The Memoirs of Cleopatra Read Free

time I could see, far above, the cedar beams overlaid with gold that ran the length of the ceiling. And the noise! The sound of a crowd—which was to become so familiar to me—assaulted my ears like a blow. The whole chamber was packed with people, so many people that I could only stop and stare at them.
    We—the royal family—were standing at the top of a small set of steps before entering the room, and I wanted to take my father’s hand and ask him if all the thousand guests were here. But he was standing in front of me, the place beside him occupied by my stepmother, and there was no opportunity.
    We waited for the trumpets to sound, announcing our entrance. I watched intently, trying to see what Romans looked like. Which ones were the Romans? About half the people were wearing the common sort of loose-flowing garments, and some of those men had beards. But the others…they were clean-shaven, with short hair, and they were wearing either a voluminous sort of draped cape (which looked like a bedsheet to me), or else military uniforms, made up of breastplates and little skirts of leather strips. Obviously those were Romans. The others must be Egyptians and Greeks from Alexandria.
    The trumpets blasted, but from the other end of the hall. Father did not stir, and soon I saw why: The trumpets were heralding the entrance of Pompey and his aides. As they filed toward the center of the chamber, I beheld the full regalia of a Roman general of the highest order, in which the plain breastplate of the soldier was replaced by one of pure gold, decorated with artwork. His cloak, too, was purple, not red, and he wore some sort of special enclosed boots. It was altogether splendid to look upon.
    Pompey himself? I was disappointed to see that he was just a man, with a rather bland face. There was nothing about him as dazzling as his uniform. On each side of him were other officers, their faces harder and more set than his, and they served as a frame to set him apart.
    Now a second set of trumpets sounded, and it was our turn to descend, so that Father could greet his guests and welcome them officially. All eyes were upon him as he carefully stepped down, his royal robe trailing behind him. I made sure not to trip on it.
    The two men stood face-to-face; Father was so much shorter and smaller! Next to the husky Pompey, he looked almost frail.
    “You are most welcome to Alexandria, most noble Imperator Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. We greet you, and salute your victories, and declare that you honor us by your presence here this evening,” said Father. He had a pleasant voice, and normally it carried well, but tonight it lacked power. He must be terribly, terribly nervous—and of course that made me nervous, too, and nervous for him as well.
    Pompey gave some reply, but his Greek was so accented I could hardly understand him. Perhaps Father did; at least he pretended to. More exchanges followed, many introductions on both sides. I was presented—or was Pompey presented to me? Which was the proper order?—and I smiled and nodded to him. I knew that princesses—let alone kings and queens!—never bowed to anyone else, but I hoped it would not offend him. He probably did not know all these things, being from Rome, where they had no kings.
    Instead of his previous response—a tepid smile—he suddenly bent down and stared right into my face, his round blue eyes just level with mine.
    “What an enchanting child!” he said, in that odd Greek. “Do the children of kings attend these things from the cradle?” He turned to Father, who looked embarrassed. I could tell he regretted allowing me to come; he did not wish to do anything that might call unflattering attention to us.
    “Not until the age of seven,” he improvised quickly. I wasn’t quite seven yet, but Pompey would never know. “We believe that that age is the portal to understanding….” Tactfully he indicated that the banquet tables were waiting, in the adjoining, almost