Kleopatra Read Free Page A

upon a mattress of animal skins—lion, boar, leopard, bear,
     and softest of all, panther—lost in the luxurious pile and thick musk smell enveloping her. The king had risen and gone to
     his bath. She imagined herself Aphrodite after she had lain upon a bearskin with the mortal Anchises in his herdsman’s hut
     while bees circled their bodies, though it was thoughts that buzzed about Thea’s head. The day before she had wondered in
     agony about the destiny the Fates had assigned to her; today she was the lover of the king.
    The first time, when wordlessly he mounted her, she believed he would snuff the life out of her with the pressure of his august
     stomach spreading over her small body. In the morning, she took him by surprise, mounting him despite the burning soreness
     she felt and making vigorous love to him before he could do the same to her. It was a trick she had learned from her mother.
     One day she had heard the gentle Tryphaena whisper about the problem of Auletes’ formidable size to her lady in attendance,
     whereupon the lady imparted her best advice to the queen. Before he wakes, take the king’s member into your mouth and ensure
     its sturdiness. Then mount him quickly and he will submit to you in the upper position and not wish to roll you to the bottom.
     Like Thea, Tryphaena was petite and did not enjoy her time under the girth of the king.
    What must the talk be upstairs? And why should it matter? She had ensured her good fortune. She had made herself useful, replacing
     her mother in the eyes of the king, causing him no inconvenience upon the death of his wife. She was certain her position
     at court was secured.
    A council of crones, the meddlesome great-aunts of the queen Tryphaena, awaited Thea in the late afternoon as she, disheveled,
     exited the hunting room. They demanded, in the fearless way of women past the years of femininity, what business Thea conducted
     with her mother’s husband.
    “I am comforting the king,” she replied sanctimoniously, brushing them aside and walking haughtily down the hall.
    “Performing a duty of state, dear?” one of the ladies said sarcastically as Thea passed.
    “Is there blood on the king’s sleeping skins, dear?” taunted another.
    “She is ruined now. The daughter of Kleopatra Tryphaena, a king’s whore.”
    “Her mother’s husband’s whore.”
    “The state’s concubine. Send her to the courtesan quarters for costume.”
    “A disgrace. No one will have her now.”
    They waited for Thea to turn to them, to answer their accusations, to seek their help for her folly. But she continued to
     ignore them and walk down the hall.
    “Your mother is dead. She died one hour ago.”
    Still she walked on. The women stared at Thea’s long black mane swaying saucily as the girl marched away from their derision,
     into her future. Deflated by her dismissal, they gingerly knocked on the door to deliver the news of the queen’s death to
     the king.

    “You must call me Mother now, Kleopatra,” Thea announced to the small princess. The child watched as the Royal Seamstress
     slipped a deep blue gown over Berenike’s head. Heavy with jewels, the garment fell over the girl, its gems against the plush
     fabric like shining stars on a clear winter night.
    “My mother is dead,” replied Kleopatra in very precise Greek. “She died five months ago. She is buried in the royal catacombs
     near the temple of Isis.”
    It was the morning of the wedding. The black robes of mourning for Tryphaena, worn a shockingly short time, were to be aced
     by ceremonial gowns so rich they were considered part of the treasury. Locked away in the national costume dock, they had
     been retrieved, refurbished, and altered very quickly for the occasion.
    Kleopatra was next to be fitted—a prospect she did not like. The miniature gown of heavy linen embroidered with golden threads
     rested on the mannequin, looking weighty and dangerous.
    “Dear little Kleopatra,” said