The Tale of the Invisible Girl

           ‘Feminism’ has almost become a fancy word today. Intending no offense, it has certainly lost its meaning in the midst of people who brew their own lofty ideas, basing it on incomplete conversations heard at café fronts or a television show picked up from somewhere in the middle of an errant episode or on their own personal experiences, which fairly speaking, covers something but certainly not everything. Feminism is but an idea that has been brewed over centuries and centuries of events, wars, bloodshed, tears and triumphs. Women across kingdoms have carved niches and details which has lead to what it is today. Feminism is just a reminder of what women can do- what they have done-why they have a voice so gentle yet so strong. I can justify this claim by citing one woman. She had me shackled in chains of curiosity. As I read, she grew in her own shadow, a faceless woman whom the world has conveniently cast into obscurity.

           Arsinoe. Dark? Beautiful? Tall? Chubby? We will never know. Beauty is only skin deep, they say. Most fitting in this case- only her bones remain. Far away from her homeland in Ephesus, in an octagon tomb, shut away in a watery coffin, she lies, her scarred skin long gone, her skull stolen and lost in the chaos of world war II. She was an Egyptian, a royal princess at that. Another shadow looms tall to hide her away. However beautiful she might have been, there was one more charming. There was always someone smarter, chattier and more magnetic it seemed. It would have been a frustrated life for young Arsinoe. For, she was the sister of the infamous Kleopatra, the woman who entwined not one but two of Rome’s most powerful men around her little finger. Arsinoe had not her sister’s charm- men were not drawn to her as moths to the flame. Kleopatra had always her father’s favourite having learnt the ways of the court from him. So, when death emptied the throne of its king, everyone knew the natural choice. It was eighteen-year-old Kleopatra, alongside Ptolemy XIII, her little brother and husband, who was only 12. We can only speculate the bond between the sisters. They could have been thick as thieves or as milk and water. Considering both were made of tough steel and were women who had their way, I can compare their relation to that of a frozen stream. Cool on the outside, alive with a current of tension within. Enough speculation. All we know is that the stage was set. It was not going to end well for one of the sisters.

          It so happened Kleopatra was exiled to Syria by her brother’s advisors. Julius Caesar enters in here to resolve the family feud. It’s astonishing to read how Kleopatra gained Caesar’s affections. She was slightly built, they say. This permitted her to sneak into beddings waiting to be delivered to Caesar’s chamber. Voila. No place more fitting to gain a man’s confidence. We can only imagine how it must have looked for the other Egyptians. Political ties with Rome was one thing. Having sex with a Roman though was another. Egyptians were the people who married their own siblings to maintain the blood line- the purity, as they liked to call it. Scandalised looks of horror must have run astray in the faces of every courtier. How must that have looked for young Arsinoe? She knew her sister. Her vengeance and vehemence. She had vowed to take back the throne. She would not rest until the nemes crown rested on her head. Arsinoe could very well be sure. The throne was in danger. She had to do something.

          In the battled that ensued, the little pharaoh was imprisoned. Kleopatra had achieved what she wanted without getting her perfectly manicured fingers dirty. She could now ascend the throne. Except there was Arsinoe. She had smartly escaped. That young teenager was now the only hope for the Egyptian noblemen. She was crowned pharaoh- Arsinoe IV of Egypt. If she won, she could be the pharaoh of one of the most envied empires of the world. But if she lost, she knew, it was either a lifetime of disgrace or death. Not simple and painless, she would receive special treatment, she understood. The odds weren’t great either. They were about to battle the world’s greatest military power against one of the most brilliant generals of the century.

          Battle them she did. Caesar probably hadn’t anticipated an attack from the other side. He barely knew Arsinoe. He never batted an eye lash at her. She had been in the shadows. He knew not much. Perhaps he had underestimated her. Perhaps he should have paid more attention. These were most likely the thoughts that ought to have crossed Caesar’s mind as he raced across the bay, casting his red cloak away. The red cloak- it had always been his imperial symbol. He looked smug and godly in it, he had often thought, tracing a hand through it. But that cloak gave him away that night. It drew enemies to him. He had to cast it aside. This is definitely Arsinoe’s greatest victory. She had stripped Caesar off his regalia. The Roman troops retreated in defeat. The Egyptian troops trapped Caesar by closing off the streets. Arsinoe directed for sea water to be drawn and poured into the Roman’s cistern. The army’s hopes went pale. That night the light house of Pharos burned bright in jubilation for one of the Ptolemaic sisters. It was a symbol of the Ptolemies- regal and spectacular with octagonal towers rising tall over 400 feet from the rocks below. It stood proud that day, as the Ptolemies sent the romans running. Arsinoe had now stepped out of the shadows to show the world the strong woman that she was. Sadly, it was short-lived.

          Caesar had been shamed. By a mere teenager. With a runt of an army. He shall not rest until he had her in chains. He shall not rest. Caesar with his eyed twitching with anger sent for more troops. However, something curious happened at this point. The Egyptian army betrayed her. They made a pact with Caesar. Arsinoe IV in exchange for Ptolemy XIII. The only means to triumph over a strong leader is betrayal. You have to stab them in the back. You cannot look into their eyes as they die. Funny enough, later in his life, even Caesar didn’t stand a chance. So much for a pact. No sooner than the Roman reinforcements arrived, the pharaoh was underwater, still as stone. Egypt had lost the war.

          It was Roman custom to strangle to death, the prisoners of war in front of rejoicing crowds in the streets. It was devised to make the Romans feel invincible- the leaders of the world who snuffed other kingdoms like a mere housefly. But this was not the case with Arsinoe. As she was bound in golden chains and paraded through Rome, an eerie silence fell upon the crowd. There were women in the crowd who were mothers, grandmothers and aunts. There were men who were fathers, grandfathers and uncles. Above all, there were teenagers - boys and girls whose greatest achievement till then had been swimming the longest at camp Martius or reciting flawless homer at their ludus.  Here was a young girl who had led an army single-handedly and had sent Caesar running. This was not to be. Protests burst forth and the crowds had Arsinoe released from an imminent death and sent to the temple of Lady Artemis in Ephesus. Bravery booms for itself.

          Still, Kleopatra wouldn’t rest until she  had hunted her sister down. Mark Antony was the perfect key to hatch her plan. He was an extravagant man who was fond of spending. Not surprisingly, he had wiped his fortune clean within years. He was broke. She had wealth- mountains of it. It is said that she dropped a pearl the size of a pigeon’s egg into her wine, let it dissolve as she drank it. She had him seduced. Why Antony? He was a Roman general, powerful and versatile. He was Caesar’s successor. But- most importantly, Ephesus was his den. Ephesus meant the temple of Artemis. Ephesus meant Arsinoe. It meant revenge.

          It was a hushed affair- the murder. Arsinoe was chased through the temple’s columns and struck down at the temple’s steps. Her blood dripping down the marble, stained red, the temple of Artemis- the virgin huntress- the goddess of sanctuary. Thus, ends a tale- a short one at that, but as eventful and inspiring as one could be. She lies in Ephesus today. Scientists are convinced it is her lying there, in a distinguished tomb of octagon tower, resembling the Lighthouse of Pharos she had defended, symbolising Ptolemaic pride.

          This strength is what feminism defines. This courage to step out of shadows and stir hearts to giddy passion. Two women have changed the course of two of the greatest empires of the world. That too in the course of their extremely short lives. This is what a female can do. She can set kingdoms toppling down to dust and have empires rise out of the same. Never mess with a woman.