said the first thing that brought a chill to my heart, and would ever after.
“Charmian, what do we know about these twelve slaves who work in her rooms? Were any of them previously with the Queen’s household?”
She didn’t mean Berenice’s people. Indeed, they had little enough reason to want to harm Cleopatra now. She meant the servants of Pharaoh’s wife, the mother of Arsinoe and her young brothers. The thing that now stood between them and the throne was Cleopatra.
If Auletes were to die, the throne would be held jointly by brother and sister monarchs, Cleopatra and the older of the two boys, another Ptolemy, known as Theodorus. But he was barely seven years old, and it would be a very long time indeed before he could be expected to wield any real power. Cleopatra could wield it in a year or two. She was nearly fifteen. If anyone had reason to hate her, it would be Theo’s mother, her stepmother.
I shuddered. “I hadn’t thought,” I said. “There could be.”
“We have to think,” Iras said, and I knew she was as irritated with herself as with me. “If we don’t think, who will? We’ll have to think about every slave, every craftsman, and every dish. Where did they come from? Who sent them? Whose hands have been on them? Every last one.”
“Forever,” I said. The weight of it hit me like a giant block of granite. “She has put herself in our hands for the rest of her life.”
Iras looked at me, and there was something of the soldier in her glance. “We’re Ptolemies too. Her job is to rule Egypt. Ours is to guard her and her children while our life and breath lasts.”
C LEOPATRA HAD COME BACK from Bubastis with three chitons, and none of them was fit for court. An hour after sunrise I had the best seamstresses in the palace in her sitting room, along with four cloth merchants highly recommended in the city. They spread their wares on couches and tables in a glistening array. There was linen of every sort, fine and light, in every pastel shade. There were bolts of printed cloth with designs of whorls and fish from the Carian coast, with bright geometric patterns from Meroe and Elephantine. There were wools from Tyre and Damascus dyed crimson, and the rich purple color that is worth more than gold. There were cottons from Hyderabad drawn so thin that the light passed through, making it look like a weft of silver, detailed with gold and silver embroidery in intricate borders a handspan deep. One merchant had even brought three bolts of fine silk from Chi’n, two years upon the road through Samarkand and Babylon, in a dark, rich turquoise embroidered with fantastic beasts.
Cleopatra looked about in a kind of dismay.
“You are dressing the heir to the throne of Egypt,” I said. “You are dressing a goddess on earth.”
On most of their faces I saw nothing but avarice, but one of the seamstresses nodded, a dark, wizened woman nearly seventy. “Then you will want this,” she said, picking up a length of plain white linen, light as a cloud and so fine that it seemed to have no texture. “This will hold a pleat the way the robes do in the old carvings: skirt and collar and cape. This will make you look like Nefertari, Great Ramses’ queen.”
Cleopatra held it up, and one could see her face clearly through it. “Am I not too fair for that?” she asked worriedly.
The seamstress came around the table and put her hand on Cleopatra’s waist, feeling the shape of her body beneath the loose chiton, squinting into her face gravely. “You’ll need a wig, but the queens of old always wore wigs. That’s the way it was done then. Half of it’s jewelry and bearing, Princess.”
Cleopatra nodded seriously. “Do you think I’m pretty enough?”
The seamstress looked her up and down, while the others hastened to assure Cleopatra that she was a vision of loveliness. “You could be taller,” she said critically. “You’ve got nice eyes, but the Ptolemy nose is unfortunate on anyone. Good
“Charmian, what do we know about these twelve slaves who work in her rooms? Were any of them previously with the Queen’s household?”
She didn’t mean Berenice’s people. Indeed, they had little enough reason to want to harm Cleopatra now. She meant the servants of Pharaoh’s wife, the mother of Arsinoe and her young brothers. The thing that now stood between them and the throne was Cleopatra.
If Auletes were to die, the throne would be held jointly by brother and sister monarchs, Cleopatra and the older of the two boys, another Ptolemy, known as Theodorus. But he was barely seven years old, and it would be a very long time indeed before he could be expected to wield any real power. Cleopatra could wield it in a year or two. She was nearly fifteen. If anyone had reason to hate her, it would be Theo’s mother, her stepmother.
I shuddered. “I hadn’t thought,” I said. “There could be.”
“We have to think,” Iras said, and I knew she was as irritated with herself as with me. “If we don’t think, who will? We’ll have to think about every slave, every craftsman, and every dish. Where did they come from? Who sent them? Whose hands have been on them? Every last one.”
“Forever,” I said. The weight of it hit me like a giant block of granite. “She has put herself in our hands for the rest of her life.”
Iras looked at me, and there was something of the soldier in her glance. “We’re Ptolemies too. Her job is to rule Egypt. Ours is to guard her and her children while our life and breath lasts.”
C LEOPATRA HAD COME BACK from Bubastis with three chitons, and none of them was fit for court. An hour after sunrise I had the best seamstresses in the palace in her sitting room, along with four cloth merchants highly recommended in the city. They spread their wares on couches and tables in a glistening array. There was linen of every sort, fine and light, in every pastel shade. There were bolts of printed cloth with designs of whorls and fish from the Carian coast, with bright geometric patterns from Meroe and Elephantine. There were wools from Tyre and Damascus dyed crimson, and the rich purple color that is worth more than gold. There were cottons from Hyderabad drawn so thin that the light passed through, making it look like a weft of silver, detailed with gold and silver embroidery in intricate borders a handspan deep. One merchant had even brought three bolts of fine silk from Chi’n, two years upon the road through Samarkand and Babylon, in a dark, rich turquoise embroidered with fantastic beasts.
Cleopatra looked about in a kind of dismay.
“You are dressing the heir to the throne of Egypt,” I said. “You are dressing a goddess on earth.”
On most of their faces I saw nothing but avarice, but one of the seamstresses nodded, a dark, wizened woman nearly seventy. “Then you will want this,” she said, picking up a length of plain white linen, light as a cloud and so fine that it seemed to have no texture. “This will hold a pleat the way the robes do in the old carvings: skirt and collar and cape. This will make you look like Nefertari, Great Ramses’ queen.”
Cleopatra held it up, and one could see her face clearly through it. “Am I not too fair for that?” she asked worriedly.
The seamstress came around the table and put her hand on Cleopatra’s waist, feeling the shape of her body beneath the loose chiton, squinting into her face gravely. “You’ll need a wig, but the queens of old always wore wigs. That’s the way it was done then. Half of it’s jewelry and bearing, Princess.”
Cleopatra nodded seriously. “Do you think I’m pretty enough?”
The seamstress looked her up and down, while the others hastened to assure Cleopatra that she was a vision of loveliness. “You could be taller,” she said critically. “You’ve got nice eyes, but the Ptolemy nose is unfortunate on anyone. Good
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