hair into the style of Greek girls, and we dressed in simple chitons, no perfume or earrings. We wore thin wool shawls as a northern wind had returned, making the day cold.
Early in the morning, we hurried on our errands to buy bread and little cakes, Puzo melting into the crowds behind us. This outing was just an excuse because, truth is, I have plenty of bread – the royal bakers deliver fresh loaves to me twice daily.
As usual, the streets were crowded with pushing, shoving, and shouting people – a babble of languages. Some odours were so unpleasant I drew a veil over my nose and mouth. This is one reason Berenice will not appear in public. She does not understand foreigners, particularly those who do not bathe as often as we Greeks do. Her delicate stomach makes her afraid of new foods, though she is more likely to die of poisoning within her own walls! Myself, I do love the smell of roasting meat and I love the clamour of crowds.
Thus Neva and I slowly made our way through the streets. We were pressed in on all sides and many times I was pinched by unseen hands … rudely pinched! But such is the risk of pretending to be a common girl and not allowing Puzo to stay by my side. If I brought my official guards, then everyone would know I am from the palace. With murderers looking for Father, all the more I needed to conceal my identity.
I turned down an alley that was so narrow my shoulders brushed the walls as I sidestepped puddles and piles of dung. Neva followed me, her hand hooked in my sash so we would not lose each other. We passed a doorway where a man sat on his heels. Behind him was his little store. The back wall was dark except for a small oil lamp that illuminated shelves of idols for sale, all sizes, carved from stone and wood. The length of the alley was dotted with stalls like this, their owners crouched in doorways, leering at us as we hurried past, reaching out a dirty hand.
We ran into a bright, busy street and once again blended into the crowd. I could see an Arab in his flowing dishdasha, a braided cord around his forehead, watching me. Dear Puzo. Once again I felt safe. When I noticed people swarming around something, I bent down to look between all the elbows and arms and saw a square cage, full of baby crocodiles, each about the length of my arm. They were writhing and snapping their jaws. I doubt they had been fed in many days. Children were poking sticks and reeds into the cage, apparently not realizing their fingers could be bitten off.
The owner of the crocodiles was a tiny black man, a Pygmy, who stood on top of the cage shouting terrible curses on my father, shouting that his crocodiles were for sale, cheap, to anyone willing to sneak them into the king’s bed. The crowd roared with pleasure, by no means understanding that such an act would get them beheaded.
My heart was so troubled at this, I pulled Neva’s arm and we hurried away, down towards the wharves. Near the eastern harbour there is a spit of land with rocks that form a breakwater. Nearby is the Temple of Isis, our Egyptian goddess.
We climbed the steps and entered the place of worship. It is a large, open room with a wide view of the sea. Always there is a breeze. In the heat of the summer this breeze is refreshing, but now during winter it is just cold.
I lay a small ball of incense that I had carried in my pouch at the stone feet of Isis. An attendant stepped from the shadows carrying a lantern which he used to light my offering. The steps surrounding Isis were lined with candles floating in bowls of oil. They flickered as a slave lifted a fan of ostrich feathers and began waving it over me.
O Isis, I prayed, protect my father. Protect me. I sense there is more danger than I can see.
To continue…
Neva and I left the temple to walk along the cold beach, Puzo far behind. A crowd had gathered in the sand. Entertaining them was a Psylloi, one of the many African snake charmers who roam the streets of Alexandria. I watched the cobra rise out of its basket, its hood flared as it swayed. People were tossing coins into a dish and applauding, pleased by the snake’s dance. Do they not know that cobras are deaf to flute music? They only flare because they are angry and ready to spit their killing poison. I have witnessed men being struck dead while showing off.
Nearby, two boys standing knee-deep in the waves were pulling in a fishing net. They started to sing. It was a wicked song that made my blood chill, wicked because it was about King Ptolemy and his daughter Cleopatra – me! I felt myself begin to tremble as the song grew louder. Part of it went like this:
…a poisoned cup
a serpent’s bite
a sword to the neck
would be just right.
Wanting to hear no more I pushed my way through the crowd, back along the Canopic Way to the palace, Neva following. We slipped in by one of the servants’ gates. Before changing out of my clothes, I took a tablet and rubbed the wax until it was smooth enough to write upon. When finished, I lay a blank tablet face to face, and tied them together with string, then lit a purple candle. Dripping the wax on to the string, I pressed my ring into the wax for a personal seal.
“Take this to Olympus,” I instructed Neva.
He had been right. Father’s life was in danger. And so was mine.
19 Januarius
Arrow is wearing her new collar. When she paces through the halls at night, I can see torchlight reflecting off the tiny amethysts, my favourite purple stone. They are set in gold with black etchings: hieroglyphs spell her name and mine.
Olympus and I have been sending tablets to each other twice a day. I have written to him that the songs in the streets have put fear in my heart, so this morning we met in the Gymnasion to watch the wrestlers and to talk about these things. We sat in the stands near the athletes where their chatter could drown out our voices. O, his friendship is a comfort.
I have been reflecting on something that gladdens my heart. With Olympus sitting next to me I forget that I am royal and he is common. Maybe it is the bold way he speaks his mind, often leaning over to touch my arm until I nod with understanding. Then when I am the one speaking, he listens carefully to every word, looking at me with such tenderness I end up pouring out my heart to him. Olympus will be a great physician, I know it. Though he is young like myself, I trust him deeply.
But he is worried about my safety. He has heard ugly rumours about me, and this morning he saw something disturbing at the stables.
The riding master showed Olympus a square piec
e of papyrus that had been nailed to Bucephalus’ stall. On it was painted drawings showing the Ptolemy children: the three youngest were sleeping peacefully in cradles, the two eldest – Tryphaena and Berenice – were gazing at their reflections in a mirror, but the third daughter – me – was missing her head!
When Olympus brought this papyrus to me, my heart fell. I do not know exactly what it means or who wants to kill me. It is common knowledge that I am Father’s favourite daughter, so perhaps the people who hate him, hate me as well, because I am the one he most likely would name to succeed him.
In any event, it is now too dangerous for me to ride Bucephalus, even out in the desert. Enemies know my favourite oasis, where we always rest before returning to the city. My heart is uneasy knowing that I am being watched.
Thus, Olympus has started making plans, but what they are, he will not say. Not until everything is in place.
22 Januarius
Last night before the moon rose, Neva and I made our way down the palace steps that lead to the water’s edge. Puzo waited with a small boat. In the darkness he rowed us out to my island, Antirrhodus. I wanted to be alone, that is, without all the servants and guards who are usually at my call.
As we neared the island’s beach, Puzo jumped into the water to pull the boat ashore. I lifted my chiton so it would not get wet and stepped over the rail to the sand. The usual torches lit the entryway to my little palace, but I wanted to walk for a while along the dark shoreline. After some moments, Puzo ran to me and hurried us back to the boat. He carried something white and round under his arm.
I did not understand why we had to leave Antirrhodus so quickly, but I trusted Puzo. When he launched us back into the waves and started rowing, the object he had set on the floor at his feet rolled towards me.
It was a human skull. Even in the dim light I could see my name painted across the forehead.
I am sick at heart … another message that someone wants me dead. But who?
Princess Cleopatra to Olympus, loyal friend and observer:
Mercy to you and peace. Your last letter so frightened me, I rubbed out the words so that you will not be suspected.
Yes, I will be ready. Do not tell a soul, not even little Arsinoë or my brothers. Their nurses can make up a story if they wonder where I have gone. By the time Tryphaena and Berenice figure it out, I will be safe.
I will leave Arrow in your care, my friend. Please see that she is well fed, otherwise she gets extremely rough. If Cook runs out of lamb, there are plenty of rats in the grainery, plump and sweet to her taste. She enjoys an ostrich egg from time to time. Also, Bucephalus will need exercise and your tender touch. Do not try to comb her mane.
Thank you in advance, dear Olympus. I know we will be seeing each other between now and my departure, but might not be able to speak aloud of our plans, thus these instructions for my beloved pets.
I am happy that Neva will be my companion on this journey, but my heart would take delight if you, too, could be at my side, Olympus.
16 Februarius
I wait. Olympus will send word when it is time.
My guards stay near, even when I bathe, though they stand behind a screen with the harpist. In addition to a sword, Puzo also has small daggers strapped to the inside of each sandal; his gold armbands are woven with chains that can quickly be thrown around an enemy’s neck to strangle him. Death takes just a few seconds. I’ve watched him practise this on prisoners who were to be executed. Not a pleasant sight.
Though I know Puzo is always ready to defend my life with his, I still am not sleeping well and my stomach is nervous. In my heart I fear being poisoned, so I have assigned a new slave to taste my food. I do not know his name, I do not want to know his name, but he is still alive, thank the gods.
Because my life is in danger, Neva and I have not explored the agora in four weeks, nor visited the stables. Poor Bucephalus is left to the care of the horse master. Yesterday, another note was nailed to her stall, with a warning: if I am seen petting her, an assassin will be waiting to throw a spear through both of us. O, this causes me anguish. Who is it that wants me dead and where are they? Can they see me now?
I spend many hours listening to Neva read, but when her voice grows weary I walk to the Library to meet Olympus. As he is fluent in Latin as well as his native Greek, he has been helping me learn to speak as the Romans do. It is a harsh language that sounds like pigs grunting in my opinion, but I am determined to communicate with the barbarians if need be. I will be wiser if I understand their precise words. Did I mention that one of his favourite exercises is to translate Latin into Greek and Greek into Latin? He said this helps him develop his vocabulary and writing skills.
Olympus and I also enjoy spending time with our good friend Theophilus, who lives in the eastern part of the city in the Jewish Quarter. His ancestor was one of the seventy men who translated Hebrew Scriptures into Greek, and this translation of the Torah is called the Septuagint. For reasons unknown to me, there are as many Jews living here in Alexandria as in Jerusalem; their synagogue is huge. The three of us have spent hours in the courtyard, talking together and discussing our different religions. O, I enjoy their companionship! They told me I am wasting my time visiting Alexander the Great. He is not the messiah, his body will stay in that tomb until someone buries it or dumps it in the sea. They feel quite strongly about this.
Theophilus, whose name means “One Who Loves God”, says his family is descended from Moses, the Jew who led their people out of Egypt. I have reflected on this and asked him why the Jews came back to Egypt if they had wanted so badly to leave. Our conversation was interrupted by a messenger who bowed quickly, then reported to me that King Ptolemy’s ship was heading out to sea for Rome.
I jumped up. No, I thought, it cannot be.
In minutes I had returned to the palace, disguised myself, and was hurrying with Neva through the streets. We ran the long mile over the Heptastodion to Pharos Island, Puzo this time dressed as a poor fisherman. From the top of the lighthouse I would be able to see for myself if Father had returned from hiding and was now leaving Alexandria.
The lighthouse master is an old, bent man. He knows I am a princess in disguise, but he will never betray me. Years ago when he lived in Rome, he was caught gossiping about Julius Caesar and was given a choice: to be executed, crucified on a cross like a common Roman criminal, or to have his tongue cut out. He chose life. But without his tongue, he will never again be able to speak.
I asked him what ship had left the harbour. Was it Father’s?
“No,” he gestured, “come and see for yourself.”
He led us inside. The ground floor is shaped like a huge square, with offices and storage and sleeping rooms. Stacks of firewood fill two sides. There are many types of wood, some brought down the Nile from our jungles, some from the forests of Phoenicia.
I looked straight up. Two spiral ramps with steps cut into them twist upwards, far up to the top, where the lantern sits like the flame on a giant candle. A donkey was pulling a cart loaded with wood up one of these ramps, and another was coming down the other ramp.
All day, all night, the great fire must be fed.
To continue…
The lighthouse master motioned us to follow him, but to keep as close to the wall as possible. There are no railings. One missed step and we would fall to our deaths. I worried this could happen because the ramp was slippery from donkey dung, and a bitter stench made me feel sick. With one hand I held a veil over my nose; the other hand I firmly pressed against the stone wall. As we passed each small open window, the breeze refreshed me. I could see blue ocean far, far below us.
The sight was dizzying. For a moment I imagined myself falling, a thought so vivid my heart raced. But, O, the view!
The sea blended so perfectly with the sky I couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. Below us the city
looked like tiny building blocks had been arranged by a child, white marble blocks gleaming in the sun. The streets were dark strips between the blocks, moving slowly like a stream of ants. Beyond the palace I recognized the Hippodrome. Dotting its track were miniature chariots pulled by miniature horses, circling around and around. They looked like my brothers’ toys! Nearby were the stables, though I could not catch sight of my Bucephalus.
Far to the west were the vast yellow sands of the Sahara with a green mark near the coast, an oasis perhaps? And in the other direction, the Nile flowed into the Mediterranean. Now I know what birds see, I thought. Are the gods up here, too, looking down on us as if we were ants? Can Isis see me? Is she up here or is she in her temple?
The higher we climbed the more the walls slanted in. The air was hot from a loud, roaring furnace directly overhead, the mighty beacon of Alexandria. My neck ached from looking up. I could see a high ledge outside one of the windows where a statue of Poseidon looks out over the ocean.
A man wearing an iron mask and iron netting over his shirt was heaving wood on the pyre. I wondered if the iron made his skin blister from the horrible heat.
The lighthouse master held his arm out so we would go no further. He pointed up towards a huge round mirror. It was polished glass, curved like a shallow bowl, but much clearer than the dome over King Alexander. Another man in protective clothes was turning it slightly.
To my delight, I could see a moving picture in the mirror. It was as clear and near to me as my hand. I saw blue ocean. A boat was sailing up and over the swells, the waves cresting in white foam. A seagull hovered above the mast. This was a trireme, a swift warship with three banks of oars on each side. I quickly looked out the window in the same direction, but saw only blue.
Cleopatra Page 3