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“That’s all very well. When my foremothers didn’t bed their uncles and their brothers, they bedded the great kings of Asia. It was a good strategy then. But tell me: what allies might I wed? Do you have some Attalid, some Cyrenian picked out?” Berenice laughed. This, too, was forced. But forced emotions were better than the effortless ones that might otherwise leak out. Even fury she couldn’t trust; it was too changeable for her to harness. “Those kingdoms, I don’t need to remind you, fell to Rome long ago, before even you were born. Mine is the last dynasty of Alexander’s crumbled empire. There are no such fine friends for me to marry.”

Nereus’s eyes lit up. “Begging your pardon, my queen, but the Seleucids—”

“The Seleucids?” She laughed, cold, cruel. “Have you lost your mind, old man? Pompey murdered the last of those kings—Antiochus died some half dozen years ago.” Destroyed by Rome. To a one. Her own kingdom’s future—if her father had his way.

“But my queen, Antiochus was not his father’s only son.” The old man rubbed the loose skin along his gullet. That twitch of his sickened Berenice; it made her think of death.

“It doesn’t matter if the elder Antiochus had a hundred sons. Many men have sons. It’s kingdoms that prove rare.”

“Begging your pardon, my queen, but you have a kingdom, a double kingdom. What you seek, I believe, are more spears to defend it.”

She looked hard at the old man. It had been years since she’d heard such determination in his voice—not since he had whispered poison in her father’s ear, urging him to put aside her mother, his lawful wife, in favor of that whore. Old wounds. The scars ran deep.

“And this boy,” Nereus went on firmly, “this younger son of Antiochus heads a legion of some ten thousand men along the Syrian coast. Men who loathe the Romans as much as you do, led by a general who despises the Republic all the more. They killed his brother, they stole his crown, they sow his lands with blood and chaos.”

When did the Romans do anything else? Berenice thought of Cyprus, the peaceful, sheltered island where she’d wintered as a girl, shredded and shorn. “And you believe this hate might be turned to my advantage. That he would be eager to fight any Romans—say, the Romans who back my father?”

“If you wed him, yes. You, my queen, are wise beyond your years.”

She disliked that particular compliment. Nothing in her life had convinced her that age brought much in the way of wisdom. Her father grew more a fool with each passing day, and her mother died a withered shadow of her former self, vulnerable and soft. Wisdom unchanged.

“And what is his name, then, this younger, lesser brother of Antiochus?”

“Seleucus, named for the first of his dynasty, my queen.”

She’d always thought it would be one of her brothers that her advisers would be urging her to wed. She could still picture her mother, crooning over another shriveled babe: “He could have been your husband. If only you’d proved worthy of him.” And why? What good had it done her mother, marrying her brother? She’d been discarded and disgraced. Cast off like the monsters she’d cast from her womb. No, she’d wed no baby brothers—not now, not ever. Only horror arose from that. But there could be some benefit to wedding a man who brought an army.

“I will think it over, Nereus. You did right to bring this to me alone. Let’s keep this idea between the two of us.”

“Of course, my queen,” the old man said, wheezing, as he hobbled from the chamber.

Berenice studied him with cold eyes. With each passing day, her suspicions sharpened. She grew sure that he played up these maladies; beneath that trembling facade lurked a strong and able man. She wished, suddenly, that she hadn’t sent her councilors away. It was worse, by far, to be shorn of them, surrounded only by distant guards. Worse to recall her mother’s shrunken form, the dull smile on her face. At peace—and finally alone.

Younger

A
rsinoe slipped her toes into the fountain’s waters and slid her heels across the stone. Ahead stood Aphrodite, stark naked in white marble with her hands raised over her head, twisting at her long, gold-plaited hair. She crept toward the statue; the best hiding place was behind the pale scallop shell rising at the goddess’s side. Roughly, she shoved her shoulder against the stone and struggled to squeeze the rest of herself in; she was nearly too big to fit. She wouldn’t be a little girl forever. Her limbs would grow and betray her too. Footfalls squelched the grass, and she jammed herself behind the statue.

But the steps didn’t belong to Alexander. Boots—angry even on the dirt—belonged to guards, guards who hunted her still. She’d never escape their pounding. No, she soothed herself, they were merely Berenice’s men. They meant her no harm; she was safe. She counted three pairs of footsteps. Two sounded the standard march, but the final set fell at odd intervals: a stomp answered by a scrape. A gimp, she imagined, dragging a withered leg behind the strong.

A voice, weak and reedy, reached her. “A place like this’ll be full o’ ears.” The words, she felt certain, came from the cripple.

“There are none. I’m sure. The queen favors the menagerie for her walks. The rest will be too busy with preparations for Tryphaena’s funeral.”

She knew that voice. She’d recognize it anywhere, among a thousand crying in the night. It belonged to the fire-bearded guard, her savior from those early days, the one who had brought her dates as she hid beneath her bed—Menelaus. The one who’d told Ganymedes of her plight. Or so she gathered. How else would the eunuch have learned she was alive? And have known to send his cryptic advice?

She strained her ears to hear.

“Yes, I imagine they are. A dead Ptolemy requires a thousand times more care than a living man,” a third voice replied. It was deeper and harsher than the other two. Arsinoe didn’t know it.

“We should act soon. The court is distracted. It will be easy to steal a child from the palace.”

Her friend. His voice comforted her, and his words as well. He spoke of her, of her rescue—he must be speaking of her. What other child might be stolen from the palace? No one would go through such trouble for Alexander. He was nothing; he had no royal blood.

“I don’t wish to be callous, but someone has to ask: is a mere girl worth the risk?” The gimp had caught his breath.

He shouldn’t speak that way. A girl, King Ptolemy’s daughter, even his forgotten one, was worth ten crippled men. Or more. The water sent chills up and down her spine. But she didn’t fidget. “It’s too cold, Arsinoe,” Alexander had told her. “Too cold for outdoor games.” He’d come around in the end.

“I don’t want to lose a hand,” the gimp whined. “You two are young and hearty men, but even a few dozen lashes don’t feel so light on this back of mine.”

“She’s no mere girl. She’s a Ptolemy.” Her Menelaus defended her.

“I know she’s a Ptolemy. But she’s a girl Ptolemy with two brothers, alive and well. What d’you think, Lykos?”

Lykos, “wolf.” That name recalled a dream that stalked Arsinoe’s nights, not once but many times. She shut her eyes to summon it.

“And who’d we give her to, if we get her out?” the gimp went on. “Her mother took the two boys with her; we’ve got no proof that she wants the set.”

There’d been a wolf in the dream, an enormous wolf; she’d never seen a beast that size in waking life. Black as the ocean after a storm. A wolf with gleaming teeth, a bristled tail. A wolf pretending to be a fox.

“Of course she’ll want the girl,” said Menelaus. “She is her mother.”

“Let me ask you, Amadokos,” interjected the wolf. “Have you heard from the Piper’s wife, even once? Have you any proof that we would be thanked for our efforts? I don’t think any of us want to be stuck with a fugitive on our hands.”

No, that wasn’t right. The wolf had been among two foxes: a red one and a white.

“Of course you’d ask that. Why did I expect you to understand natural sympathies?”

The black beast circled the two smaller ones, sniffing, sniffing. Arsinoe had wondered as she slithered,
What does a wolf want to do with foxes?

And her fire-bearded guard—Amadokos, they called him, not Menelaus, as she did—went on: “You’ll be well rewarded when the king returns.”

“You play more to your own sentiment than his. You’ve taken pity on the girl. Don’t let it bring about your death.”

The wisps congealed. The wolf lunged at the fox, tearing its red fur with gnashing teeth.

“But tell me, Amadokos: who will help us in this act? Have you talked to her nurse, at least? We must have a way to slip into the girl’s chambers undisturbed…”

“I’ve not spoken to her servant, no. But I’m certain she’ll be of help.”

The white fox fled.

“And what of Ganymedes? The girl’s tutor. Perhaps he’s given you some insight into our plot?”

“I haven’t discussed it with him directly, but he must know of our plans. I imagine that the king wrote to him as well.”

But he couldn’t flee fast enough. Both foxes, red and white, drenched in blood. The red fox wore her Menelaus’s face.

“Yes, you must be right. His letter to me implied as much.” There was a threat in his voice. “What did he write to you?”

“Don’t answer,” Arsinoe whispered. She knew now why she’d dreamt of a wolf feeding on his friends. It had been of this moment—the gods had sent her this vision, this sight. Lykos would kill them both.
Don’t answer,
she repeated in her head, louder, as loudly as she could. Her mind shouted. But not loudly enough.

“Merely that he felt confident that Pompey would back his claim,” her friend replied. “And that his forces had overcome Dio and his men.”

“And where would one so low as you keep such a kingly letter?” The tone had transformed into poison. She could hear the gimp’s sloppy paces creeping back. But the deep-voiced man would ignore him. He was not the prize. “I suppose it would be on your person. There’s no safer place.”

“I’d watch your words if I were you.”

“And I’d think twice before I betrayed the queen.”

A scramble of hard steps. Arsinoe couldn’t see the men, but she shut her eyes just the same. She wished she could shut her ears against the sound as well. But her sightlessness heightened her other senses. The clash of steel on steel, the gulp of steel on flesh. The fire-bearded guard’s cry, the thud of his body against the earth. And the gimp, leg dragging through the yellowed grass, and then his begging words.

“I got no letter from the king—from the imposter, I mean. I haven’t done nothing, nothing at all. Take me before the queen—anything. Jus’ let me live.”

It sickened her to hear these pleas, a grown man weeping for his life. “Be strong,” she whispered to the wind. She had been; she would be. And a sword splicing through skin, a cry of anguish, and then a moan, a low, unearthly cry, that filled the air long after the man had drawn his final breath. She listened as the murderer circled about his kills, as he checked their weapons, as his steps faded in retreat.

Her eyes opened on stillness. Shivering, she crept out from behind Aphrodite’s legs. Her gaze fixed on the fountain’s waters, the circles upon circles upon circles that her toes formed with each step. But she couldn’t keep her eyes innocent forever. She looked up. The vision made her gasp.

Her guard lay strewn against the earth; his blood stained the yellow grass. His eyes, blue as crystals, stared unblinking at the sun. With artful steps—she didn’t drop her heels; it was bad luck to wake the dead, and worse still, to wake those she’d murdered in her sleep—Arsinoe approached the corpse. She’d seen Achilles’s corpse—and many others too these past moons—but none like this, none near enough to touch. Robes dripping, she knelt beside the body, and her fingers slid his eyelids shut.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything. I’m sorry.”

She wished she had a coin to slip beneath his tongue, so she’d know that he could pay the rower’s fare. That was how the common folk made their way to the reaches of the underworld: aboard Charon’s boat across the River Styx. Tryphaena would not need a coin. Her body would be bathed and beautified before her burial, but no one would take such kind care of her friend. The first one, the only one, who’d tried to help her after her father fled.

Her eyes welled with tears, but she wiped them away in anger. “Many men will die for you,” Ganymedes had told her. The fire-bearded guard was not the first; he wouldn’t be the last. But much as she urged herself to be hard, steadfast, she lingered by the dead man’s side and clasped his cooling hands in hers. She pressed a kiss on his forehead, as she’d seen Cleopatra do once years ago, when they’d visited a home for the dying. She wondered what her sister would do now, in her place. What there was to do other than kiss—and weep. Then her eyes searched out the body of his friend.