You, old woman, scribe with the strange name, write this down. Write it truly. I know well you scribblers often lie. The heiroglyphs of my life make wounds. Even the letters my Roman husbands used can cut deep. But remember this: you cannot judge me. You are but a writer. I am the queen. Only I can judge.
You sneer at me, oh I know. I have had your words translated. You think to laugh at my brother-marriage. Well know this: in Egypt we royals kept the blood lines pure by marrying ourselves. But I was the oldest. My brother schemed with crafty men. He had to die. There was no shame in ordering it. You cannot judge. I am the queen.
You laughed at me marrying the old Roman men. Well, know this: they held great power. It is no shame to marry that way, to keep the power lines strong. Only power can hold on to power, only power can breed more power. You cannot judge. I am the queen.
You thought the style of my life was an excess of feasts and festivals, of great barges and beautiful clothing, dazzling jewels. That I had servants and slave. Of course I did. There was no shame in it. The poor expect it. They lived through me. I was their mornings, I was their evenings. You cannot judge. I am the queen.
And in the end when all was lost, you pitied me. I did not want your pity. I did not want their pity. A queen who encourages pity is a queen who is lost. Lost to her kingdom, lost to her people, lost to history. The asp was my choice, the poison my salvation, death my new life. You cannot judge.
Only I can judge. After all, in death as in life, I am the queen.
©2013 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
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