The Memoirs of Cleopatra (3 page)

“You are most welcome to Alexandria, most noble Imperator Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. We greet you, and salute your victories, and declare that you honor us by your presence here this evening,” said Father. He had a pleasant voice, and normally it carried well, but tonight it lacked power. He must be terribly, terribly nervous—and of course that made me nervous, too, and nervous for him as well.

Pompey gave some reply, but his Greek was so accented I could hardly understand him. Perhaps Father did; at least he pretended to. More exchanges followed, many introductions on both sides. I was presented—or was Pompey presented to me? Which was the proper order?—and I smiled and nodded to him. I knew that princesses—let alone kings and queens!—never bowed to anyone else, but I hoped it would not offend him. He probably did not know all these things, being from Rome, where they had no kings.

Instead of his previous response—a tepid smile—he suddenly bent down and stared right into my face, his round blue eyes just level with mine.

“What an enchanting child!” he said, in that odd Greek. “Do the children of kings attend these things from the cradle?” He turned to Father, who looked embarrassed. I could tell he regretted allowing me to come; he did not wish to do anything that might call unflattering attention to us.

“Not until the age of seven,” he improvised quickly. I wasn’t quite seven yet, but Pompey would never know. “We believe that that age is the portal to understanding….” Tactfully he indicated that the banquet tables were waiting, in the adjoining, almost equally large, chamber, and steered the Roman commander in that direction.

Beside me, my older sisters were smirking; they seemed to find my discomfiture amusing.

“ ‘What an
enchanting
child,’ ” Berenice mimicked.

“Look, there’s another one,” the elder Cleopatra said, indicating a boy who was watching us pass. “The banquet is turning into a children’s party!”

I was surprised to see him, and I wondered why he was there. He looked completely out of place. Would Pompey stop and single him out, too? But luckily he seemed more interested in getting to the food in the next room. Everyone said Romans were most fond of eating.

The boy, who was dressed as a Greek and holding the hand of a bearded, Greek-looking man, must be an Alexandrian. He was studying us the way I had studied the Romans. Perhaps we were a curiosity to him. Our family did not make many public appearances in the streets of Alexandria, for fear of riots.

We walked slowly, and—I hoped—majestically past him, and entered the transformed room where we would dine. Some late afternoon rays of sun were stabbing almost horizontally across the chamber, just at the level of the tables, where a forest of gold goblets and dishes was waiting. It seemed like magic to me, lighted up like that, and it must have to the Romans, too, because they were all laughing with delight, and pointing.

Pointing!
How rude! But then…I had been warned to expect it.

Pompey was not pointing, nor were his companions. He did not even look particularly interested; or if he was, he hid it well.

We took our places; all the adults were to recline, while only the lesser folk would sit on stools—and there were very few lesser folk present. My nurse had told me that in Rome both women and children were relegated to the stools, but neither the Queen nor the older princesses would ever tolerate that here. I tried to figure out how many couches were needed for a thousand people to recline, and knew it was over three hundred—and yet they fitted into this enormous room, with ample room left over for the servers to pass between them easily with their trays and dishes.

Father was motioning me to a stool, while Pompey and his companions spread themselves on the couches clustered for the highest of the high. Was I to be the only one on a stool? I might as well have worn a huge sign calling attention to myself. I watched while my sisters and stepmother settled themselves, daintily twitching their gowns and tucking one foot under the other. How I wished I were only a little older, and could be on a couch!

I felt myself to be so conspicuous that I wondered how I would ever get through the meal. Just then Father ordered the bearded man with the boy to join us; I saw him sending for them. I knew he was doing it to alleviate my embarrassment; he was always very solicitous of others, seeming to sense their distress even if they did not voice it.

“Ah! My dear Meleagros,” Father addressed the man. “Why not seat yourself where you can learn what you wish?”

The man nodded, seemingly unperturbed at being assigned to our exalted midst. He must be a philosopher; they were supposed to take all things with equanimity. And of course the beard confirmed it. He propelled his son forward, pushing him before him, and a stool was quickly brought for him. Now there were two of us. I suppose Father thought that would make it easier. Actually, it just drew more attention.

“Meleagros is one of our scholars,” explained Father. “He is at—”

“Yes, the Museion,” said a square-faced Roman. “That’s where you keep the tame scholars and scientists, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he poked his companion in the ribs. “They live there, but then they have to work for the King. Whenever he wants to know something—oh, say, how deep the Nile is near Memphis—he can just summon someone to tell him, even in the middle of the night! Right?”

Meleagros stiffened; he looked as though he wanted to smack the Roman. “Not exactly,” he said. “It is true that we are supported by the generosity of the Crown, but our King would never be so thoughtless as to make such outrageous demands on us.”

“In fact,” said Father, “I have brought him here in order that he might question
you
, Varro. Meleagros is most interested in unusual plants and animals, and I understand that several of you have been observing and collecting near the Caspian Sea—after you ran Mithridates off, that is.”

“Yes,” the man called Varro admitted. “We were hoping to learn more about a reputed trade route to India by way of the Caspian Sea. But Mithridates was not the only one to be run off—so were we, by deadly snakes. I never saw so many—all different sorts, too. Of course, what can you expect, at the edge of the known world like that—”

“The geography there is puzzling,” one of the other men said, a Greekspeaker. Someone addressed him as Theophanes. “It is difficult to map—”

“You have maps?” Meleagros looked interested.

“Newly drawn. But perhaps you would like to see them?”

And so on. The polite conversation continued. The boy by my side was silent, just looking. What
was
he doing here?

The wine flowed, and the talking grew louder, more animated. The Romans forgot to speak Greek and lapsed back into Latin. What an odd, monotonous sound it had if you did not understand it. And I had not studied it. There was little to recommend it; nothing important was written in it, and there were no famous speeches in it. Other languages, such as Hebrew, Syriac, and Aramaic, were much more useful. And lately I had even decided to try to learn Egyptian, so that I could go anywhere in my country and understand the people. But Latin? That could wait.

I watched my sisters, who were hardly bothering to hide their disdain for the Romans; when the conversation fell back into Latin, Berenice and Cleopatra just rolled their eyes. I was worried about it; what if the Romans saw them? I thought we were supposed to be careful about giving offense.

Suddenly trumpets sounded and an array of servers appeared, as if from out of the walls, and snatched the gold vessels away, replacing them with more gold vessels, even more heavily engraved and jeweled than the first set. The Romans just stared—as I supposed they were meant to.

But what was the point? Why was Father so anxious to show off our wealth? Would it not make them want to appropriate it? This confused me. I saw Pompey looking dreamily at the enormous cup before him, as if he were visualizing melting it down.

And then I heard the word
Caesar
, and it was linked with something to do with greed and needing money. I thought Pompey was saying to Father—I strained very hard to overhear—that Caesar (whoever he was) had wanted to take Egypt and make it into a Roman province, since it had been willed to Rome….

“But the will was false,” Father was saying, and his voice sounded as high as a eunuch’s. “Ptolemy Alexander had no right even to make such a bequest—”

“Ha, ha, ha!” Pompey was saying. “That depends on who is interpreting—”

“So you are intending to be a scientist, too?” Theophanes was speaking to the boy next to me, politely. “Is that why you came with your father?”

Curses! Now I could not hear what Father and Pompey were saying, and it was terribly important. I tried to blank out the voice right beside me, but it was hopeless.

“No,” the boy said, his voice drowning out the ones farther away. “Although I am interested in botany and in animals, I am more interested in the most complex animal of all: man. I wish to study him, therefore I will be a physician.”

“And what is your name?” asked Theophanes as if he were really interested. “And your age?”

“Olympos,” he said, “and I am nine. Ten next summer!”

Oh, be quiet! I ordered him in my mind.

But Theophanes kept asking him questions. Did he live at the Museion, too? Was he interested in any special sort of medicine? What about
pharmakon
, drugs? That was a way to combine knowledge of plants and medicine.

“Well, yes,” Olympos was saying. “I was hoping I could ask some of you about the ‘mad honey.’ That’s really why I came tonight. Or persuaded my father to bring me, I should say.”

Theophanes lost his smile. “The mad honey
—meli maenomenon—
don’t ask Pompey about it. It grieves him still. You see, the area around the Black Sea where Mithridates held sway—it’s known for its poisonous honey. Some of his allies put out combs of it near our route—our soldiers helped themselves, and we lost many. Many.” He shook his head.

“But why did you eat it, if you knew it was poisonous?”

“We didn’t know; we only found out afterward. It seems the bees feed on azaleas there, and there is something in the nectar that poisons the honey. The plant itself is poisonous; people in the area call it ‘goat-bane,’ ‘lamb-kill,’ and ‘cattle-destroyer.’ That’s a clue we shouldn’t have missed.”

“But what about the bees? Does it kill them, too?” Olympos asked.

“And Caesar tried to get a measure passed in the Senate,” Pompey was saying, “so that Egypt—”

“You, too, friend!” Father was wagging his finger, as if it was all just too, too funny, and not threatening at all, and Pompey his great and good comrade, instead of a vulture trying to eat us.

Pompey was smiling disarmingly. “True, true, but—”

“No, the bees are immune,” said Theophanes.

“The good honey is all mixed up with the bad.” Varro had joined the discussion. There was now no way that the faraway conversation could prevail over three close voices; I might as well give up trying to listen. “It seems that only part of the comb can be poisonous.”

“But doesn’t it look or taste different?” asked Olympos. He sounded so solemn, so professional.

“It can be a little redder, or more runny,” said Theophanes. “But not so markedly that it would always warn us.”

“Honey made in early spring,” added Varro. “And when it strikes
—then
you know! The soldiers were overtaken with tingling numbness, then started seeing whirling lights and tunnels, they swooned, then started vomiting and became delirious—that’s what the ones who recovered described later.” He paused dramatically. “Their pulses slowed, and they turned blue.”

“Oooh.” Olympos looked impressed at last. He seemed very difficult to impress, or even ruffle.

“Did you know that Xenophon’s troops fell victim to it, too? Four hundred years ago! Thousands collapsed. In the same area. We historians busy ourselves with such data,” Varro was saying. “Now that I’m here, I’d like to consult some of the scrolls in the famous Library. Where supposedly all written knowledge resides!” He shouted over at Father. “Isn’t it so? Don’t you have a half-million volumes in the Library?” he bellowed.

Father broke off his conversation with Pompey—the conversation I was longing to hear, although I did find the “mad honey” interesting. But not as interesting as the will giving Egypt to Rome. Had one of our ancestors actually done that? Isis forbid!

“Eh?” he said, cupping his hand over an ear.

“I said, don’t you have half a million scrolls here in the Library?” yelled Varro.

My sisters rolled their eyes again at more Roman boorishness.

“So they say,” said Father.

“Yes, it’s true,” said Olympos’s father. “Every manuscript ever written—or that a Ptolemy managed to lay hands on, rather.”

“Yes, we kept the originals and sent the owners away with copies!” said Father.

“Ah, the glories of Alexandria,” said Pompey, considering them. He smiled.

“Shall we arrange a tour?” asked Father. “Tomorrow, if the most noble Imperator would like?”

Before Pompey could reply, another blare of trumpets sounded, and the gold service was changed yet again, with much ceremonial clanging and clatter. At each round, the implements became more ornate.

The eating proper could begin, and it did, with a profusion of dishes totally unfamiliar to me—certainly they were not the fare even royal children were served.
Sea urchins in mint…baked eel in chard…Zeus-acorns…mushrooms and sweet nettles…Phrygian ewe’s-milk cheese…Rhodian raisins…and fat, sweet dessert grapes—
along with honey-cakes. Unfortunate choice! Pompey and all the rest pushed them aside; the sight and smell of honey were not pleasing to them now.

“But this is from Cos!” Father assured them, in vain.

And there was wine, wine, wine, different for each food—Egyptian red and white, the famous apple-scented wine of Thasos, and, the sweetest of all, Pramnian.

“It’s made from partially dried grapes,” explained Varro, smacking his lips as he downed it. “That concentrates the sweetness, so…ummm…” More lip-smacking.