Page 1 of Cleopatra

1

CLEOPATRA

I want you to see me as I am. You can dislike me, love me or abhor me, but know me first. I was born a girl and a goddess. A future queen, if I should live that long. My father’s court teems with enemies, some of them members of my own family. Their malevolence crawls over my skin like ants, and if foul thoughts were deeds, then, like ants, they would have crept up the legs of my crib and eaten out my eyes. And yet, I am not entirely alone. Charmian belonged to me from the very first. She was taken from the mother she does not remember and gifted to me warm and milk-fed, still coiled from the womb. A goddess needs a servant to tend her, one formed to her wants like a pebble is smoothed and shaped by the hands of the sea. The priests chose her for me on discovering the hour of her birth was mere moments after mine. It is the will of the gods that we should always be together. As infants we slept in the same crib – for I do not like to be alone – our two bodies slotted beside each other snug as a pair of proving loaves, her fingers curled against my neck. We were suckled side-by-side from the breasts of sister slaves. As we grew, she slumbered beside me or at the foot of my bed according to my desire.

I gave her a name when my tongue was able to speak. Until then, she had none at all. For every part of her belonged to me – even her name. Charmian, giver of joy. She says the joy I saw in her was my own delight reflected back, pure and bright. She is my slave, and yet for a long time she never wished to be free. For when we love are we not all slaves content in our subjugation? And, so, in my own way, I belong to her too, chained by love.

This morning we’ve been in the great library since first light. The pens of the scholars scratch their sheets of papyrus like the scuffling feet of mice. None of them pays us any attention for we’re here every morning with my tutor, who sets Charmian and me a text to transcribe and then quizzes us in low whispers to test our understanding. The sun noses through the high windows like a snooping schoolboy hoping to copy my work. Tapering pillars are positioned carefully away from the rows of desks so that as the sun travels across the sky inconvenient shadows aren’t cast upon our jottings. The mosaics are in muted colours so as not to tug at the eye of devoted scholars. Water plays in blue fountains to cool the air and soothe the mind. The great library of the mouseion is split into sections, according to language, then topic and alphabetised. I love the patterns and the divisions of the knowledge, the system itself pleases me in the same way as a brilliantly executed painting or piece of weaving. It’s a temple, dedicated to both the muses themselves and to learning. The high priest librarian stalks between the shelves in his robes, ready to offer advice or produce the stick concealed in his sleeve to rap across the knuckles of any unfortunate scholar caught breaking the rules – making a mark on a library scroll or, worst of all, smuggling in an afternoon snack. Food and water are strictly forbidden, for fear of damaging the scrolls or enticing rodents. Charmian and I delight in provoking the grand librarian. We sneak in hunks of cheese that are in actuality painted wood, carafes of wine where the contents are not liquid but glass, purely to tease him. Although I am certain he would not dare strike his stick across my knuckles.

Today I sense a restlessness amongst the scholars. I know even though no one tells me, shielding me from the truth like flapping palm fronds against the sun, that the people of Alexandria hate my father. Rome is at the root of the trouble; Rome which has been nipping at our borders for years, eyeing our wealth. Egypt might be rich, but our armies are no match for Roman legions. We’ve watched other countries topple, felled like timber, their treasures and peoples dragged back to Rome. Roman power is built on plunder and slaves and avarice. What they do not own, they trample on and burn. We are the last beacon of freedom amid a dark Roman sea. One day they will come for us too.

In desperation, my father purchased a reprieve from Rome in the form of a title: ‘Friend and Ally of the Roman People’. The title is a promise that they will not gobble us up for now. But the cost he had to pay was exorbitant, vast even for a Pharaoh. And, unfortunately on the earthly side of the field of reeds, god-kings have to raise taxes. The people of Egypt resent their pockets being picked by their king on behalf of Rome. Their hate is usually tepid. A grumbling antipathy that never seeps away nor heats into violence. But their animosity has now risen to scalding. Again, my father has turned to Rome, begging for their help against his own people. If he’d asked me I would have told him that it was a mistake.

A Roman envoy came at the request of my father, trying to negotiate calm amongst the people, still their resentments. It has made everything worse still. Charmian says that the unlucky Roman killed the cat by accident, running it over with the wheels of his chariot. I am not certain that he killed it at all – or if the cat even existed – and was instead merely conjured as victim in an illusionary crime to excuse the murder. The Roman was certainly accused of killing a cat – one of our divine creatures – and the crowd vowed vengeance, mad for blood. My father’s pleading and interference on the Roman’s behalf only incensed them further, and the unfortunate man was dragged from his house and torn apart by the mob, his head ripped from his body, eviscerated as a cat would a mouse, left in pieces upon the cobbles. It was clear to me from that moment that my father was losing any influence he had, and every day since I sense it leach further away.

If there are whispers here, then the unrest has reached the palace. And yet in other ways, the library itself seems as tranquil as ever; in the centre of the mouseion, in front of a large rectangular pool, presides Plato himself. He’s sculpted gazing upwards to the opening in the temple roof, but the tilt of his head and his frown makes him appear less engaged in intense contemplation so much as worrying about inclement weather. Sighing, I read back through my translation of Aramaic into Greek. It’s poetry, supposedly, but I much prefer original Greek verse, which is earthier, more elegant and funny. This Aramaic verse is desiccated as old roses. I’d prefer to be studying the treatises on rural tax matters that we spent the previous week deciphering. Charmian stifles a yawn and plonks her forehead on the desk with a groan. Giggling, I nudge her. After we’ve been quizzed on the awful poem, and I have answered every question correctly and Charmian none of them, the tutor sighs.

‘Come. Let me walk with you back to the palace,’ he says.

‘Please, I want to stay here. Just for a while. You don’t have to remain with us. We’re fine alone,’ I say.

Usually, he understands my request to be a dismissal and retreats with good wishes, but today he shakes his head.

‘I will not leave you without a guard,’ he says and gives a signal. Ten warriors approach.

I’m used to their presence, but Charmian and I are expert at eluding them where necessary. Perhaps it’s foolish, but in our bravado we believe that if we can escape my guards, we can outwit any assassins.

‘Prepare tomorrow’s texts carefully,’ he says.

I need no urging, while nothing could entice Charmian. Academic pursuits hold no interest for her, although I’ve yet to encounter a courtier she could not charm, a slave whom she could not persuade to surrender their hoarded secrets to her.

Once he has gone, Charmian and I stroll through the library, ignoring the guards who trail behind us. To my relief they keep a respectful distance. There are carved wooden desks and tables laid out at regular intervals in each of the different sections of the reading room. The stone building is vast, adorned with columns, each decorated according to the section it houses: Doric columns in the Greek, and carved, illuminated Egyptian pillars in that section. The Greek section is the largest and busiest, crammed with scholars like caged chickens at the market. The next biggest is that dedicated to the Egyptian language, and it throngs with students and priests as they pore over texts containing the secrets of religion and divine law. There are other areas devoted to foreign languages, all meticulously ordered – Latin, Aramaic, Gaulish and yet more scrolls in the language of the Troglodytes, as well as beautifully illustrated texts in the Arabian and Syrian tongues. Charmian and I slide through all of these, passing the tidy combs of scrolls in papyrus and parchment and paper stacked as in a hive. As we walk through the Greek section, I pause, retrieving a scroll from a high shelf with care. A young man looks at me in surprise, about to object to its removal, and then seeing who it is that has taken it, snaps his mouth closed. We hurry on until we reach my favourite part of the library.

It’s emptier here in the ‘Ship’ section. We retreat behind a pillar and perch at the base. Charmian produces sweets from her tunic – we’re well concealed from the eye of the priest-librarian. These scrolls aren’t about ships or oceans or maritime laws but are all documents that have been confiscated over the centuries by the Pharaohs from ships sailing into the harbour. The law here stipulates that all scrolls entering the port at Alexandria must be inspected by the librarians, and if they are not versions of texts already held here, then they must be loaned to the library and copied. Of course, it’s never the original that is returned to the unfortunate merchant or traveller, merely the copy. My father and his fathers before him have pilfered and hoarded knowledge from all across the world and stacked it here in these sagging and overloaded shelves.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only noise is our sucking on the contraband sweetmeats. The air is perfumed with rosemary and myrrh to drive away moths and other scurrilous insects, but there is also the dry scent of the papyrus scrolls themselves, ensuring that now, to me, thoughts and words have a smell, herbal and enticing. I glance towards the Greek section where the original manuscripts of Aristotle and Plato are kept. They were written by the philosophers in their own hand, their ideas flowing straight into the very papers still held here. My tutor showed us one afternoon when we’d pleased him on our weekly tests. Or, rather, I had done well enough for both Charmian and me.

Within these walls are scrolls detailing all history from the siege at Troy (the egg Helen herself hatched from is held in another part of the mouseion) to Alexander himself to even the meagre achievements of my father. These shelves contain the whole world in thought and idea and possibility. Well, all the Greek and Egyptian world, but does any other really matter? I wipe my hands on my tunic, carefully removing all trace of stickiness, and then unfurl the scroll I borrowed. Charmian leans over my shoulder to look.

It’s the first Ptolemy’s life story, Alexander’s general, and my ancestor. Our line of Pharaohs are all descended from him. After Alexander’s death, Ptolemy, his favourite general, had Alexander’s body placed in a coffin of hammered gold and, in time, it was brought to the new city of Alexandria and Ptolemy became the first Pharaoh of a new dynasty, mine. I like to pour over the details of his life, the sad death of Alexander, the birth of the new city. The dead king in his golden coffin. I can read about it three hundred years later because that Ptolemy wasn’t only a soldier but a storyteller, the narrator of his own life. This is my favourite scroll and I read it here so often that I know much of it off by heart. Today, I don’t read more than the first few sentences, and then I lean back against the pillar.

‘I think I shall be like Ptolemy, Charmian.’

‘Of course you will. You’ll rule and be wise and beloved.’

‘Yes, I shall. But I’ll also write about it like he did. I’ll write my own history.’

Charmian looks at me, a little surprised but intrigued. ‘I’m not writing a single word that I don’t absolutely have to. But then I’m lucky. No one will be interested in me except how I reflect you. You are the palace, I’m just the mirror pool, here to make you look even more glorious.’

I laugh and say, incredulous, ‘So you only get all your work wrong to make me look better?’

Charmian grins. I lean back against the pillar and continue. ‘I’ll write my own history. And one day it will sit in the library here, and in a thousand years people will come to the library and read my story, just as it happened. They’ll see me. Know me as though they’d wandered through my court. I won’t leave it to others to translate me. I’ll be like Ptolemy. I’ll write every word myself.’

Charmian listens for a moment, her expression serious. Then she adds with a wry grin, ‘Don’t make it too long, Cleo. Maybe don’t do lots of things, then you won’t have to write them all down.’

I laugh and she smiles. I stretch out, yawn, certain that this library will last forever like the ideas it holds.

Charmian and I race scorpions in the palace, their feet scratching against the smooth marble floors. We whoop for joy, goading them faster, poking at them with straws. But then, to my irritation, panicked slaves appear and stop the game. ‘What if you’re stung, princess?’ they demand. No one worries that anything might happen to Charmian.

Either way, I take no notice. Grabbing her hand, I simply lead Charmian further out into the gardens, dodging all the palace guards, and we race the insects under the lemon groves where the household slaves can’t find us. I love Charmian because she fights properly, hissing at her scorpion to win, she never throws a race even though I’m her mistress and princess. We play for so long, we don’t notice that darkness has stolen into the groves all around. We creep back to the palace, hoping that no one will notice, but of course they do. We’re spotted in an instant, my robes are streaked with grime.

The chief of the palace guards is livid with rage.

‘You were told to stay with the guards today. The entire royal staff has been hunting for you both for hours,’ he says, vibrating with anger.

I want to tell him that they’re pretty useless if it’s taken them this long not to find us, but I don’t want to make it any worse. And then, fear nudges me – perhaps the threat is more insistent than usual. I think of the cat and the Roman and the blood upon the cobbles and feel a little sick.

‘Your father requires you,’ he says.

I know that the punishment will be worse for having made my father wait. He will have had the slaves whipped for failing to produce me. We walk to his apartment in silence. He rarely summons me in the evening. He’s wedged on his throne and when he tries to rise on seeing me, I realise that he’s stuck. I hurry over to him and kneel at his feet to save him the humiliation. He places his hand on my cheek, it’s moist with sweat, and he leans over, whispering in my ear.

‘You are safe. I am glad you’re safe.’

I am the only one of his children whom he views with real affection. His easy favourite. I amuse him with my beauty and cleverness. But my family doesn’t respect love or affection, only power. And early on, my father chose it for me. I am not the oldest, but it’s me who my father wants to succeed him. I know that one day, power and Egypt will come to me and not to the others. It will come, or I’ll take it.

‘Papa? Great Pharaoh?’

I kiss his damp palm.

‘We are leaving for Rome, in the morning. I find myself in need of counsel,’ he says.

I stare at him in surprise. He doesn’t want counsel, he wants an army. He worries the mob will reach the palace. He’s not only lost the affection of his people, he’s lost control. He hopes Rome will give him soldiers to take it back. I look into his eyes, and for the first time I see he’s frightened. He’s running away and he’s taking me with him.

The palace is in chaos all through the night as the slaves prepare for this sudden journey. My siblings are to be left behind, my oldest sisters Cleopatra Typhinia and Berenice to rule by proxy. They are not Pharaohs, but stand-ins for my father. Unlike him, I’m not convinced that they understand the difference. My father plans to return with an army provided by the Romans and slot himself back onto his throne. With Roman legions beside him, any whisper of rebellion will hush, or if it does not, the legions will rid him of dissenters. I’m uneasy about his plan. I do not like that he turns to foreigners to help him with Egypt’s problems, least of all Romans. They watch our shores greedily, eyeing our riches like uninvited guests slobbering at a feast. And, I wonder at his choice of my older sisters to keep his throne warm. They care for no one but each other and, like evening is to night, they are indivisible. They hate me, any affection scorched by our father’s preference for me, and I scrupulously stay out of their way.

My only solace is that in the turmoil the chief of the palace guard has forgotten to punish me for my earlier escapade in the lemon grove.

‘ Princess.’ The head of the guard approaches, his head bowed in respect to me. My stomach turns.

He has not forgotten. To my dismay, under the watchful eye of the nursery slaves, a young guard with a thin moustache like spider’s legs is ordered to punish Charmian for our misdemeanour. I watch, weeping, as she’s whipped. I can’t be punished but seeing her suffer for me is a worse pain. Two slaves hold my shoulders, restraining me so I can’t get in the way of the whip, and I stand there with lemon leaves in my hair, watching her accept our punishment, my winning scorpion scrabbling in a bag at my waist, tears and snot streaking my cheeks.

Afterwards they let us escape to my rooms, and she sits on the floor of my chamber, her back striped with red welts, tears easing out from under swollen lids. Another slave girl tends her wounds, wipes away the blood, applies a poultice to the bruises. I slide Charmian the bag with my winning scorpion. She accepts it, squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go. Charmian is the only one who knows that in my heart, I’m just a girl with lemon leaves in her hair.

We lie in bed, side-by-side, our feet tangled together. I watch the rosy light of dawn ripen outside the window. Still, unable to sleep, I think about Rome and listen to the scorpion inside its bag in the dark, scratching, scratching.