Free The Memoirs of Cleopatra by Margaret George Page B

itself, but some fifteen or twenty miles from its westernmost branch. My chamberlain, who was in reality my keeper (the guards having grown more lax as time went on), deemed it proper, and harmless enough, for me to go. Quietly, all over the palace grounds, the other five young, stalwart explorers were saying the same thing, and their attendants were likewise agreeing.
    We set out in the early dawn, being driven in three royal chariots down the broad street of the Soma until we reached the docks of Mareotis. The docks were busy; fishing boats had already made a run on Mareotis and were unloading their catch. Other vessels, which plied their way bringing the produce of Egypt, by way of the Nile, were crowding in and awaiting their turn to dock. Wine from the vineyards of Mareotis and the Delta, dates, papyrus, precious woods and spices from the lands of Punt and Somalia, porphyry from the eastern desert, obelisks from Aswan—all converged on the lake docks of Alexandria.
    Nebamun had hired a small boat to take us all the way to Memphis. It was large enough that we could sleep on it, for it was several days’ journey there. The prevailing wind at this time of year was in our favor, blowing exactly the way we wished to go, south against the current.
    We set sail eastward over the lake, just as the sun was rising. He—Re, the glorious sun—was emerging from the papyrus thickets and the rushes that bordered the shore, green and bristly. The early breeze swept across the water and filled our sail. We sailed straight toward Re.
    It was late in the afternoon before we reached the far side of the lake, where the canals connect to the Nile. The boatman cast a look at the sky, and indicated that we should drop anchor, sheltering among the reeds and the huge, cup-shaped leaves of the bean plants. It seemed a holiday sort of thing to do, and so we agreed.
    I awakened once in the middle of the night, hearing the gurgle of the water gently slapping the sides of the boat, the rustling of the papyrus stalks all around us, and the cry of a night heron somewhere in the thicket. I had never slept so well on my gilded bed in the palace.
    With the dawn, mists rose from the swamp as if they were night-spirits fleeing. As soon as Re appeared, they scattered. We were soon on the Nile, or what was called its Canopic branch.
    One of our school exercises was to memorize all seven branches of the Nile, and all educated Egyptians can do so: Canopic, Bolbitinic, Sebennytic, Phatnitic, Mendesian, Tanitic, Pelusic. They fan out from the main Nile and (to an ibis flying over them) have the shape of a lotus flower blooming from a stalk.
    The Canopic Nile is small. Date palms and vineyards dotted the fields surrounding it, where all was moist and fertile, with the lush greenness that comes only with living things; the malachite in the palace inlays and the emeralds that glowed in bracelets were dull beside this. Green is the most precious color in Egypt, as it is so hard-won against the desert.
    The river took on a greenish hue, which I was told is actually called “Nile green,” because there is no other shade in the world exactly like it.
    “But as the Nile rises, the color changes,” said Nebamun. “The life-giving material is brown, and Hapi, the Nile god, brings it from the source of the river far to the south. When it settles on our fields, it mixes with our old soil and rejuvenates it, by a miracle. Soon the rise will begin. It always happens just after the rising of Sirius in the eastern sky.”
    I smiled. Did he really believe in Hapi, the Nile god, with his pendulous breasts? I knew that one of my ancestors, Ptolemy III, had tried to discover the source of the Nile. Greeks believed in science, not gods, to explain things. Or, rather, they tried science first, and gave credit to the gods only when they could not find out the answers for themselves. Ptolemy III had failed in his quest. So perhaps it was Hapi after all.
    I lay back, trailing my