22 chapters + notes, ~50k words
A DANGEROUS DAUGHTER
THE LAST PHARAOH PREQUEL
by Jay Penner
Book I: Regent
Book II: Queen
Book III: Empress (final)
Prequel novella: A Dangerous Daughter
A Dangerous Daughter - Novella. Copyright © 2021 by Jay Penner. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jay Penner https://www.jaypenner.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: June 2021
6.2 2024-12-15
BEFORE YOU BEGIN
This novella takes you to the Ptolemaic world a few years (58 to 55 BCE) before Cleopatra becomes Regent. My author’s suggestion is that you read this after you finish the Last Pharaoh series—Regent, Queen, and Empress. This is a short prequel to be enjoyed after completing the trilogy.
If you have read the trilogy already, welcome to this book! You should be familiar with most of the characters introduced here and get a glimpse of their earlier world.
If you are the rebel who prefers to start with this work, then go ahead—nothing here will spoil the rest of the series. However, please note that this is a novella, and the characters are introduced quickly with little context, though you will learn much more about many of them as you immerse yourself into the full series.
As always, I provide a few pages of notes at the end of this novella to shed light on what we know from history.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
A point to note: All female members of the Ptolemaic dynasty were called Berenice, Cleopatra, or Arsinoe, distinguished by their last names, titles, or numbering.
Ptolemy XII Neos Dionysos Philopator Philadelphos – King of Egypt, twelfth ruler of the Ptolemaic dynasty, derisively called “Auletes” (Flutist)
Cleopatra Tryphaena – Wife (and cousin) of King Ptolemy XII
Berenice – First daughter of King Ptolemy and Cleopatra Tryphaena
Cleopatra – Second daughter of King Ptolemy and stepdaughter of Cleopatra Tryphaena
Arsinoe – Third daughter of King Ptolemy XII and stepdaughter of Cleopatra Tryphaena
Ptolemy XIII and XIV – Sons of King Ptolemy and Cleopatra Tryphaena
Pothinus and Amphios – Advisors to the royals
Achillas – Commander of Egypt’s army
Pompey Magnus, Marcus Crassus, Marcus Cicero, Gabinius – Roman senators, generals
TERMS
Gladius – a 1.5 to 2 ft. long sword, typically used by Roman soldiers
Shendyt – Egyptian attire: a skirt-like garment worn around the waist, to the ankles.
Chiton, Peplos – Greek gowns
LOCATIONS
maps data: (c) Google
1. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
Pothinus understood the danger of an Alexandrian mob, a mass of vicious mischief-makers driven by nothing but a passion for damage, deriving their joy from the destruction they hoped to inflict on all things—buildings, people, and animals—that they encountered as they converged on their target. There was no mob in the world, Pothinus was certain, like the Alexandrian mob. That ferocious beast possessed the power to drive kings from their palaces, as they had done more than once before. And on this day, the target was the palace and His Majesty Ptolemy, the king. The baying of the man-beasts echoed even deep inside the palace, and he could see wisps of smoke rising from the fire the rioters had set to an adjacent building that housed administrative records.
He ushered the royals into the guarded palace hall. The king’s wife, Queen Cleopatra Tryphaena, and her daughters Berenice, Cleopatra, and Arsinoe, tense and worried, took their places on the silk couches and chairs. The two young sons were in the maids’ hands, wailing.
“His Majesty will be here soon. He is safe and is being brought here,” Pothinus assured the worried faces. The Royal Guard took their places by the door, should errant miscreants somehow make their way into the recesses of the vast complex. Pothinus hoped that a segment of the Royal Guard remained loyal to His Majesty and that this gathering would not end in the slaughter of the entire family, thus vanquishing the bloodline of the great Ptolemaic dynasty.
The queen’s lower jaw quivered. In the name of our gods, Your Highness, project strength to your children! Pothinus thought, for the last thing he needed was a wailing queen making everything worse. If I must bear the weight of royal decisions, why not make me Pharaoh?
But before His Majesty arrived, Pothinus approached Berenice, the eldest daughter, regal in her bearing, tall, slim, and strong. She was nineteen years of age, trained in the matters of regency, fluent with administrative procedures when her errant father was absent from his duties, and possessed the cunning and ruthlessness required for one who could be queen.
“Your Highness,” Pothinus whispered to the princess. “Have you considered asking your father to take you with him?”
Pothinus was sure he knew the answer, but as the royal advisor, he viewed it as his duty to allow the royal children to come to their own conclusions, prompted by his questioning and insinuation.
She fixed her light and sharp eyes on him. They radiated resoluteness. “No, Pothinus. I am going nowhere. Let him leave. He was never here anyway,” she said dismissively. “The people’s anger is directed at him, and they will spare us.”
Clever and ambitious, Pothinus thought, just as he expected. He smoothed his shendyt and walked toward the tearful Arsinoe. He felt pity for the girl. A stepdaughter of the queen, temperamental and ignored, Arsinoe found love in her father’s arms—her mother had died when she was young, and the queen, her stepmother, showed little care or concern for her, or for that matter, any of her children.
“Isis and Zeus protect you, Princess Arsinoe,” he said kindly as he knelt before the sniffling nine-year-old. Arsinoe’s pink face was a deep shade of red, her sharp nose even redder, and her maid hovered nearby, wiping the princess’s face from time to time.
“Is Father leaving us?” she asked in her low, crackling voice.
Pothinus held her hands. He was one of the few in the kingdom who could show fatherly conduct toward her, for he was sometimes her tutor, sometimes her advisor, and sometimes the father who filled her real father’s place. “For your safety, Princess. His presence could bring danger to all of you.”
“Why can’t I go with him?” she sniffled. Pothinus knew of the unkindness of her older sister, Berenice. Arsinoe had little love for her. You poor child.
“He has not made that determination, Your Highness, but whatever your father decides will be for the family’s safety. His love for you is undiminished.”
She kept her head low and nodded. Pothinus asked a maid holding the wailing baby Ptolemy to move to the far end of the room, taking the toddler brother, now three, along with her. He could do without that cacophony.
Finally, Pothinus stood before Cleopatra, the eleven-year-old second daughter. The king’s favorite—and Pothinus’ too, for this was an intelligent and stubborn girl who showed curiosity in all matters of the world around her and little fear for its darkness. “Is Her Highness keeping well?” he inquired.
She nodded. Her glassy eyes conveyed projected strength, though he could see that they had shed tears recently. “I will go with Father,” she said. For all of His Majesty’s failings, he had proved to be a kind and loving father when he was present. And his attention they craved, for their mother was distant and cold, burdened by her travails and perpetual sickness. He gripped Cleopatra’s palms and spoke to her with affection. “His Majesty keeps you dear in his heart, and whatever he decides will be best for the family.”
Finally, Pothinus kneeled before Queen Cleopatra Tryphaena, their mother, who was seated on a comfortable chair, looking tired. She was pale and gaunt and no longer the gentle beauty she had been long ago when she married His Majesty, her cousin, as per tradition. “Is Her Majesty prepared for changes in the palace?”
Her voice was weak. “As the gods desire,” she said. “My husband will show the way.”
Pothinus was sure His Majesty would not travel with the queen, for the two were estranged and hardly on speaking terms. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said as he retreated from her.
Noise.
The ornate Lebanese cedar doors flung open, and Amphios, another royal advisor, charged in huffing. “His Majesty will be here soon!”
Some more guards streamed into the hall, heavily armored, looking purposeful. Achillas, a senior commander of His Majesty’s army, strode into the room, wearing his green-and-gold cape, bronze armor, and pointed helmet. “His Majesty arrives!”
King Ptolemy rushed into the room, wearing a loose tunic and a few adornments. The tall, heavy-set king, his eyes puffy from his latest bouts of drinking and his curly golden hair disheveled from the events, acknowledged the children who kneeled in his presence. He barely looked at the queen, who paid little attention to him in return.
“The mobs bay for my blood, and my family shall not be sacrificed,” he said without introductions to the situation or a preamble, his voice hoarse and deep. “There is no time. I have decided our course of action.”
The anxiety was palpable.
His Majesty took a deep, raspy breath. “I will leave for Rome and secure support to vanquish my detractors. The scoundrels and treasonous bastards think they can intimidate me.”
No one said a word.
“My wife and first daughter shall remain, managing the affairs of the kingdom with Pothinus’ advice. They seem to enjoy the support I do not,” he said somewhat bitterly, as if suggesting that they had something to do with his troubles. “And my sons, who will one day rule as kings, shall remain, for their presence will eliminate questions of legitimacy to succession. Arsinoe will stay behind as well.”
As expected, Arsinoe wailed, “Take me with you, Father! Please!” The little girl ran forward to hold her father’s legs.
His Majesty’s face softened. He bent down and lifted her up by the shoulders. “A princess must be strong, my dear Arsinoe. A spirited girl should not shed tears. You must remain until I return, for your future shines bright here in Egypt.”
With some difficulty, he separated from her, and Pothinus led the princess back to her place as Berenice glared at the fearful girl.
“And you, Cleopatra, will come with me. Circumstances require that we spread the family.”
In case all those in Alexandria are murdered.
He extended his hand to Cleopatra, who walked over and stood by his side. Arsinoe looked at her sister with resentment, and Cleopatra kept her head held low.
“Why is she allowed to go, but not me?” Arsinoe yelled in her crackling youthful voice. The girl’s fiery temperament would one day create a confrontation, Pothinus was sure.
But her father remained uncharacteristically gentle, for he loved this girl almost as much as he favored Cleopatra. “Have you not had your father’s lap whenever you desired, Arsinoe? You will listen to me as your father and king,” he said with mock sternness as he reached forward and ruffled her hair. “And now you will remain silent.”
A sullen Arsinoe spoke no more.
“Achillas and his men will remain as protectors of my realm in Egypt. Pothinus will manage the Romans and the affairs of the government.”
Pothinus bowed to the king.
“Let there be no disruptions in the education of the children,” he said. “Theodotus and Areius will continue as tutors.”
Pothinus had no love for Theodotus, the loud-mouthed rhetorician, but the king had taken a liking to the man’s theatrics and loud voice.
“I will—”
A guard came running into the room, disrupting the king’s orders. He whispered to Achillas, who spoke to His Majesty. Suddenly, more soldiers rushed in.
Achillas yelled into the room. “We must leave, now! His Majesty will board a ship that is ready to leave for Cyprus. Everyone else, come with me!”
Pothinus knew His Majesty had loaded his ships with many valuables from the palace, along with thousands of talents of gold clandestinely pulled from the treasury. Stripping the kingdom of its valuables, even as he flees.
Men ushered Cleopatra and His Majesty out of the hall, with them barely glancing back at those they left behind. The frightened royal family, along with Pothinus, was escorted through another exit into a basement chamber. As they huddled in the dark room, waiting for further instructions, Berenice crept beside Pothinus. In the sliver of light, her smile was crooked. “Father said there would be a joint rule, Pothinus. If you so much as try to put doubt in my role, I will slit your stomach and feed your entrails to the crocodiles in the Nile.”
2. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
The angry arguments and negotiations with the ringleaders of the rioters—tradesmen, merchants, landlords, and debtors—took two days to arrive at a settlement. Their grievances, Pothinus maintained, would be addressed once the kingdom settled into a new rule. Pothinus knew that a calm city was necessary for them to rebuild the tattered army and ensure that power was preserved where it should be. Besides, Her Highness Berenice insisted that the riots be quelled and that her coronation be conducted without delay.
“Do you want the Romans to march here and take whatever is left because you do not know when to stop?” he asked one of the leaders. “Yes, His Majesty heard your complaints, and he has left the city. This gives us a chance to set things right under the new rule.”
“What makes you think that the co-rule of the queen and her daughter will not continue the same disaster?” the man asked. Pothinus could not begrudge the question, for His Majesty’s horrendous mismanagement of the kingdom’s finances—due to his uncontrolled spending, high taxes to repay Rome for debt obligations, rising waves of crime, and highway robberies—had driven the city and its influential men to despair.
His Majesty played with a flute while the kingdom was driven to ruin. No wonder the Romans derisively called him the “Flutist.”
“His Majesty’s absence allows me and the senior officials to regain control of the treasury. Princess Berenice shares your concerns.”
While not known for her pleasing demeanor, Princess Berenice had a reputation for prudent and calculated actions. She was a learned woman who desired to shine in her father’s absence.
“How free will she be to direct the kingdom without her mother’s interference?” another man asked. No one believed that Queen Cleopatra Tryphaena had the capacity or ability to take on the strenuous duties of rule, but with her new power in the absence of her husband, there was concern about how she would reveal herself.
“The princess and I will ensure firm control of administrative decisions, and the queen mother will perform her duties to the temples and focus on bringing divine blessing back to this kingdom.”
While unspoken, they all understood what he meant—that Pothinus would endeavor to relegate the queen to roles that would keep her out of day-to-day affairs.
“We pay you handsomely, Pothinus, but we have seen little by way of results,” the leader said.
Pothinus bristled at the accusation. “Watch your words, Timaru. If it were not for me, your taxes would be double, your estates would be confiscated, and some of your heads would be on pikes for accumulating wealth by evading levies. If you wish to return to normalcy, tell your mobs to go home and not come out again.”
Agreements were made, hoarse promises and proclamations of loyalty were shouted, and finally, the mob leaders left with assurances from the palace that a new era would begin under Queens Berenice and Cleopatra.
The coronation was a quick affair at the Temple of Taposiris Magna, with the chief priest of Memphis in attendance, along with the resident ambassador of Rome, dignitaries from the city, a representative of Judaea, and a hastily transported contingent of commoners. After only an hour of incense burning and incantations, the chief priest of Memphis declared Cleopatra and Berenice as goddesses on earth, proclaimed by divine authority as the new rulers of Egypt, with the king having abdicated and fled. The mother and daughter, resplendent in their flowing golden gowns and Egyptian headgear of vultures, stood before an adoring audience and made brief speeches declaring their love for the land and their desire to elevate Egypt’s glory.
With Pothinus’s exhortation, the royals quickly announced several decrees, including a reduction in annual taxes, reduced transportation levies, deferred debt repayments, sending an emissary to Rome to negotiate loan terms, the release of several influential prisoners, help from the royal treasury to rebuild large agricultural farms and papyrus factories, and the fixing of broken and disorganized administrative structures in the large cities. These measures brought some respite to restless and worried people. In all these matters, Berenice grew adept, willing to listen to her advisors, asking pertinent questions, and making decisions that pleased Pothinus—though he was careful not to portray the actions as stemming from his advice but from royal discretion.
As he sat in his expansive courtyard on his comfortable dewan, made and imported from Persia, Pothinus wondered how he might help a nephew who, due to his errant ways, had fallen afoul of Thebes’ governor—a nasty man who saw no hesitation in throwing the condemned into the crocodile-infested waters. And then there was the matter of the unctuous Amphios, Berenice’s other advisor, who was doing everything he could to overshadow Pothinus.
“Your Excellency!”
His reverie was interrupted by an adjutant. Irritated, he shielded his eyes from the sun shining behind the man’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“Her Majesty, the queen, desires your presence.”
“Which queen?” he asked, an ongoing joke among the palace officials.
Old queen or young queen?
The weak and tired one or the angry, feisty one?
The perennially disinterested queen or the perennially meddling one?
The ‘I am the queen’ or the ‘I am really the queen?’
The worn-out bored one or the sensual new one?
And so on, many bordering on extreme impertinence that might get one flogged or imprisoned.
The man took no liberties with Pothinus. “The mother queen Cleopatra, Your Excellency.”
The queen’s dour look was now mixed with a tinge of irritation. She had rarely summoned Pothinus into her presence, preferring largely to stay with her advisors, tour the many temples, and grace ceremonies. But it was true, Pothinus thought, that she had regained some of her spirits after her husband’s departure. There was more energy in her steps, strength to her voice, and he had even seen her tend to her younger children, whom she had always almost entirely ignored.
“Your Majesty, you summoned?”
She nodded from her seat but did not gesture for him to sit. Pothinus waited for whatever was coming.
“Why is my daughter issuing major administrative orders without my approval?”
Pothinus was surprised. He had to respond carefully.
“Your Majesty, we beg your pardon for the oversight. The burden of rule is heavy, and Her Majesty was busy on matters of bringing the gods back to Egypt. Therefore, we proceeded with the lesser actions of daily administration without further disrupting Her Majesty’s work.”
Cleopatra had a long face that made her sullen appearance further pronounced. Deep hollows below her eyes made her look older than her thirty-eight years. “Take me for no fool, Pothinus. That I was not by my licentious husband’s side for years does not mean my senses are so dulled. I see what you are doing.”
He squirmed at the accusation. Have I underestimated her?
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The agreement was for us to co-rule, and that means on all major matters, I must be consulted.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Do not lead us toward another civil war, Pothinus, or I shall hold you responsible.”
“Your Majesty.”
“You are not the only advisor who knows Egypt. My daughter’s ambition must be tempered.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Call a council meeting. I wish to make some announcements.”
3. ROME
CLEOPATRA
Cleopatra hated Rome. After the long and miserable journey on a ship—first to an island called Cyprus and then along the Cilician and Greek coasts until they reached Italy—she had to endure days in a shaky carriage that took her to Rome. Her father had been silent and preoccupied, no doubt smarting over how his people had run him out of Alexandria. How could the people of Egypt do that to their king? She knew her father was unpopular among many influential people; she did not understand all of it, but it had to do with money.
But Rome?
Rome was smelly.
The cobblestone paths were narrow, dirt lay everywhere, and densely packed hovels abutted the nobles’ houses. She was housed in Pompey’s villa, which was nothing like her palace. It did not have as many rooms as her palace, and they were not even luxurious, befitting her status. They had slaves to tend to her and her father, for she had not been able to bring her lady-in-waiting. But these slaves did not understand Greek, and she had just begun to learn Latin.
Now, neither her tutor nor a translator had come with her, and these Romans had not assigned a translator for her, so she struggled to explain to the slaves what she wanted. How long would it take for someone to find Greek servants? A few children from neighboring villas had arrived to greet and play with her, but she found them boring, for they could not read or write, and they did not know how to treat a princess who was also a goddess.
It was all miserable. Even the air was unpleasant. It had a strange smell and a heavy texture. The villa was drab. The ceilings were low—nothing like the soaring halls of her palace back in Alexandria, which she missed very much. Since their arrival in Rome, her father had sequestered her, forbidding her to go out. There was no royal zoo here. Many nights she cried quietly in her sleep—but as Theodotus and Areius had taught her, she could not show her grief outwardly, for that would make her seem weak.
What was Arsinoe doing? How was Pothinus? Were they taking care of the cats while she was away? The royal advisor and first eunuch of the court was one of her favorites. She missed them, even the temperamental Berenice. Her sister was not the kindest person; she often thrashed her and Arsinoe—but sometimes she told them fascinating stories. Would she ever go home?
Back to Rome. What a strange place. They really had no kings! The things she had been taught at home were true. It was all a group of old men deciding together, and she could not understand how that worked.
Her father was king, and they made him wait. It was all preposterous. But she had brought several books from the library of Alexandria and kept herself busy reading, memorizing, and practicing her writing. She would demand that the Romans give her some tutors.
In this situation, she finally heard her father say that this day was a momentous one, for two great Roman men by the names of Pompeius Magnus—Pompey Magnus—and Marcus Licinius Crassus were visiting them. There was a third famous man, Gaius Julius Caesar, but he was away. Her lessons back home had included brief elements of Roman history, and she knew a little about these men. They were the ones who ruled Rome in some manner.
Cleopatra was ushered to her father’s presence after the maids dressed her in a crisp, cream peplos, a princess’s diadem, a golden brooch, and fine kohl under her eyes.
“Come here, my daughter,” her father said. He, too, was wearing his traditional gold-bordered white chiton and a bright white silver-studded diadem. He held her hand and walked out with her to the portico of the building, where a few attendants waited. “We will meet some very important men, and you shall accord them respect as if they were kings.”
Finally, the double doors opened, and Pompey Magnus and Marcus Crassus walked in together. Her father extended his arms wide in greeting. The men hugged, which was a strange scene. She had seen no one hug the king—except his daughters, of course. But Rome was certainly different. Crassus had a mean look, with his sharp nose, creased cheeks, and a scowl; Magnus had a gentler, rounder face. They wore loose white togas with purple borders. Here, purple was like royalty, but then the wearers were not kings; it was all strange. What did her father wish to discuss with these men?
She demanded to be allowed to the meetings so she could listen, and her father smiled and patted her head. He often did that when he appeared to be listening, but was not.
Crassus looked down at her. “Well, this is Her Highness Princess Cleopatra, is it?”
She looked at her father, unsure what she was supposed to do because this man was not kneeling before her.
“Yes. My second daughter, Honorable Marcus Licinius.”
“I am also a goddess and the embodiment of Isis,” she said indignantly. How could they forget that?
Pompey threw back his giant head and laughed, and his thick mop of hair shook. “Every bit a princess and goddess,” he said, smiling, even as he gave her a curt bow. She returned it, hoping it was the right thing to do with these Romans, for her father certainly treated them as if they were very important.
“How was your journey, Your Majesty?” Marcus Crassus asked.
“The journey from Egypt is exhausting, as you might imagine, General, but the comforts of the last few days have eased the pains.”
“I hope my quarters are comfortable, even if they are nothing like your Alexandrian residences,” Pompey said.
No, they are not.
“It is fit for a king, great general! My daughter is in love with the gardens,” her father said.
I’m not.
“Shall we?” Pompey gestured, and Cleopatra trailed the men.
Irritated at being ignored, she rushed forward energetically and occupied the space between Pompey and her father.
Pompey addressed her. “Does Her Highness wish to join the parley?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” she said. “I must learn how discussions work if I am to be queen.”
How can he even ask such a question?
Pompey turned to her father. “She is a well-learned young woman, Your Majesty. She speaks better than any girl I know of that age. You should find a fine Roman man for her.”
None of your men are kings!
Her father laughed. “She is sometimes too well learned, General. And I must ask you to ignore any insolence. Cleopatra, we must speak privately, so go back to your room.”
Her cheeks were hot. “Father, I wish to be in the meeting. I will not speak!”
But before her father could respond, Crassus spoke. “Well, it is exceedingly rare to see a girl of her lineage and age interested in our mundane conversations, Your Majesty. Why not let her join us?”
Her father relented, and she suppressed a triumphant smile. But she would try to be quiet, for she knew that her father’s temper was not always kind to her. When she was belligerent at school or disrespectful, she earned a caning on her arms, and it could be painful.
“You might even make a good wife for me in a few years,” Crassus continued, leering at her. What a nasty old man—not a king, but he wanted to be her husband. He was so old! She wrinkled her nose and ignored him.
The men became comfortable on the couches as the slaves served wine and bread. She sat on a chair in the corner, fanned by a maid to ease the stifling heat. Unlike her palace in Alexandria, this little villa (surely enormous by these Roman standards) did not have cooling water ducts that made for a pleasant living.
Very backward.
Then she listened to them.
4. ROME
CLEOPATRA
“And you are confident that the queens ruling your kingdom will preserve your power until you can return?” Crassus asked.
“I am. The anger of the people will cool, and they will clamor for a king. However, the cabal may not be so welcoming of my return, which is why I need Rome’s support to destroy the army that stands against me and to regain power.”
“Is the animosity only toward you, Your Majesty? Why do you believe that these rebellious units will not join forces with the rioters again and dethrone your wife and daughter?”
King Ptolemy shook his head. “Egypt works in ways you do not understand, Excellencies. My family is divine and ordained to rule. No one will dare dislodge them, for doing so will bring down the wrath of the gods and the priests and people. Yet, they may control the queens as puppets, or hoist one of my young sons onto the throne and control the kingdom.”
Pompey rubbed his cheeks and cleared his throat. “And why would that be detrimental for Rome?”
Is he questioning why they should help my father?
Her father waved his hand—a gesture that dismissed the weight of the question. “Because all those with the power to control the kingdom hate Rome. Do not forget, Your Excellencies, that Egypt still owes a considerable debt to Rome, and your granaries need an uninterrupted supply. All that will be in jeopardy.”
Crassus took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Barbarian.
He hiccupped once before making a comment. “So, King Ptolemy, you need our military support to regain your throne so that you can repay us the money you owe?”
Her father made no response.
This time it was Pompey. “Our military support requires money, King Ptolemy. Thus, we must give you money to recover our money.”
Her father maintained his composure, for these sentences sounded rude to Cleopatra. But they were logical, as Areius, her tutor in Alexandria, used to say, with his big eyes wide open and crooked teeth in full display. Pompey was right— they needed to spend money to recover their investment.
“You plant a seed to grow a tree, you send a spy to bring down a fortress, you wed a woman to gain her children, and you kill a deer to feed a man for days,” her father said. “I ask that you support me with an army, and your return will be a hundredfold in the coming years. And for you, Senator Crassus, this investment will cost almost nothing, given your wealth.”
She had heard that Crassus was the richest man in all of Rome. He was like a king of Rome, but not truly a king. He apparently possessed many thousand talents of gold, yet even that was nowhere near what her father owned—or rather used to own.
Marcus Crassus swirled the wine in his cup. “Well, Your Majesty, that has not proved to be true so far, has it? Your rule has been marred by unrest, your people are unhappy about debt repayments, and you are here because you could not repay Rome, nor could you control your city!” he said, his mean face contorting as if he were making fun of her father. The pig! If this were Alexandria, her father would have Crassus flogged and thrown out.
“Now, Marcus, we do not know all the circumstances,” Pompey said, intervening like a kindly uncle. She liked him more than the impudent Crassus. “Your Majesty, how will it be different this time?”
Her father rose from his couch and paced around. He was a large man, even taller than these two Romans. “I now know who conspires against me. I know the cabals that have weakened me. With Roman support, I will wipe out the vermin who dared raise their hands against me, and there will be no doubt who is king. Payments to Rome and those who have stood by my side will resume—much of it coming from confiscating the vast amounts that the treasonous bastards have amassed in Alexandria.”
“Appropriations,” Cleopatra blurted, unable to control her excitement at recognizing a term with significance. She had learned all about it to punish errant citizens.
Her father knitted his eyebrows, but Pompey threw his head back and laughed again. “Her Highness is ready to be queen! That is right, young Cleopatra, appropriations are a means to keep nobility in check.”
“Would you like to return to your quarters?” her father asked in his stern voice.
She controlled her smile, proud that even this great Pompey had acknowledged her, and bowed to her father. “My apologies, Father. I will only listen.”
Crassus did not appear convinced by her father’s words. “Well, Your Majesty, as much as I would like to strike an arrangement with you in exchange for influencing the Senate to support your claim to your throne, I am about to launch an expedition to Parthia, which will strain all my finances.”
Parthia! She almost blurted out that she knew about it but remembered her place. Parthia was a great kingdom with fierce warriors. Long ago, in her favorite Alexander stories, she had learned that the great god had conquered that kingdom and seized it from a king named Darius. Or perhaps they were Persians—she could not quite remember.
Crassus was not finished. His face remained mirthless and stern. For the richest man in Rome—well, not as rich as her and not royal either—he was nevertheless a dour, unhappy man. “While I am away, Pompeius here might be of assistance, for he is no less powerful and influential.”
She liked Pompey more. Would he help her father?
Pompey adjusted his toga and snapped his fingers for wine. She never thought she would see a day when men lounged in front of her father, snapping their fingers and speaking freely. Her father was not the king of the world, but she would change that by becoming queen of the world. Then no one would snap their fingers in front of her!
“Well, Your Majesty, Roman politics is more complex than His Majesty’s world. In Egypt, you are the power. What you say is law—or rather what you said,” he amended, and Crassus sniggered. But her father remained quiet.
Pompey continued, “But Rome has many masters. Crassus, or Caesar, or Cicero, or me, we cannot lift our hands and command the rest to obey. We carry the Senate on our shoulders. And it is those men you must convince, for no intervention in foreign territory may occur without the Senate’s approval.”
Her father looked frustrated. “As three of the most powerful men of the Republic, cannot you make this happen?”
Crassus ran his finger along the rim of the cup and exchanged glances with Pompey.
Pompey sat up and leaned forward. “Powerful we are, Your Majesty. But if we must exert our influence…” His voice trailed off.
“I understand. Pompeius, my gratitude to Rome will come with generous additional allowances in return for your support.”
Pompey smiled.
Cleopatra knew it had something to do with paying both Rome and Pompey—they just wanted more money. When she became queen and possessed more money than anyone else in the world, all men would bow to her, whether in her kingdom or beyond. That much was clear.
“Well, Your Majesty, I might lend my voice. However, like all men who require Rome’s assistance, you must appear before the Senate and plead your case,” Pompey said.
Appeal to the Senate? Cleopatra was mortified to hear that. The way nobles and princes stood in her father’s court and appealed to him, like that? Her father. A king. Would he engage in this appealing?
“But my father is king!” she blurted out.
“Cleopatra!” her father thundered.
Pompey smiled.
But the mean-faced Crassus’s eyes were hard and cold. He wagged a finger at her and said sternly, “Not anymore, young princess. And not here, in Rome. No one is king here.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she feared what her father might do to her. A sound caning, perhaps. She should have kept quiet!
But his demeanor softened. “You must be quiet when the men speak, child.”
“Let her be, Marcus. There is a fire in the little princess—not something we see in girls her age. The Ptolemies raise their daughters differently, it seems. And if your elder daughter is anything like this one,” Pompey said, pointing toward Cleopatra, “then your challenge may not just be outside the royal family, Your Majesty.”
I would never go against Father!
“Berenice will not defy me,” her father said as he smoothed the golden curls on his head. His belly had grown large, and she hoped he would drink and eat less. “They will co-rule until I return.”
Crassus merely remarked, “So you say.”
“Well, what do you think, Your Highness?” Pompey turned to her suddenly. “Do you believe your sister will relinquish her throne for your father if he returns?”
She choked. What if she said something terrible that made her father furious? She was not sure Berenice would let go. Her sister was frightening and mean, like Crassus. She had heard her sister say many times that she would make a better ruler than her useless father. But she dared not say that out loud, or her sister might have her murdered.
With all eyes upon her, she regained her composure. One of her tutors, Theodotus, had taught her in his rhetoric classes to project confidence and power regardless of how one felt inside. She sat straight, puffed out her chest, and gripped the arms of the chair. “My sister will do what is best for her,” she whispered. And when they stared more, she offered no additional commentary. A queen will let the people infer her words, and she must offer no explanation, Theodotus had advised in a lesson just before the tumult in Alexandria.
Crassus only nodded.
Pompey turned to her father. “May we stroll in the gardens, Your Majesty? It is stuffy here, even if I love this villa like all the others,” Pompey said. “And you must excuse us, little Highness, for it is time for us to confer on matters that will take you a few more years to appreciate.”
His voice was kind. Her father nodded. “You stay here,” he ordered her, and she dared not object this time.
But the creased-face, thin-haired Crassus remained where he was. “I will chat with the interesting princess,” he said, “while His Majesty and Pompey strike arrangements.”
Her father smiled approvingly.
No! I wish it was Pompey!
The two men rose and left the hall, leaving her with scowl-faced Crassus.
She snapped her fingers for a slave to bring some grape-infused sweet water. She loved this new drink, which she could not obtain in Alexandria.
Crassus leaned back. “Well, Princess Cleopatra, how do you find Rome?”
She weighed her words and remembered her father’s instructions. If you say bad things about Rome, they might not help us.
“It is a magnificent city. Exquisite, and fit for great men,” she said.
Crassus’s wrinkles danced with a smile. “Did your father instruct you to say that? Fear not, young princess. Your candid words will not be held against you. Few think Rome beautiful.”
A surge of relief coursed through her. “It is not as nice as Alexandria,” she finally said, now suspicious of how easily he had discerned her true feelings.
He laughed at that. “Perhaps you will not be happy as my wife.”
This time, she would not be restrained. “You are too old to be my husband, Marcus,” she said, even using his first name.
He did not seem offended at all. Instead, Crassus laughed loudly. “A child, and yet a real princess! I have not seen one like this,” he said to no one in particular. “Well, I have heard much about the magnificent library in Alexandria. Do you spend time there?”
“I go there five days in every seven to sit before my tutors and learn,” she said with pride.
“And what do you learn?” he asked, his eyes unblinking.
“About my ancestors, about the god and general Alexander, Homer’s poems, mathematics, and medicine.”
“You sound quite learned. Can you read and write?”
What a stupid question. Did Roman children not learn early enough?
“I can read, but I am still improving my writing.”
“Very well. You must learn Latin someday. Greek will do fine for now.”
“I know how to speak Latin, but my accent is imperfect. They say I am good with languages. I plan to learn all the languages of the major kingdoms, and I am the only one in my family who can speak Egyptian.”
Crassus smiled. Then he looked thoughtful, jutting his jaw and drumming his fingers. “Do you know, Princess Cleopatra, that your father was king because Rome allowed him to be?” he said, changing topics.
She was surprised. What did he mean? She had not heard about Rome controlling her father’s position. He was king, and it was his divine right.
He looked at her, unblinking, and continued. “It is true! Egypt owes much to Rome. It is by Rome’s authority that he was even king. But don’t ask him about that, for it may make him enraged toward you. Many years ago, your father paid six thousand talents to Caesar to proclaim himself king.”
She knew nothing about this. “My father makes agreements all the time, as kings do.”
Crassus’ smile vanished. “You will be in much trouble if he does not repay Rome.”
“My father will succeed,” she said, gripping the arms of the chair.
“Well, if he does not, you will become a slave,” he said, smiling cruelly.
What a nasty, nasty man. How dare he even think of her as a slave!
“I am a descendant of goddesses. No one can make me a slave!” she said indignantly.
“Have you ever been outside Egypt, apart from Italy?”
“I have not. I will see the world when I am older.”
“Alexander conquered Persia. I will be in Parthia soon.”
“Will you be going all the way to India?”
He was surprised. “You have been taught well! No, I do not intend to go all the way to India.”
You are no Alexander. My great-forefather went all the way to India.
“Do you like your sister?” he asked.
Why does he want to know? Is he trying to trick me?
She mulled over his question. “She was preparing to be queen, so she is strict, as she must be.”
“So you don’t like her.”
Her cheeks flushed. How could he guess what she was really thinking so easily? She looked at her ochre-colored, painted fingernails. He changed the subject again. What did he want from her?
She blinked away the tears welling in her eyes. She missed Arsinoe—although they fought a lot because her younger sister was not as mature and had a bad temper, they still played together often. Even the baby brothers were fun to have. Then there were the children of the high priests and senior nobles who could mingle with her, and they spent hours talking about everything and everyone.
She missed sitting cross-legged in the tutoring room, memorizing poems, or reading long scrolls.
She missed the aroma of wood in the closed chambers and the smell of aging papyrus.
The stream of sunlight through the lofty windows and the ruckus of seagulls.
The many animals in the wonderful zoo by the palace.
She even missed Areius’ yelling and Pothinus’ lecturing.
Even Theodotus’ dramatic performances.
She missed all of them.
She was stuck in this stupid, smelly city with this nasty man who kept telling her she could be his wife or become a slave. Some maids had told her gross and disgusting stories about men and their penis and what they did with it, and this nasty old man, if he were her husband, would show his ancient penis. It was all revolting.
Crassus was still eyeing her like a hawk. “Do not be fearful, Princess. You are safe here. Worry not about becoming a slave, for I am sure Pompey will help your father, and all will be well. Besides, you are too young to be my wife.”
She sighed with some relief and nodded. But how did he know everything she was thinking? What power did he have?
Crassus’ features softened somewhat. “Well, I will leave to conquer Parthia soon. I hope your father receives the help he seeks. But you, Cleopatra, will one day become queen. I see that already. Whether that is good or bad for Rome, we will see.”
5. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
Pothinus, Amphios, Achillas, senior officials of the government, and a representative to the high priest of Memphis all arrived at the throne room and waited for the two queens to arrive.
“What now?” Amphios muttered. The son of an affluent trader who had risen through the palace ranks alongside Pothinus, Amphios was ambitious and often at loggerheads with Pothinus for royal attention. Pothinus was unsure where his loyalties lay.
“Another play worthy of the attention of the gods,” Pothinus concurred. “And we both know why.”
Achillas, who stood nearby, looked pained. The stress of managing the two queens, along with the still-simmering unrest in the city months after the king’s expulsion, wore heavily on everyone.
Eventually, to the drums of the announcers, mother and daughter entered the throne room, followed by their ladies-in-waiting and attendants. Both queens were dressed in exquisite, almost identical, bright-white chitons and silver-studded silk diadems. Did they consult each other on their attire while not discussing anything else? Pothinus mused.
They approached their thrones, and the audience supplicated, as was customary. Achillas cleared the hall, leaving only those who mattered most. Finally, Pothinus, as the senior advisor and the most important official of the royal court, stepped before the queens.
“Your Majesties have called the court, and your servants are here for your orders.”
Berenice said nothing as she stared ahead. Did Her Highness know what this was about?
But her mother, Cleopatra Tryphaena, addressed the court in a firm voice. The wispy weakness and subdued tone had vanished. “This land has two queens. Major decisions must have the approval of both. Is that not clear to anyone?”
Pothinus’ breath caught in his throat. The others looked at the floor.
“And yet, some decisions—and for this, I look at you, Pothinus and Amphios, and you, minister of the treasury—have been made without my knowledge.”
Pothinus glanced at Berenice to see if she would speak up, but she continued to stare ahead stoically. May Amun give me strength.
He mustered the courage. “And for that, the court begs Her Majesty’s mercy. The protocols were unclear, and given the urgency and both Your Majesties’ attention focused on different matters, we proceeded accordingly,” he said, bowing to the mother.
“For Her Majesty,” he said, bowing to the mother, “we executed orders related to the priesthood and prayers, and for Her Majesty,” he said, now bowing to the daughter, “on matters of administration.”
Berenice’s lower lip twitched, but she said nothing.
However, Cleopatra’s voice rose. “That is just a flimsy excuse! You think you can relegate me to the temple chambers, spending all my days praying? And it was your hasty actions that led to a Roman being lynched in the city. Do you all realize how dangerous that is?”
Pothinus squirmed. So she had already learned. A Roman financier had inflamed the passions of his debtors, which led to another mob uprising. He had been cornered in his villa, his house set on fire, and he had been beaten to death when he tried to flee. Egypt’s precarious condition, with its very existence in question based on Rome’s will, could become dire quickly if news traveled. The impunity of the mob was partially a result of Queen Berenice’s harsh words against Roman interference, misconstrued as permission to defy Romans and confront them with violence. Pothinus issued strong warnings and prevented any further misadventure, but the damage had already been done.
Berenice exploded. “How long will you behave like sheep before the Romans, Mother? Father had no will or strength to stand up to them, and now you wish to continue the same failed policies, trying to mollycoddle a beast that is never satisfied no matter how much meat you throw at it!”
Her mother jerked in surprise. “How dare you—”
“No, you! You, Mother! You know nothing about ruling. You have hidden from everything all these years, and you think you know everything!”
Pothinus was stunned at the outburst. He looked at his feet and fidgeted.
“Watch your insolence, Berenice!” Cleopatra raised her voice. The court fell deathly quiet, unsure how to react to two royals squabbling in full view. “I was by your father’s side, watching his every move as king, when you were still a naked infant in maids’ arms!”
Queen Berenice turned to her mother and stabbed the air with her finger. “That means nothing anymore. Let me run the kingdom without your interference, Mother. Stay content in the temples.”
Pothinus steeled his resolve and stepped forward to the thrones. “Your Majesties, we need—”
“Not now, Pothinus.” Berenice wagged a finger. Her stern face was red, and her eyes blazed with anger. “We must rest this matter now. What does our law state?”
Pothinus hid his emotions. Berenice had made an enormous mistake. She just did not know it yet.
6. ROME
CLEOPATRA
The walks in Pompey’s residence had become routine. What started as resentment for the “little garden” had transformed into affection; the flowers and orchard provided a welcome change from the dreary darkness of the cavernous halls and rooms of the villa. Compared to Alexandria, the slaves appeared more miserable, more afraid of their masters—and there were so many slaves! She had heard of the horrific punishments inflicted on slaves who revolted against their masters.
Amidst the misery, her father had finally found a highly educated Greek-speaking tutor named Proculus to continue her studies, along with a language teacher who knew Latin, Greek, and Armenian. Pompey had built a small library for her and had procured many tomes, including some of her favorites. She had formed a bond with the eleven-year-old daughter of another senator (there were so many senators as well) and, over time, had grown comfortable treating her as a friend rather than viewing the distance between them as a princess and a noble. Sometimes she even went out with groups of high-born children and enjoyed herself. She became a spectacle wherever she went, and everyone wanted to see a “real princess.”
It all required adjustment, and her father expressed satisfaction with her conduct.
But her favorite times were when her father found the opportunity to walk with her, his thick arms folded behind his back, hunched, looking down on her as he told her about many things—including the progress of his negotiations with the Romans. On this evening, after a gap of nearly ten days, her father had joined her. It was a pleasant evening. The normally noisy crows were quiet.
“Are the Romans ready to give you an army, Father?” she asked. “Did your fourth visit to the Senate bear fruit?”
He clucked as he wriggled his fingers. He did that when he was nervous. “Not yet, Cleopatra. Not yet. They are greedy. They want grain from our granaries, gold from our coffers, papyrus, and incense. They want capacity in our shipyards and concessions on exports. And on top of it all, individuals want bribes.”
She somewhat understood much of what he meant, for she had heard such things in court hearings and tutoring sessions. What all this meant was that Rome wanted to take more from Egypt and make them all poor. It made sense, for Rome was such a wretched place compared to Alexandria, and it seemed they would therefore covet what her father possessed and desire it for themselves.
“Is Pompey not helping you?”
Her father patted her shoulder. “There is no such thing as help in the dance between nations, Cleopatra. He will bleed us dry first before he lifts a hand.”
“But we still have a lot of money!” she exclaimed. Certainly more than these people, even though her father had been forced to flee. And once he regained his throne, he would have much more.
He looked at her with affection. He rarely chastised his daughters for their questions or assumptions. “We had, my daughter. But we are now in debt and must find means to secure Egypt.”
The word debt sent chills up her spine. “Father?” she looked up at him with fear.
“Yes?”
“Crassus told me when they first came to the villa that I would become a slave if we did not repay Rome. Will they be selling us?”
He looked surprised. His eyes hardened. But he led her to a stone bench near a flower bed and had her sit. “No, my child, he is a foolish, arrogant man. You will live as a queen and die as one.”
She calmed herself. “So if Pompey is not helping, who will?”
He seemed to wrestle with his thoughts. But she loved him more when he spoke to her as if she were an adult. She was nearing twelve; of course, she knew a lot now, and he could converse with her as one, even if she did not understand everything he said.
“I did not say Pompey is not helping. He is, but his help is costing us dearly. Many in the Senate are not convinced that Rome must expend more resources for Egypt’s aid. Some seek guidance from their oracles and shamans; therefore, I have had to raise more money to pay these charlatans to speak in favor of Rome’s intervention.”
One thing was obvious. Much of statecraft revolved around the power of a ruler to bribe and entice others. It was a departure from the tomes of war and heroism she had read about the deeds of Alexander or Ramesses, of the greatness of emperors and generals. None spent much time on haggling and arguments for gold and silver. But she also knew something about the Roman influence on her country. Of course, many blamed her father for the current state of affairs, but she would trust him, and she understood many tongues wagged at a king.
“What about discussions suggesting that Rome should simply annex Egypt, as it is within their rights to do so based on past agreements?” she asked.
He smiled. “You now speak more like a regent than a little princess!”
She beamed at the praise. She was growing and watching, learning, observing.
“Well, there is absolutely no appetite to annex a foreign land so different in its customs, so far from Rome, and so rich in its composition and value to Rome. They know that making a foolhardy decision to annex without our support will lead Egypt into civil war. They have other areas of worry and expeditions draining their coffers as well.”
“Like Crassus in Parthia?”
“Like Crassus. And others trying to grow their influence—like Caesar.”
She picked jasmine and smelled it. “If we return, will Berenice abdicate without resistance?”
He raised his eyebrows. His eyes sparkled now. He had somehow put an end to his drinking and was spending more time with advisors and traveling to mingle with influential Romans. She knew that many in this city still found them a curious but interesting spectacle—royals of Egypt. “Has she ever suggested to you that she would not?”
“No, no, Father,” she stuttered. “But you know Berenice is ambitious.”
“She is my daughter. She will do as I say. And when I set foot in Egypt, I will automatically become king.”
“Yes, Father.”
“My wife and my daughter will not get along. It will only be a matter of time before their quarrels make the Alexandrians long for me.”
7. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
Pothinus enjoyed his new power under Queen Cleopatra Tryphaena. Her daughter had made a grave mistake by asking the council what would be appropriate by law regarding power-sharing—and Pothinus, prepared for this, had laid a trap. With utmost care, he and the representative of the powerful priesthood of Memphis claimed that as the wife of the king and the mother, Cleopatra Tryphaena held greater authority. Achillas, along with two other senior military commanders, concurred. Having cornered herself, Berenice had grown resentful, lashing out at everyone while slowly losing power to her mother, who had begun to exercise her authority by removing some of her daughter’s appointments and purging her loyalists. She had shown favor to Pothinus for his astute maneuvering, though Pothinus knew he had to be careful in dealing with her daughter.
Such are the joys of an advisor to the royal family!
Cleopatra had demonstrated a greater willingness to immerse herself in the rigor of her duties, from performing ceremonies to spending hours in the courts handling all manner of matters—disputes, arguments, trade agreements, ambassador petitions—and relying on Pothinus for much. Months passed, and Pothinus lost much of his access to the younger queen but did not press the matter. It was the royals’ prerogative from whom they took advice, and Berenice sought hers from Amphios.
A tour of a large papyrus factory with Her Majesty provided a welcome respite from the claustrophobic confines of the palace and its constant intrigue. Located near the reed marshes to the southeast of Alexandria, it was a pride of the city, employing hundreds of laborers to produce vast rolls of the immensely valuable export. He walked, inhaling the musky aroma of the drying rolls, glues, dyes, and fresh papyrus stacks.
Her Majesty acknowledged the kneeling workers and asked questions of the foreman.
How much do you produce every day?
How much do we consume for our work, and how much goes out?
Who buys the most?
Who pays the most?
The queen did not know Egyptian. The foreman knew Greek, and the supervisors were Greek.
In fact, no one from the royal family except the young Cleopatra, now in Rome, had even attempted to familiarize themselves with the language of the people they ruled—which was another reason for Pothinus’ fondness for the Princess Cleopatra. How was she? he wondered.
With the inspection complete, they went beneath a tent to rest and converse.
Amphios joined them. On rare occasions, each camp sought the advice of the other in order to entice them to their side or to understand what was happening.
After mundane administrative conversations, the queen turned her attention to what was foremost on her mind. “My daughter refuses to see me. What is her disposition?” she asked, looking at Amphios, who spent far more time with Berenice.
Amphios appeared nervous. Pothinus did not like the weak-spined weasel who sang praises of whoever he was with and denigrated others. He wiped his brow and spoke with his head lowered. “Her Majesty is no doubt angry with the change in the equation. She is currently away in Memphis—”
“Why is she in Memphis?” Her Majesty asked sharply. The seat of priestly power was critical for the queen to maintain on her side.
Amphios stuttered, “To pray, Your Majesty, or that is what I have learned. She seeks the gods to intervene on her behalf and restore her strength.”
Pothinus was unsurprised. It was common for royals and citizens alike to seek divine intervention when they found themselves at a disadvantage. The question remained whether Berenice was going beyond prayers.
“Do we have ears in her conversations with the priests?” the queen asked.
“It would not be hard to find out,” Pothinus replied. Gold and power were easy enticements.
Cleopatra leaned back and looked into the distance. The queen had put on weight, was far more vocal than she ever had been, and was relishing her power. However, Pothinus was not pleased with her habit of mollycoddling the Romans. Her Majesty had reversed the halt on payments to Rome, causing frustration among farmers. She had lessened the tax burdens after Pothinus’ strenuous objections and counsel that it would put her at risk, like her husband.
And payments to me, he did not say.
“Have you heard anything from Rome?” she asked Pothinus.
“No, Your Majesty. The news remains the same as it did fifty days ago. His Majesty continues to petition the Roman Senate, but we are unaware of whether he has received support.”
Cleopatra had carefully guarded her feelings regarding her husband’s return. Pothinus had avoided asking her if she wanted His Majesty to return and take control, or to stay away, never to see Egypt again.
She played with the curls in her hair.
What is she thinking?
Finally, she fixed her cool eyes on Pothinus. “Berenice does not have the maturity to rule. She has not outgrown the temperament of a teenager and has not shown a willingness to learn balance on the tightrope of rule.”
Pothinus was tongue-tied, unsure how to respond. Berenice had grown under her father’s tutelage and had probably spent more time in the courts beside him than with the queen, so he was unsure how she had arrived at this determination.
“What do you say, Pothinus?” she asked pointedly, even as Amphios looked at his feet.
Walk the tightrope!
“Her Majesty Berenice has learned the methods of rule through His Majesty, but one might concur with Her Majesty’s opinion regarding the diplomatic qualities of the young queen.”
The queen remained serious. “She is hasty in her decisions, and she seems to take pleasure in ordering the deaths of those who oppose her.”
Which was true. Berenice had not only ordered several unnecessary executions to “send a message to dissidents,” but she also seemed eager to witness the hangings.
“There will be a day when her temper and proclivity for dispensing death will lead to conflict with Rome. I foresee this.”
Pothinus nodded. Amphios concurred.
Berenice hated Rome, and if her power went unchecked, then the queen was right in fearing that Berenice might do something reckless. If there was one thing Rome did not tolerate, it was attacks on their citizens.
“What do you suggest, Your Majesty?” Amphios asked.
The queen looked at both of them. The stone face and hard eyes portended what was to come next. “Find me a reason to depose her. She can no longer be a co-ruler.”
8. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
Had the mother and daughter reconciled? Pothinus was befuddled. Berenice had extended an offering of peace to her mother in the last few weeks, and the two women had spent time together, leaving Pothinus out. They had even visited the palace zoo, invited ambassadors for dining, and jointly visited the Taposiris Magna to offer prayers to the gods.
Pothinus was surprised when he received an invitation to join Their Majesties for a meal, a rare but highly valued gesture. Dining with the royals was a privilege reserved only for a very few.
“Has their relationship mended?” he asked Amphios, feeling disconnected. Perhaps Amphios knew something.
Amphios shrugged. “The ways of the queens are as much a mystery to me as to you, Pothinus,” he said. “One day they fight like cats, and the next day they shower flowers upon each other. Who knows?”
The dinner was held beneath a dark maroon embroidered tent on a marble-floored open area that overlooked the magnificent lighthouse of Alexandria. Soft, silky cushions had been laid out around a thick, fluffy Persian rug.
Bronze lamps suffused the area with soft yellow light, even as the sun dipped on the far horizon.
In the center of the rug was an assortment of delicacies—duck, pig, peacock, a variety of fruits, grapes, dates, palm, and many snacks. Jugs of wine or beer, along with silver drinking cups, ringed the rug.
Pothinus was surprised by the intimate nature of the setting. Attendants seated Pothinus and Amphios on either side. He counted the number of seating pedestals, and there were six, which meant there were two additional spaces apart from the two queens.
Even as he pondered this, Achillas strode into the tent. “Pothinus! I was expecting the prime minister or senior treasury officials here. Just the two of you scoundrels!”
If Achillas is one, who is the remaining seat?
Pothinus grinned at the general. “Well, Achillas, the celebration is never complete without the biggest monkey.”
Achillas ignored the attendants and sat beside Pothinus. The general smelled of fine frankincense perfume. He was bare above his waist and wore a crisp white shendyt. A golden brooch adorned his left arm, and he had dabbed his eyelids with a generous amount of kohl.
“Are you here for dinner, or to regale us with a performance?” Pothinus ribbed the general. “Any more kohl beneath your eyes, and Amphios here will kiss you.”
Amphios laughed heartily, his yellow teeth reflecting off the lamplight.
Achillas turned to Pothinus. “Do you know why we are here?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“I do not,” Pothinus said. “It seems the queen and her daughter have reconciled, and we are about to receive new orders. Perhaps we will find some peace from all the quarreling.”
An usher walked in and announced that the queens were on their way. Pothinus and the others stood, waiting for Their Majesties to arrive. He felt anxious but was also curious about what all this meant.
Queen Cleopatra and her daughter Berenice strode in, both dressed in almost identical cream chitons and light blue silk diadems. The resemblance of the daughter to her mother was striking in this setup. They all knelt as customary, and then took their seats after the queens took theirs. Princess Arsinoe, looking regal and pretty, walked behind her sister. She was the remaining seat.
“Your Majesties look as if the heavens have descended upon us,” Pothinus said, “and your togetherness is a blessing to this glorious land!”
Cleopatra looked at her daughter, who smiled and acknowledged Pothinus’ effusive greetings. Amphios and Achillas joined in singing their praises, not wanting to be left behind.
“We have settled our differences, Pothinus. Soon, we will have orders for Achillas to divide his legions between us, determine administrative and tax zones that each of us shall rule exclusively, and decide on matters we will rule jointly,” Cleopatra said. “Egypt will be ruled by the two queens at all times.”
“Someday, me too!” Arsinoe piped in. The feisty little princess, now nine years old and lacking much love for her sister or stepmother, had to be taught to restrain herself, lest she become a target for her sister.
It seems no one wants His Majesty to return. What about the younger Cleopatra still in Rome?
“As it must be, Your Majesties, and as is your divine right!” Amphios gushed.
“We called you all to herald this new beginning and to enjoy a meal with us. Much work lies ahead,” Berenice said as she gestured for her maids to serve everyone wine. “And Arsinoe, take your plate and sit with your maid on the bench by the beach.”
Pothinus marveled at how quickly Berenice’s tone could change from gentle sweetness to stern authority.
A pouting and loudly complaining Arsinoe left, trailed by her attendants. Where will your temper take you, little princess?
Conversations turned to mundane matters as they enjoyed the rich texture of the Roman wine, nibbled on salted and spiced duck and peacock, and marveled at the orange-tinged sky and the blazing fire in the lighthouse.
“The fire there,” said Cleopatra as she pointed to the glorious structure, “will never go out on the Ptolemies. My great ancestor Philadelphus built it, and it shall shine for a thousand more years.”
The queens forbade conversations about Rome, a touchy subject between them, or about taxation and trade, but there was boisterous laughter poking fun at the Romans, including crude humor that no one seemed to mind. Pothinus was surprised by the warmth of the relationship between the mother and daughter, considering that Her Majesty Cleopatra had largely been an absent mother to her daughters and had almost completely vanished from public life in the last few years. Not only that, but just some time ago, the mother had asked Pothinus and Amphios to depose the daughter—though neither advisor had acted on that regard, knowing the terrible dangers. They would keep finding excuses, but thankfully this reconciliation had delayed the plotting.
He was also touched by Berenice’s gesture of feeding her mother and offering her wine, a scene he had never witnessed in his many years of service in the palace. Any affection had mostly existed between His Majesty and the daughters.
Then there arose an argument about which of their illustrious predecessors was the greatest, with the younger queen favoring the founder of the dynasty and the mother favoring the second Ptolemy. The husband and father did not feature in the conversation.
Pothinus felt queasy from the drinking and excessive eating. Achillas rubbed his belly and took deep breaths. Berenice sat comfortably, leaning on the cushion and looking at everyone coolly.
Queen Cleopatra, however, appeared ill. Pothinus watched as sweat formed on her eyebrows, smudging her makeup and kohl, and she became increasingly indisposed.
A royal meal that will end with everyone vomiting in the tent and departing with stomach-heaving memories, Pothinus thought. There was something about this excessive indulgence that harkened back to the times of His Majesty and his father, where the indication of a good meal was people throwing it all out from their stomachs at the end.
Cleopatra Tryphaena was the first to turn away from them and vomit. She heaved again and again, her face paling to the color of marble.
“Your Majesty?” Pothinus inquired, alarmed at the intensity of her reactions. Not only did she appear sick, but her hands also trembled, and her eyes rolled.
Alarmed, Pothinus screamed for the royal physician.
Her Majesty Berenice displayed only the slightest concern on her face, even as she held her mother’s arm. But once the queen began to shake, Berenice let it go and asked loudly to no one, “Where are the physicians? She is sick.”
She is not sick, Your Majesty. What have you done?
Pothinus’ eyes locked onto hers.
She revealed nothing.
Achillas was on his feet and by the younger queen’s side.
As if by magic, several heavily armed royal guards appeared and surrounded the tent.
What was happening?
Two men—unclear whether they were from the office of the royal physician—placed the ill queen on a litter and carried her away.
The guards restrained Pothinus from following her.
“Your Majesty, what is happening? Let me accompany your mother and tend to her!” Pothinus yelled at Berenice, who was now speaking animatedly to Achillas and Amphios.
Four royal guards advanced menacingly and stood behind him.
All sounds of the world around Pothinus dulled in the rush of blood to his ears and the thud, thud, thud of his heart.
Berenice turned to him. There was no warmth or sorrow in those eyes. No concern or panic. Just cold, calculated resolve. “You are talented, and your knowledge is vast and valuable to this kingdom, Pothinus. Decide now. Which queen do you serve?”
Pothinus could barely breathe. It was as if a python squeezed his torso. His mind raced through the potential paths.
He could defy her, but that would result in instant death or imprisonment. How serious was this mad queen?
He could acquiesce, but that did not mean he would evade danger—he had no understanding of what she thought of him.
He could appeal to Achillas to take control and depose Berenice immediately—but was Achillas with him?
Pothinus was an influential man with a fortune, including loyal men and troops. But here, in this setting, he felt helpless.
He dropped to his knees before Berenice. “Your Majesty,” he rasped. “I am but a servant of the rightful queen and a speck of dust beneath her feet. It is not my place to determine who the ruler is, but only to be their eyes and whisper into their ears. With your mother indisposed, you are the queen, and I serve only you.”
There was silence.
Would a sword fall upon his neck?
Would he be dragged to a dungeon?
Pothinus was sure the older queen had been poisoned. Killing off family members was a Ptolemy sport, and Berenice had continued the tradition. Had she fed her mother the poison with her own hands?
Finally, Berenice spoke. “Stand. I will watch your faith and loyalty, Pothinus. For now, Amphios will be my advisor. You will attend to the administration of the countryside. I will summon you when I am ready.”
With that, she turned and left.
Pothinus looked around in relief. Achillas caught his eye but revealed nothing. Princess Arsinoe had been whisked away, and he hoped she was safe.
With a single royal meal, Egypt was now under one queen, and soon there would be clamor from restless quarters for her to find a husband. Pothinus knew the Alexandrians—they would bay for a king and would tolerate a queen only for so long.
His legs wobbled, and he sat down. He felt weak with relief. He turned to Amphios, who still lingered nearby. “It was you, was it not? You told Her Majesty that her mother was seeking to depose her.”
Amphios only smiled.
9. POTHINUS
ALEXANDRIA
After days of struggle, Queen Cleopatra Tryphaena, mother of Her Majesty Berenice and the princesses Cleopatra and Arsinoe, the princes Ptolemies, and wife of Ptolemy Dionysos, walked the path to the afterlife. Her death was announced amid much mourning, and Her Majesty Berenice made a show of sorrow, rending her clothes amidst wailing women.
The cause of her death was declared an unknown illness, and the unspoken rule dictated that no one would ever bring up the reasons or speculate on the manner of her demise. The fear of Her Majesty was so intense that no one dared gossip.
Her Majesty Berenice’s consolidation of power was swift.
Achillas took control of all the armed forces.
Resistant nobles and traders faced threats of losing their heads if they opposed her rule, while administrators favoring the now-deceased Queen Cleopatra were dismissed or disposed of, depending on Her Majesty’s mood.
She also took firm control over Roman affairs, refusing to increase taxes on peasants, pausing delinquent collections, allowing debt relief, and mercilessly executing highway robbers who were usually let off with lashes and financial penalties. Her actions endeared her to the people and merchants, and Pothinus was surprised at how astute she was— as much as she was ruthless. Pothinus had gradually begged his way into her grace, even if Amphios now held most of the power.
But the murmurs had begun. The queen had reached twenty-one years of age, and she was still without a husband, let alone a child! A kingdom needed a king. It had been nearly two years since King Ptolemy had been chased out of Alexandria, and no replacement appeared on the horizon.
Thus, two important topics were on the agenda this day.
The first was the procurement of a husband for the queen—one who would comfortably serve as a puppet, firmly under Her Majesty’s control, yet would be paraded as a king to keep the people happy.
The second topic eluded him, and Pothinus wondered if it had anything to do with Rome. Her Majesty and Amphios sometimes kept their intentions close to their chests, much to Pothinus’ frustration.
The formal court under Her Majesty Berenice was always a tense affair—the unfettered conversations held under her father were not permitted. She was quick to temper, swift to act, and unwilling to forgive slights or transgressions. Advisors walked a tightrope; they knew her preferences and dislikes and did their best to provide counsel without angering her.
There was little by way of banter or light talk. She usually sat on the throne, regarding the others before her as pupils. Her fearsome royal guard stood behind her. Pothinus hated the spectacle; never in his years of service had he been subjected to such humiliation. It reminded him of stories from Persia, with their stifling formality.
“A husband. I asked you to bring me proposals. Do we have any others?” she demanded, eschewing any formal greetings.
Always in a hurry.
All previous suggestions of princes from far and wide had been dismissed: too old, too young, not noble enough, father’s reputation questionable, and so on. One Seleucid, possibly a cousin of Her Majesty, had his attempts thwarted by Gabinius, a proconsul of Syria. Pothinus did not understand why Gabinius, with his hands full in Syria and Jerusalem, had taken an interest in Egyptian affairs, but his actions meant Her Majesty was running out of potential alliances and candidates.
What news awaited them today?
“The delegation from Syria awaits you, Your Majesty,” Amphios announced, beaming. “And they bring you a most suitable man and news of your father.”
Pothinus felt surprise and frustration. How could they keep matters related to finding a king from him?
“They are here already? And with news of my father?”
So, this had been planned—except he had been kept out of it all.
“Yes, Your Majesty. The urgency of the situation meant we impressed upon this family the importance of his personal attendance before you!” Amphios replied.
As they all looked on, with much pomp and gait, the Syrian delegation entered the royal court. An old man with a flowing beard, attired in a peplos, held the hand of a younger man, not very tall but quite muscular and stocky, who wore the diadem of a prince.
The old man, calling himself Menelaus, the advisor of a Seleucid client-state in Syria, introduced the younger one. “Demetrius of the Seleucus dynasty, Your Majesty, Prince of Syria, one with great desire to be by Her Majesty’s side as king of Egypt!”
It was Pothinus’ turn to be stunned. Who was this man? Had there been sufficient due diligence as to the provenance of his royal blood? Finding a husband for the queen, who had no viable cousins or brothers to marry, was supposed to be an involved affair. And yet here he was—this so-called prince of the Seleucids—standing before Her Majesty as if he were cattle in the market.
Her Majesty’s expression was inscrutable. What kind of man did she want? he wondered, for the queen rarely spoke of her preferences for partners. She invited select men to her bed, merely to quench her physical pleasure, and they were never allowed in her presence again. But a husband?
Demetrius Seleucus stepped forward. Now this man had the curly golden hair that men of Seleucid heritage were supposed to possess—and his nose was long, his smile crooked, reminiscent of some Seleucids. He fixed his eyes on Her Majesty, who appraised him quietly without a word.
Demetrius then addressed the court. “The house of Seleucus embraces the house of Ptolemy,” he proclaimed. His voice was raspy and low, crackling like wood in a fire, not soaring but not feminine. His Greek bore the lilt of royals, suggesting noble provenance. It perhaps indicated he descended from the great Seleucus Nicator, once contemporary to Ptolemy Soter and another general of the god and king Alexander.
“And the house of Ptolemy welcomes you to Alexandria,” Her Majesty finally replied, her eyes twinkling.
What did she see in this man?
Demetrius knelt on one knee, bowed, and then boldly approached her. “I hope that the great queen of Egypt will embrace this prince, for together we shall paint a glory greater than anything since Alexander!”
That was an ambitious proclamation, Pothinus thought, given that the Seleucid empire had dwindled to a stump as a vassal of the Romans. Egypt itself was weak and not what it had been long ago. Two weak kingdoms coming together could not recreate Alexander’s empire. Yet he was sure Queen Berenice would see through it.
“Such ambition is what I seek in the man I shall marry,” she said, rising and extending her hand for him to take.
Pothinus finally found strength in his voice. “Your Majesty, we are blessed by the prince’s arrival. Should we debate this matter?”
Berenice glared at him. “Everything that must be discussed has already been discussed, Pothinus. I have decided.”
Pothinus then realized that she cared little who this Seleucid prince was—he would be her puppet, granting her legitimacy and a body to parade as king before a populace clamoring for one. She would play up the Seleucid name and connection to Alexander; it was perfect. He shrank into his seat and let the drama unfold. This act also communicated, in no uncertain terms, that the queen had no regard for Pothinus’ advice.
Demetrius took the empty chair next to Berenice, beaming. Pothinus did not like the man. His eyes darted like a rat, often lingering on the maids and female servants more than anyone else. He lacked the dignity of a king. How could Her Majesty simply accept him?
The conversation turned to her father, and Menelaus had much to say.
The old man bowed and began. “Your father is still in Rome, Your Majesty, and he has not given up on gathering support to return to Egypt. He has borrowed from a financier in Rome, a debt so large that to repay it, he has no choice but to regain his throne. He has bribed many of Pompey’s men to whisper into the great general’s ears.”
What would Her Majesty do if her father returned? Pothinus dared not speculate. He allowed the burden of advice to lift from his shoulders, leaving Amphios and Berenice to deal with it.
“Will he be successful?” Her tone was even and measured, revealing nothing. Her severe look—dark brown kohl-lined eyes, long nose, thin lips, and pale, gaunt face—masked any emotion.
Menelaus clucked, a sign that said no one knows. “The Senate has no desire to plunge Rome into conflict with Egypt. But Pompey is a powerful man, and Gabinius is always looking to create mischief and increase his influence. There is no telling what he might do. There are rumors that your father has sent emissaries to Gabinius, the proconsul of Syria, promising five thousand talents of gold if he comes to your father’s aid should Rome defer.”
Pothinus could no longer control himself. “Gabinius may be a Syrian proconsul and governor, but he was a consul of Rome. Why would he act contrary to the Senate’s wishes?”
Menelaus wore a knowing smile. “When a man is far away from home, he indulges in fantasies he would otherwise avoid. But what does the queen desire? Does she wish for her father to return?”
Pothinus was glad that this man had the audacity to ask what no one else dared. His head, not mine.
But Menelaus had just cause to ask. After all, the man from the court of the Seleucid vassal would be held responsible if His Majesty Ptolemy returned and sought Demetrius’ head. For the Seleucid line to thrive in Egypt, the former king could not return.
The court fell silent as Berenice stared at Menelaus. But the queen was anything but indecisive. “The people of Egypt have spoken, and so have the gods that bless us. My father no longer belongs to this land. Demetrius will be by my side, and he will be king.”
And there it was.
She had killed her mother and condemned her father to exile.
“And then what of your sister, Cleopatra, who now lives with the king?”
Pothinus held great affection and love for the girl, now alone in Rome. She surpassed all royal children in her manner of thinking and speaking, and he missed her dearly. But how did the queen perceive her younger sister?
Berenice’s eyes revealed no indication of sisterly concern. “She is with my father, and with him she shall remain. I cannot allow a corrupted mind, no doubt poisoned by my father, to return to Egypt and stir up trouble.”
The old man’s eyes crinkled, and his beard lifted in a smile. “Very well. But if you must convince Rome, Your Majesty, then you should send ambassadors at the earliest to argue before the Senate.”
“Why?”
Menelaus looked around the room, weighing his words. “The Senate will convene in two months’ time when Pompey returns from his tour. Then they will make the final determination of His Majesty’s fate.”
Berenice turned to Amphios. “Then we must convince the Senate not to support him.”
Amphios nodded. “In which case, we agree to Menelaus’ suggestion.”
Her Majesty stood. She had reached a conclusion. “Very well. Find a hundred men who can advocate for us as to why Rome must not support my father. Prepare the message and send them before the Senate convenes. When they hear from my delegation, they will discard him like a rag.”
10. ROME
CLEOPATRA
The tutoring always began at dawn when the sun rose. Proculus, old and wise with his white curled hair and flowing beard—master of Greek and Latin, a favorite of Pompey Magnus—had been assigned as Cleopatra’s tutor while in Rome. She loved and hated him. He was exceptionally knowledgeable, as she grudgingly admitted, almost as good as her tutors in Alexandria, but even more insufferable than the grumpy Areius.
Proculus demanded the strictest adherence to his schedule. As he admonished her in the early days, your father has made me your tutor. You are not my queen or princess—you are Cleopatra, the eleven-year-old child of a deposed king. And if you wish to learn anything, child, you shall shut up and listen.
She may have dealt with him differently in her kingdom, but this was Rome, and her father had given Proculus free reign over her life. There was nothing she could do except swallow her pride and tears. Now it had been over a year, and she had learned much.
The lessons began with readings of classics or philosophy, whether it was Homer’s Odyssey or Plato’s Republic. After enduring an hour of sitting cross-legged on a mat or wooden platform, reading loudly until her throat ached, she would be allowed a sip of water and a short walk.
Then it was back to the mat again, this time using ink-dye on fresh papyrus scrolls to write brief paragraphs or poems in Greek.
Proculus is an old bastard
Even his wife hates him
His mouth is big, his penis is small
And big rats hide in his terrible beard.
She did not share that with him, of course, because Proculus—the arrogant man he was—was not averse to using a cane on her thighs if she so much as fidgeted in her chair. After an hour of writing, she was allowed to rest briefly before returning for debate and arguments, which were exhausting. He challenged anything and everything she said, forcing her to defend all her sacred views and opinions.
Alexander is no match for Scipio Africanus, for has Alexander ever faced a foe like Hannibal? (Scipio faced a general in lands known to Rome, but Alexander faced an emperor and the great unknowns.)
You may be a Ptolemy, but what value has a Cleopatra earned by herself? (Like how the water of a river’s source flows to its end and gives life to people, the blood of our ancestors flows in our veins and gives us their worth.)
Man is not god, and queens are not divine. (Those who say that know nothing about being divine, for they were never ordained to be.)
In a land consumed by gods and absolute kings, what scholars have flourished? (Euclid, Eratosthenes, Ptolemy!)
Slowly, she realized that his challenge was not to insult her but to make her see every view, no matter how sacred, from a different angle. To seek weaknesses, to identify strengths, to defend positions, and to become masterful in arguments. He explained it was necessary—should she one day be queen, she would have to opine and rule on all manner of difficult subjects and negotiate and argue with the most cunning and devious men.
On this day, the discussion revolved around the obligations of leaders and why ruthlessness was a prerequisite.
“You are aware of the campaigns of Alexander and Hannibal, Cleopatra. You have disdain for Roman conquerors, but you must learn about them, for you will have to live with them.”
“Yes, teacher.”
“I have heard you voice your displeasure about Marcus Crassus. What you have heard of him portrays a man of great avarice, his riches a result of trickery and exploitation. But do you know how he has saved the Republic?”
The nasty Crassus?
“I shall tell you a little story about a bandit named Spartacus, and how he came to terrorize this country.”
“A bandit held this country hostage?” she asked cheekily.
Proculus’ wrinkly face smiled. “Terrible things happen when trouble is not nipped in the bud. And that is the story of this terrible man!”
She was intrigued. She did not know of this man, Spartacus. “I have not heard of him, teacher,” she replied, leaning forward.
Proculus placed his bony hands on his knees and massaged them. “My wretched knees!” he complained as he stretched his feet. No one would stretch their feet in front of her in Alexandria!
Then he began. “This vile Thracian was a soldier in our legions, but he fell afoul of our laws, and thus was sold into slavery. A gladiatorial school administrator found this man and was impressed by him, inducting him into the school, where he was nothing but trouble. However, Spartacus excelled in his dramatics in the arena.”
“Why was he not punished?”
Proculus smiled. “His punishments were clearly insufficient, for his master tolerated his insolence. The coin he brought was too shiny to lose him. But this crook escaped with other slaves—all well-trained, of course—and ran to Vesuvius, the great mountain near Pompeii.”
“With thousands of men?”
He laughed. “This tale is interesting because he only ran with eighty.”
She was surprised. How could a slave with eighty followers do so much damage?
Proculus continued. “The eighty grew to eight hundred, and then eight thousand, for this criminal made great impressions among the thieves and the lawless—and this country has as much of that as any,” he scoffed. Clearly, Proculus held no affection for this Spartacus.
“And those he trained raided villages and garrisons, stole food and weapons, and terrorized innocents. But the Senate and our Consuls, who had ignored this menace for too long, were finally prompted to action. And in that, they failed; it was Marcus Licinius Crassus who cornered this rat and defeated him. It was Crassus who took a step to ensure that no slaves lifted their hands to their masters again!”
“He killed them all?”
“No,” Proculus said. “He captured thousands of them—men, women, even their fighting children—and had all of them crucified along the road to Rome. All of them. He left them hanging until they rotted away. It was a hard-hearted decision, exceptionally ruthless, but no such event has occurred ever since. If it were not for Crassus, the Republic might have been in grave danger.”
She shuddered at the thought. No wonder she thought Crassus was nasty. Did he imagine her to be crucified when he joked she could be enslaved? She would never allow that to happen. She wondered how much of Proculus’ story was exaggerated or embellished. But she knew what he was looking for—what was her counterpoint? What was her challenge?
“You say he was a criminal, a bandit, a worthless troublemaker,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“Perhaps Crassus’ treatment of the slaves vindicated Spartacus’ behavior.”
Proculus furrowed his brows. “How so?”
“Harsh treatment of those that serve their masters creates resentment. Unjust laws cause rebellions, and Spartacus was perhaps a good man who would no longer subject himself to your wretched punishments, as borne out by Crassus’ eventual behavior.”
Proculus stared at her, but she looked back in defiance. He wanted her to view anything sacred from a different angle, and she would see his sacred opinions that way, too.
But he broke out into a smile. “You show maturity beyond your years, Princess Cleopatra. Many in the villages revered him, a result of their expression against their treatment.”
She was pleased with his approval, though shaken by what she had heard. Perhaps it would be so if it were just a tale—but she had stared the same Crassus in the eye, and he had suggested that she might become a slave.
As the day concluded, she bid her customary goodbye to Proculus and returned to her quarters, where she was surprised to find her father.
“How are your lessons?” he asked.
“As always, Father. Illuminating. Tiring.”
He smiled. “Well, let us hope it will not be for too long, for there is news from the Senate.”
Her heart palpitated. Was Rome reaching a decision in support of her father?
“Have they decided?” she asked, anxious.
He shook his head. “Not yet. The affairs of nations move slowly. But an oracle has determined the best time for the Senate to convene on the topic of my throne, and we will be before them in one hundred days for a final decision.”
11. CLEOPATRA
ROME
Cleopatra could barely breathe as the hour arrived. She had argued and fought to be allowed to accompany her father to the Senate hearing—the all-important body of Rome that determined the fates of not only individuals but entire kingdoms. She had spent days reading about Senate deliberations, composition, power, corruption, and influence. Some of the language and concepts were difficult to understand, but she was confident that she would know it all in time. In the nearly two years she had now spent in Rome, she had never attended a Senate hearing. On this day, it would be her first—and possibly last—as they decided her father’s future.
She had been counseled about the hostility of Roman legislators toward Egypt and that she must remain quiet and dignified. Her father was clear: if she so much as uttered a word, he would have her removed and brought back to the villa. Besides, girls were not permitted within the Senate, so it had taken Pompey’s interference to allow her into the chamber.
The maids dressed her in an elegant white chiton and placed a silver tiara in her bundled hair. A modest pearl necklace adorned her neck—nothing ostentatious. They rubbed her cheeks with a red pigment. When the litter arrived at the door, she walked behind her father and waited to speak to him until they were in the carriage.
“Is today the final day? Will we be asked to leave Rome, no matter what the determination?” she asked anxiously.
“We will find out,” her father replied, and then he began looking outside, saying nothing more. Her father’s face was grim. He had been serious for many days now. There was something he was not telling her, but she dared not ask him. They rode in silence.
The route from Pompey’s villa to the forum was a winding and disgusting one. The cobblestone streets traversed from senatorial quarters to dense, multi-level mud-brick tenements that stank of open sewers. Why could they not avoid it all and sail on the river? She had learned that the nasty Marcus Crassus made much money by having his own fire brigade to extinguish fires that his men set in these miserable clusters of the teeming masses. It was a relief when they arrived near the forum, which was impressive—even if nothing like Alexandria.
The building where the Senate convened was a drab, worn-out temple with a few statues outside. She was ushered in and made to sit on a chair partially hidden from the Senate benches by a pillar. She felt annoyed but remembered the instructions for the day. Her father left her company and vanished among his men, led to a side chamber to confer before his turn arrived. There were several rules to begin a Senate hearing—prayers to be made, omens to consider—and it would take a while before the subject of the day came to debate.
How could they make a king wait? Even after two years in this place, after all the reading and all the arguments, she could not comprehend the behavior. But she would finally get to see the Senate, a concept so foreign to her. How could there be no ruler who decided what must be done? How did a group of old men sitting on old, worn-out benches decide great matters? She would now see it all.
Slowly, the toga-wearing, silver-haired, and bald-headed senators arrived one by one in the chamber and took their seats. A few glimpsed her and either ignored her or acknowledged her with a bow. Some looked surprised and raised their eyebrows. She deserved more respect as a princess of Egypt, but by now, she had become accustomed to their distaste for monarchies and general rudeness toward those from their client states.
She waited anxiously as the benches filled up.
There was a murmur, and all eyes turned to the door.
Pompey strode in with his confidantes and the financier named Rabirius Postumus. The financier was a scrawny, cunning-looking man with a long nose and hair sprouting from his ears. He reminded her of the court officials in Egypt. However, she was fond of Pompey, and when he made eye contact with her, he bowed with his hand on his chest and smiled at her. She returned the smile. The nasty Crassus was away in Parthia to subjugate them and make more money. The other man, Gaius Julius Caesar, was not in attendance.
She had learned that Julius Caesar’s daughter was Pompey’s wife.
It was odd, for Julia was a young woman, nearly thirty years younger than Pompey.
Could she marry an old man?
Was that something queens did for the sake of alliances?
She watched them all. One boy caught her fancy, called Domitius, a senator’s son and a year older than her. He had nice hair, ruddy cheeks, and he was training in combat. He was pleasant to look at. But he was awkward and did not know how to talk to her, which was frustrating. He was a Roman of lower birth, which meant there was no point in liking him. He could not be her husband.
“The biggest mouth in all of Rome is here!” someone shouted. She knew enough Latin to understand most normal conversations. She was learning to speak it and struggling to rid herself of her accent.
Cicero. She had heard much about him—a former consul and a respected man. Plump but of impressive bulk, he walked in with a big smile on his face. She had heard that he wielded much influence, but he had never once visited her father in Pompey’s villa. He did not glance toward her as he took a seat on a front bench. A few guards were at the entrance, and an announcer shouted that the audience was now in session.
She leaned forward with interest. Where was Father?
The session began with offerings to the gods, affirmations that the time and day were auspicious, and that the requisite quorum was present. The consul Publius Cornelius Lenthulus Spinther, a supporter of Pompey, presided. He was a tall and lean man with a flowing white toga. He walked up to the podium and began speaking. “An important matter is before us today, one that you are all familiar with. But on this day, under the auspices of Jupiter and Venus, we must decide.”
The audience fell silent. Would they all sit and listen to this man without causing a ruckus? She had heard the Senate hearings were a spectacle.
Publius continued. “Pompeius Magnus has asked us to be here. Caesar is away but is aware of the proceedings. Marcus Crassus is—”
“Probably pissing gold somewhere!” someone exclaimed, causing laughter. There! So disrespectful!
“That might be the case, but he has agreed to abide by the Senate’s sentiments and recommendations. Which brings us to the subject—must we throw our support behind the exiled king of Egypt and restore him to the throne?”
Where was her father?
Another man spoke. “Have we not discussed this? Don’t the Sibylline books speak of ill omens if Rome places a king on Egypt’s throne?”
Pompey rose from his chair and walked up to the podium. All eyes were upon him, indicating his powerful presence. She hoped he would silence them all and force them to decide. How hard could it be? Tell them!
“That may be the case, Ahenobarbus, but there are means to alleviate those prophecies through prayers, for it seems only just that the rightful king of Egypt be returned to the throne to bring stability to Egypt,” Pompey said, gesticulating to the audience. Ahenobarbus nodded vigorously in acceptance.
No one challenged this assertion. Is that it?
But that was not to be the end, for Cicero rose from the bench. He had a commanding face, a bald pate, and a ring of white hair. His voice was loud—what Theodotus back in Alexandria would describe as a stentorian voice.
“Now, Pompeius! We are all men of honor, and even if the Sibylline proclamations may be set aside for the good of the Republic, surely one must weigh the character and fidelity of the words of this king?”
What did Cicero mean?
Pompey appeared annoyed. Many senators fidgeted in their seats. “What matters is what is good for us. A stable Egypt under a strong king, or one that is under the threat of civil unrest and disrupting trade?”
“And yet,” Cicero said dramatically, sweeping his right hand, “that nation was unstable because of this very king’s conduct.”
Many heads nodded in agreement.
The financier, the one who had given her father significant sums of money, stepped up to the podium. “Honorable Marcus Tullius. The king owes us much in debt, and to repay, he must have his kingdom. To have Egypt in our gratitude will—”
Cicero cut him short. “Debt that you incurred. Did you obtain the Senate’s approval?”
Rabirius Postumus looked crestfallen. He stuttered and left the podium.
This was not going well.
Another old man stood. His voice shook, but his words were clear. “Marcus Tullius speaks what is in our minds, Pompeius. There are many reasons to convince us.”
Murmurs arose, and men spoke among themselves.
Then more voices were raised, and arguments shifted focus to Parthia, Hispania, Gaul—she understood little of what was said or how it related to her father, but these old men had much on their minds, and assisting her father was not something they were ready to do. So far, though, her father had not appeared before them.
Pompey raised his hand to silence the cacophony. “Very well. Let us hear from the king himself!”
Then, from a far corner, her father appeared. He stood tall—taller than most men there. His full gold-and-gray hair bounced on his head. He had dressed as a king—his diadem bright above him, his chiton secured by a golden belt from which hung an ornate scabbard. She felt proud of him. Tell them, Father!
When he stood straight at the podium, the entire hall grew silent. It reminded her of back home, where when the king stood to speak, no one dared breathe loudly.
He spoke loudly and clearly. “All the Senators know that ruling a vast, ancient kingdom is nothing like governing small provinces. What you hear is often clouded by hearsay. Many have spilled poisonous words about me. I assure Rome that I have done nothing to prevent it from recognizing my worth and assisting me in regaining my throne. With me back as king, you will enjoy returns that dwarf what you have received thus far!”
Some in the audience thumped the benches. Were they Pompey’s men? Or had her father bribed them?
Cicero shook his head theatrically. “His Majesty is confident, for what good is a king if he did not suppress other voices?”
More heads nodded.
Her father’s face reddened.
Pompey looked angry.
What did Cicero mean?
Cicero pushed his way to the podium. He looked at her father and pointed an accusing finger at him. “If you were that confident about your reception at home, Your Majesty, explain to the Senate why you had the hundred ambassadors from Egypt murdered!”
12. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
The marriage between Her Majesty Berenice and the Seleucid Demetrius was a quiet affair officiated by the illustrious citizens of Alexandria. Messengers traveled to the far corners of the kingdom and neighboring provinces, announcing that the royal couple would grace their towns when circumstances permitted.
But not all was well.
Demetrius showed no sign of being a prince. The man was revolting—and even though Queen Berenice had firmly maintained all powers to herself, he, as king, could still behave in ways that would have others flogged or hanged. His was the most profane-laden mouth in the palace; the unending streams of expletives, while amusing at first, had simply become embarrassing during court proceedings. The queen, who had seemed to enjoy his company in the initial days, had tired of his crass language and increasingly left him out of important discussions.
Just two weeks after the marriage, Berenice had expelled Demetrius from her bedroom.
Pothinus, and almost everyone around him, guessed why.
Not that it made a difference to the shameless man. He made the rounds in Alexandria on his litter, got drunk in disreputable taverns, and instigated fights. He was king, and he behaved like anything but. He quickly earned a nickname—Cybiosactes, “Salt Seller”—for his vulgar behavior.
He created lewd games for his enjoyment—naked women wrestling, bawdy plays, and public displays of fornication during songs. All of this was purportedly for harmless revelry to “bring joy to a tense kingdom.”
Alexandrians were no strangers to nakedness and sex, but there was a method to those revelries, a certain taste, and a certain joy in the events. However, this man took away the joy, and those included in his methods felt unhappy at the coercion. He flew into a rage at perceived slights or any display of unhappiness. People were flogged for minor transgressions, and only the queen’s strict orders prevented anyone from being killed. Pothinus was angry and frustrated at Her Majesty’s impetuous decision that had foisted Cybiosactes upon Alexandrians and Egypt.
But the king’s idiocy had taken a turn for the worse. One might ignore his indiscretions, as most kings indulged themselves; he would be allowed his mistresses, but Cybiosactes always found a way to be more craven.
He brazenly propositioned the maids and even the wives of court officials.
He hounded attractive servants and slaves, for who could say no to a king?
He forced himself upon them when the queen was away on royal duty, and Pothinus had to console more than one woman defiled by the bastard.
He did not even spare the priestesses of the palace temples.
While Amphios and Pothinus had never seen eye-to-eye since the incident of Her Majesty Tryphaena’s death, they both agreed that Demetrius was a terrible man, unfit to sit on the throne. His behavior might anger the gods and bring pestilence upon the nation, not to mention his deep disrespect toward the queen and the people.
But who could tell the queen? How would she hear rumors if no one dared speak of them before her? Perhaps she had guessed but pretended not to care. Pothinus did not know. As much as he disliked Her Majesty, he fretted about how this man denigrated her position.
Something had to be done.
“The ship leaves in two hours, Your Majesty. Having the queen appear with the king before the Roman delegation is critical to show the stable functioning of the kingdom,” Amphios said.
“He is probably drunk and lying in a ditch,” she replied, disgust evident on her face.
Amphios looked at Pothinus and took a deep breath. “His Majesty is usually in one of the side chambers at this time, Your Majesty. We must hurry.”
They walked through the halls to a corner of the palace with many rooms.
Rooms that Cybiosactes used for his purposes, away from his wife’s eyes.
As they neared, Pothinus sensed Her Majesty was realizing why they were taking her there. But she maintained her stride and looked ahead resolutely. They soon reached the room that Pothinus and Amphios wanted to bring her to. The surprise on the faces of the two guards was more than clear, and Pothinus placed a finger on his lips to tell them to be quiet. They fell to their knees upon seeing the queen.
She dismissed them with the flick of her hand.
“You did not bring me here for a joint session,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Pothinus and Amphios kept their heads low.
They walked closer to the door.
The sounds were more than obvious. The loud grunting of Cybiosactes and his crude exhortations, the whimpers of a woman—not one that suggested pleasure—and the sharp crack of slapping.
Her Majesty froze. Her cheeks reddened. She balled her fists and breathed slowly.
Her eyes bore into Pothinus’, and then she turned to Amphios. “Your purpose has been served,” she said cryptically, her voice still low, controlled, and tight with fury and humiliation.
“What does she want this time?” Demetrius—Cybiosactes—asked, irritated at the incursion. The king was in his chamber, conferring with a few men of his land. Something had happened since the day the queen had learned of his proclivities; Cybiosactes seemed to have cleaned up his act. He had ended his drinking. He was no longer unkempt and smelly, his profanity had reduced considerably, and he had been seen a few times visiting temples and offering prayers.
What had changed? Pothinus did not know what had transpired since the incident, but someone had surely told the king he had been exposed. While shining light on Her Majesty’s husband’s behavior was Pothinus’ idea, he had still not returned to her grace and was not privy to her inner thoughts.
But one step at a time.
“We do not know, Your Majesty, but she seeks your presence urgently.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and stood from his chair. “I will meet you later,” he said and dismissed the other men. “Where is she? Has she come to her senses and desires to reunite?”
“I do not know, Your Majesty. I am only a messenger to escort His Majesty to the queen.”
When they arrived at the small chamber, even Pothinus was surprised. What was this about? The queen, Amphios, Achillas, and two royal guards waited.
All knelt before the king, and Berenice extended her hand.
Reconcile with this fool again?
A beaming Demetrius took his throne beside Her Majesty, and the chamber came to order.
“Why are we meeting here?” he asked, curious, for such gatherings were almost always conducted in the grand throne room.
“The day is not auspicious to be in the throne room, according to our priests,” Berenice said.
What ill omens?
Demetrius seemed pleased to be back in the council, having been banished a while ago because of his behavior.
“Well, what is the matter, my queen?” he said almost dramatically. Pothinus did not know why they were here, and Amphios’ face was inscrutable. His eyes connected with Achillas’, and the general’s lips curled up in the slightest smile.
Berenice nodded, and the guards closed the door. Divorces were rare among the Ptolemies—and one so quickly conducted would raise questions about Her Majesty’s decisions.
“My marriage has not been what it should be,” Her Majesty said, turning to her husband.
Demetrius nodded. “A kingdom suffers when the king and queen are not shown in solidarity,” he said.
“Solidarity is difficult when one behaves like a drunk street dweller,” she retorted sharply, “and not like a king.”
Demetrius’s face reddened at the slight. “You are speaking to—”
Suddenly, a guard standing behind the king leaned forward and threw a hemp rope around Demetrius’s neck.
Demetrius’s eyes opened wide in terror, but he could not even scream as the thick rope strangled him.
Another guard rushed to the front and gripped the king’s legs, preventing him from kicking out and escaping. Demetrius was a strong man, and when he tried to claw the guard’s hands, Achillas stepped in and restrained him. With three men upon him, Demetrius struggled and fought futilely.
Pothinus gripped his chair and watched in horror and fear. Was he next?
The queen? She simply looked ahead, ignoring the gasping, grunting, blood-filled eyes and purple face beside her.
Her husband’s.
But no one threw a rope around Pothinus’s neck, and Cybiosactes—Demetrius—was soon dead, having soiled himself. His tongue protruded grotesquely, half-bitten.
All blood drained from Pothinus’s own face. He looked at the queen, whose eyes displayed not one bit of remorse. She could have divorced him or run him out!
The guards picked up the body and left the room, and maids rushed in to clean. But Her Majesty remained on her throne.
She finally looked at Pothinus and then at Amphios. “Find me another husband—this time, one fitting for the throne.”
With that, the queen stood and left the room, followed by Achillas and Amphios. Pothinus collapsed into his chair, relieved.
Berenice was too impetuous. Dangerous.
Once he calmed, Pothinus wondered if His Majesty had received his clandestine warning about the ambassadors in time before the Senate session.
13. ROME
CLEOPATRA
“If you were that confident about your reception at home, Your Majesty, explain to the Senate why you had one hundred ambassadors from Egypt murdered?” Cicero’s accusation struck the audience like a whip.
Pompey looked away.
Did he know? Cleopatra thought. What ambassadors? Who had Father murdered?
Her father stood immobile on the podium. She could not see his expression, but from one angle, she knew he was glaring at Cicero.
Yet Cicero would not stop. “His Majesty has nothing to say. He stands before us, seeking to make a case, and if he believes it is his right to present himself before the Senate, then why did he deprive the current rulers of the chance to do the same?”
“Because they are not legitimate!” her father bellowed. His fists were clenched. “I am the king of Egypt. Egypt cannot send ambassadors against their king!”
Cicero smiled like a cunning fox. “But you are not, Your Majesty. You are no longer king, Ptolemy, and by murdering all your opposing voices on our soil, you have shown no respect for our laws, our gods, or our sentiments!”
The men in the stands erupted. Cleopatra was stunned at how quickly the tide had turned against her father.
“Liar!”
“We know you have bribed Pompeius’ men!”
“Rome must not interfere in Egypt’s matters anymore!”
“We should annex Egypt. Enough of this nonsense!”
“I knew you were a man of ignoble intentions, King Ptolemy!”
“Perhaps you should return to playing flutes, Auletes!”
Arguments and counter-arguments ensued, and as a horrified Cleopatra watched, someone dragged her father away from the podium, even as attendants shouted to call the Senate to order.
She was frozen in her chair, too afraid to speak. What if they imprisoned them? What if they turned her into a slave?
She frantically searched for Pompey–surely he could save them after all the money her father had spent on him! These old men screaming about bribery were nothing but hypocrites–they happily accepted the funds but pretended to be offended! Pompey stood nearby, his expression stony. Why was he not speaking?
Once again, the Senate grew quiet.
Cicero’s voice boomed. “Let me tell you a sordid story. The Egyptians sent ambassadors to present a case before the Senate not to support Ptolemy. He had them all killed–and many here know that His Majesty has sucked the teats of Rabirius to bribe influential members of our society. He has poisoned his own kingdom, and see how he poisons ours!”
More noise and recriminations erupted. Yet no one came to support her father. Should she rise and walk to the front? Would they listen to a princess? Her heart thudded, and it felt as if an invisible force were pushing her from the chair to advocate for her father.
She gripped the arms of the chair and restrained herself.
Cicero continued. “Even if we accept that these are the ways of the tyrants of the East, must we forget what our oracles have said? Must we forget our own costly invasions? The expense of maintaining our far-flung provinces?”
“Hear, hear!”
“Let us worry about what is within our neighborhoods and borders. Egypt has indicated that it will honor its obligations, and whether it is ruled by a king, a queen, or a eunuch should not matter!” he thundered to an audience that had now become receptive and loud.
What a group of cowards! They took her father’s money, and now they feigned helplessness. A dishonorable bunch. No wonder Rome was a poisonous den–even sweeping the streets probably required Senate approval.
She felt disgusted and fearful.
What did this mean for her father? For her?
Cicero continued in a similar vein.
She struggled to concentrate.
His Latin was often too complex for her to fully absorb, but it was clear he was haranguing and inciting the Senate to frenzy against any intervention in Egypt. He must have used the term obligation a hundred times. By the time he finished, her father stood alone.
Eventually, the Senate voted, deciding that Rome would not officially intervene. It was up to her father to determine his next course of action. They censured her father but stopped short of proclaiming any penalties.
Pompey’s men finally ushered her out and reunited her with her grim-faced father. They rode home in silence, she too afraid to ask her father what would happen next. But that night, Pompey arrived to speak to her father, and they vanished for several hours as she waited anxiously.
Her mind swirled with worries and dreams, and she never realized when she fell asleep.
When she felt her father’s hand in her hair, caressing her, Cleopatra opened her eyes to his kind face.
“We will go home soon, my dear Cleopatra. And I will still be king,” he said.
But his voice shook.
14. ITALY
CLEOPATRA
The departure from Rome was bittersweet. In the over two years of her time there, she had grudgingly come to enjoy certain aspects of the city. She had become comfortable with the villa and its denizens. She had made acquaintances with the children of senators and other high-ranking officials. She had enjoyed the attention showered upon her whenever she ventured out. A few times, her father had taken her to the luxurious villas by the sea, and those were beautiful; she had to admit. They also went on brief trips—once to a town called Pompeii, though not named after Pompeius—and they had hiked a short distance to an enormous mountain nearby called Vesuvius.
All that was now a memory as the outer walls of Rome vanished in the distance. Her father was in a different carriage. He had preoccupied himself with his next move, of which he had only shared scant details with her.
The trip to Brundisium was unpleasant. The cobblestone and dirt road was so rocky that she had to get down and walk. They passed small towns and villages, and people gawked at the carriage, not knowing who was inside. Brundisium was a hot and dusty, densely packed city with a major port. It was neither as large nor as busy as the port of Alexandria, and there was no magnificent lighthouse. Still, it gave her some joy to see all the ships and boats, the masts, and the granary shipments. She felt a deep sense of longing and sadness when she saw the familiar shape of an Egyptian ship with the Ptolemaic ram’s head mast. Would she ever go home?
As she rested on the balcony of a luxury lodge before their departure from Italy, Cleopatra pondered what she had learned—some by haranguing her father, and some from the maids who were willing to whisper in her ears. She was in Brundisium because they would soon sail to Ephesus in Cappadocia. It was a city in the Roman province, and there they would either meet or send a message to the proconsul of Syria, a man by the name of Gabinius. Gabinius had once been a consul of Rome, influential, and with many interests in the East.
Her father had not told her why exactly he planned to meet Gabinius, but she could guess. Perhaps the proconsul could be bribed or cajoled to support her father’s cause. But why go through all this? Why not send a message to Egypt telling her sister that he would be returning and that she should pave the way?
The answer was obvious—her sister had no intention of letting him return. Her father had never talked about the murder of the ambassadors, but she had gleaned enough from the maids—that Egypt had sent an entire group to the Senate, and that her father had paid some men to hunt them all down before they presented themselves. Why would he do that unless the ambassadors were here with the explicit intent to prevent his return? She had also learned of her stepmother’s death but felt little, for she was barely a ghost. Did her sister have a hand in her stepmother’s death? Cleopatra was unsure. People killed their relatives all the time in her dynasty—she had learned that.
The clever Pothinus had sent a letter to her—it was carefully worded, and she remembered every word.
Her Highness Princess Cleopatra,
I hope this missive finds you well and that the great goddess Isis has protected you. Alexandria and the people of the palace, including myself, miss Her Highness’ radiant presence, her wit, and passion, and her sister Arsinoe waits for her return. Has Her Highness kept herself busy with studies? Has she mastered new languages? Even the acerbic Areius misses the arguments with Her Highness.
Her Majesty Queen Berenice watches over the kingdom. It is also with a heavy heart that I must tell Her Highness that her mother, stricken by illness, has become beloved of the gods and walked the afterlife. In her last days, Her Majesty inquired about Your Highness’ well-being.
By the time Her Highness reads this, and I pray to Osiris and Isis that she will, she will have passed thirteen years of age! With that comes greater wisdom and responsibility, and she must chart her course carefully. The waters are muddy, and there are crocodiles beneath the surface.
May Her Highness remain safe until matters are settled in Egypt.
Her Highness’ loyal servant,
Pothinus
She was afraid to show the letter to her father, but she guessed Pothinus’ message. Do not return yet, for it is still dangerous.
The long journey from Brundisium to Ephesus hugged the coasts of Cilicia. They first crossed the sea from Italy and stopped briefly at the promontory of Actium. Then they traveled along the Greek coast, down to the Peloponnese, and then to Crete, where they received a friendly welcome. From there, they turned north again, arriving at the Cilician coast, and finally landed at the harbor that would take them inland to Ephesus. She hated the voyage over the choppy seas. It made her sick; it made her anxious. However, there were moments of absolute beauty when the waters were calm, the sea azure, the wind cool against her face, and every anxiety and stress vanished into the crisp air.
In Ephesus, they took sanctuary at the temple of Diana and waited several weeks for a message from Gabinius. All her father would tell her was that their future hinged on Gabinius’ cooperation, and she finally cornered him on a leisurely evening walk and insisted that he share more with her. After all, she was now thirteen, knew a lot, and possessed the maturity of a queen!
He laughed and patted her head in that irritating way, but her father seemed happier away from Rome in these rolling hills, and he stopped evading her questions.
“I have promised Gabinius five thousand talents of gold if he will lead an army to Egypt,” he finally said. “And I now wait for his response.”
She considered his words. “But, Father, will he accept if the Roman Senate has said no? Will he not fall afoul of their laws?”
He smiled. “The politics of power are complex. Gabinius will see that helping me will benefit him, and Rome will forgive transgressions if my return benefits them. Besides, his patron, the powerful Pompey Magnus, has sent a letter of support as well, and that will insulate him from any punishment in Rome.”
“So, as you used to say, he takes a gamble.”
“Yes. One day, you will see that you must take calculated risks. Without them, you will earn nothing and lose everything, for there is always someone else who will be taking risks against you.”
Glad that her father was finally engaging her as if she were an adult, she continued. “Does that mean he will help build an army for you?”
Her father laughed. “He has an army. If he decides, then he can march without delay. In fact, he should not delay—”
“Because then Rome might intervene!” she exclaimed.
He seemed delighted speaking to her. They walked near the temple gardens, enjoying the bright blue sky and the feeling of soft grass beneath their feet. She had longed for this day for two years! They changed the subject briefly, with him asking about her progress with languages and her studies of history and mathematics. Then they spent some time mocking Crassus, the mean man of Rome.
“Marcus Crassus is not a nice man,” her father said. “I know that the inconsiderate fool tried to scare you.”
“He threatened to make me a slave,” Cleopatra pouted. “If I had been older then, I would have chastised him!”
Her father laughed. “You were eleven. You were right to be afraid. Do you know the story of Spartacus?”
“Yes. Proculus told me about him.”
“I heard of him soon after my coronation, when there was news of trouble in Italy. Crassus’ retribution on the slaves was vicious. I have known many stories, but none like that. Marcus Licinius Crassus will suffer in Parthia.”
“But aren’t the Romans powerful?”
“They underestimate the vastness of distances, the hostile territories beyond Syria, and the power of the Parthian cavalry. He will be stretched.”
“Is he on his way to Parthia?”
“Not yet. He has been speaking of invading Parthia for years, for he is an avaricious man, greedy for gold even after his plunder as governor of Syria.”
“When will he go?”
“Rome does not want him to wage war on a kingdom that has never attacked or shown hostility to Rome. But he will go—it is just a matter of time.”
“He is a mean man.”
“Yes,” he said, imitating her tone, “the mean Crassus. The world is a cruel place, my dear daughter. The Romans are especially foul in their methods.”
She wondered how she would manage them if she were queen. Would they defeat and crucify her? But from her study of Roman law, a recent subject from her tutors, crucifixion was now rarely used. It was only for non-Romans, and only in egregious circumstances. She was not aware of foreign rulers being crucified. But who knew with those plume-helmeted, toga-wearing barbarians?
She ran her fingers along the tall grass and shuddered at the thought of being under Crassus’ control. She hoped that Crassus, who was somewhere in Syria as its governor, would die in the Parthian invasion and never return.
But her mind returned to her own future—the complicated one where her father would have to return and fight her sister.
“Why do you think Berenice will not let you come home, Father?”
He sighed. “She is ambitious. The power of the throne goes beyond the love for one’s own blood—you know that from our history. Even if Berenice wished for me to return, the turncoats in Alexandria would not allow it. I have made formidable enemies, Cleopatra, and only I can put an end to them and reclaim my throne.”
“Will you kill her?”
Her father looked at the distant mountains and sighed. “It depends on what she does.”
Gabinius sent a message inviting her father to his stations near a new town he had constructed, called Gabinia. The statesman and general had agreed to her father’s proposal—he would help her father regain the throne, but the price was an astonishing ten thousand talents of gold—some to be paid with what her father had then in his possession, and the rest upon restoration. Her mind could not comprehend the astronomical amounts her father had promised the Romans. How would he return such sums if taxing his citizens had run him out of Alexandria in the first place? But she was too afraid to ask him that, instead relying on her father knowing what to do. What if he failed in his attempt to regain the throne? Would her sister, Berenice, kill him—and her as well?
But as her father’s daughter, one taught to be brave, she hid her fears and followed him. Thus began the next stage of the journey, leaving Ephesus and sailing along the Cilician coast, and then south along the Syrian coast, until they approached the port nearest to the land route to Gabinia. They disembarked and took a land route to meet the Roman proconsul and an adherent of Pompey.
She fell ill during this trip. The constant movements from land to sea to land, over rocky roads, through ravines and dense bush, from cool wind to burning heat, from changes in food, and the resulting stress—all had led to her losing weight and then coming down with fever and stomach ailments. It did not help that she was becoming a woman, and the flow of blood induced severe cramps. Gabinius ensured she was well taken care of, away from the rigors of the camp; however, she was now alone, in the company of slaves and maids, as her father was away negotiating the campaign. The longing for the comforts of home, for seeing her younger sister and brothers, for the tutors and books, all came like the waves of a restless sea, washing over her and drowning her in grief. Yet there was no one to wipe away her tears or sing soothing songs, as some of her maids-in-waiting did in Alexandria—songs her mother never sang.
The care and attention, combined with her prayers to Isis, Amun-Re, and Serapis, revived her spirits. Her father spoke little of his endeavors during his rare visits to her. He would inquire after her health and then leave, much to her frustration. But finally, after seventeen days of isolation, she threw a tantrum and refused to look at him during his visits until he relented and agreed to speak with her about the happenings. Once again, she found herself outdoors, this time on a gray hill under the Syrian sun, walking with her father to learn of his plans.
“So, are we returning to Egypt?” she asked anxiously, never having received confirmation thus far.
Her father nodded and pointed toward their land. “We are. Gabinius has accepted my terms, and we will begin preparations soon!”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Will we be going with an army or as a delegation?”
He laughed—not with mirth or happiness. “A delegation will be laughed out, or at worst, taken as prisoners, and we both will die in a dungeon.”
“Has Berenice sent any missives?” she asked hopefully. What if her sister had changed her mind?
He turned toward her. His eyes were hard and cold, but not directed at her; she recognized her father’s expressions well. It was the look of a man resolving to make unpleasant moves. “Your sister has now married a second time to a man called Archelaus, who was once a lieutenant of Gabinius. He went to Egypt surreptitiously, hoping to become king.”
15. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
This time around, Her Majesty’s couriers and Pothinus’ due diligence had led to a better outcome. Archelaus of the family of Mithridates, once aligned with the Syrian proconsul Gabinius, had been enticed by the Egyptian throne, and he had arrived two months ago to seek the hand of Her Majesty. Unlike the disgusting Cybiosactes, Archelaus was a refined, handsome fellow, and Her Majesty had taken an immediate liking to the man. Whether her affection was genuine or whether she saw in him a man willing to command an army against any invasion remained unclear to Pothinus.
In the nearly two years since Her Majesty’s absolute rule, Pothinus had ingratiated himself back into her inner circle; yet, she remained as inscrutable as ever. He had lived in fear for his life, like many others in the palace, hoping not to invite her wrath. But now, Her Majesty had a second husband—this one more worthy and acceptable than the first—and Pothinus hoped that the arrival of a king would ease his troubles.
Pothinus’ scheme of betraying the ambassadors’ intents to His Majesty Ptolemy in Rome had failed, for while the death of the ambassadors had the desired effect of preventing their voices from being heard, their shameless murder by Ptolemy had turned the Romans against him and had obstructed support for his reinstatement. Now there was news that His Majesty had arrived in Gabinia to confer with the greedy Gabinius. Would the Syrian proconsul go against the Senate’s wishes and invade Egypt? Pothinus hoped so, believing that His Majesty would prevail and that Gabinius would see his worth, elevating him back to the highest levels of government. But would Gabinius remain in Alexandria? Would Rome take control? Pothinus was unsure.
Meanwhile, Amphios held sway and whispered into Her Majesty’s ear every chance he got. Not all his advice was foolish, Pothinus grudgingly admitted. The affairs of Egypt had settled into a calmer state, with trade picking up, the countryside quiet, the priests complacent, and Berenice steady in her rule.
But as the weeks passed, whispers from Syria grew to rumblings and then to a deafening roar—Gabinius was preparing to arrive in Alexandria to reinstate Ptolemy Neos Dionysos. And when that definitive word arrived on a sultry afternoon, Her Majesty Berenice went into conference with her husband and Amphios, leaving Pothinus out once again, forcing him to hurry to Achillas the next day.
“Have you heard?” he asked the commander of the flimsy Alexandrian forces. Achillas was on the training grounds, observing the sorry legion before him. He left the duty to a subordinate and guided Pothinus to his tent.
“Of course I have heard. Why do you think I am here, taking a beating from the sun and teaching these men about city defenses?”
Where did Achillas’ loyalty lie? The man remained faithful to the crown, following every order, but was he a faithful opportunist or truly wedded to the idea that Berenice could be queen forever? Pothinus was never sure.
“And do you think these men can take on Gabinius’ forces? The man has served as a general under none other than Pompey Magnus. Surely, his army is no bunch of monkeys wielding swords.”
Achillas rubbed his dark beard. “You know the state of our army, Pothinus. Many have run away. We are unable to raise vast sums to build a formidable force. We will die like flies.”
“Then why are we training? Have you told Her Majesty that she must push for an agreement?”
Achillas looked at him and slapped his own head. “Have you lost your mind, Pothinus? You ask me to stand before Her Majesty and, as her commander of the army, suggest that she ask for diplomacy?”
Achillas had a point.
“Well, she does not keep me close to her thoughts. What makes you think she will not hear your words and agree to a negotiated settlement?”
Achillas looked at his men swinging their swords and shook his head sadly. “Even the slightest utterance of accepting His Majesty throws her into a fury. So if you wish to keep your head on your shoulders, let your mouth rest!”
Pothinus leaned forward. “What of King Archelaus? Is he planning to lead the legions?”
Achillas scoffed. “He believes that his experience in having led men in the past grants him divine powers to face Gabinius. Perhaps His Majesty can defeat Gabinius fighting man to man, but this is akin to a lion with an army of donkeys facing a lion with an army of lions.”
Pothinus felt bolder, seeing Achillas’ frustration. “So you will lay down your life for a lost cause? And you wish to live in fear of her rage and impetuousness?”
Pothinus knew Achillas held fond memories of His Majesty, though he was careful to utter words of praise to the deposed king. In the last two years, the queen had purposefully raised the stature of two other men who could one day replace Achillas—so the commander knew that he too was under suspicion and that his days might be numbered.
The young queen had forgotten a crucial aspect of stable rule—loyalty worked both ways.
Achillas scratched his nose and continued to look outside.
Pothinus pushed. “You can speak freely, Achillas. You are held in higher esteem in Her Majesty’s eyes. If there is one who must fear the other, it is I.”
The general looked at Pothinus and smiled. “You are a clever man, Pothinus. A eunuch, perhaps, but with more boldness than many.”
“Being a eunuch has little to do with the strength of the heart,” he said drily.
Achillas stood and paced around the tent. “To die for no cause…” He hesitated. “No, Pothinus. I do not want to be slaughtered, knowing there is no winning. But I will also not abandon Her Majesty, nor will I run from the battlefield.”
The man was brave but foolish.
“Well, Achillas, what if you could win without doing either?”
16. PELUSIUM
CLEOPATRA
Gabinius’ army—they called themselves the Gabiniani—arrived uncontested near Pelusium, inside Egypt. Intelligence had suggested that no great army was marching toward the borders to confront them, but there could be resistance near Pelusium. Her sister had not agreed to a parley and had threatened all manner of violence if they set foot in Egypt. Berenice would fight; it was only a matter of when and in what manner.
Cleopatra felt both elated and fearful as her carriage trundled along the rocky path surrounded by yellow sand. Ruins of the ancient fort where Pharaoh Psamtik fought the Persian emperor Cambyses came into view on her right. Without upkeep for nearly five hundred years, the walls had crumbled, the bricks and stone had been taken away for other constructions, and the glorious statues had all been broken and reused. She recalled a fascinating story from Cambyses’ time—that the king of kings, Shahanshah they called him, had sent an army of fifty thousand to destroy the sacred temple of Ammon, and the army had vanished. They said it was the curse of Ammon that doomed the army and that her forefather, Ptolemy Soter, had sought this buried army.
The army kept a distance from the dilapidated fort, perhaps to avoid any ambush.
All she saw around her was the vast emptiness of her kingdom. In a few hours, the marshes would begin—harsh land interrupted by thick mangroves, swamps, and then a tributary of the great river as it flowed into the sea. She was almost home!
She had heard much but had never seen a Roman legion in march. They were a sight to behold. The units were disciplined and dressed impeccably; their tents were clean and well-arranged, and they practiced frequently. She had seen her father’s cohorts in Alexandria several years ago, but she could not remember them demonstrating the same rigor. Would Berenice’s army be able to destroy Gabinius’? What if she had secretly managed an army three times as large?
Cleopatra knew more about military formations now. Gabinius’ legion was not a full legion but had about four thousand men led by Gabinius himself. The legion was divided into eight cohorts of about four hundred and eighty men, each divided further into six centuries of eighty men, with each century being commanded by an experienced centurion. Then there was a cavalry of about one hundred and fifty. Someday she would command a much larger army as queen, and she would beat the Romans, who were so full of arrogance. It would be even better disciplined, with more ferocious warriors, all marching behind her!
Her father kept her at the tail of the legion, surrounded by a protective unit and with strict orders for her not to leave her tent except for short walks under watchful eyes. She hated the isolation—it had been months since she had ventured out to socialize. She was surrounded by her maids and two slaves while she longed to be among the legion, watching them train, asking them about tactics. But to Gabinius, a girl, and that too a princess, would be a distraction and pose security problems.
When at rest near Pelusium, she harangued her father, who spoke to Gabinius, who finally relented and allowed her to be present at a war council.
Only once! Gabinius was said to have remarked.
She would see how a “real” war council functioned, though it felt unusual to be with an army that was about to fight the people of her land.
Gabinius called a council in the evening, three days after they stopped at Pelusium. Cleopatra walked to the camp, accompanied by two guards.
She felt quietly thrilled at the chance to be present.
The general’s tent was sparse, with a large wooden table in the center and men standing around it. Her father gestured for her to stand beside him, and Gabinius smiled and bowed to her.
“His Majesty says Her Highness insisted on being part of this proceeding,” Gabinius said, looking at the puzzled men around him.
“I am not a child anymore,” she said indignantly, which prompted a few chuckles.
“Princess Cleopatra, the soldiers of Rome are not accustomed to a girl sitting in a war council,” Gabinius said, his eyes smiling beneath his bushy eyebrows. The Roman general had a slim face with curly brown hair, and he looked younger than his actual age.
“Will the princess ride a horse and challenge the king, her brother-in-law?” asked the man next to her. He was a handsome officer, dressed in a scarlet robe and a yellow-plumed helmet. His bronze breastplate shined. His hair was thick and curled, and he bore an attractive smile.
“Who are you?” she asked, mustering her courage.
“My name is Marcus Antonius,” he said, bowing to her. “I am the commander of the cavalry.”
“I know how to ride horses, but I do not know how to ride one to fight,” she said sincerely.
Marcus Antonius grinned. “I could teach the princess,” he offered.
Gabinius, standing beside Marcus, slapped him on the shoulder. “Now, Marcus, behave yourself. She is a child and a future queen.”
She felt herself blush.
“Perhaps at another time, Princess Cleopatra,” he said, his cool eyes boring into hers. He was older, but much younger than the other nasty Marcus—Marcus Crassus. This one could be her husband. They could be Antony and Cleopatra.
Her pulse quickened, and a gentle heat enveloped her cheeks. She lowered her eyes and then remembered that as a princess, she should not convey weakness.
She met his gaze again. “Perhaps, Officer. Someday you could teach my army in Egypt.”
Marcus Antonius laughed. Her father smiled but made no comments. Gabinius then cut short the pleasantries.
“What do we know?” he inquired, asking a man nearby.
“Archelaus is commanding an army of five thousand, but we do not know their plans to depart Alexandria. It will be several days before they arrive at Pelusium, assuming they decide to march.”
Gabinius turned to her father. “Are you certain that we must face them here?”
Her father hunched over the papyrus map and pointed to the regions between Alexandria and Pelusium. “The terrain is hostile once we cross this desert landscape. The swamps and mangroves will complicate the march and weaken the army. If they desire to meet us, then no place is better than the flat earth here. And they will come here, Gabinius, because they know the danger of letting a Roman army venture too close to Alexandria.”
Marcus turned to Gabinius. “The news is that their cavalry is only about eighty.”
Gabinius paused and looked at the messenger. “Is Queen Berenice riding with her husband?”
This was a question in Cleopatra’s mind. Would her sister be there?
The messenger shook his head. “We do not know yet.”
Her father spoke. “And I have sent messages to the palace to those still loyal to me. As we have agreed, Gabinius, your troops will not enter Alexandria. Not until I summon them.”
Cleopatra understood that seeing Roman troops in the city might enrage the restless and temperamental population, thus jeopardizing the king’s return to the throne. The entire affair of entering Alexandria had to be carefully orchestrated and managed.
“Do you expect your faction to defect and weaken the city’s defenses?” Gabinius asked her father.
“We do not know, but that is the hope,” he replied, unsmiling. She concealed her anger at his decision to keep her excluded from whatever schemes he was hatching. She was old enough to know! Perhaps the Roman influence was wearing on him, convincing him that a girl, a woman, should be kept aside. She would complain when the time was appropriate.
“What is our formation, general?” Marcus asked.
Gabinius then dove into the details of how a legion must form for battle, how to handle the enemy’s superior numbers, how the cavalry must be deployed, what should occur if they seemed to be losing, what should occur if they were winning, who would stay, who would accompany her father, and so forth. Gabinius sounded supremely confident that they would prevail even if their army was smaller. Some of the discussion was so mundane and devoid of excitement that she yawned and struggled to stay awake. During the council, they would summon various men, including the centurions, to discuss strategy. The excitement of being in a war council wore off, and her eyelids felt heavy, and she—
She was floating over the sea, and her sister Arsinoe, who looked much older than her, was swimming like a fish. The sky was orange-red, and Arsinoe appeared afraid. When Cleopatra looked at what was behind her sister, it was Berenice with sharp teeth, also swimming and chasing Arsinoe. “No,” she struggled to shout.
Then suddenly, Berenice’s giant hand shot up from the waves to grab her by the shoulder.
“No!”
“Cleopatra!”
She awoke with a start. Her father’s palm rested on her shoulder, and Gabinius looked unkindly at her.
“It is time for the princess to retire,” he said firmly.
Her father nodded at her, and this time, she meekly acquiesced. A maid who stood behind her wiped the saliva from the corner of her lips. Marcus Antonius gazed at her, his eyes twinkling—she felt deeply embarrassed.
Gabinius summoned someone to accompany her to her quarters. After a while, a man peeped through the tent.
“Apollodorus, take the princess back to her quarters,” Gabinius instructed.
Apollodorus was a young military officer who walked her back to the tent. Since it was a long walk and she felt bored, she spoke to the man. After her years in Rome, she had softened regarding the rigor and formality of royal courts, and she had become comfortable speaking to those well beneath her station.
“Are you a centurion too, Apollodorus?” she asked him.
He appeared startled that she was speaking to him. “Ah, no, Your Majesty—Highness, a rank below,” he stammered, bowing to her.
“Will you remain in Egypt after this campaign?”
He smiled. “I know no home, Your Highness, and if Egypt is what the gods choose for me, then Egypt it is.”
She did not know what else to discuss with him, so they walked in silence until they reached her quarters, where he bowed and took leave of her.
She guessed that Archelaus’ army would appear in a few days, if all went to plan.
And that battle would decide whether she would live like a princess or die as a prisoner.
17. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
The anxiety was palpable on everyone’s faces.
Her Majesty and her husband, King Archelaus, had commanded the entire army to mobilize and come to order near the eastern gate of Alexandria. The force of about seven thousand, with a cavalry of two hundred, had set up tents and waited for final orders for the march toward Pelusium. The system of marshes and the tributaries of the Nile meant that this would not be a simple journey—they would first need to move south, cross the waters on boats and barges, and then travel north toward Pelusium. That Gabinius was near Pelusium had taken everyone by surprise. Everyone knew His Majesty—Ptolemy Auletes—was in Gabinia, but that lay further north in Syria. They had not known that the Roman proconsul had moved south so rapidly.
Now, logistical preparations were inadequate, but all advisors agreed that allowing Gabinius to arrive near Alexandria could spell disaster. They had to confront him on favorable grounds and defeat him. And that meant Pelusium.
The tent was hot and stifling. Their Majesties, the queen and king, Achillas, Amphios, and a few other senior commanders were in the tent, with the royals seated in chairs and others standing before them. At Pothinus’s insistence, Princess Arsinoe and her younger brothers had been moved to the safety of the great temple of Taposiris Magna, under the protection of the priests. Queen Berenice had refused to go with them, insisting instead that she remain on the front lines.
“What do we know?” King Archelaus asked, looking at Achillas.
“They have halted at Pelusium and are commandeering resources and food supplies from nearby villages. Many are still loyal to the once-king Ptolemy,” he replied, being careful not to call him His Majesty to avoid Berenice’s anger.
Pothinus had developed respect for the king. Unlike the deplorable Cybiosactes, Archelaus was disciplined, logical, and seemed to want to protect Egypt and lead a long life as king alongside his wife. While she still wielded much of the influence, he had not shown impatience; perhaps the man was biding his time for glory and the claim of full authority as king. A victory against the hated Romans would grant him that legitimacy.
“What are their latest numbers?” the king asked.
Achillas nodded at Pothinus, who stepped forward. “Two thousand well-armed, highly trained legionaries under the command of Gabinius, and five Centurions.”
Archelaus looked surprised. “Only two thousand?”
A messenger who stood in the tent bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. But observers say they appear experienced.”
“But still! Any commander knows that the experience of troops can only go so far. Are we being fooled? Why is Gabinius so confident he can take on our army here, on our land, with such a small force? Surely he knows our numbers are larger?”
Pothinus cleared his throat and exchanged glances with Achillas. He looked at Queen Berenice.
“Speak what is on your mind, Pothinus. This is not the time to be shy,” she said.
“We forget the sea.”
Archelaus narrowed his eyes. “Proceed,” he said, eyeing Pothinus.
Achillas gestured to an adjutant, who brought a finely detailed map and placed it on the floor, as there was no table in the tent. The royals leaned forward.
“We are here,” Pothinus said, pointing to their location east of Alexandria near the periphery of the city, where the marshlands began. “Gabinius’s forces are here,” he continued, pushing his finger farther right to Pelusium. “There, they expect to face our forces with their highly trained infantry and cavalry. But why do they think they can confront our superior numbers?”
With all eyes on him, Pothinus traced his finger along the coast, going east to west, crossing Alexandria. “There are rumors that Gabinius has split his forces. Half of them has arrived in Pelusium, forcing us to move our army across difficult terrain to confront them, knowing that we cannot allow them to bring Her Majesty’s father within Alexandria’s boundaries. The remaining half, if the rumors are true, is on a fleet traveling west along Alexandria’s coast, landing somewhere near Chersonesus, and then planning to sneak into the city from the west, catching us undefended.”
“How credible are these rumors?” Archelaus asked Achillas.
“Like everything else, Your Majesties, it is hard to ascertain. But it seems to me foolhardy and presumptuous that Gabinius has arrived with such a lean force. Surely an experienced general understands the odds against overwhelming numbers.”
Yet Archelaus remained unconvinced. “I do not think Gabinius would do such a thing, but let us assume the rumors are true. What benefit does he gain by allowing half his army to be annihilated?”
Pothinus understood that sometimes these questions were rhetorical. Archelaus was experienced and intelligent enough to know the answers to his inquiries.
Achillas stepped forward. “His strategy could be to hold up defensively and bog us down, just to buy enough time for the ships to disembark and for them to control Alexandria. Your Majesties, if they enter Alexandria, overcome our scarce defenses, and gain the mob’s support, all will be lost. It will become impossible for us to regain the city.”
Berenice, who rarely showed emotion in such discussions, looked anguished. “How is it we have not built a larger army?” she exclaimed, looking at Achillas accusatorily.
Pothinus thought better of intervening. Armies need money, time, and maintenance, Your Majesties. An empty treasury cannot conjure a mighty force, and men cannot feed swords to their families.
Achillas said nothing. He looked at his feet. The tension simmered like soup.
Finally, King Archelaus spoke. “You may be right, Achillas. It is a clever diversion and a brilliant way to take us by surprise. While we are mired in a battle on land, they can come by sea and capture everything we are fighting for.”
They let the silence hang in the air until Her Majesty turned to Pothinus. Amphios had been sidelined, having no military experience and having fallen afoul of the king with his foolish remarks in recent days.
“What do you both say?” she asked, her eyes darting between Achillas and himself.
Pothinus stood straight and addressed them both. “As Their Majesties know, our choices are limited. We could disregard the rumors, take our entire force, and overwhelm Gabinius in Pelusium. If he is so foolish and full of hubris, then he shall be crushed and run out. But we do not think he is a foolish man, which leaves us with only one other option.”
He took a deep breath and stated what they all had probably considered. “We must split our forces. Send the majority to attack Gabinius—perhaps four thousand, sufficient to subdue a force half its size, even if trained—and then three thousand as a defensive guard to the west of Alexandria. We should push our scarce navy out to sea near Pharos Island to frustrate their ships and delay them. The marine expedition, based on the news that has recently arrived, is only about a thousand strong.”
“How reliable are these spies?” Her Majesty asked.
“We have relied on them for years, Your Majesty,” Pothinus said. “We have none better, but unfortunately, they are who we must deal with.”
Berenice summoned the spies, who confirmed the rumors. There was some additional debate, but King Archelaus knew that every hour lost increased the chance for Gabinius to march closer.
“We must decide. Do you have anything to say, Achillas?” the king asked.
Achillas bowed and began, “As His Excellency Pothinus suggested, I recommend we split the force. I am even more suspicious of Gabinius than Pothinus is, so I suggest we split evenly, with me going east to confront Gabinius—and if I must lay down my life, I shall—and His Majesty takes the other force to guard us against a sea invasion.”
“The bulk must go to—” Pothinus began, as if he disliked the apportionment.
King Archelaus raised his voice. “Do you expect the king of Egypt to stand by the sea like a fool, waiting for an attack? Or do you believe he is so weak that he must fight a smaller force?”
Achillas fidgeted. “We meant no disrespect, Your Majesty. It is only our loyalty to Their Majesties that prompts us to do what we must to preserve the kingdom and its rulers.”
“No, what it does is reduce me in the eyes of my subjects, and,” King Archelaus said, turning to his wife, “my queen!”
Her Majesty nodded. “A king must prove his power,” she stated. “Achillas will go to Chersonesus with two thousand men and prevent any landing. A thousand will remain to guard the palace. And four thousand will go with my husband, the king!”
“Your Majesties,” Pothinus began, wringing his hands, but Her Majesty raised her hand to silence him.
“It is decided. Prepare to march,” she commanded. “When does the force move?”
“We need two days to finalize the path to Pelusium and complete the supply routes,” Achillas replied.
“An advance guard should depart at once to prevent Gabinius from attempting to move inward. Make it appear that the full force follows closely,” King Archelaus instructed.
A capable general, Pothinus thought. But Archelaus was the wrong man at the wrong time.
The royals, along with Achillas, Pothinus, and others, then conferred at length about preparations and tactics. The poorly trained but reasonably equipped force would organize itself like a Roman legion under King Archelaus’s command, and the plan was to ram through Gabinius’s center and surround him, overwhelming the force that was half their size.
At the end of a long, exhausting day, Achillas and Pothinus finally walked out of the tent.
Achillas leaned toward Pothinus and whispered, “You are brilliant, Pothinus. I hope your plan works.”
18. PELUSIUM
CLEOPATRA
The shrill whistles woke her from a deep slumber. Maids came running into the tent, rousing her from sleep. “Battle orders, Your Majesty! His Majesty has asked that you be present before him at the earliest.”
Her heart thudded with excitement, terror, and anticipation as Cleopatra quickly completed her morning rituals and prayers, allowing the servants to dress her. A rider waited near the tent to pick her up on a horse and take her to where her father was.
The morning air was crisp. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue, a gentle wind blew from the sea to their right, and soft yellow sand kicked up behind the horses’ hooves.
The legion was already forming on the left. Tight grids of eight-by-eight soldiers, with gladiuses on their belts and javelins and shields in their hands, stood still as Centurions, donning brass helmets, red-crested plumes, and blue cloaks, stood straight in front of their centuries. Standard bearers and horn blowers stood on either side of the formations. The cavalry was closer to the front, split in two, with another half on the far end of the legion. She was mesmerized—she had read extensively about the great battles of her forefather Ptolemy Soter and the god and king Alexander, and now she would witness one herself.
She longed to be at the front, exhorting the troops, raising a sword, leading them into a bloody battle, and vanquishing enemies! But of course, these Romans would never allow that. They were grumpy about girls learning, let alone queens leading battles.
The horse approached the front, where she saw the leaders—her father, Gabinius, Marcus Antonius, and a few others—all standing together and conferring. She disembarked, walked to her father, and bowed to him. He looked magnificent, dressed in green-yellow royal armor, a golden belt on his chiton, and the distinctly Ptolemaic helmet with a pointed gold cap.
“Come here, Cleopatra,” he said as she tentatively stepped into the circle of men.
Looking back, the legion stood ready and perfectly arrayed. In the distance lay the hazy outline of the enemy—no, her people! The shimmering reflection of light from armor, little glints flashing in that morning sun, weighed heavily in her heart. What if her little sister was there? Were they all going to fight? Would Gabinius kill them all? Father?
“They are here!” she exclaimed after her father stepped away and walked with her.
Her father nodded. “It is time, my daughter. Today will decide if we return to Alexandria. The augurs say we will be victorious.”
“Will he kill all of them?”
“Only those who stand and fight. Rarely are battles meant to kill everyone. I wish for them to surrender, return safely, and join our new army. However, the leaders must die. I have told Gabinius not to pursue a retreat and slaughter the men. They are our people.”
“What about Arsinoe? My brothers?”
He smiled. “They will be unharmed. They are innocents.”
She sighed in relief and squinted into the distance. “Is that a large army?”
Her father laughed. “Smaller than what it should have been.”
What did he mean?
Just then, Marcus Antonius ambled up to them, smiling mischievously. “Well, is Her Highness riding the cavalry to battle?”
She frowned at him. He seemed intent on embarrassing her! But then, she could not help but smile at his lighthearted jab.
“Only if Marcus Antonius is too afraid to fight!” she retorted, causing him to laugh loudly.
“The princess knows her words,” he said, then turned to her father. “It is time, Your Majesty. We will advance soon, before the soldiers tire of standing and the stifling heat exhausts them.”
He then bowed to both and returned to Gabinius.
Her father bent slightly, looking her in the eye. He gripped her shoulders. “By the blessings of Serapis, Isis, and Amun, we shall prevail today. But if the gods have abandoned us, you must reach Pothinus. Do not go willingly to Berenice, for you are at risk. You will go to the tail of the legion—”
“But, Father—”
“No! Listen to me. If they receive word that we are losing, a protective unit will take you back to Syria, to Roman settlements, and you must never give up our fight for Egypt. No good will come from both of us dying here.”
She blinked away her tears. “So you will be here and fight to the death?”
“Gabinius does not want me to join the fight. Neither will he, unless necessary, for he will be directing the battle. We will signal a retreat if need be and attempt to return to Syria. But if they overwhelm and overtake us, then our fate lies in the hands of the gods and your sister,” he said, smiling. “But we will prevail.”
“King Ptolemy must return!” she insisted, firming her voice. They had been on the run for too long.
“And he will,” her father finally said. “Now, you must go.”
She knelt before her father for a blessing and then, as he watched, mounted the horse again. The return to her camp, behind the military lines, was a blur as she wiped her wet eyes from time to time.
This was it.
Her life, if she escaped with it, would never be the same.
They had set up her new camp on higher ground atop a small mound.
With her were eight heavily armed cavalry. The leader, who went by the name of Lucius, announced that he was in charge of her protection and that his duty was to take her back to Pompey Magnus if the battle turned.
Pompey?
She insisted on standing atop the mound, with a maid holding an umbrella behind her. The wind warmed the air, causing small beads of sweat to form on her neck, back, and eyebrows. Before her, on the vast yellow plain below, the horns blared, and the spiked rectangles of Gabinius’ army began to move. The horses trotted, creating more distance between themselves and the infantry. She had some idea of how this battle would unfold—the cavalry would charge the enemy from either side, and the soldiers would march in the center until they came close to the opposition. Then they would launch their javelins before the centers crashed.
How she wished she could be there. Pushing! Fighting! The fear combined with anticipation was an exceptional sensation—she clenched her fists and breathed hard. Give us victory, goddess Isis, she implored. To her right, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkled under the sky, oblivious to the ambitions and struggles on land.
Dust rose in the air, obscuring the sight. She could barely see the units now as they forged ahead, the infantry shifting from a walk to a trot, and a great mass of fine yellow clouds rising in the distance, where her sister’s army had begun to advance. Even in that afternoon heat, her hair rose. Where was her father?
As the plains of Pelusium vanished beneath the sand cloud and the distant sounds of metal clashing echoed in the air, Cleopatra watched with dread and increasing anxiety—would she hear the horns of victory or the shrill whistles of retreat?
19. PELUSIUM
POTHINUS
Pothinus’ role was to remain behind the lines in Pelusium and return to Alexandria to warn and prepare defenses in case of defeat or to ask the queen to prepare a magnificent welcome in case of victory. After much persuasion, the queen had remained in Alexandria with her defenses, while Achillas left to the west and Pothinus headed east along with the king’s army.
His bald pate felt as if it were burning under the sun. He was at a significant distance from the Roman cavalry and the fast-charging infantry.
It did not take long for the battle to turn.
King Archelaus’ army of four thousand was evenly matched with Gabinius’ force, but it was vastly inferior in training and skills.
Pothinus and Achillas’ plans had worked—the royals had split the army based on rumors of Gabinius’ sea invasion.
There was no such invasion.
Pothinus had concocted the ruse and taken advantage of the fear, paranoia, and lack of preparedness.
Gold, threats, and loyalty to the once-king—all had played significant roles in buying off the spies.
Sometimes, drastic actions were necessary for the benefit of oneself and the land. Pothinus had made his move.
Now, Archelaus was left facing a powerful force with nothing to counter. The battle raged for a while, with men and horses obscured in dust and the cacophony of conflict.
The first signs of distress became evident when an Egyptian cohort broke discipline and ran.
Then a few horses escaped from the battle.
Next came the shrill Egyptian whistles of retreat.
Before long, the entire army was in a rout, and Pothinus, now certain that the battle was lost and that King Archelaus’ cause was hopeless, asked his cavalry officer to take him back to Alexandria—while sending another message to Achillas, via the sea, to rush to the city immediately. Achillas would reach Alexandria well before Pothinus did.
As the horse galloped by the desolate coast and the drying farmlands, Pothinus wondered how all this would unfold.
Her Majesty Berenice sat defiantly on the throne, surrounded by Achillas and his men. Her eyes were red, a sign that she had been crying, yet Pothinus took no pleasure in the situation. Arsinoe, now eleven, was inconsolable—the princess kept asking, “Are we dying? Will the Romans kill us?” and needed to be pacified by Pothinus.
“You fed us wrong information,” the queen said, glaring at Pothinus.
“Your Majesty, it is the nature of war and deception. We overestimated Gabinius’ intelligence!”
She was sullen and angry, but there was little to say until formal news arrived from the field. What had happened to Archelaus?
It did not take long for the panting and gasping messengers to burst into the room.
King Archelaus was dead. Decapitated in a Roman cavalry attack.
Most of the army had scattered and fled.
The losses for the Egyptians were not too great, for the Romans had not pursued the fleeing army.
Curiously, the enemy had yet to advance, preferring to remain in Pelusium.
No tear fell from the queen’s eye. Pothinus could see that she was already contemplating what to do next. Flee? Remain and negotiate? Order a last stand and die honorably?
“What should we do next?” she finally asked, looking at no one in particular.
“Surrender to Father and let him be king!” came a crackling voice from the side.
Pothinus’ head whipped toward Princess Arsinoe—she was not the one who could control her tongue or temper. This is not the time, child!
Queen Berenice’s face contorted with fury. The two sisters had no affection for each other, and Cleopatra’s absence had affected Arsinoe deeply.
“I will have you thrown into a dungeon!” the queen screamed at Arsinoe. “For too long, I have tolerated your insolence because you are my sister. Get her out. Out! Before I break her bones!”
“You used to beat me! It is nothing new!” Arsinoe screamed, her face red and her eyes blazing.
Two royal guards intervened quickly and whisked the princess away, even as Pothinus tried to mollify the queen. She is just an immature child who is afraid.
As she simmered on the throne, there was nothing left but to await Gabinius’ messengers, who would surely arrive soon. Before evening fell, Gabinius’ representative arrived, accompanied by an Egyptian translator and a standard-bearer. Pothinus and Achillas had issued orders for safe passage to ensure the Roman ambassadors would not be harmed.
The terms of surrender were stark and clear.
There would be no negotiations.
Queen Berenice should abdicate her throne.
Any remaining defenses should stand down to allow a portion of Gabinius’ force to enter Alexandria and the palace.
King Ptolemy would reclaim the throne of Egypt and be proclaimed king.
What a travesty, Pothinus thought, that this great kingdom would be saddled with either a cold, dangerous, and impetuous queen or a profligate, directionless puppet king. Yet his own chances at life and prosperity were better with one option than the other.
“They are mistaken if they think we will surrender,” Queen Berenice said bitterly. “We will fight to the very end. And then I shall flee to Thebes and raise a new force! Go tell Gabinius that the blood of his men will flow like water in Alexandria.”
What a foolish thing to say to the Roman messengers!
Eventually, the messengers left, having received no concessions and plenty of threats.
The queen turned to Achillas. “How well can the remaining force defend Alexandria?”
The general stood straight and answered, “Barely, Your Majesty. Their fate will be no different from those in Pelusium. King Archelaus brought some discipline to our forces, but they are inadequately trained.”
“My father destroyed this kingdom,” she said, her controlled anger now directed at them. “And you, Achillas, and you, Pothinus, stood by! You have failed in your duties.”
“Your Majesty—” Achillas began.
“Be quiet! You left us unprepared. Your intelligence regarding Gabinius’ advance was inadequate. Your strategy of splitting the forces was useless. And now my husband is dead, and we are about to lose this kingdom to a drunken fool who prances about with a flute!”
He is your father. And he was king before you.
The queen continued, “You are no longer the commander of my army, and you, Pothinus, are no longer an advisor of any capacity! I will nominate new personnel who serve me with loyalty.”
The room fell deathly still. Achillas and Pothinus exchanged glances.
“Arrest both of them!” Queen Berenice screamed, her voice trembling with rage, “and I will decide if they must hang or be beheaded!”
But no one moved.
The queen’s face wore an expression of confusion as she turned to her royal guard. “What are you waiting for? Arrest them!”
But the men remained frozen.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, rising from her throne.
Achillas stepped forward, joined by Pothinus to confront the queen.
The royal guards surrounded her.
It dawned on Her Majesty that the tides had turned. Her eyes burned with a controlled temper. She breathed heavily and clenched her fists. “Traitors,” she hissed. “May the gods burn you. You shall die at the hands of those you seek to serve.”
“That may be so, Your Majesty,” Pothinus replied. “But you are now under arrest, pending orders from your father.”
20. ALEXANDRIA
CLEOPATRA
Home!
Her worn-out carriage trundled through the broad Canopic Way, lined with palm trees and pillars topped by fronds.
Throngs lined the streets, having received news that King Ptolemy was returning with his daughter. A mix of Roman and Egyptian cavalry trotted in the front, the result of an agreement and negotiation between Gabinius and her father. In Rome, she had become accustomed to leaning out of her litter, waving to people, and, in rare moments when none of her retinue were watching, touching the hands of those reaching out. Her people—Egyptians in Rome—saw it as a touch from a goddess and often fell to their knees. This gesture gave her a strange sense of satisfaction and affection. But now, under the watchful eye of her father and the strict protocols of her land, she was expected to sit straight, look ahead, and show little emotion. She suppressed every joyous welling of her eyes and the constriction in her throat, but her heart palpitated with equal parts joy and dread.
Joy at returning.
Dread at the prospect of her dear ones being dead.
Or, if Gabinius changed his mind and remained, deposing her father.
The buildings—the administrative offices, granaries, military structures, the zoo, the beautiful library, the Soma of Alexandria—all stood proud. Slightly worn since she had last left, they were all still there. Finally, as the walls and red-topped roofs of the palace appeared, she involuntarily gripped her father’s hand, and he did not resist or chastise her.
“My people have waited for me,” he said. “And here, I belong.”
“Will Gabinius honor his agreement, Father?”
“He has no choice,” he said. “Messages have gone to Rome informing the Senate of his defiance. He will leave soon. And I will honor my agreements with him.”
“Where will you get the money?”
Her father looked at her, unsmiling. “Many have had a hand in our banishment, and they have enriched themselves since then.”
“Appropriations?”
“Yes,” he said. “Just. And required.”
Just then, a loud horn blew, and a cavalryman announced, “Halt!”
What now?
“Is anyone attacking us?” she asked, worried. Her father had whisked her away from the scenes of the battle, but she had glimpsed the aftermath: the dead bodies with hideous gashes, the dying horses, and the burning piles with bones jutting out had all greatly disturbed her. Her father had only said, this is battle.
But her father smiled. “Step down and come with me.”
She stepped onto the gravelly road and joined her father as he walked ahead. The cavalry parted, and her heart exploded with happiness at the scene before her.
Arsinoe was sprinting toward her, disregarding all protocol while laughing gleefully.
People cheered from the sidelines, held back by soldiers.
And ahead, she saw the distinct bald-headed, bronze-bodied form of Pothinus, and beside him, the unmistakable yellow general’s cape and green cap of Achillas.
She resisted the urge to charge at her sister, instead waiting for her.
A gasping Arsinoe, now nearly three years older since Cleopatra had last seen her, had unmistakably grown. How pretty she has become! Arsinoe screeched to a halt and then knelt before her father. He reached down and held her firmly by her shoulders. “Rise, Arsinoe. Your sister has waited to see you again,” he said tenderly.
Arsinoe’s face broke into a broad smile of relief. The two sisters held hands and turned to walk toward the waiting Pothinus and Achillas, who were accompanied by a host of senior dignitaries, military leaders, and the advance Roman guard. All were on their knees except the Roman guard, who kept their heads bowed.
Her father was no longer a supplicant in Rome.
He was no longer in front of the Senate or arguing with Pompey or Gabinius.
He was now home. As king. And thus, as king, he would be treated.
“Your Majesty! And Your Highness!” came a chorus of calls as they stood before the kneeling line.
“Rise,” her father commanded. They scrambled to their feet.
“Cleopatra, go with Arsinoe,” her father ordered. Here, under watchful eyes, she knew the requirement of obedience was absolute. She would miss the ability to harangue and argue with her father.
How much she wanted to hear what Pothinus and Achillas would say to him! She could harass them later anyway—they could not refuse a future queen.
Cleopatra bowed to her father and was about to leave when Pothinus walked to her. “My joy is profound seeing Her Highness,” he said with great affection. His eyes twinkled with glee. As he had done when she was younger, he held both her hands with love and knelt before her. “I have missed Her Highness like the sky misses its sun!”
“What about me?” Arsinoe pouted playfully.
“And I have missed you all, and you especially, Pothinus,” she said, overcome with emotion. Here she was, returning as the princess when she could have been dead, imprisoned, or worse, made a slave!
“What about me? No one misses me!” Arsinoe complained again, and Cleopatra chastised her in jest.
Pothinus inquired about her health and said that he would visit her soon once her father’s affairs were settled, but for now, officers would escort the princess to her new quarters.
“Where is Berenice?” she finally asked, anxious for the answer.
Pothinus hesitated.
Then, he said, “The queen is alive and awaits His Majesty King Ptolemy.”
As they walked to the palace, Arsinoe filled her ears with all the news and gossip.
Did you know the evil Berenice murdered our mother? She poisoned her! I was there! I escaped!
I am lucky to be alive. She had so many people executed. She is so cold and devoid of humor. She even beat me a few times and threatened to throw me in a dungeon.
Her first husband was so disgusting. He wanted to fuck (Arsinoe! Mind your words!) every woman in the palace.
She got him strangled. That was the only time his cock (Arsinoe! You are terrible!) shriveled!
Her new husband was Archelaus. He had honor. But it seems he now has no head. Giggle.
People wanted Father back. All the fat traders did not like him. I hope he punishes them!
How was Rome? Are they as stuffy and annoying as we thought them to be? (Nothing like Alexandria. Yes, yes.)
Have you found a husband? Did you sleep with anyone? (Arsinoe! You are young and must behave!)
I hope you did not marry some old Roman. I heard old men have shriveled—(Arsinoe, I will have you thrown in a dungeon.)
Berenice is so strict and formal. You should see her court. It is a sea of unhappiness.
Pothinus has been good to me. He favors you and Father. I do not know for sure, but I think he was responsible for Archelaus losing.
Tell me about Rome! (I have so much to say.)
The palace was as she remembered—grand, with its lofty ceilings, painted pillars, and statues of nymphs, gods, Pharaohs. The glorious walls and silk cushions brought back all the fond memories.
She could not wait for her father to sit on the throne and for them to unite as a family.
Arsinoe.
Her two younger brothers.
Even Berenice.
21. ALEXANDRIA
POTHINUS
Achillas and Pothinus walked behind His Majesty to Queen Berenice’s quarters, where she had been held under arrest. She had raged and showered them with all manner of curses, but he and Achillas had held firm. They had twice attempted to counsel her for her own safety, but the queen would not listen.
Now, her fate hung in the balance in His Majesty’s hands, and he had so far not revealed his intentions.
The king had aged considerably in just a few years—no doubt a result of the strain. He had lost weight; his eyes had sunk, his hair had grayed, and his skin showed the creases and folds of an aging man. Whatever the case, he was now about to regain his throne—and that he held Pothinus in great favor allayed all of Pothinus’ worries.
“Has she shown any sign of reconciliation?” he asked as they neared the quarters.
“The princess harbors much resentment toward our actions, even if they were in the best interests of this kingdom, Your Majesty,” Pothinus said. One had to be delicate with their words, for she was still his daughter. However, he referred to her as princess rather than queen, lest he anger His Majesty.
His Majesty did not respond. “Where is she?”
“Just a little more, Your Majesty,” the officer said as they all walked briskly toward a deeper end of the palace. The room where Queen Berenice was kept was heavily guarded to prevent any mischief or maneuvering. While she had been well taken care of, with all luxuries at her disposal, she had been prevented from contacting outsiders, effectively cutting her off from any potential to sway the unsure.
As the king neared, guards near the tall wooden doors bowed and opened the cross latches.
Queen Berenice was not expecting her father; she jumped to her feet from a recline, and her face betrayed surprise.
However, the first words out of her mouth were not ones of affection or relief at seeing her father. “You are a curse on Egypt!” she said bitterly.
His Majesty was taken aback.
“The throne has always belonged to me, Berenice,” he said, his voice hard and firm. “And yet you welcome me with such hostility.”
“It has not belonged to you since you betrayed Egypt. It does not belong to you now. If it were not for treasonous bastards like them,” she said, pointing at Pothinus and Achillas, “you would be in chains.”
His Majesty ignored her insults. “It is time for you to surrender. I shall have you banished, and you shall live quietly in Mauritania.”
Queen Berenice’s eyes sparkled with fire. Her nostrils flared, and her cheeks burned red. “I will go nowhere, Father, for this is as much my home as it is yours. And I shall prevail. The people desire me!”
What a fool you are, Princess! Go quietly!
“Berenice—” His Majesty began, louder.
“I am the queen, and you are my subjects!” she shouted, losing all control. “What are you looking at, Achillas? Arrest him!”
Pothinus’ heart dropped.
Oh, what a fool!
His Majesty turned to Achillas. “Do what I said,” he commanded, his voice firm.
Achillas bowed and signaled his guards, who rushed the queen and seized her.
“Let me go, you sons of whores! Let me go!” she screamed.
Pothinus followed Achillas and the guards as they dragged the struggling Berenice out of the room and toward a walled garden.
“Achillas, not here—” Pothinus began, as this garden was near the royal children’s quarters.
But they did not hear him amid the noise Berenice was making—shouting, crying, now begging.
Tears sprang to Pothinus’ eyes.
He had seen the queen as a child.
He had served her.
She was so stubborn!
The garden was behind a large, open section with pillars, where they took her.
Pothinus ran behind the guards. “Be gentle!” he yelled at them.
They forced her to her knees, and she babbled incoherently.
Pothinus made a quick prayer for her. Achillas nodded to the large man behind the queen.
It took only a brief second for the man to lift his blade high in the air and bring it down with lethal force on Queen Berenice’s neck, cleanly separating her head from her body. Blood sprang like a fountain, some of it sprinkling on Pothinus’ fresh white shendyt.
She fell to the ground.
“Take her body and place her in the royal tombs, and await the king’s instructions,” Achillas ordered as the men began to remove the corpse from the garden. Blood seeped into the clay.
Pothinus could not stand being there anymore; he turned and rushed out of the quadrangle, back to the pillared hall. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the fleeing figure of Arsinoe.
22. ALEXANDRIA
CLEOPATRA
The sisters sat on the marble bench overlooking the tranquil blue sea, their silence only interrupted by the raucous seagulls and the soft whoosh of the waves striking the rock ledge. Their plans to spend time together telling each other their stories, as soon as Cleopatra arrived, had taken a backseat to the flurry of activities in the palace and Arsinoe’s traumatic witnessing of Berenice’s execution. Time had passed—Arsinoe had told no one of it, only confiding in Cleopatra that she had seen their sister killed. However, Cleopatra’s intervention and the return to normalcy had helped heal the memories.
Then, Cleopatra became busy settling into her new routine and royal duties. She immersed herself in the rigor of her studies—administration, languages, arts, mathematics, classics, history—since she was now the next in line for the throne in the absence of a wife for her father. Her father had taken control quickly, proclaiming himself king, participating in key ceremonies in Thebes and Memphis, and butchering those who had a hand in running him out. Pothinus was declared advisor to the king and Achillas, commander of the army.
Soon after their arrival, the Roman financier Rabirius Postumus had come to take a post as the financier of Egypt. Cleopatra hated him, knowing he would fleece the kingdom for repayment of debt. Gabinius had stayed true to his word and returned to Syria, leaving with Marcus Antonius. However, at the request of her father, Gabinius had left behind a significant portion of the mercenaries—the well-trained Roman legionaries who called themselves the “Gabiniani.” Amphios, advisor to her now-dead sister, had himself been killed on the battlefield; he had foolishly joined King Archelaus in search of glory.
Finally, with smiles on their faces, the sisters had found time together. Today was Cleopatra’s day of absence from studies. Their father was away, and Arsinoe had played truant. Even a caning from her father would not have dissuaded her today.
“It has taken so long for us to talk,” Arsinoe said. “Why can’t they just leave us alone? Why must we do all this work if we are princesses? I just want to lie down, eat, watch dances and performances, gossip, and sleep.”
Cleopatra laughed. “Me too. But you know that one day we will be queens. And queens cannot be ignorant.”
“So, tell me!” Arsinoe said gleefully, “tell me everything!”
Thus, Cleopatra recounted her story—all about the harrowing travel to Rome, the nasty Marcus Crassus, the genial but cunning Pompeius Magnus, the unimpressive villas and narrow roads, the harsh treatment of slaves, the learned but condescending senators and teachers, the endless negotiating, bribing, scheming, plotting, cajoling, conniving, threatening—everything to get Rome to back her father, the travel to Syria, and then the battle by Pelusium.
Arsinoe peppered her with questions and received candid answers for some, embellished ones for others. How would she know, anyway?
You would laugh so much if you saw the toga-wearing old men sit on benches and argue with each other!
They really do not have kings! They do not like kings either. But the people were so fascinated by me! It took them time to realize I was a goddess.
No, there is no zoo in Rome. But the people live like animals.
I do not know how a smelly place run by senators and no king could be so powerful. Our tutors must spend less time teaching us what the Romans did and more on how they are able to do what they did. They are employing a strategy we should implement ourselves.
There is one really big mouth in Rome, and he is called Cicero. How can someone be so loud and still keep his head? But you should hear him; he puts the dramatic Theodotus to shame.
I wish I could bring the tutor Proculus to Alexandria. I hated him at first, but he was a learned man, fit for our courts.
Some villas by the sea were beautiful. We should build something similar. But they have nothing like our magnificent temples and pharaohs.
The daughters of the high-born are barely educated. They were always surprised that I could write and read, knew many languages, could recite classics, and speak about politics.
They behave as if they are above everyone else, and yet they are so corrupt, easily swayed by bribes, and they disrespect their gods without remorse.
No one was suitable to be a husband for me. Father forbade me from finding a boy. I liked one of them, but he was awkward and of unworthy blood.
Battles are ugly. Seeing fields of corpses is terrible. If I am queen, I will resolve disputes without causing the loss of lives.
“I did not want Berenice to die,” she finally said. “I wish our sister had the right temperament and accepted Father as king.”
“I am happy she is dead,” Arsinoe replied. Cleopatra knew she had suffered much more at the hands of their older sister. “Do you think Father will rule wisely this time?”
“I do not know,” Cleopatra said. “The Roman financier will put pressure on us to repay our debts. But whether Father will anger the traders and farmers again is yet to be seen. You know him; he can be stubborn in his ways.”
Arsinoe held her arm and leaned on her shoulder. “I hope the Romans do not come to attack us again.”
“They will not,” Cleopatra said confidently. “Their oracles have told them not to interfere in Egypt. And we will now have time to build a powerful army, so no one will threaten us again.”
The sun was setting on the horizon. Helios, Re, was preparing for his afterglow. The orange orb suffused the sky with gentle bands of gold and blue, her favorite colors.
“What if Father dies?” Arsinoe asked, ever so softly.
Cleopatra looked at her sister.
“Then I will be regent.
Then I will be queen.
And then I will become empress. No one will ever win over us.”
THE END
NOTES
Thank you for reading this novella! If you read this after the trilogy, I hope you enjoyed getting a glimpse of Cleopatra’s earlier years and snippets of the prominent characters in the trilogy. But if you are that rebel who read this first, fear not—for you will read much more about many of the characters (Pompey, Pothinus, Achillas, Arsinoe, Theodotus, Marcus Antonius, etc.) introduced in this book and learn of their fates when you read the Last Pharaoh trilogy.
Now, as always, let us get to the known history behind the book.
We know little about Cleopatra’s childhood during the period covered in this book. What we know is scant: her father was run out of Alexandria because of his mismanagement of finances, and Cleopatra seems to have left with him for Rome. His daughter Berenice was placed on the throne by an Alexandrian cabal, or she took control. She may have co-ruled with Cleopatra Tryphaena, who may have been Ptolemy’s wife or eldest daughter (more likely a cousin and wife).
Cleopatra Tryphaena’s history is equally obscure. She may or may not have been Cleopatra’s mother, and she may have died before Berenice came to power. However, there is a piece of evidence that seems to indicate she was alive during Berenice’s rule, and speculation exists that Berenice had her killed. We cannot say with any certainty.
It seems Berenice or the Alexandrian cabal was desperate to find a husband for Berenice to legitimize her rule and bring a king to the fold. The first man, whose name we do not actually know, may have been an impostor pretending to belong to a line of Syrian kings. He was apparently so crude that he earned the nickname Cybiosactes, or salt seller. Strabo states that Berenice became so fed up with him that she had him strangled and sought another husband, who came as Archelaus.
Meanwhile, Ptolemy was desperately trying to gain Rome’s support to reinstate him as king, but that turned out to be challenging. The Sibylline prophecies dissuaded Rome from placing a king on Egypt’s throne, and the Senate was none too happy to deal with a profligate, drunken king who ran around with a flute. Nevertheless, Ptolemy garnered Pompey’s support, and with enough bribery, he secured Gabinius in Syria to support him, even though the Senate refused to help. Cleopatra was likely in Rome for at least two years, though we have no record of her stay there. What did she do? How was she perceived? We do not know. Given the surrounding events, a child or girl from a client state probably garnered little attention, whether written about or otherwise lost to history.
It is immensely frustrating that some stalwarts of the time—Cicero, Crassus, Pompey, and the like—wrote nothing about Cleopatra, or that whatever was written has not survived. If Cleopatra was in Rome for such an extended period, it is almost certain that they met her or saw her.
Gabinius finally marched from Syria to Egypt and defeated Archelaus. Was Cleopatra with the army? We do not know. What we do know is a brief glimpse suggests she may have met Mark Antony—who was, in fact, the cavalry officer for Gabinius and was briefly stationed in Alexandria. Did she meet Apollodorus here? We do not know. I would like to think she did, even if only briefly.
What of Pothinus’ and Achillas’ roles? (No spoilers.) We know they were influential during Cleopatra’s reign, so they may have been prominent during the period of this book. For those reading this novella before the trilogy, Pothinus and Achillas play significant roles.
What all this alludes to is that Cleopatra’s view of diplomacy, and her strategy toward Rome, may have been shaped by the difficult years preceding her Regency. It could not have been easy for a ten- or eleven-year-old to accompany her father, unsure of her fate, while staying away from the comforts of home in a foreign land. She witnessed her father’s humiliation, the power of Rome, and the negotiations, bribery, and haggling—all of which taught her the unsavory arts of rule. We do not know when or how she returned to Alexandria, but it is not a stretch to imagine she traveled with Gabinius’ army.
What happened to Gabinius and the nasty Crassus?
Gabinius was recalled to Rome and forced to face three charges, including high treason for having deserted his post in Syria and going to Egypt against the Senate’s wishes and proclamations from the Sibylline books. He was only convicted of one charge, which was accepting a bribe from Ptolemy. His property was confiscated, and he was exiled. However, Gabinius was recalled to service by Julius Caesar in 48 BC and eventually died, possibly from illness, in late 48 or early 47 BC.
Marcus Crassus invaded Parthia sometime in 54 BC (about a year after Cleopatra’s return to Egypt). His campaign was a failure, and he was killed in a skirmish while attempting to negotiate with the Parthians, who then took his body. Some accounts state that the Parthians poured molten gold into his mouth to mock his greed. Crassus played a significant role in the story of another very famous man from antiquity, Spartacus. If you are so inclined, jump into my Spartacus Rebellion trilogy that takes you to the gritty and visceral world of Roman slavery and gladiatorial sports—head over to The Spartacus Rebellion Trilogy or buy it on Amazon. Alternatively, enjoy my Whispers of Atlantis anthology that takes you to the world of Kings and Pharaohs.
Thank you once again, and I am always immensely grateful if you could take a moment to leave a kind rating or review. It makes a huge difference!
Have a wonderful year ahead,
Jay
Also by Jay
The Whispers of Atlantis AnthologyAn anthology of thrillers set in the ancient world.
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The Spartacus RebellionA trilogy on the astonishing rebellion against Rome.
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Upcoming WorksWhat's coming next.