The Memoirs of Cleopatra (5 page)

The fire was a monster, hardly to be contained. Only then did I notice that the beacon-master was wearing thick leather armor, and had a helmet tucked under his arm—obviously removed in honor of us—that had an iron mesh veil for the face. He knew his monster, and would dress to protect himself. In spite of the heat, the high wind blowing in would keep him from becoming faint.

“I heard there was a glass lens here,” said Olympos.

“How could there be? The heat would melt the glass,” said Pompey.

“We tried to make one, once,” said the beacon-master. “But we could not cast a piece of glass large enough to serve our purpose. It would be an excellent idea, though. If we could magnify the light we have, we would not need such a large fire. And no, the heat would not melt the glass, unless it was thrust right into the flames.”

“It seems to me,” said Olympos, “that if we had a lens, we could use sunlight instead of a fire.”

“Good enough in the daytime, Olympos,” said his father, “but what of the nighttime?”

Everyone laughed, but Olympos persisted. “Ships don’t sail at night.”

“But they sail in cloudy weather,” Meleagros said. “And get caught in storms. Your sun-lens would fail then.”

Ships…sailing…the thought of being on the water was unnerving for me. Just walking across the seawall toward the Lighthouse today had been difficult. I hated the water, because of that stabbing memory of the boat, and my mother. But I was forced to live by water, and look at it every day. I had yet to learn to swim, and I avoided boats whenever possible. Even the little lotus pools in the palace seemed threatening to me. I dreaded being called a coward, should anyone notice how I avoided the water.

“Your city is fair,” said Pompey, turning slowly to see the entire panorama. “White…fair…cool and cultured…”

“No one could love it as we do,” I said suddenly. I knew they were the right words, exactly the right words. “We will guard it for you, and it will always be waiting for you.”

He looked down at me and smiled. “I know you will, Princess,” he said. “It is safe in your hands.”

Was it then I felt—or discovered—the strange power I have in personal encounters? I do not
do
anything extraordinary, I say no special words, but I seem to have the ability to win people to my side, to disarm them. I do not know how. And it works only in person. In letters I have no special magic. Let me see someone, talk to him—or her—and I have persuasive powers I cannot explain. It must be something granted me by Isis herself, who has ever been my guardian. And she alone knows how I have tried to use her gift to bend the world to my vision and spare Egypt from Roman destruction.

Mercifully, the Romans departed the next day, but not before extracting more money and aid from Father for their campaigns. But they were gone, gone, gone…and Egypt had been spared. Pompey and his retinue sailed away, to grapple with politics in Rome. I hoped never to see him, or another Roman, again.

But it seemed our fate was inextricably entwined with that of Rome. Three years later, a visiting Roman accidentally killed a cat—an animal sacred to Egyptians. The population of Alexandria rioted, and tried to murder the Roman. The city was in a tumult; it was all our guards could do to protect him and quell the mob. All we would need was such an incident to invite Roman intervention, which was always a threat.

During those years my two youngest brothers made their appearance. Both were named Ptolemy; if the women in our family have few names to choose from, the men have even fewer. There were eighteen years between Older Cleopatra and Older Ptolemy, and the same number between Berenice and Younger Ptolemy. Were they supposed to marry each other? Strange thought.

As Isis, most Egyptian of gods, married her brother Osiris, so in the process of becoming Egyptian—that is, becoming the ruling house of Egypt, although by lineage we were pure Macedonian Greek—we Ptolemies adopted some ancient Egyptian customs that others found shocking. One was brother-sister marriage, as the Pharaohs had done earlier. Thus my mother and father were actually half-siblings, and I was forced in turn to marry my brothers—although it was a marriage in form only.

Perhaps it was time we searched in other royal houses for our mates. The age difference in this generation was too great for us to continue our former practice.

Then my whole world changed, and again, it was because of the Romans. Father had finally succeeded in getting the questionable will set aside and himself recognized as undisputed King by Rome. It had cost him six thousand talents, or the entire revenue of Egypt for one year. He had had to pay it to the three unofficial, but actual, rulers in Rome—Pompey, Crassus, and Caesar. In exchange, they had acknowledged him as King, and conferred upon Egypt the formal title
Socius Atque Amicus Populi Romani
, Friend and Ally of the Roman People. That meant they recognized us as a sovereign state, one whose boundaries they would respect. The price of this respect was very high. But not paying it was higher still, as my uncle found out.

My father had a brother, also known as Ptolemy (how monotonous), who ruled in Cyprus. Once we had controlled vast areas of land, but we had been losing them steadily for generations. Some thirty years earlier, yet another Ptolemy, a cousin—with less fight in him than we had—had willed the province of Cyrenaica, which included Cyprus as well as the African coastal land, to Rome. After his death, Rome took it, but left Cyprus, part of the territory, still in the hands of our cousins. So my uncle Ptolemy still ruled there, until the Romans decided to annex it anyway. He did not have enough money to dissuade them, and was powerless to stave them off. They offered him the high priesthood in the temple of Artemis at Ephesus—a sort of honorable retirement—but he preferred suicide.

We were greatly saddened by this, but the people of Alexandria turned against Father because of it. They were angry about the huge payments to Rome anyway, and what they saw as my father’s lack of support for his brother infuriated them. They seemed to feel that he could have rescued him somehow, although what he could have done is a mystery. Was he supposed to take on the Roman legions? It was hopeless; but perhaps it was touching that the Alexandrians ascribed more power to us than we actually had.

But Father had to flee! His own people drove him from the throne, sending him to Rome, as a beggar. He came to my rooms the night he fled, his eyes wild and his manner distracted.

“At midnight I leave,” he said. “I hope to return in two months, with legions to back me up.”

How could he leave? Who would govern Egypt? As if he read my mind, he said, “My ministers will oversee the government. And I will not be gone long—just long enough to secure the military aid I need.”

“But…if the Romans come here with troops, will they ever leave?” By now I had studied enough to know that when the Romans were called in to “help,” they stayed.

“I have no choice,” he said, miserably. “What else can I do? They are bound to back me up—they have to, if they ever want to collect their bribe money!” Now he laughed bitterly. “They have quite a vested interest in keeping me on the throne.”

This was awful, awful. I felt shame flooding me. But was my uncle’s suicide preferable? What vicious, degrading choices the Romans forced on us!

“May all the gods go with you,” I wished Father. “May they watch over you.”

And thus he departed, making his way to Rome to beg for protection and restoration.

Alexander the Great became my friend while my father was away. Strange that a mummy can be one’s friend, but I was desperate. I was eleven years old, and as the days passed and Father did not return, I began to fear for him and for Egypt.

Day after day I would descend into the crypt beneath the gleaming white marble dome of the Soma, and gaze upon the Conqueror where he lay in his alabaster coffin. Each day it was the same: As I reached the bottom of the stairs and could see him, the flickering candles set all around made this seem, for a moment, like the night sky, turned upside down. And in the midst of the stars, like the sun itself, lay Alexander of Macedon. I would approach slowly, and then when I reached him I would stare long and hard.

He didn’t look alive—I must say that straightway. He looked like a painted statue, and his features were rigid. He was wearing a polished breastplate, but no helmet, and his golden hair had not faded. His hands were crossed on his breast.

“O Alexander,” I would murmur, “please look down on your earthly descendant and relative. We are the last of your empire to survive, we Ptolemies in Egypt. All the rest have been swallowed up by Rome. And even now my father is there, begging them to keep him on his throne. We have become renters of our own kingdom, our own throne, with Rome as our landlord!

“What must you think of this, Mighty Alexander? Help us! Help us to extricate ourselves! Do not let us go down into those Roman maws!”

Of course he never answered; he just lay there serenely. Still, being in his presence brought me comfort. He had existed, and had faced great problems too, and had overcome them.

Coming back out into the dazzling sunlight always felt strange, the journey from the land of the dead back to the living. The tomb sat at the crossroads of our city where the wide Canopian Way, running the whole length of the city from east to west, intersected the street of the Soma as it ran from the south lake of Mareotis to the sea in the north. Always when I looked down that wide white street, with its marble colonnades stretching as far as the eye could see, I knew it could not be given up—that whatever Father had to do to keep it, that was what he must do.

In his absence, the people continued to cry out against him. How could he stand by and see Cyprus taken away? What sort of weakling was he?

It was all
his
fault—the helpless, pitiful king, the one they called Auletes because he was so fond of flute-playing and music. Once it had been an affectionate name, bestowed with indulgent love; now it became a slur.

The drunken little flute-player…filthy weakling…effeminate musician, reeling in wine…these were all the names I heard as I passed through the streets of Alexandria on my way back and forth to the Soma. Once the people had enjoyed the festivals of Dionysus he provided for them, but now they derided him for the very same. They had drunk his wine readily enough themselves, but their memories were short. Those who say I do not know what the jeering crowd at Rome would be like are wrong. I know jeering crowds.

It was always a relief to be admitted back into the palace grounds. (Would Alexander have felt relief? Would he be ashamed of me that I did?) Inside the Palace, peace and respect were always shown—outwardly, at least. Always, that is, until the day I returned from Alexander’s side and found that a revolution had taken place.

Everything looked the same. There was nothing to make me suspect that anything had changed: The gardeners were busy at their tasks, watering and pruning; the servants were washing the marble steps of the main building, the one with the audience chamber and banquet hall, with slow, languid movements. I passed by on my way back to the smaller building where we royal children lived, when suddenly a tall guard yelled “Halt!” at me. His voice was rough and peremptory. He stood blocking the entrance to my quarters, scowling.

I recognized him; he was one whose guarding had always been somewhat careless. Now he glared at me. No one had ever spoken to me like that.

“You may not enter!” he barked.

“What do you mean?” I asked. Was there some danger in there? A fire? Or even an animal on the loose? Perhaps one of my sister’s pet panthers had slipped its leash and run away.

“Until your loyalty is ascertained, I have orders to detain you. And where have you been? No one could find you.” He made a step toward me. But he dared not actually touch me; no one was allowed to lay hands on a member of the royal family.

“My loyalty? My loyalty to whom? To what?” This was very odd. “I have been at the tomb of Alexander, which I have always been free to visit.” Even as I said it, I realized I could not prove it, as I always went alone.

“Your loyalty to the new rulers,” he said smartly.

New rulers? Had the Romans seized power, then? Had warships landed? Troops invaded? But there had been no tumult or fighting in the streets, and—I quickly glanced toward the harbor—no foreign ships there.

“I don’t understand,” I said simply. I did not know what else to say. But I felt a great fear for Father.

“The daughters of the former King have been elevated to sovereignty,” he said. “Come and do homage. Their Majesties are waiting.”

My sisters! My sisters, taking advantage of Father’s absence and his unpopularity, had seized power. Now I also felt fear for myself. They could do away with me, with Arsinoe and the boys, and there was no one to prevent them. It could all be done swiftly, this morning, before word got out in the city. It was an old family custom of the Ptolemies—murder of rivals, siblings, mother, father, children.

“So you refuse!” he said, taking another step toward me, reaching for his sword. He might have been instructed to strike me down if I showed the slightest hesitation. Or perhaps he might just strike me anyway—after all, there were no witnesses. I looked quickly and saw the servants still scrubbing the steps. Whatever they observed, they would keep to themselves. There would be no help from them.

“No—” How long did I stand there, thinking? It seemed many moments, but that was impossible. I prayed quickly to Isis, to help me. “No, no, I do not. I am their obedient sister, now as always.”

“Then prove it.” He motioned to another guard to take his place while he marched me toward the main building—again, not actually touching me, but walking so close beside me it was even more threatening. I tried not to betray my fear.

I was taken to one of the larger rooms of the palace, a room that my sisters evidently felt befitted their new status, as our father had held his audiences here. I stood before the outer doors, which were ornamented with tortoiseshell from India and studded with emeralds, but today their magnificence was lost on me. Slowly the doors swung open and I was admitted to the chamber, where the ceilings were fretted and inlaid with gold. At the far end sat Cleopatra and Berenice, on chairs encrusted with gems. They were consciously seated in the same pose as Pharaohs in carvings.

To me they did not look at all like queens or Pharaohs, but only my two older sisters, as always.

“Princess Cleopatra,” Berenice spoke, “we have been raised to the honor of the throne. We are now to be known as Cleopatra the Sixth and Berenice the Fourth, rulers of Upper and Lower Egypt. We wish you to proclaim yourself our dearest sister and loving subject.”

I tried to keep my voice steady, to sound calm. “Of course you are my dearest sisters, and I, your most loyal sister.” I would avoid the word
subject
unless I was forced to it. Saying it was treason to my father. Would they notice it missing?

“We accept your allegiance,” said Berenice for both of them. “The people have spoken. They have made their wishes known. They do not want our father the King to return; they will not admit him if he does. But there is little chance of that! The Romans will not restore him because it seems that one of their prophecies forbids it; something to the effect that ‘under no circumstances must arms be used to restore the Egyptian King to his throne, although he may be received with courtesy.’ Well, they have done that: feasted and pampered him. But that’s all. Oh, and taken his money. He owes so much to the Roman moneylenders that, were we ever to take him back, our country would be bankrupt.”

“Yes, and is that any way to love your country? He called himself Philopator, ‘lover of his father’—his fatherland?—but he has sold us to the Romans!” cried Older Cleopatra, her voice full of self-righteousness. “Egypt for the Egyptians! Let us take care of our own affairs! Why pay Rome to give us a king, when we have queens available for nothing?”

“I am to be Queen of certain districts, mainly in Upper Egypt, and Berenice will be Queen of Middle Egypt and the Moeris Oasis,” she continued. “We will begin negotiations for marriages.”

“We have brothers,” I suggested, as if I were trying to be helpful. “Do not we Ptolemies marry within our own family?”

They burst out laughing in unison. “Those little children? One is three and the other an infant! It is a long time until
they’ll
father any heirs. We need
men
in our beds,” said Berenice.

“To wed a baby—why, it would be like wedding a eunuch!” Cleopatra laughed cruelly. Then she stopped, pointedly. “Oh, I forgot; you
like
eunuchs. Busy yourself with them and your horses, then,” she said grandly, waving her arms over the jasper arms of her chair. “Do not meddle in things of state, and you shall do well. Do you still have your horse?”

“Yes,” I answered. My horse, a white Arabian, was truly my best friend at that age. My horse took me away from myself and the palace and out into the desert.

“Then keep to them. Ride, hunt, and study. Do not concern yourself with things that do not concern you. Do this and you will prosper. We mean to be gentle with all who are gentle with us.”

“Yes, Your Majesties,” I said. I inclined my head, but did not bow and did not fall to my knees. And as for calling them majesties, that was no treason. Were not all the King’s children recognized as gods? And are not gods majesties? I acted calm as I took my leave.

But once in the safety of my own rooms, I shook with shock and fear. They had turned on their own father, seized the throne. They had committed a most grave sin; it was the curse of the Ptolemies. Their blood was compelling them to it.

For we came from a very murderous and bloody line, with such familial killings as sickened the world. Brother had killed brother, wife, mother…it was a hideous legacy. I had prided myself that we, this generation, were made of finer stuff. Now it seemed that I was horribly mistaken.

Father! Father had been deposed by his own daughters. And what would they stop at? Me, Arsinoe, the two boys—would they destroy us all as well?

I had no one to confide in. I was long since too old for a nurse, and no confidant had replaced her. I felt utterly alone.

There was only, as always, Isis.

I was safe, for now. They would allow me to live as long as I kept myself in obscurity, was young enough to be harmless, and did not attempt to build up a following. As if I could have!

And so I contented myself with my “eunuchs and horses,” as they had contemptuously described them. There were, in those days, flocks of eunuchs around the royal grounds. Eunuchs were important in nearly every sphere of life; it is impossible to imagine palace life without them. In a world in which dynastic ambition ran riot, the eunuchs alone were exempt from suspicion. They served as tutors to the royal children, as confidants to both kings and queens, as ministers and generals. A man whose earthly fortunes would end with himself was devoted to his master. Curious how much we do for our posterity, and how our behavior would change without descendants. And the popular, sneering prejudice about their condition meant that they could never seize open power, but must always remain hidden, shadow-figures behind their masters. Ideal servants, then, for such as the Ptolemies.

Obviously, one could not come from a long line of eunuchs—no one ever claimed his father and grandfather were eunuchs—but the practice of designating one’s children to be eunuchs seemed more prevalent in some families than in others. Only the most promising boys were selected—for what was the point in making that sacrifice if the boy did not have much hope of attaining worldly success? Therefore, when one said “eunuch,” one was also implying “talented, clever, and diligent.”

Most eunuchs in Alexandria were Greek, or Egyptians who had become quite Greek in their thinking. There were also Cappadocians, Phrygians, Bithynians, and such, likewise Grecophiles. In Egypt there was no forced castration, or any castration of slaves. It was entirely voluntary, which made it a little less guilt-laden for those of us who employed the eunuchs.

Usually the operation was done at a fairly early age. Not in infancy, of course, because it was best to wait until the child had proved healthy. Sometimes, in special circumstances, it was done later, even after a boy had started turning into a man, and then the eunuch was different from the usual kind. His voice would be deeper and he might be easily mistaken for any other man.

I thought little about eunuchs, taking them for granted. It was only after I went to Rome that I discovered what it was like to live in a world without them.

I discovered Mardian not long after I embraced Alexander as my comfort. Whenever I went to the tomb, I hoped to have it to myself. But for several days in a row, a bulky little boy was always there when I went. He would be kneeling before the sarcophagus, motionless—he must have had knees of iron—his head bent reverently. Or he would be bending over the coffin, a mooning sort of look on his round face. Truth to tell, he annoyed me. I wished he would go away. I could have ordered him removed, but I hoped he would go away without having to be asked. Day after day he was there. My patience wore away. I began to think he was deliberately interfering with my time with Alexander. When at night I closed my eyes and tried to think of Alexander, this boy’s head would always be sticking up somewhere in the picture. It was not noble or inspiring.

The next day, as I descended into the crypt, I prayed he would not be there. And for a moment I thought he was not. Then I saw—again!—that round form hunched over, guarding the coffin. It was too much.