Kleopatra by Karen Essex Page A

danger, and she had to prepare herself to come to his aid. She knew a fair
     amount about the mechanics of the Roman government, but she needed to know more if she was to fulfill her ambition to be his
     adviser and diplomat. Thea was queen, Berenike was older, and the king now had two sons who, according to centuries-old custom,
     would inherit the throne when he died. But none of these possessed either Kleopatra’s intelligence or her loyalty to Auletes.
    “Besides, Father,” she said to the distracted king, “you know that I want nothing more than to study with the scholars at
     the Mouseion.” Long before she apprehended that institution’s importance in the world of scholarship, she would sit in the
     courtyard with Charmion and watch the men of learning in their billowing black robes huddle together like carping crows, arguing
     about the secrets of the universe. The newest addition to the Mouseion’s roster of scholars was one Demetrius, a harrowingly
     thin Greek philosopher who had recently taught in Rome. A neo-Platonist with secondary expertise in Roman law and literature.
     A man who might facilitate the fulfillment of her ambitions.
    “Well, why not? They’re all on my payroll over there.” The king sighed. “And the gods know how much it takes to keep them
     fed and happy. Apparently luxury and erudition are necessary companions.”
    “If the young princess is to study with the philosopher Demetrius, we must also offer the opportunity to our elder daughter,”
     said Thea.
    Kleopatra clenched her arms together waiting for her sister to reply, but Berenike said, “No thank you. I’ve seen the man.
     He looks like one of the bats who haunt the home of the dead.”
    Thus, the next morning, and every morning thereafter at nine o’clock, Demetrius was escorted to the palace. Though the Mouseion
     shared the same quarter of the city with the palaces and the Library, it was still too dangerous these days for a member of
     the Royal Family to venture outside the palace walls, even with a guard. Demetrius’s black robes hung limply on his wraithlike
     frame; his hair, as sparse as his flesh, dangled against his scaly scalp. Despite his frangible appearance, Demetrius was
     a diligent soul, patient enough to read and discuss the dialogues of Plato with a ten-year-old girl. Kleopatra expressed her
     desire to study Roman history, but the tutor assured her that the young mind must first be steeped in the Great Works, writing
     of the highest quality embodying the Greek ideals of Virtue, Beauty, Truth, Knowledge, before embarking on the corrupting
     influences of works written in the Latin, conceived in “that cesspool of a city.”
    Though she longed to gather knowledge that would help her assist her father, she contented herself with Plato, becoming particularly
     intrigued with the
Meno
and the problems it posed about the efficacy of teaching Virtue. She could not figure why some people—Charmion, for example,
     and perhaps this scarecrow before her—seemed inherently virtuous and so willingly did what was right and proper while others—herself
     included—had to battle their natural tendencies to achieve the Greek ideal. At least she was better than Berenike and Thea,
     who did not even engage in the war.
    “Might you teach me Virtue?” she asked Demetrius as they stood in the palace courtyard before a pond with lotus blossoms like
     welcoming hands.
    “As Socrates demonstrates, Virtue is divinely inspired. All Knowledge—and surely Virtue is a form of Knowledge—is already
     known by the Immortal Soul. It cannot be taught, but must be remembered by the mind.”
    “I do not follow.”
    “Socrates observed that if Virtue could be taught, then all educated persons would be virtuous. Clearly that is not the case.”
     Demetrius’s cheekbones were so close to his skin as to make the slightest smile look like an act of torture. The princess
     beamed. “Might you direct me in the remembrance of