We lit candles, and approached the shrine holding the divine statue of the god, carved of dark granite. From inside the shrine the eyes of the god glared back at us, white and rounded, the perfectly rendered scales of his long snout making him look lifelike.
As Queen, and incarnation on earth of Isis herself, I spoke to him face-to-face. "Great Sobek, why do you trouble my land? Why have you sent out legions of crocodiles to infest the waters downriver from the First Cataract? Is there something you lack? Let me provide it, so that you may call your creatures home."
The idol stared back at me, unyielding. The leaping flame of the candle played over his impassive features.
"I will provide what you lack, but I must ask you to desist from your attack on my land."
Beside me, Ptolemy tugged at my gown. "Don't sound so peremptory," he whispered. "You shouldn't talk to him like that."
No, it was fitting. I was Queen, indwelt by Isis, and he was--let us be frank--a minor god, restricted to this little area. Other gods had beaten him back a long time ago, and Horus had even taken over half his temple.
"I leave you gifts here, Sobek, great god of the crocodiles, but in the name of Isis and of the people of Egypt, who are in my care, I insist that you call your creatures back."
Or else Olympos and I would devise a way to poison the waters and kill the crocodiles.
Together, Ptolemy and I intoned a hymn of praise to Sobek and laid our gifts of flowers, wine, and precious ointment before his sacred barque. We stood in silence for a few moments, then departed.
The sun was well up now, and warming the courtyard of the temple. Over to one side stretched the necropolis of mummified crocodiles; on the other, a great rounded well attached to a lower Nilometer. I made my way over to it, and peered over the edge.
I was surprised to find that the water had not risen very high yet. Along the Nilometer's wall the line of the "cubits of death" was clearly marked, below which famine would result. The Nile was still quite a bit below this cutoff point, but the season of flooding should be well advanced by now. I felt a wave of unease.
We hastened back to the boat, rushing over the gangplank serving as a bridge across the crocodiles, who were now eagerly awaiting food. They snapped to attention as our shadows flitted before their eyes; one large fellow opened his mouth, displaying rows of teeth and a fat, healthy tongue, as pink as a flower. Obviously, Sobek was taking good care of his own.
Now may Isis be so kind to us as Sobek is to his creatures! I prayed. We would press on to Philae, lay our concerns before the great goddess, and give Ptolemy up into her care.
It was another day's sail up the gently swelling Nile before we reached the vicinity of the First Cataract. The usual roar of it was muffled, because the water had risen high enough that many of the sharp rocks were submerged, and we could sail--albeit very carefully--through the area that was normally so dangerous. The wide bosom of the water looked lustrous and pearly, reflecting the sky at twilight, where we anchored within sight of Philae.
In the dying light, the tiny island glowed from hundreds of votive candles left by pilgrims. Although the walls of the great Temple of Isis were made of sandstone, tonight they looked like the thinnest alabaster, white and translucent.
I had vowed never to return, after the strange ceremony I had gone through there with Caesar, which afterward seemed a mockery. Now I was not so sure. Perhaps ceremonies--even ones recited in unknown tongues--have a power in and of themselves. Perhaps Caesar had found himself bound by it after all.
One by one the lights flickered out, snuffed by the wind, and the outline of the temple faded. It remained only faintly illuminated by the struggling half moon that hung impaled by the reeds growing everywhere.
I lay on my bed, feeling the warm wind caressing me, feeling protected by Isis, hovering over her holy island.
We went ashore at first light, before the throng of pilgrims would arrive. We wanted time alone with the goddess. Ptolemy seemed especially listless, and had trouble walking the short distance from the landing area to the gateway of the temple.
"Look!" I said, pointing to the first pylon, where our father was depicted in full glory, armored, smiting enemies.
"Yes, yes, I see," he said wearily.
A white-robed priest of Isis met us, bowing low. "Your Majesties," he said, his voice low and melodious. "In the name of Isis, we welcome you to the shrine."
"We have come to petition the goddess for healing," I said.
"Ah yes," he replied, moving his head to indicate all the offerings left in the courtyard. "Many hundreds come here--tribes of Nubians from the south, Greeks, Arabs, even Romans. This is the premier site of healing, the fountain of it, so near the source of the Nile. And the burial place of Osiris. It is truly holy ground." He looked at Ptolemy kindly, and would have reached out to touch him, but it was forbidden.
I put my arm around Ptolemy's shoulder. "May we approach the sanctuary?" I asked. "Our gift-bearers follow." I indicated the four menservants, dressed in the requisite new unbleached linen, carrying gold caskets with myrrh, gold, cinnamon, and sacred white sweet wine from Mareotis.
The priest turned and, walking in the slow, measured steps of ceremony, led us through the portals of the first pylon into the smaller court, and then through the second doorway that led into the darkened interior, where sacred chapels flanked the inmost holy of holies.
No natural light entered here; the stones were fitted together so closely that no seam was visible, keeping out the prying sun. In the left chapel, intricate candle stands flanked a life-size gold statue of Isis standing on a pedestal, throwing a soft yellow light upon her.
She was beautiful, serene, all-compassionate, all-wise. Gazing on her, I felt a tranquillity, a peace that I had seldom felt, and then only fleetingly.
O great goddess! I murmured to myself. How could I ever forget your face?
I bowed, feeling supremely blessed and yet supremely humble that I was chosen of all women on earth to be her mortal representative.
The priest flung incense into the thurible at her feet, and a piercingly sweet scent filled the air. He began to pray, reciting a hymn of praise to her:
.
Isis, giver of life, residing in the Sacred Mound
She is the one who pours out the Inundation
That makes all people live and green plants grow
Who provides divine offerings for the gods
And invocation-offerings for the| Transfigured Ones.
.
Because she is the Lady of Heaven
Her man is Lord of the Netherworld
Her son is Lord of the Land
Her man is the pure water, rejuvenating himself at Biggeh at his time.
.
Indeed, she is the Lady of Heaven, Earth, and the Netherworld
Having brought them into existence through what
Her heart conceived and her hands created
She is the Bai that is in every city
Watching over her son Horus and her brother Osiris.
.
I stepped forward and, laying down my gifts, said, "Daughter of Re, I, Cleopatra, have come before you, O Isis, giver of life, that I may see your beautiful face; give me all the lands in obeisance, forever." I inclined my head.
The goddess was silent. Now I must sing her a hymn, and I would sing my favorite, the joyful one I had not spoken since the ceremony with Caesar.
.
O Isis the Great, God's mother, Lady of Philae
God's Wife, God's Adorer, and God's Hand
God's mother and Great Royal Spouse
Adornment and Lady of the Ornaments of the Palace.
.
Lady and desire of the green fields
Nursling who fills the palace with her beauty
Fragrance of the palace, mistress of joy
Who completes her course in the Divine Place.
.
Raincloud that makes green the fields when it descends
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Maiden, sweet of love, Lady of Upper and Lower
Egypt, Who issues orders among the divine Ennead
According to whose command one rules.
Princess, great of praise, lady of charm
Whose face enjoys the trickling of fresh myrrh.
.
From a hollow behind the goddess, a high-voiced priest answered in her name, "How beautiful is this which you have done for me, my daughter, Isis, my beloved, Lady of Diadems, Cleopatra; I have given you this land, joy to your spirit forever." There was the dry, silvery rattle of a sistrum, and the disembodied voice continued, "I instill fear of you throughout the land; I have given you all the lands in peace; I instill the fear of you in foreign countries."
Fear of you in foreign countries ... to what destiny was she calling me? The Ptolemies had not had any foreign possessions in generations, and it was Rome who inspired fear in foreign countries now.
I bowed to show that I accepted her benefactions and gifts.
Beside me, Ptolemy was standing stick-straight, trembling.
"You must speak to her now," I said. "She awaits."
Still he stood silent, as if he were afraid to utter a sound.
"I will leave you in private," I said. Perhaps that was better.
Coming out of the dark, smoke-filled sanctuary into the bright morning sunlight made me dizzy. The courtyard was still empty; the guards were holding the people back until we departed. I was alone there, except for a swaying priest or two, walking in the shaded colonnade, chanting private prayers.
Off to one side was the birth-house, a symbolic depiction of the birth of Horus to Isis and Osiris. The legend of Isis and her husband, in its many forms, was celebrated and reenacted here. Is there any child today who does not know it? Osiris was killed by his evil brother Seth, was searched for and found by the grieving, faithful Isis; miraculously she conceived her child Horus by the dead Osiris, and gave birth to him in a papyrus marsh in Lower Egypt. Then the evil Seth killed Osiris again, dismembering him and scattering all the parts up and down Egypt. Once again the faithful wife gathered all the parts and reassembled them, bringing Osiris back to life in the Underworld, where he reigns as King of the Dead, "he who is continually happy." In the meantime, Horus grew to manhood and avenged his father by killing his uncle Seth. Together Osiris, Isis, and Horus live as the holy family, a blessed three. The birth-chapel commemorated the miraculous birth of the child. Across the water from Philae, on the neighboring island of Biggeh, part of Osiris lay buried, and every ten days a golden statue of Isis was ferried over in a sacred barque to visit her divine spouse, reenacting the old tale. I gazed at its rocky shore through one of the openings of the colonnade.
It was so close to the truth in my own life that I was shaken. I was Isis, Caesar Osiris, Caesarion Horus . . . Caesar, killed by evil men, now a god . . . I left behind to grieve and avenge him, and raise his son to carry on his name and heritage. Like Isis, I felt that great loneliness in roaming through all the land, looking for bits and pieces of him.
Suddenly resolute, I made my way to the small chapel where we had recited those mysterious vows so long ago. Bits and pieces of him . . . and here was one.
I entered the little square room, its walls carved with low reliefs showing Pharaohs making offerings to Isis, watched by the winged vulture of Upper Egypt. Just here we had stood. I saw the very paving stones where his sandaled feet had rested, and the places where the hem of his cloak had brushed. I placed my feet where mine had been and reached out my hand to clasp-- empty air.
Yet I was not alone. Only the thinnest of barriers, an invisible but immensely guarded one, separated us--time and death. I no longer felt mocked, or bereft, but oddly comforted. The ceremony still held across that barrier, uniting us.
Outside in the sunlight, I walked and waited for Ptolemy to appear. The gentle lapping of the water against the banks of the island was soothing, calming my racing heart. I remembered that there was a Nilometer here, too, in the form of steps leading right into the water. I descended them and realized I walked down a great many before I came to the water. The mark for a minimal rise was still five steps above where the water ended. My heart started racing again.
That there had been some rise was obvious; had we not floated over the Cataract? But it looked meager. I searched for the carving I knew was on one wall depicting Hapi, the god of the Nile, in his cave of Cataracts. What was Hapi doing to us? I said several prayers to him.
I did not notice how long I was there, but I looked up to see a weak, coughing Ptolemy being led from the temple, leaning on two priests.
"He is quite overcome by his encounter with the goddess," said one of the priests, fanning him. Ptolemy continued to cough. I suspected it was not the goddess's presence but the smoky incense that had overcome him. Doubtless Olympos would agree; he thought incense was a poison to the lungs.
"We wish to leave him under your care in the healing-shrine," I said. "Do you not have a home where priests and priestesses tend the ill who have come to Isis?"
"Yes, and it is a private one. That is, it is not open to all pilgrims--or it would have to be enormous. This is a small home, where the patients can live in a healthy manner," the priest assured me.
I was well pleased with all I saw. The paved courtyard was swept immaculate; flowers bloomed around the well in the center, and no dogs or cats prowled the quarters. Attendants, gentle women who felt they were serving Isis in her guise as a healer like Asclepius, tended the invalids, walking them in the sunshine, reading to them, bringing them food. It seemed to offer Ptolemy the best care possible.
When he did not protest at being put there, I began to be alarmed. It meant he did not have the strength to struggle.
Smoothing his brow as he was put to bed, I assured him, "The goddess will heal you, and you will be back in Alexandria this time next year, with this just a memory."
He nodded docilely, and squeezed my hand.
I decided not to depart for several days, but I did not tell him that, lest he bolt and try to come back with me. I asked the priest to report to me each morning and evening.
For the first four days, all the reports were good. Ptolemy had slept well; his color was improving; he was even eating soup and bread. But on the fifth day the priest came rushing to me before sundown.
"Your Majesty, the King, he--he choked on his food, and went into a coughing fit, and then fainted. We fanned him, and propped him up in bed, and then he started spitting up blood."
"I had best come back with you." Together we hurried out the door and rushed to the sick-house.
I found Ptolemy slumped over his pillows, his arms limp like cut willow branches. His face had a deathly pallor, with red spots dotting his cheeks. He was utterly changed from my last sight of him.
"Ptolemy!" I spoke softly to him, kneeling beside him.
He opened his eyes with great effort, and focused them on me. "Oh ... I thought you had gone."
"No, I am still here. I am here as long as you need me."
"Oh." He reached out a feeble hand and fumbled for mine. I took it; it was hot and dry, like a locust husk lying in the sun.
He gave a great sigh, filling his lungs with air. When he breathed out, frothy red foam appeared in his nostrils.
He closed his eyes, and did not open them again.
I felt his hot little hand tremble and contract a little, and then grow limp. He died, quietly, effortlessly, with a sigh for all he was leaving behind.
I said nothing, but remained holding his poor little hand. Time enough to talk when the priest returned.
Down the Nile, our boat now a funeral barque. The priests at Philae had prepared Ptolemy, readying him for his journey into eternity. That took many days, and all the while a transport-coffin was being prepared. I waited, suspended between the world of the living and the dead.
Day after day I watched the Nile making faint efforts to rise, and not succeeding. Trouble after trouble seemed to be rai
ning upon me; would I now have to face a famine in the land, in addition to the loss of my husband, my unborn child, and my brother?
How strong do you think I am? I implored Isis. I cannot bear any more!
Yes you can, and you will, the waters seemed to murmur back, unmoved.
The boat was draped in funeral hangings, and the oarsmen wore mourning. People lined the banks--as closely as they could and still avoid the crocodiles--and watched silently as we floated past. The journey seemed interminable, and when we passed Kom Ombo and I remembered Ptolemy's fascination with the crocodile god, I wept. So many things had delighted him. The world would be a grayer place without his laughter and boyish curiosity.
He was on his way back to Alexandria. I remembered my promise: This time next year you will be in Alexandria, and all this will be just a memory. The goddess had fulfilled my words, but not in the way I had intended.
Chapter 39.
Merciless, pristine-clear sun poured over the funeral cortege like water from a jar. The wagon bearing the sarcophagus of Ptolemy wound its way through the streets of Alexandria, following the route of all official processions before ending at the Soma, the royal mausoleum at the place where the two great thoroughfares crossed.