Charmion did not like to be challenged. “He said that Knowledge was a property of the Immortal Soul. That Knowledge is not taught, but remembered. That the process of knowing was but remembering what the soul already knows. Is that the answer you seek? And if it is, then what has Socrates to do with vomiting?”
“Listen to me, and please do not look at me as if I were merely a child. I know that I am a child, but some things I simply know.”
“And what do you know this time?” Charmion was not practiced at hiding exasperation.
“I know that I must not stay in Alexandria. I know that if I remain after my father leaves, I will die.”
“You are talking craziness, Kleopatra. If you want to make a trip to Rome, you might ask your father without all these dramatics.”
“I can’t explain it, Charmion. It’s like languages. I cannot tell you how I understand the foreign tongues. I only know that when I hear them, it is as if I am remembering a far-off lesson, another life, something.”
“I believe you are delirious.”
Kleopatra sat on her knees on the bed. “You must listen to me. Without my father’s protection, I am not safe here. When we went into the Delta to hunt, the king got very drunk one night and I made him say in front of Berenike that Thea took Berenike’s rightful place as his co-regent. You should have seen the look on Berenike’s face. As soon as Auletes is out of the way, she will be out for the throne.”
“You are unwell. You are submitting to the fantasies caused by fever. I am calling the physician.” Charmion gave Kleopatra a look of pity and turned around to leave.
“No. I forbid you to walk out the door.”
Charmion, imperious, acquiescing, lowered herself to sit on the bed next to the princess, her spine stark and straight like a reed of bamboo.
“As soon as you told me my father was going to Rome, something came over me. It was like a vision, and as soon as I had it, I became ill. It was as if I saw my Fate, and it was so horrible that I had to expunge it by throwing up.”
“And what is that Fate?”
“That Berenike is going to kill me.”
Charmion changed Kleopatra’s clothes and washed out her mouth with a sweet-tasting liquid. She wiped her face with a cool cloth, rebound her hair, took her hand, and led her out of the Inner Palace. They walked across the courtyard and through the formal gardens to the edge of the compound, where they boarded a small rowboat to the island Antirhodos, where the old ladies of the court resided. Kleopatra took in the fresh marine air, grateful that the waters were calm. She kept her eyes on the oar as the rower dipped it into the pale velvet sea, wondering what Charmion was up to. Kleopatra did not know these old women. They disapproved of Thea, and so annoyed Auletes that he kept them lavishly sequestered on the island in a sumptuous old building, where they could complain of nothing but their inability to meddle in affairs of state and the personal doings of the royals.
The ladies’ quarters were thrown into confusion by the unexpected visit. Each wrinkled face fussed over Kleopatra, allowing how much of her mother’s charm and beauty peeked from her eleven-year-old eyes. They stroked her cheeks, petted her hair, demanded kisses, and took her from one lap to the next as if she were a little baby. She supposed that to women so old, she appeared no different from an infant.
“The child fears for her life,” Charmion said, finally announcing their business. “She received a warning from the philosopher Socrates in a vision. What can you tell us?”
“The philosopher! He comes to us all the time in our dreams,” said a tiny lady. Her shriveled arms and humped back made her look like a little mouse hunched over a crumb of cheese.
“He does not like the ways of the world,” said another ominously. “He warns us of catastrophes to come.”
“The philosopher is a very busy spirit,” said Charmion. “But if you are in regular communication with him, perhaps you may properly interpret the meaning of the princess’s vision.”
The old ladies prepared for the princess a large cup of thick, murky tea, served hot and steaming and in a giant cup that she had to hold with both hands. It was not the kind of thing she felt like drinking on a day when her stomach had already turned against her.
“This smells more like the potion that killed Socrates,” Kleopatra said, wrinkling her nose.
But the ladies insisted, so she drained the liquid and found its taste not so offensive. When she finished, one by one, the crones passed the cup, each cautiously examining the remains at the bottom. With each passing of the cup, the faces grew more grave. It was generally agreed that the straggling tea leaves displayed a situation of impending doom.
“You must go far away, child. Nothing good will come of your life if you remain in Alexandria past the feast day of the corn goddess,” said an old brown-faced woman whose sad, chicken eyes were outlined with far too much kohl. “I was your mother’s favorite great-aunt. You must trust me.”
“But she is a child, and this is her home,” said Charmion. “What am I to do? Send her away in secret to a place where others will care for her?”
“If you love her, see to it,” said the great-aunt.
“My father is to make a voyage to Rome next week. Will I be safe if I accompany him?” asked Kleopatra.
The ladies huddled their faces over the cup once more. After staring, muttering, and much shaking of the head, they unanimously agreed that the princess could, should, must, go to Rome.
Kleopatra gave a triumphant look to Charmion. Promising the old ladies lavish gifts from that strange city, the seat of the world’s government, she took leave of them.
In the evening, the girl defied the king’s prissy Royal Attendants and burst in on Auletes taking his meal with his mistress Hekate.
“Your father wishes privacy,” warned a sour-faced man wearing a large plumed hat with a great jewel at the crown of his head holding the feathers together. He looked like an indignant bird.
“My father shall abuse you much if you keep him from the company of his favorite daughter,” she said. The king’s attendants never knew how to behave in these matters, so erratic was Auletes in his response to his family. But they all knew his indulgence of this one.
Kleopatra did not dislike Hekate. This evening she wore a pale draped silk dress that showed her august neck and the creamy pearl-colored skin of her bosom. She was much more beautiful than the queen, and more regal, too, thought Kleopatra. She wore a sweet-smelling perfume that reminded Kleopatra of lilies, far preferable to Thea’s oppressive undiluted lotus oil with which she immoderately doused herself. Hekate was the only one of Auletes’ mistresses that he entertained publicly. She was intelligent in the tradition of the hetairai, the sanctioned courtesans of Greek nobility. She herself was born of fallen Greek aristocrats, and very graceful.
“Father,” said Kleopatra. “I must demand an audience.”
Auletes and Hekate exchanged condescending smiles. In the presence of adult women the king treated the princess like a child; when they were alone, he gave her words and her presence full credence.
“Father,” she said, with as much dignity and force of will as she could summon in her nervous condition, “it is my wish to accompany you to Rome.”
The king said nothing but stared at the princess. His face remained maddeningly impassive.
I must play this right, she thought, but the king gave no clues as to the next step. It would be no use to tell of Socratic visions, of the augury of old women. Auletes would have no patience with such tales. She could not force his will. She must argue well—subtly yet forcefully, and above all, strategically.
“I could be of great use to you, Father. I am proficient in the dialects you shall encounter in your voyage, including the Latin tongue, which, you admit, baffles you by its coarseness.”
“My child, I have interpreters in my travel party.” Distracted, he ran his fingers along the nape of Hekate’s neck. Why was he so pre-occupied with a woman he had had many times, and would
have many more if he desired? The princess gauged her next step.
“Do you trust your servants so much that you will not doubt their translations?”
Auletes’ implacable face turned to one of aggravation, perhaps at the notion that his eleven-year-old child might protect him. The princess perceived that he was anxious to be rid of her so he might become more intimate with Hekate. “Come to me tomorrow, child.”
To remain and argue her case was fruitless in the face of his desire for the pale beauty at his side. But Kleopatra stood nonetheless, unwilling to be so lightly discharged.
“Father, if I remain behind, and you have incorrectly gauged the loyalty of your army, you shall have no heirs.” It was her best shot, cryptically delivered and, she hoped, well timed. She turned on her toes and walked out.
“Very well,” came the voice of the king. The princess stopped, but did not turn around. “Look at me, child.”
She turned to face her father, who wore a self-satisfied expression. “Have Charmion see the Travel Steward for your allowance of luggage and attendants. We sail for Rhodes in two days’ time. I trust your staff and your little royal personage will be prepared.”
Part II
ROME
TEN
Helios the Sun God lay crumpled in shimmering waters at the harbor in Rhodes. The colossal bronze statue, one of the great wonders of the Greek world and the protector of Rhodes City, had come toppling down the last time the gods expressed their displeasure with the island, shaking the earth until every man-made pride had fallen to pieces. The island had recovered, rebuilt its harbor and its businesses, but the god still lay in shambles on the shore, gentle waves lapping at his headless torso, his great bronze crown of sunrays now a tarnished barnacle green.
“Why do they not move the god?” Kleopatra asked. She could not bear to witness the god’s disgrace. She looked past the fallen Greek idol to the shops and mansions lining the long, sandy beach, and the whitewashed houses that dotted the rose-covered rocks and mossy slopes above the town.
“Because the people are afraid that if they move the city’s protector, the earth will shake again. The priests advise against tampering with it,” answered the king as he searched the dock for a greeting party.
“But it is so very sad to see him lying there, headless and ugly. Can you not do something, Father? You are beloved upon these shores.”
Auletes, like all members of his dynasty, enjoyed special loyalty from the people of Rhodes. Many centuries before, when the city was besieged by Demetrius Poliorketes the tyrant, Ptolemy I had intervened and run him off. The oppressor was in such a hurry to get out of town that he left his siege artillery, which the Rhodians sold to build the giant statue of the god. For his efforts, the people of Rhodes christened Ptolemy I Soter, the Savior, a title he became very fond of and used officially all his life.
“We are here to solicit support and advice, Kleopatra, not to dictate to the clergy,” said the king. “The government of Rhodes enjoys good relations with Rome. We are here to learn how to do the same. You shall have to satisfy yourself with the way things are. We shall enjoy the islands beauty, but leave it as we find it.”
Chastened, Kleopatra groped for a subject that would recover her father’s grace. She did not want to be sent home, nor did she wish to be left in Rhodes in the care of polite, dull Greek women while her father sailed onward to Rome. “Father, is it true that the island of Rhodes has more butterflies than anywhere else on earth?” she asked brightly.
“Yes, and more statues, too,” said the king. “But do not be fooled. The island is also infested with snakes. So do not think that you can run off and play like you do at home.” The king directed these words not at his daughter, but at the taller girl who stood at her side.
“Do not worry, Sire. There will be no more games.” Mohama spoke with easy nonchalance, making Kleopatra wonder if she had had private conversations with the king since that cold hard slap Auletes delivered to her cheek the day of the riots.
For weeks after the incident, Kleopatra had shunned her former companion, fastidiously erasing her from her thoughts, and finally, after days and days of effort, forgetting to miss her. But the morning of the launch, when she alighted the carriage, hounds scampering ahead of her, giant planks shivering beneath her feet as workers hustled the king’s goods aboard the ships, Kleopatra felt a whisper of regret that she was leaving Mohama behind. Then she looked up and saw the lone dark-skinned figure standing on the dock staring out to sea, her red travelers cloak a splash of blood against the drab morning fog. The princess looked angrily at Charmion, who displayed no emotion and gave no apology. The day before, Charmion had suggested that they include Mohama in their party, allowing that she might not be treated well by those who remained in the city. Kleopatra remembered the animosity that had passed between Mohama and Berenike’s Bactrian women, but then pushed the rivalry out of her mind. She still stung from Mohama’s betrayal and was not inclined to show mercy.
“I never want to set eyes upon her again,” Kleopatra retorted. “If you wanted to make me happy, you would bring me the news that she has been enslaved, beaten, and tortured for placing a royal child in danger.”
“I believe that she was commissioned by your father to keep the royal child out of danger,” countered Charmion.
“Don’t tell me that you are going to defend her,” said Kleopatra, exasperated. “If we were not in a hurry to travel, I would demand that my father have her hands cut off. Then I would have her returned to her desert tribe where she couldn’t even be a thief anymore.”
Charmion made no response to this tirade, but gave Kleopatra a captious, almost pitying look. Kleopatra kicked her wooden trunk in anger, stubbing her toe. She yelped in pain like a puppy, ran to Charmion, put her head in the lap of the stern lady, and bawled great heaving tears until she wore herself out.
The next day, the king’s party—the Royal Steward, a bodyguard of seven, four Kinsmen, a priest and priestess, cooks and servers, and pets and other animals for sacrifice—ambled up the bridge and onto the ship, looking more like travelers on an adventure than a king’s entourage fleeing a rebellion, and Kleopatra’s dogs rushed ahead of her to greet the red-cloaked Mohama, nuzzling their snouts against her. Exasperated, Kleopatra followed them, determined to demand that Mohama remain behind. The tall girl petted the dogs distractedly, letting her attention linger on the water, her lovely cocoa skin green with fear.
“I am afraid.” Mohama’s face looked as if she had just been visited by a terrible phantom. “I have never been on the waters.”
“I did not know that you had fear.” Kleopatra had to struggle to suppress the small secret thrill she felt at being once more in Mohama’s company. “You have faced more formidable enemies than the sea, Mohama.”
“I have heard of the wrath of the god Poseidon. He will know that I am a child of the sands and do not worship him. He will take his vengeance upon me.” The girl’s face contorted in anxiety, her brow creased like an old woman, making curvy lines in her smooth, chocolate forehead.
Kleopatra stood very tall and spoke with authority. “Do not be foolish, Mohama. Libya, daughter of Zeus—the goddess for whom your land is named—was once the wife of the sea-god. From him she bore twin sons.”
“How do you know that?”
“It is a well-documented fact and known to all educated people throughout the world.” Kleopatra enjoyed her moment of condescension. She continued patiently, as if pacifying a child suffering from imaginary fears, “Before we sail, my father, the king of the land, will sacrifice a white cow to the king of the sea. Poseidon will forbid the sea-serpent Triton to blow his conch shell and stir up the seas while we sail. My father shall also appease Triton with a pair of small white goats with very tender shanks—a rare commodity for a sea creature. The king sacrifices on behalf of all travelers in his party. You will see. The waters will remain calm.”
“Are you certain, Kleopatra?”
“I
guarantee it,” said the princess, slipping her warm hand against the cool, rough palm of Mohama, lacing their fingers together, and walking hand in hand toward the ship.
The Greek statesman who had earned the privilege of sheltering the king and his entourage on the island greeted the party at the harbor with the news that the Roman senator Cato had landed at Rhodes. “He has stopped here on his way to Cyprus to nurse a severe illness of the bowels that afflicted him at sea,” said the Greek, wrinkling his nose. “I trust this will not cause Your Majesty any discomfort.”
Auletes was outraged that he should have to share the island with the villain responsible for the death of his brother, king of Cyprus. “That man is the reason I am making my way to Rome now,” he said. “If not for him, I would have slept on my own mattress last night, not tossed about on that hard bunker of a bed that tortured me until sunrise.”
“He is vexed by the doctors, rejects their treatment, and administers to himself the remedies of his great-grandfather,” said the dignified Greek. “He has also taken to the extreme use of alcohol, and his condition only worsens.”
“Good,” replied Auletes. “I shall avoid the monster at all costs.”
But as days passed, the king began to think that the Roman might offer him information about the kind of reception he would receive in Rome. Auletes circulated word of his arrival among the Rhodian population and its dignitaries in every way he knew how. He waited two and one-half days for Cato to call upon him, but the Roman sent no indication that he was inclined to meet with the exiled king.
Kleopatra declined all invitations to tour the island, instead sitting with her father in the reception room of the mansion where they stayed, watching him pace like a caged beast, waiting for Cato to call on him. Finally, Auletes swallowed his royal dignity and sent a messenger to Cato to deliver the news that he had arrived and was receiving guests.