Chapter Six
“he Buchis bull at Hermonthis has died.”
I looked up from my plate to find Pothinus standing in the doorway of my dining chamber. His linen robe was streaked with fresh sweat, as if he had run here from the throne room.
Theos, who sat next to me, almost dropped his goblet. “So soon?” he whispered.
It had only been three years since my father and I had attended the enthronement of the Buchis bull. The animal was the embodiment of the god Montu, a powerful and important symbol to the people of his cult. It was the last royal ceremony my father had participated in before he died.
“Have they begun the funerary rites?” I asked calmly, despite my breath becoming shallower. This was yet another bad omen.
It had been a season since the hakawati had attempted to strike me down.
The story had spread like a plague of boils across the city, growing more bulbous and putrid with each retelling.
I had attempted to temper it by seeding the rumour that my power had manifested as the ability to heal.
The needle and thread were nowhere to be found in the tale I had planted amongst the hakawati I hired—and vetted—across the city.
No, Charmion’s scar was a gift from godtouched hands.
To reinforce the deception, I made public my work in the library, publishing two books on the healing properties of different plants. I thought my efforts were working, but I was not scrupulous enough to see that the outbreak of hearsay was being spread from behind the walls of the palace.
Pothinus brought out a small cloth to wipe his forehead. “Yes, the bull was interred before the message reached me. I suggest you prepare to travel to Hermonthis immediately, as the cult leaders will be waiting for you to choose the next bull.”
Servants moved in and out of the dining chamber, replenishing platters of food: roasted boar, stuffed eels, stewed lentils. My youngest brother, now ten years of age, had finally been weaned from his nursemaids and was the only one partaking of every dish.
There were differences between him and Theos beyond the three years in age.
Where the younger Ptolemy’s eyes sparkled with naivety, Theos’s watered with concern.
Where the younger Ptolemy ignored the smears of food on his face, Theos worried at the corners of his lips with a linen cloth.
They were mirrors of each other in looks, but the weight of the crown had compressed Theos, making his belly sink inwards and his shoulders dip so that his eyes often faced the ground.
I tried to protect him from news like this, but his childhood had been fleeting.
Arsinoe seemed wholly unaffected by the death of the gods’ vessel.
Always quick to voice her thoughts, she said, “Is it not curious that the bull died so soon? The people of Egypt will find cause to blame you, Cleopatra.” She lounged in a chair to my right.
In her hand she held a half-consumed duck leg, the grease running down her wrist.
“The bull must have been maltreated. I will be sure to question the priesthood on their guardianship of the sacred beast,” I said.
Arsinoe nodded and wiped her hand on the underskirts of her dress. “I can go in your stead, if it pleases you. There are many things for you to do here, and I would not mind travelling to Hermonthis for the festivities.”
As much as I wanted to concede, I knew how important my attendance would be. If I did not partake in the service, it would be seen as a slight against an important religious cult.
But Arsinoe was right, Alexandria also needed me.
The lack of rain had caused a famine in the southern parts of the country.
Taxes needed to be carefully balanced to increase imports.
And selfishly, I would miss my work in the library.
My research consumed every spare moment I had.
What had started as a way to garner Isis’s attention had become a passion, ever since I had put needle to skin to sew Charmion back together.
I now knew how to heal an infection of the flesh and the mind.
I could brew a tincture to ease an earache, or a balm to soothe a sore stomach.
“It is a long journey. Two weeks, even if the wind is swift,” Arsinoe added.
Pothinus saw my hesitation. “Perhaps the King should remain in Alexandria. It is true what your sister claims: Alexandria needs a monarch in these troubled times. Should Theos stay, you will then be able to undertake this pilgrimage in the name of the gods.”
It was clear Pothinus had heard the rumours too. And despite my dislike of him, his reasoning was sensible.
“Yes, you are right. I will travel to Hermonthis alone. Mikro Theos, you remain here.”
My brother frowned. “I would like to go as well. I have never seen the Buchis bull.”
I reached over and patted his arm. “One of us must stay, for Alexandria must have a ruler.”
“Why not you, sister?” he asked.
Pothinus and I exchanged a glance. We both knew the power of a royal tour, and it was my reputation that needed rebuilding.
“If you stay here, I will make sure you are given more time away from the court to go swimming,” I said, and Theos’s eyes lit up.
“Thank you.”
Theos was merely a figurehead for my and Pothinus’s rule, and if I could grant him an opportunity of solace, I would.
Pothinus turned to leave but I waved him back.
“Any news from Rome?” Caesar had yet to call for Pompey’s remains.
Theos leaned forward in his chair, his eyes brightening. “Yes, does he know it was I who slayed his enemy?”
The younger Ptolemy snorted. “You? It was our sister who brought him down.”
“Be quiet, brother,” Theos replied.
“I cannot hear you, for your lizard tongue twists your words.” Ptolemy’s insults often invoked Theos’s god, the crocodile-headed Sobek, who granted him the ability to breathe beneath water.
“Death-monger,” Theos shot back.
Ptolemy’s god power had come to him the previous season. Blessed by the god Anubis, he had the ability to foretell one’s death. He had simply looked up one day and said to one of our courtiers, “You will die tonight.”
The courtier laughed it off as a youthful jest, for he had been in prime health. But to everyone’s surprise, his heart had failed that night. It was then that we discovered Ptolemy’s ability—and its limitations. He could only predict a person’s death the day it occurred.
I often wondered if he had known about his own demise before it happened. But forgive me, I have skipped forward through the years. There are many more deaths before his.
“Enough,” I barked at them, and the two boys fell silent. I beckoned once more for Pothinus to answer my question.
“No, we are yet to hear from Rome,” he answered quickly.
I had interpreted his agitation as haste to leave the den of squabbling Ptolemies. But how was I to know that the muscle feathering along his jaw denoted a lie?
Arsinoe sighed, drawing all eyes to her, as was her intention. “Sister, can I at least accompany you?”
Pothinus nodded. “I think that would be agreeable.”
To make it seem like the decision had not been guided by Pothinus, I thought on it for a moment.
Arsinoe looked between me and Pothinus expectantly.
She had spent more and more time with him in recent days, and I always preferred to keep her close.
“Yes, let us show Egypt the might of the Ptolemy women. We leave at dawn.”
I stood from my chair, all appetite having fled. “Charmion?”
She appeared behind me.
“Yes, Pharaoh?”
“Attend me. We have some preparations to make.”
—
Charmion paced the length of my bedchamber. “Are we really going to Hermonthis tomorrow?”
I placed my hands on her shoulders, stopping her incessant patrolling. “Yes.”
Her full lips turned downwards. “It is impossible to have the royal barge prepared in such a short amount of time.”
“The god Re crosses the sky each night without such worry. We will be fine.”
She stopped short of rolling her eyes at me.
“Re has less jewellery than you. Eiras! Make ready the Pharaoh’s wardrobe.
Ahmose, prepare the royal guards for a voyage.
Heba, inform the cooks of the Queen’s plans.
” Her orders echoed down the corridor as she wove together the threads of the journey to come.
I waited until I couldn’t hear Charmion any more before crossing the room and withdrawing a bundle of clothes from beneath the sheets of my bed.
I undressed quickly, my sheath dress falling to the ground by my feet until I wore nothing but the ivory dagger—the weapon once destined to kill me.
It hung on a gold chain, the blade bound in leather.
I had not been parted from it since the hakawati had attacked me.
We never managed to trace who had sent the storyteller to kill me, though I was not short on enemies amongst the nobility.
Some I had humiliated when uncovering their corruption, others I had brought to order with increased taxes.
It was in their interests to have me killed.
More of my ancestors had died by an assassin’s blade than from old age.
I stood in front of a mirror made of polished gold and removed the braids from my hair. Charmion had woven the tresses into a knot at the back of my neck. I unravelled them, the soft curls retaining the kink of the weave as they fell down my back.
My hair told my family history. The rushlight illuminated the few locks of dark copper amongst the black, passed down to me by my Macedonian ancestors. The curls were a gift from my Egyptian mother, the texture a legacy of my Syrian grandmother.
I ran my hands through the strands of my heritage, loosening the oil used to style it. And I felt myself loosen too, the role of Pharaoh slipping away.