Chapter Four #2
No one knew how many of the library’s scrolls had come from the tree of knowledge, but the number was in the many thousands.
I pressed my hand to the bark as we passed, and murmured a prayer.
“Hail, all-knowing goddess of words and ink, patron of mathematics and astrology. Thank you for your inner sight. May your power live on.”
The sun shone down on the tree through the circular opening in the roof. At night the courtyard was filled with scholars mapping the stars across the sky. And then there was the rare moment when a bud would bloom under moonlight.
“Mother, where are you going?”
I was young, I do not remember the age exactly, as memories of my mother have dulled since her death. But I do recall the excitement in her eyes as she said, “The tree will flower beneath the moon.”
I did not truly know what she meant, as I had been to the library only a handful of times.
Words didn’t interest me as much as the mewl of a lion cub or a nest at the top of a tree.
But I so rarely saw such vibrancy in my mother’s expression and I begged to join her.
She led an unhappy life, plucked from the priesthood as a young woman and thrust among the wild dogs of the Pharaoh’s court.
She led me to the library’s courtyard, where a small group had gathered. They made way for the Pharaoh’s wife and daughter.
“Sit, child. And look up.” I did as Mother bade. It didn’t take long.
The flower peeled open, and I found myself gasping along with the crowd. The moonlight turned the petals translucent, so I could see the words of the scroll as if etched in silver. When the paper unravelled—softer than a papyrus—it floated down, landing on the bridge of my nose.
Kissed by the tree of knowledge, Mother had said.
From that moment I was enamoured by the written word. If I had not been born a Ptolemy, I would have become a scholar. I carried that longing in me throughout my life, never fully satisfied by the fate the gods had bestowed on my shoulders.
Arsinoe sighed somewhere behind me. I had lingered in my memories for too long.
I patted the bark once more before continuing on.
The stacks hummed with the quiet murmurs of those at study. Few people looked up from their work as I passed, despite the guards that followed me.
It was one of the rare occasions where I could move through Alexandria largely unnoticed. I slowed my pace and listened in on a couple of scholars.
“Aristarchus’s hypotheses are far superior to those of Aristotle. They will be the foundations of future astrologists.”
“You cannot mean what you say. His work is primitive—the sun a fixed star? No, I repeat, you cannot mean what you say…”
On I drifted, absorbing the animated debates that brought the library to life.
“Cleopatra’s power is yet to manifest.”
I faltered as I heard my name. The guards at my back were forced to make an abrupt stop, causing Arsinoe to trip. She swore but I was too distracted to chastise her.
I moved towards the voice that had invoked my name, careful to hide my presence behind the rows of papyrus scrolls.
“I have heard tales that she isn’t a Ptolemy at all, that the priestess found her by the banks of the Nile and brought her to Auletes. It is why the gods punish us by halting the rain. Have you noticed the Nile has not flooded since her coronation?”
So many blasphemies in so few breaths. I felt my throat blaze with fury.
My mother had passed to the next realm bringing my youngest brother into the world, and denying my legitimacy was an insult to the way she lived and died. Auletes—flute player—was a sacrilegious nickname bestowed on my father, stripping him of the power of his title of Pharaoh.
And the final piece of libel they directed at my character was the wrath of the gods.
It was those words that cooled my rage into fear.
Until that moment I had only considered the personal burden of my lack of divine magic.
Yet here was a citizen of my country, attributing the weather to my shortcomings—a rumour powerful enough to unseat me from the throne.
I peered through the shelves to assign the face to the voice. The man was young, too young to be speaking words with such dangerous repercussions.
Arsinoe pushed her way through my guards to stand beside me. “You should kill him. He speaks treason.”
Her voice carried through the dusty shelves, past the ink-covered scrolls, to the ears of the heretic.
He looked up and our eyes locked through the hollow centre of a scroll. If I thought I had felt fear before, it was nothing like what crossed this man’s features. His lips thinned to pale brown, his cheeks growing sallow, and the black centres of his eyes grew to the size of a tetradrachm coin.
I had a choice: have my guards execute him and end the rumour before it spread, or continue on my way.
I have said before that I did not relish killing. My father would say it was a weakness, and time has granted me the wisdom to understand his reasoning.
“Why ever would I execute him? I heard nothing and no one,” I said softly.
I watched as my mercy took effect, returning blood to his skin. He rose from the table he shared with his companion and kneeled on the ground in front of the stacks. I could no longer see him beneath the shelves, but I felt the impact of my clemency.
Arsinoe scowled beside me. “He will repeat those words for others to hear.”
I turned away from her. “It is impossible to contain a story once it is spoken. Especially here of all places, where Seshat’s blood is the ink we read, her veins the stacks, her skin papyrus.”
I continued through the library to a quieter section where a desk was set into the corner. Only one person moved amongst the notes and scrolls of my work.
“Archibios, how do you fare?” I said.
The librarian startled before smiling and bowing low. The fingers that he clasped by his belt were tipped with ink and paint. His dark skin was glossy from sweat. There was little breeze in this part of the library.
“Pharaoh, I wasn’t sure you would return today,” he said. His Greek was heavy with the tones of the east; he originally hailed from Damascus before the library had lured him here.
I was grateful that Seshat’s will had brought him to my city.
“It was a busy morning, but I thought I would spend some of my day here.”
I dismissed my guards to the far corners of the room. Sometimes their presence was suffocating.
Arsinoe moved towards the desk and began to look through the jars and bottles that were stacked behind it.
“Careful!” both Archibios and I cried.
“This smells foul,” she said.
I gently removed the vial from her hand and placed it back on the rack. “That is a healing balm I have been working on.”
My work was another attempt at eliciting my god’s attention. Given Isis’s healing attributes hadn’t come to me naturally, I thought that if I exercised the skill, I might yet summon the power in it. I had requested that Archibios train me in all he knew.
“Can you teach me?” Arsinoe asked.
I was surprised. Arsinoe had already proved her lack of interest in scholarly matters. She had mastered the Egyptian and Greek languages, but that was all.
I was delighted to show her my recent projects, but she quickly grew bored.
“I’m hungry,” she said with the petulance of a girl half her age. “I saw the cooks stuffing a goose with dates to roast. I should like to eat it fresh from the fire.”
I had always been bewildered by Arsinoe’s penchant for poultry despite her connection to Qar. The ibis hadn’t joined us on the journey to the library and I wondered whether Arsinoe’s true woe was that she missed him.
The voyage back to the palace felt longer than usual. Perhaps because I felt more tension in my shoulders than I had on the way there.
The rowing boat moved through the waves towards Antirhodos, the guards cutting through the ocean with their oars. I recalled the scholar’s words from earlier: “Have you noticed the Nile has not flooded since her coronation?”
What if the gods are punishing Egypt for my shortcomings? What if Isis has deemed me unworthy of the throne?
Arsinoe’s voice drew me back from my thoughts.
“There’s another boat there that is not one of ours.” She pointed.
I peered closer. Arsinoe was right. Moored at one end of the harbour was a sailing boat with a hull far wider than anything we used.
“Pharaoh? What would you like us to do?” Ahmose asked.
A man was standing at the end of the pier, looking up at the palace. He wore leather armour and a kind of red sash I had seen only once before, on a Roman general. Though opulent, the fabric was threadbare and battle-torn. His hair was unkempt, and his skin blood-streaked.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was the Pompey that Pothinus had spoken of that morning.
“I will go ahead,” I said to Ahmose.
“Cleopatra, what are you doing?” Charmion hissed.
“I will be fine, Charmion.” If I said it, it must be true.
Should I send my guards to kill him and gain Rome’s favour? What I knew of Caesar had painted an impressive figure in my mind, and strengthening Egypt’s relations with him could only be a good thing.
Ahmose followed close behind as I approached the man.
Pompey turned at the sound of our footsteps, and I was surprised to see a smile on his lips.
“Pharaoh—”
There was a blur of white feathers and the distinctive caw of an ibis as Qar appeared in the sky above. He dived for Pompey, striking him in the eye.
I heard Charmion shriek behind me as blood and fluid burst from Pompey’s face. I flicked my wrist at my guards to intervene, but Arsinoe reached Pompey before them.
She held a sabre, and with one quick thrust she buried it in Pompey’s neck.
As Pompey collapsed bleeding at her feet, his dying breath rattling in his throat, Arsinoe began to cry.
I swallowed my surprise and went to comfort my sister.
“Why did you do that, Arsinoe?”
“I heard what Pothinus said…that Pompey had to die.”
I sighed. “This was not your burden to carry.”
“I wanted to help,” she cried, her sobs growing stronger.
Pothinus and Theos arrived a breath later.
Theos looked down at the body with interest. “He does not smell yet,” he declared.
“No, not yet,” I confirmed.
Pothinus’s expression was triumphant. “Well done, Arsinoe.”
I ignored him and guided my sister to Charmion’s open arms.
“Take her to the baths,” I said to her. “It will help ease her shock.”
I ordered that the body of Pompey be taken away.
“Wait,” Pothinus said. “First, we should take his head. Theos, you must do it. A gift for Caesar.”
Pothinus withdrew a blade and pressed the hilt into my brother’s hands.
Theos looked glad of the task, until the sabre struck bone and he retched.
“Press down harder,” Pothinus insisted.
And I let him. I did not want to admit how my own stomach roiled to merely hear the slicing of flesh, let alone to think of being the one to cause it.
When it was done, Theos dropped the blade and ran to the sea to empty his stomach, and I averted my gaze as the body and head, now separate, were taken away.
The sabre Arsinoe had used lay on the ground.
Where did this dagger come from?
As I went to retrieve it, I thought for a moment my eyes were twisting the truth. For there wasn’t one sabre but two.
The blade Arsinoe had used and the one Pothinus had given Theos were identical, clearly made by the same craftsman. Arsinoe had been gifted the blade by Pothinus.
I looked at the eunuch sidelong, and for the first time I began to sense the danger that was to come.
Skip Notes
* Philadelphoi—sibling lovers—was a title bestowed on many of my forebears.
Though the concept of marriage was not as you understand it today.
It was not just political, it was protective.
Many unions were not consummated, though those that were only reflected the gods Osiris and Isis, whose coupling resulted in the divine being Horus.