The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 3

  “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.

  Since my wine was so diluted, I could barely tell the difference among all these, but I nodded anyway.

  Would that Father’s wine had been equally diluted! For, in his nervousness, he drained cup after cup of it, and soon was wearing a strange half-smile and leaning overfamiliarly toward Pompey. And then—I shall never forget it!—he suddenly decided to call for his pipes and play. Yes! To entertain the Romans, as he said. And because he was the King, there was no one to say, No, stop it! You must not!

  I longed to jump up and do it, but I was frozen in my place. I had to watch while his steward brought him the pipes, and while he lurched off the couch and made his way unsteadily to an open space where he could perform.

  I watched in horror, acute embarrassment, and shame. The Romans were staring, dumbfounded. Father took a deep breath to fill his lungs and then started playing his melodies. Although the sound was not loud, such a deep hush fell over the entire hall that every note quavered on the air.

  Olympos turned and gave me a pitying look, but it was kind, not condescending. I wanted to shut my eyes and not have to behold the painful sight of the King performing like a street musician—or a monkey for its master.

  It was the wine that had done this! I vowed, in that instant, never to bow to wine or let it overcome me—a vow I believe I have kept, although Dionysus and his grapes have caused me much grief nonetheless.

  Suddenly one of the Romans at another couch began guffawing, and that had a ripple effect; soon even Pompey was laughing, and then the whole hall was roaring. Poor Father took it as approval and applause for himself, and even bowed. Then—oh, the shame of it!—he executed a little dance.

  What had he said? You must be on your best behavior; we have to convince him that both Egypt and Rome are well served by our remaining on the throne. How could he have forgotten his own mission, and Egypt’s danger? Was wine that strong?

  As my father wove his way back to his place, Pompey patted the cushion, as if the King were a pet.

  “The Romans feel dancing is degenerate,” Olympos leaned over and whispered in my ear. “They have bad names for people who dance.”

  Why was he telling me this? To make me feel worse? “I know,” I said coldly, although I did not.

  We have to convince him that Egypt is well served by our remaining on the throne. We Ptolemies…

  Berenice and Older Cleopatra were just staring; there was no help from those Ptolemies, either. Why did they not do something, say something, to offset it?

  Tonight you must behave as a princess…with dignity…. What an enchanting child….

  Perhaps there was something I could do, something, anything…. Pompey had seemed to like me, had singled me out for his attention….

  I left the stool and walked over to him. He was leaning on one elbow, and as I came closer I could see that the wine had affected him, too. His eyes were a little unfocused, and he had a fixed smile on his face. A wide gold cuff gleamed on his forearm, and he was running his fingers over it.

  “Imperator,” I said, willing myself to feel the gold fillet on my forehead and remember that I was royal, “there is much more to Alexandria than a banqueting hall, or music. Tomorrow, in the daylight, let us show you its wonders: the Lighthouse, and Alexander’s Tomb, and the Museion and Library. Would you like that?”

  One side of his mouth twitched up as he gave a crooked smile. “An enchanting child,” he repeated, as if that phrase were stuck in his brain. “Yes, yes, of course…and you will guide us?”

  “My father will show you the Museion,” Olympos suddenly volunteered, leaping to his feet. “And I personally know the Lighthouse master—”

  Meleagros joined in, to help. “Yes, Varro was most interested in both the Library and the Museion. I will be honored to conduct you—”

  Thus we all rushed in to save the King—and Egypt.

  3

  Alone in my chamber that night, my nurse having prepared me for sleep, all the lamps extinguished save one, I huddled under my covers, praying to you, Isis.

  Help me now! I begged. Tomorrow…tomorrow I have to try to erase what was done tonight. And the truth was I had no idea of how to do it; I did not even know why I had suggested the excursion to begin with. What did it have to do with Pompey, with Father, with Egypt’s fate? What could I, a child, hope to do? But I
must try; and I enlisted the help of Isis, my mother, she who has all power….

  Shivering, I stole out of the bed and watched the glowing top of the Lighthouse, a sight that I had always found comforting. For as long as I could remember, the huge tower had stood, partially filling the view from my western window. I had grown up watching it change color with the day: pearly pink at dawn, stark white at heated midday, red at sunset, blue-purple at dusk, and finally, at night, a dark column with a blazing tip: the fire roaring inside, magnified by the great polished mirror in its lantern. It sat out on the end of its island, the Pharos—although it was an island no longer, since a long breakwater connected it to the mainland.

  I had never actually been inside it, though. I was most curious to see how it worked. Its base was square; two-thirds of the way up it changed to octagonal, and beyond that it became circular. At the very top was a statue of Zeus Soter, which turned, following the sun; from just beneath Zeus shone out the marvelous beacon. Its mighty base was surrounded by a colonnade of marble, and to one side was a gracious temple of Isis Pharia.

  Alexandria, being on the sea, has a winter. From December to February it is cold, with sea storms blowing in, sweeping the streets with salty spray. Ships do not put out to sea then, and the Lighthouse stands sentinel over empty seas and boats moored safely in our magnificent harbors. In the other seasons it presides over the enormous number of voyages that begin and end here; our two harbors can hold over a thousand ships.

  Tomorrow we would try to amuse the Romans, to cajole and please them, the Lighthouse and I.

  I awoke surprisingly eager for the venture. Partly that was because it was an opportunity for me to see things I was curious about. Although I was a royal princess, and one might think that I had the entire city of Alexandria open to me, I was kept confined, for the most part, to the grounds of the palace and all its many buildings. Visitors came from all over the world to admire our city, a vision in white marble glinting against the aquamarine of the Mediterranean, but we, the royal children, saw less of it than anyone else. Oh, what we saw from our vantage point was very lovely. Out of my window the first sight I beheld was the Lighthouse, which stood like a pale finger in the early dawn, the waves breaking around its base. Closer to me I saw the eastern harbor, rimmed by flights of broad steps that descended into the beckoning water, where you could wade and gather seashells. And within the palace grounds themselves, there was the small Temple of Isis overlooking the open sea, where the wind blew through its columns and whispered around the statue of Isis in her sanctuary.

  Within the grounds, the gardeners brought forth a profusion of blooming flowers—red poppies, blue cornflowers, scarlet roses—which showed dazzlingly against the stark white of the buildings. Everywhere there were pools filled with blue and white lotus, so that the mingled perfume of all these flowers made its own peculiar and indescribable blend. We could call it Scent of the Ptolemies. If it could be bottled, it would fetch a high price in the bazaars, for it was both heady and refreshing at the same time: the fresh sea air kept the flower-perfume from growing too cloying.

  Having been built over a long period of time, the palace buildings varied a great deal. The grandest of them had floors of onyx or alabaster, with walls of ebony. Inside was a feast of richness like a merchant’s display: couches ornamented with jasper and carnelian, tables of carved ivory, footstools of citrus wood. Hangings of Tyrian purple, adorned with gold, hid the ebony walls—richness blotting out richness. The silks of the far east, by way of India, found their way to be draped over our chairs. And in the polished floors were reflected the slaves, who were selected for their physical beauty.

  I should have had no need to go beyond these bounds, but when you are brought up around such things, they seem routine. What aroused my curiosity were the dwellings and people outside. We always want what is forbidden, off limits, exotic. To the young Princess Cleopatra, the ordinary was most alluring. Now I would act as a guide to these sites for the Romans, when the truth was, they were also new to me.

  An alarmingly large number of Romans had elected to take the tour. It required a company of chariots and most of the horses from the royal stables. Meleagros and Olympos arrived early, clearly nervous; and Father, shamefacedly, made his appearance as well. Meleagros had enlisted some of his Museion colleagues, and the Macedonian Household Guards would guide us—while acting as discreet bodyguards.

  I was grateful for Olympos’s company; he seemed to know everything about the city, and prompted me as we went along. Of course he had the run of it, being a free Greek citizen, but nonroyal. And he had made the most of his opportunities to explore.

  I was beside Pompey in the large ceremonial chariot. Olympos was at my side, and Father clung to the rail, looking a little green. Behind us were all the rest; the captain of the guard drove.

  As we left the palace grounds and clattered out into the wide streets, cheers went up. I was relieved to hear that they sounded friendly; in Alexandria, one never knew. Our crowds were volatile, and could quickly turn on you. These people were smiling, seemingly happy to have a glimpse of their rulers. But the sight of so many Romans might turn sour on them at any moment.

  Father and I waved at them, and I was gratified when they cried out to us and threw flowers. Then I heard them calling Father by his nickname, Auletes, “the flute-player.” But they said it affectionately.

  We turned down the broad marble street that led to Alexander’s tomb. On both sides it was bordered with wide colonnades, making the street as beautiful as a temple. Where this north-south street crossed the long east-west street, the Canopic Way, stood Alexander’s tomb. Our first stop.

  Everyone who came to the city did obeisance at Alexander’s tomb; it was a sacred site. It was he who had laid out the plan for the city itself, and named it after himself, and thereby conferred some of his magic on it.

  Now even the loud, joking Romans fell silent as they approached it. The Invincible himself, lying in his crystal sarcophagus…who could not be awed by the sight?

  I had been here only once before, and I remembered it as a frightening place, with its descent into a dark hollow surrounded by flickering lamps, and then the mummified body with its gold armor, distorted by the crystal dome around it.

  Olympos kept up a low murmur of explanation as we walked along. Brought here instead of to Siwa…preserved in honey…the gold sarcophagus melted down when money was scarce…the priests at Memphis refusing him burial, saying wherever he lay would never be quiet…

  “How do you know so much?” I asked him, in a whisper.

  “I don’t know nearly as much as I would like to,” he said, as if he thought my question very ignorant.

  Pompey was staring at the recumbent figure. His round eyes were even rounder. I heard him mutter something in Latin that sounded humble.

  “He wants to be the new Alexander,” Olympos whispered in my ear. “People have told him he looks like him; and he does affect the hairstyle.”

  That was not good; Alexander had conquered Egypt.

  “Well, he doesn’t look like him!” I said.

  “And people keep drawing comparisons,” said Olympos. “They harp on his youth, and call him Magnus, the Great…the only Roman ever given the title! And at twenty-six, too. But they say,” he leaned over and said so softly that I could barely hear him, “that he gave the title to himself! And that he forced Sulla to allow him to have a Triumph.”

  Pompey was still staring worshipfully at his idol.

  I stood next to him and said (Why did I say it? Did you, Isis, give me the words?), “I share Alexander’s blood. We Ptolemies are of his family.”

  Pompey seemed startled out of his reverie. “Then you are blessed, Princess,” he said.

  “He will preserve us, and his namesake city, to his eternal glory,” I said. “He is our protector.”

  Behind me, Father was wringing his hands and looking ineffectual.

  Pompey looked down gravely at me. “In you
he has a noble champion,” he finally said.

  On to the Museion—so called for the Nine Muses of creative thought—where the Romans were given a detailed tour, being introduced to the leading scholars and shown the reading rooms. Then the Library, the biggest in the world, with its huge inventory of scrolls. Ptolemy II had started the collection, and each succeeding king had avidly added to it.

  The head librarian, Apollonius, greeted us. “My most exalted King, and Princess, and honored Roman magistrates,” he said, bowing low. I could almost hear the bones in his aged back crackling. “Let me show you this temple to the written word.”

  He led us through several high-ceilinged rooms, each connected, like links in a chain. Daylight entered through a series of windows running around the perimeter of the room, just beneath the ceiling. Marble tables and benches were arranged around the open floor, and readers of all nationalities were hunched over opened scrolls. I saw the Greek in his tunic, the Arab in his voluminous robe, the Jew in his mantle and hood, the Egyptian, bare-chested with a leather skirt. They all looked up with a jerk as we walked in.

  They followed us with their heads as we passed through, turning like sunflowers before drooping back down to their manuscripts. We were ushered into what looked like a private room, but was actually one of the storage rooms for the library. Shelves ran all around the walls, with labels at neatly spaced intervals identifying the scrolls. It looked like a beehive, with the rolled scrolls each making a cell. A wooden name tag dangled from the knob of each scroll.

  “So this is how they are organized,” Pompey said. He looked at one label, which read “Heraclides of Tarentum.”

  “Medicine, Imperator,” said Apollonius.

  Next to that was another label, “Herophilus of Chalcedon.”

  “The unrivaled master of Alexandrian medicine,” said Apollonius proudly.

  “Two hundred years ago,” said Olympos, under his breath. “There are more recent writings.”