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The eunuch stilled his quaking. He never got caught up in emotions for too long, not the way she did. Eyes fixed on hers, he bowed. Deep and graceful. A dancer’s bow. As a child, Berenice used to think he could have been a dancer in a different life. Now she’d given him the chance in this one. From the smallest archway, he met her gaze once more.

“When you catch a man in a lie, it’s only because he’s already fooled you with a thousand others,” Pieton said stiffly. “That Archelaus is no son of Mithradates. He is no enemy of Rome. And he is no fit consort.”

“Another word, eunuch,” she spat, “and I’ll change my mind and have your head upon a spike, balls or no.”

Fury blinded her once the eunuch left her presence. She’d blindly relied on his advice for too long. After her mother’s death, he’d been the closest thing she had to family. Softness lay in that. And even now, she knew she couldn’t steel herself enough to order his death.

Slowly, she became aware of her other councilors: Thais trembling his quill over his inkpot, and Nereus nodding slowly, though she couldn’t tell if the gesture came from weariness or agreement. Dryton watched her with removed interest, one finger leisurely tapping at his chin.

“Thais.”

“Y-yes, my queen?” He shook so violently that she feared he’d wet himself. Or perhaps jolt the inkpot from its stand. At least that would break the tension.

She asked the question as simply as she could: “Is Archelaus the son of Mithradates, or is he not?”

Thais looked to Nereus for aid, but the old man made no move to rescue him: his own situation was far too precarious for heroism. Her shaky minister of lands gasped and spoke so quickly that Berenice strained to separate his words.

“He’s not, my queen, the son of Mithradates—nor did I claim he was. The eun—um, the—it seems that all known sons of Mithradates are accounted for—and dead.”

“Then why did you trot him out all spiced for the slaughter?” An image rose to her mind in sour satisfaction: Thais’s tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back, his neck a bloody stump mounted on a spear.

“He—he is, however, by all accounts, the
grandson
of Mithradates, my queen,” Thais explained, tripping over his words. “His mother, it seems, was one Eupatra, a daughter that Mithradates sired on his concubine Metis. And his father, his trueborn father, is said to be Archelaus, the general to Mithradates.”

So he’d traded a father for a grandfather. A pragmatic lie. Not a fatal one.

A knock sounded against the stone. If the eunuch dared return—

“My queen.” The servant’s voice was muffled against the ivory. “There is a messenger from Ephesus. I didn’t wish to disturb you, but he insisted it was urgent.”

News from Ephesus meant news of her father, and that was not the sort of news that would wait.

“Let him enter.”

A winded youth emerged between two guards. When they loosened their grip on his shoulders, the child tumbled toward the ground, catching himself with his wrists before springing back up. Dazed, he blinked a half dozen times. When he finally managed to open his mouth, his words rushed forth.

“My master sent me here at once. He said I could put this letter in your hands alone, no one else’s.” He panted, clutching a piece of parchment.

“Who’s your master, boy?”

The child trembled. “I—I’m not to say.”

Is that how you address your queen?
Pieton’s words were still imprinted in her ears. Even when she dismissed him, Berenice couldn’t rid herself of his counsel.

“Think, next time, how you speak to a queen,” she snapped. “Come. Discharge your duty. Hand me the letter.”

On dainty steps, the boy crossed over Dionysus’s attendant satyrs. He eyed the leopard warily as though he feared it might spring to life. He knelt as he handed over the letter.

Red Artemis, head high, drew her bow across her chest. The mark of the Ephesian priests—that didn’t bode well. Berenice cracked the goddess in two and read: “Queen Berenice the Shining One, I write at great peril to my person. Pompey has overturned the Senate’s decrees. He has given the governor of Syria leave to send his men in aid of your father. The Piper sails to Antioch to join him at once. Please forgive me if I sign only, a friend.”

A friend.
What friends did she have in Ephesus? The Piper must have made his enemies there, even as he bought back his Roman allies. She’d been lulled by the soothing tidings from Judea, by the fact that no legions had crossed her borders. But in the end, the Republic would support her father, and send its men reeling against her phalanxes. Weeks, perhaps even months, might go by, but the battle would descend on Alexandria. Berenice thought of all the grain she’d stored, of all the men she’d gathered to recapture Cyprus. They’d die fighting Rome here instead. And perhaps she would die with them. She bit her lip and swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth.

“Leave us, boy.”

The messenger nearly ran to escape the atrium, as though its very air was poisoned. Perhaps it was. This day had brought its share of misfortunes.

“What news, my queen?” anxious Thais asked. “What news from Ephesus?”

“No matter of great concern.”
It cannot be. Not yet.
She would not breathe a word of this to anyone.

Berenice took in the faces that remained: Thais, pretty Dryton, world-weary Nereus. A fresh fury erupted as she gazed at the last, his fingers worrying away at his throat. She needed someone else to turn on. “Nereus, you’ve remained rather silent on this matter of my marriage.”

The old man looked up in surprise, but recovered himself with another tug at his whiskers. “In such delicate topics”—he cast a withering look at Thais—“old men know it’s best to show reticence.”

Berenice shook her head. Those had been the wrong words. “I don’t recall
reticence
as your defining quality when last it came time for me to wed.”

“My queen, what the eunuch—”

“It makes no difference. A casual observation, nothing more.” She smiled. “Don’t concern yourself with lofty goals of reticence. I beg your opinion: what do you make of Archelaus? What is your opinion on Thais’s accounting of his lineage?” She tried to see the brighter side: Nereus might even prove more valuable to her now that she knew in which directions his treachery lay. Selene was dead, and Seleucus too, while the Piper remained very much alive. Alive and leading a Roman army. She and Nereus might well be stuck with each other.

“His accounting matches my own,” the old man answered. “I’ve no reason to believe that this young Archelaus is not the son of that Archelaus the Pontic general, and the grandson of Mithradates on his mother’s side.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Her eyes wandered from Nereus to Thais to Dryton. Each dodged her gaze. Thais pored over his account of Archelaus’s gifts, and Nereus pulled nervously at the skin around his throat. Even Dryton managed to busy himself by fixedly adjusting his signet ring. They’d all tread warily for some time now.

“I’m glad you agree, Nereus.” Berenice grinned, too wildly. No one would dare voice an objection. And it was this news from Ephesus, she reminded herself, that pushed her hand. Even though she planned to tell no one of the tidings, word would spread. The palace wasn’t renowned for keeping secrets. She needed to wed Archelaus before he realized what war he might be wedding. “It promises to be a good union, this joining of the Houses of Ptolemy and Mithradates.”

“M-my queen,” the old man stuttered. “Are you certain—”

“What happened to your reticence on delicate matters of the heart?” Her mind cleared and she rushed to cover her words.
Matters of the heart?
What drivel had worked its way into her speech? She could not—would not—let whatever slight tenderness she might have felt for Archelaus cloud her judgment. He had a handsome face—nothing more. He also had horses and soldiers. Those were what she cared about. “Dryton, you are now my minister of coin. Make preparations for the royal marriage. I’ll wed within the week.”

That afternoon Berenice set out for Antirrhodos to clear her head, taking a skiff to cross the small harbor that separated the abandoned palace from its fellows. Her suitors and their entourages choked the other royal lodges and their gardens, but no one stayed out on these forgotten banks. The palace had fallen quickly into disrepair after its builder’s ignominious death, and it was too removed from the goings-on of Alexandria to hold much appeal for her visitors and their men. That was what she loved about the island, which was disturbed only by the few priests of the Isis temple and the flagging sphinxes that lined the remnants of its main avenue. Beyond these gasps of civilization, her father’s menagerie had dwindled—only the giraffes lingered, and a few scuttling peahens—but there was no better spot to clear her head. Eyes closed, she could even imagine herself alone. Or imagine how it might feel to be alone.

Emergence’s blushing hues had become bright Harvest greens. Even in Alexandria, where rain fell from time to time, the Nile’s flood still left its mark. Last year, Berenice had been able to see through the trees during this season, but now the leaves grew thick, and she could imagine herself in some wilderness of Ethiopia. Through the overgrown foliage, she spotted a glint of marble, a monument to Hathor, the horned cow goddess of the ancients. For generations, her forefathers had tended to the shrine to varying degrees, and as she climbed toward its apex, an idea sprang to mind: once she’d achieved her victory, she would build her new palace here, upon the stones of the overlooked lodges of Ptolemy Alexander, the ill-fated brother of Ptolemy the Savior. She used to worry that the land carried curses—the furies of forgotten gods—but that was a child’s nightmare, not a queen’s.

Behind her, a branch snapped. Alarmed, she spun around. Her guards walked as silent as the desert night. They were born trappers from Ammon or thereabouts, stalkers by nature. Their feet didn’t know how to take a misplaced step.

“My queen.” Archelaus sank to one knee. How quick he was to assume a position of supplication. But Berenice didn’t think it sprang from weakness. It stemmed from some deeper game he played. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He did disturb her, though she hated to admit it. The look of him, his playful smiles and disarming eyes—she could feel a bead of sweat gathering between her breasts. Her hands trembled. An unfamiliar sentiment lurked in the wake of his lingering glances. The blood rushing to her face named it “desire.” Flustered, Berenice willed herself to walk away, but her feet remained firmly planted in the grass.

“I meant what I said earlier.” His tone was quiet, almost musical. “You do remind me of my father reborn.”

It was a strange thing to say a second time: that she reminded him of a doomed man. His father, no less. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended.

“You may drop the ruse now.” Berenice kept her voice cold. She wouldn’t be taken in by his act—and it must be, she chided herself, an act.

“What do you mean?”

“I know that Mithradates wasn’t your father. You couldn’t have thought I wouldn’t tease out the truth.”

“I do not—”

“Hush.” She placed her finger over his lips, and then drew it away at once, as though she’d touched something scorching hot. “It doesn’t make a difference to me whether he was your father or your grandfather. But I won’t be made a fool.”

“I’m glad to hear that, then.” His eyes bored into her, and she turned away. “I would never want to cause you displeasure. I do envy you your parentage.”

She choked back a laugh. “You are full of odd compliments for the woman you want to wed.”

It was better to speak to him like this, with her back to him, when she didn’t have to look upon his face, and guard against his hungry gaze.

“Would you rather I praised your eyes and your lips, your neck and thighs?” His sandals crunched on the sapling grass. “That I tell you you’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen, that your face would launch a second thousand ships, that Aphrodite herself would pale before your beauty?”

“Then I’d call you a liar. I know there’s little enough in my face to praise. But I can’t imagine why you compare me to a man who fought Rome and died for it.”

More footfalls. Soft steps, mindful ones.

“I didn’t mean to recall his history, but his essence. Did you ever chance to meet Mithradates of Pontus?”

All at once, he was behind her, scant inches from her flesh. His breath was hot against her neck. She dared not move or breathe. All thoughts of reason fled.

“There was a quality to him, an intangible quality. Some say it was his bearing, others say it was his spirit, but either way there was a spark in him, an ethereal and undeniable spark, that made other men eager to follow. And I see the same in you. What greater compliment is there than that?” Boldly, he ran a finger through her hair, along the tender edge of her ear.

“I don’t inspire easy confidence in men.” She stepped back to face him. To keep his hands at bay. “The confidence they have in me is earned, hard and rough and coarse. You don’t know me, Archelaus of Comana.”

“No, Berenice.” Her name danced upon his lips. “I can’t claim to know you, but I’d very much like to.”