Page 9 of Cleopatra

A day and a night I spent weeping amongst her bloodied sheets.

As I looked down on my father’s expressionless face, I recalled what he had said that day after he had lifted me from Berenice’s cold bed: “We are Egypt, and Egypt is us. Sometimes we must sacrifice what we hold dear. But Egypt must live. Always.”

Sacrifice was a new concept to me back then. I did not know what it was like to lose something I held so dear. Berenice had to die so Father could reign in peace.

And now the cycle continued. “Father, I will ensure that Egypt lives. Always.”

Arsinoe was still watching me, and I reached for her hand once more.

“Come, sister,” I said. “It is time for me to take my throne.”

—

I wish I could say that I intended to make the scene I did, but the truth is I had entirely forgotten that I was naked. I strode into the court with a singular purpose, to begin my rule as Pharaoh.

But as I reached the bottom of the dais, my feet felt laden with honey. Every step was harder than the last. I paused when it became too much.

The throne is three steps away. Three short steps.

They may have been short steps, but in my mind, each one might as well have been the height of a pyramid. Impossible to scale. I pressed my knees together to stop them from buckling.

Father was right, I am too weak for this. I cannot even rise to the throne.

Tears pooled in my eyes and I blinked them away in frustration. The thought of my father’s disappointment was more potent than my grief.

I may not want this, but I do it for him. For Egypt.

With a battle cry in my throat, I raised my foot. And when it struck the tiles, I felt my father’s approval from the realm beyond. The final steps came more easily.

I reached towards the armrests of the throne and clutched the gold lions that adorned their surface. I looked up and my father’s face stared back at me. Small tiles of marble and coloured glass inlaid carefully into the back of the chair made up his features. Depictions of four women surrounded his image, each identified by their crowns.

My mother, his second wife, was among them, wearing a religious cowl fashioned in black stone. In her arms she held a young baby whose eyes were made from carnelian studs. My fingers caressed the warm orange stones before I lowered myself onto my father’s throne.

To my left was another, equally decorated chair that was occupied by my brother. It had once belonged to my father’s first wife, Cleopatra V, Berenice’s mother.

Six Cleopatras had come before me. Aunts, mothers, even sister-wives. So many of your historians have trailed their fingers through the tributaries of my ancestors’ river, parting the water for any sign of my name—Κλεοπάτρα. Somewhere along the way, Cleopatra VI was lost in the currents.

Let me tell you of her now.

The babe with carnelians for eyes was yet another sister that no longer lived. Though her body had been born in this life, her spirit had been summoned by Osiris, and she did not take her first breath.

And so there had been yet another destined to lead Egypt before me. Was there any wonder I was reluctant to rule? The shadows of my siblings’ souls stretched from the field of reeds to darken my thoughts.

I leaned back in the throne and felt the carnelians press into my skin.

My brother sighed with relief upon seeing me take my seat next to him. Though we were both chosen by the gods to rule, until my brother came of age at fourteen my word would be absolute. His small chest was laden with gold and jewels. He tried to smile at me, but his headdress wobbled precariously and his young face—made for grinning—turned stoic once more.

My other brother, the younger, stood surrounded by his nursemaids. At seven years old he still insisted on a retinue of servants to sate his appetite for breastmilk. His eyes lazily met Arsinoe’s as she went to stand by him before drifting to mine with the lack of interest that could only be mustered by someone unburdened by the weight of inheriting a kingdom.

The table in the centre of the room was covered with papyrus scrolls pinned down by the fingers of ambitious advisors of the court. All searching for their names within my father’s will.

Pothinus stood at the head of the procession, his slicked hair a shining beacon. The tree gum he used smelled foul, like fish left out in the sun, and I tried not to gag as a swift breeze carried the aroma around the room.

“Pharaoh!” Pothinus’s voice came out as a shriek. “My queen, this is not appropriate.”

I frowned, wondering what he meant, and then I realised that the throne was colder than it should have been. For there was no fabric between my legs and the gold.

Panic seized me. This was not proper. But what could I do now? It had taken so much effort to reach the throne, I could not bear to ascend it again. So I did what I had learned to do. I performed.