The ships were hardly more comfortable than the ox-carts. Curling up, maybe in terror, my maids fell asleep. Two of my men were assigned to stand watch, and the crew settled down under their cloaks. I’ve no idea where Apollodorus snuggled down, for I gave myself up to dreaming and staring up at the stars, fantasizing about the triumphs and glories that life might hold for me, successes that surpassed all I ever actually gained later in my life, for they were achieved with a purity of spirit, unstained by corruption, bestowed on me like gifts at a festival, effortlessly, void of struggle and strife.
That night I saw myself attired in extraordinary garments, the darling of all Egypt. I stood at the top of a staircase and a gazing multitude acclaimed me. I saw myself in the same garments, parading with a cortege of elephants, tigers, and lions across the Campus Martius, and the crowds cheered, calling out, “Hail, Queen! You will reign over us and over our children, and your blood will reign over our descendants!” I imagined myself riding in a chariot drawn by a dozen beasts, covered in gold, as I traversed the three parts of Gaul, clad in my fabulous clothing. The beasts that drew my chariot were gilded crocodiles, chosen to stun the mob who, of course, simply adored me! All this under the cloak of night, under the blazing stars, rocked like a baby by a sea at peace. But what I did not foresee was the one thing that would lift me to the heights of glory: the arms of Mark Antony.
Let me get back to the boat anchored off Brundisium. We set sail and spent the days in a variety of recreations. Our favorite was to perform a tableau of worship to Isis. All the passengers took part in it. When we were one day out from the port of Tarsus, two speedy ships, typical of the lightweight vessels favored by pirates, drew close. I asked my men to offer no resistance and ordered them to take up the formation we had spent days practicing. It wasn’t exactly a military one but we called it that out of whimsy. The crew had mastered it and the process had amused us in the deadly dull hours of the trip and it had boosted the morale of my maidens. Apollodorus and I knew all along it would serve as a defensive maneuver.
When the pirates were on the point of boarding our ship, they found us motionless, except for our fans, that on my orders were keeping time with the motion of the sea. I carried a scepter and a whip, the two symbols of royalty, and had dressed in Egyptian style, mimicking Isis. The crew and my guards were wearing masks, a lion to represent Sehmet, a jackal for Anubis, an eagle for Horus, a mandril for Toth, a ram for Ammon Ra. In their fists were javelins, set against Neptune, Venus, and Athena herself, for others among my servants were dressed as Roman gods. One of my maids held above my head rods plated with gold to suggest the rays of the sun. One of the servants in an eagle’s mask, concealed his body behind the fake leaves of a banana tree and shook his two hands among them. Another displayed his hands to form the claws of the eagle, the rest of his body hidden. By the head of the jackal hung the naked body of an old woman, my beloved nanny Eter, her large, flaccid breasts dangling. Over these gods of the Empire triumphed Egypt’s Isis.
When I saw the pirates moving from astonishment to action, I took one step forward and told them in my penetrating voice that I needed to speak to the captain of their flotilla, because I was heading for Cilicia and, being a princess with claims to the throne of Egypt, I required an escort for myself and my court. I said it in Greek, Egyptian, and Latin, plus a couple of barbarian languages, not knowing what they would understand. At a gesture from me, the two musicians beside me began to play the most cheerful of their dance tunes. The amazement of the pirates — at the scene, the discourse I delivered in the most solemn tone, the music that invited them to dance and laugh — worked totally in my favor. The pirates smiled, one and all. They asked for proof of my claims.
“I would have liked to bring you the golden crown that my father Auletes bestowed on Pompey,” I explained in koine. “But we Lagids never take back by force what we once have given. Take me to your king. Before we begin to sail, take this. It belongs to you.” I translated my words into half a dozen languages and handed over a purple bag that contained a mass of gleaming trinkets that I had brought for exactly such an occasion as this, bright baubles to dazzle the eye. “The future queen of Egypt wishes to share her treasures with the men of Cilicia.” Their answer was to adore me with a divine fervor.
They burst into chatter, asking me questions in various languages, for our intended assailants came from several nations. Some of their questions I answered with a felicity that brought effusive signs of enthusiasm from them.
From that moment on, the two pirate ships watched over us. For the rest of the journey, we applied ourselves to our work with diligence, stitching veils and cloaks. Several times a day we received a visit from the leader of these allegedly cruel pirates. On each occasion he dressed differently, showing off the flashy plunder of an attack on a fishing community that he had stripped bare of what little it had. Less than looters, he and his associates were more like toothpicks scratching away the last remnants of a petty wealth.
I wondered how old he was. And if he had a brother among those crucified by my Caesar. With my limited years I found it hard to assess the age of others, but the age of this pirate was particularly elusive. Two long scars cut across his face, his wrestler’s body was dismayingly strong, and his thick, bushy beard seemed a stranger to a comb. I was not the only one. None of us could guess his age. From childhood on, he had been nurtured on violence; the measure of his years was not ours.
On one of his visits I said to him, “You’re a fish. You’ve been hooked by those you planned to hook.”
My comment unnerved him. He responded by running his knife blade over the tip of his tongue and drawing blood.
“Me, a fish?” he said, widening the wound in his tongue as he spoke. “Nobody hooks me except me.”
I was on the point of rebuking him. What was the idea behind hurting himself? But I caught his eye and his violent mood checked me. It was obvious that he had stuck the point of knife into his tongue to calm himself down. My words had touch a nerve I could not imagine.
“I didn’t intend to upset you; it was just a—” I swallowed the word “joke.”
The ageless pirate jumped back aboard his own ship with a cheetah’s agility.
Apart from that one incident, the pirates labored to make our trip a pleasant one. They even pitched in with goodwill to help ready us for our arrival.
In less time than we had calculated, we skirted the dangerous shoals ahead and the beautiful harbor of Cilicia, Tarsus, lay in sight, its quayside crowded with speedy vessels. Seen from the sea, Tarsus was a stirring sight. For a moment I credited the legend that here had landed a feather from the wing of Pegasus, after it was broken by Perseus.
Once more I requested the treatment proper to an heir apparent, and once more I received it.
As the governor of Cilicia came toward my ship on board his small vessel, our guards, I mean the pirates, covered us with an enormous cloth that we had sewn together from our own garments. When he was within feet of us, they suddenly pulled aside the cloth and astonished him with the same scene that had dazzled them. The musicians played, this time not dance tunes, but music that accorded with the solemnity of our tableau vivant. Then the pirates pulled the cloth over their own bodies and one after the other, they popped up their heads to represent the many-headed hydra.