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She channeled her fears into rage. “That’s your plan, then? Your brilliant strategy? To wait, impotent, as Rome seizes our eastern stronghold? To do nothing until the dogs snap at our flanks?”

Once roused, she could cling to this fury. It might shield her from all else. By sheer force of will, Tryphaena had forced the world off its axis. Perhaps Berenice would do the same.

“My queen.” Dryton’s voice was brusque. “What else would you have us do? Gabinius has sixty thousand soldiers at his command. By the time he marches from Antioch to Pelusium, he’ll have added ten thousand more to those. These men under your husband’s command”—he gestured to the would-be soldiers clashing with their mock enemies—“they can’t win a battle against rested legions. Let the Romans tire themselves out fighting farmers. Their slow march will buy us time. Weeks, perhaps…”

“Weeks before what?” Berenice glared at Dryton, but he refused to meet her eye. “Weeks before
what?
”

“Before your men would have to fight…” Her adviser stared out over the practice field to where it met the sea, as if the answer lay in its depths.

“And then what, Dryton? What will happen when, outnumbered three to one, they face Rome’s hardened soldiers? Will these weeks of practice make a difference?”

“I’ve seen worse men win under worse odds.”

“Don’t lie to me. I can’t stand it when men lie.” Her tone was final, and Dryton fell silent. He had no gibe for that.

Across the field, her husband galloped to join his recruits. He took an astonishing interest in each set of men. With every arriving wave, Archelaus would divide them into small groups for exercises based on their skills and weaknesses, as if they were sons of kings, not lowly arrow marks. Perhaps they’d fight better if they believed themselves sons of kings. Berenice didn’t know what swayed men’s minds in battle, though the gods knew that she wished she did.

As she watched Archelaus throw a spear into the straw target at the center, she felt that she hardly knew her husband at all. Had he been plotting with Dryton? He must have been: her minister of coin would hardly have proposed such a plan without talking to her general first. Fifteen thousand men, her husband had promised. But she’d never seen more than three thousand. She wanted to hate him for this, for his failings. But no matter how clear they were in her eyes, she could not stoke her anger against him—not fully.

“Mithradatou,”
the recruits cried out to greet their king. He was, in truth, no more than their consort; Berenice had seen to that. But on the battlefield he ruled. Son of Mithradates.

That same lie again.
When you catch a man in a lie, it’s only because he’s already fooled you with a thousand others.
Pieton’s words came back to haunt her.
But he cares for you,
a small, soft voice whispered.
He wouldn’t betray you.
Had she been a fool to trust Archelaus? To marry her fate to his?

No. The fault lay with her advisers. They should have taken other measures to ensure that his men arrived. Nereus knew the treacheries of Poseidon better than anyone—he should have predicted that some ships might be lost this time of year, especially ships commanded by the landlocked men of Comana.

And what did she know of Dryton, her newly cast minister of coin, who always had a sneer on his face? That he was Nereus’s nephew, either by birth or marriage, but little else. What did she know of any of these men who claimed to serve, to advise, to fight? Archelaus, for all his faults, she knew. She knew his touch and his body and his breath. She knew his heavy arms wrapped around her in the morning and his fierce kisses at night. If she couldn’t trust that, the steady beating of his heart by hers, what could she trust? And so, each afternoon, she rode down to the battlements, watching and worrying. If she wished it hard enough, and held her breath, and said her prayers, surely they’d begin to improve. But it was no use. For all her waiting, Berenice saw no progress.

That evening, when Archelaus, sweating and stinking, came to her, she turned away, shunning his embrace. Even after weeks of warmth and kindness, she still expected him to tear her legs open as Seleucus would have, to force himself on her and remind her with blood and seed that he was still a man. But Archelaus made no move to hurt her. Instead, she felt his body ease beside hers on the bed. Time twitched onward until its marching grew too much for her to bear.

“Did you intend to tell me?” Her voice stayed even. She stared fixedly at the far wall. In the corner of her eye, she caught her reflection and winced.

“Did I intend to tell you what?”

“About your secret plot with Dryton.”

“What plot is this?” he asked, so gently that she looked back at him. To check his face for deceit. But Archelaus looked as he always did, except his eyes wrinkled with concern.

“That you planned no defense against my father and the Roman legions that march on Pelusium,” she answered crisply. “That you meant to stand idly by as my people were slaughtered and my fields were ravaged.”

“
Our
people.
Our
fields,” he stressed. He held her in his steady gaze; it made her cheeks burn, even now. She hated that. She should have fled from it at once, this power he had over her. “And no, I don’t plan to stand idly by. I plan to fight once the recruits are ready.”

They would never be ready. She watched each day, and no matter how much they loved their general, that love didn’t transmute into better target practice. “And will that be before or after Gabinius captures Alexandria?”

“You must have patience, my dear.” Archelaus stroked her hair tenderly. “Soldiers are not molded in a day.”

Berenice pulled away from his touch. “Don’t talk down to me, Archelaus. You won’t like how I respond.”

She sat bolt straight, tough as stone, and stared at him, his soft curls and dark eyes. He wasn’t so different from Seleucus, nor from any man. He merely tried to wrench her kingdom in another way, through gentleness and caresses. She had been soft to trust him. How her mother would have cursed this incipient weakness that gripped Berenice’s throat and settled in her chest.

“What happened to the men you promised me? Fifteen thousand of your city’s soldiers? Perhaps they wouldn’t need so much training.”

“My love, the storms—”

“Don’t lie to me about storms. If my father’s ships could pass unhindered, why couldn’t yours?” She knew her question was unfair. Her father had merely sailed along the coast from Ephesus to Antioch, not across the depths of the waves.

“Berenice.” Her name sounded so sweet on his tongue. He always spoke it slowly, as though savoring each morsel. “What else can I say but the truth: I wouldn’t lie to you. I love you.”

“We didn’t wed for
love.
” She spoke the word with disgust, as though its very mention might taint her.

Archelaus arched his brow in interest. “Didn’t we? Tell me, Berenice: what then compelled you to choose me? You might have waited longer. There would have been other men, better men, men with greater armies than I could ever offer. Even if every ship had sailed safely across the waves.”

No, not for love,
she repeated to herself—who else would listen? But she had to admit that foolishness had played into her choice. There’d been something in his looks, his manner, that pleased her. Something in the way he spoke to her that made her eager to be near him. That still did. She’d never felt that way about a man before. She couldn’t dwell on it.

“We wed because I needed a consort. Your timing was favorable, and your birth…” She didn’t mention the doubts cast upon his lineage. It didn’t matter if he was the son of Mithradates, or his grandson, or his servant’s cousin. It only mattered that the men revered him as though he was. She’d enough royal blood for both of them. Just not enough soldiers.

“Your shame flatters you. You didn’t want to wed for—”

“I wed to protect my kingdom.” Berenice’s anger flared. He had no claim on her—no one did. She would not be weak in this. “If you don’t know that, then you’ve never heard a word I’ve said. You don’t know me at all. And now I ask you: how do we stop the Roman army?”

She stared at him hard. His eyes darted off to the side before he returned her gaze. A tell, a slip. Her father had taught it to her long ago, when he was still sober enough to explain the rules of dice and the other games that swallowed up his nights.
Don’t look to see how a man rolls: his eyes will tell you so much more.
How she’d trusted her father then. She’d been eager to drink in his words as proof of love.

“I know Gabinius better than he knows himself,” Archelaus avowed, holding her eye. “I spent two seasons feasting and fighting at his side. He’ll march on Pelusium, and when he takes it with ease, he’ll grow cocky. He’s beloved by his men, and he’ll let them run wild after a victory. They’ll drink too much, and fuck too much, and raid too much. And then, in time, weary with merriment, they’ll cross the Nile’s mouths to take Alexandria. And there, in the swamps, our men will battle the oncoming horde, and emerge muddy and triumphant.”

Her furies quieted. It was a plan, maybe even a good one. And who could predict Gabinius’s movements better than her husband? That intimate understanding had value too—as much as soldiers and gold. Berenice’s burning fury cooled. Perhaps she hadn’t been so foolish after all.

“Our men will fight better along the swamps than the Romans will,” she allowed. “And we might make use of our advantage on the sea.”

Heartened, Archelaus went on, almost cheerfully. “Precisely, my queen. Your father and Gabinius are confident that we’ll meet them on the dry lands between Antioch and Pelusium. They won’t be prepared to fight us in the swamps. And there we won’t hand them their victory on a platter.”

Their victory.
Berenice’s heart thudded and then slowed. She understood the second meaning of those words: even her husband didn’t believe that she could hold the throne. But he was wrong. He didn’t know how long she’d fought, how hard she could be. He knew only her softness, as she knew his. And so she didn’t flare and rail against him as she would have against Dryton or Thais, if the latter ever dared object to a word she said. She leaned over and gently kissed Archelaus on the lips. He had nothing more to say that she needed to hear.

Dryton didn’t receive such pleasant treatment. As the weeks passed, Berenice refused to offer him either punishment or reprieve. She instead picked pliant Thais as the adviser to dog her steps and check up on the progress of her soldiers. She was weary of men with strong beliefs and hidden agendas. Thais had no beliefs, or at least none that he was bold enough to voice. And when the reports came in, one after another—“The Romans have reached Jerusalem”; “The Romans have reached Rinokoloura”; “The Romans have taken Pelusium”—he offered no opinion beyond a sad shrug of his bony shoulders. It was acknowledgment of what they both knew: that he could hardly be expected to put on a brave front. Whereas Pieton would have cursed and Dryton would have slammed his fist against some stone, Thais remained steady and laconic. “It’ll turn out in the end, my queen.”

As another afternoon drained into evening, Berenice asked for Leda to attend her. The old nurse beamed brightly, honored by the task. Of late, Berenice had been favoring Merytmut. The girl had served as the first midwife of Berenice’s strength; perhaps she might help her tame this second husband too. But Leda, as was her wont, had grown jealous and protective, murmuring jabs about Upper Egyptian rebels each chance she got.

“Run a bath with scented oils, Leda,” Berenice told her loudly. The woman’s hearing wasn’t what it once was.

The old maid’s hands trembled as she scrubbed Berenice’s back; her fingers had lost much of their nimbleness. Tangles that had once unraveled with a look now required earnest tugging.

“Leda, what do you make of the coming war?” Berenice asked, feigning carelessness, as though she had merely asked after the arrival of olive oil from the south. “What chance does my husband stand in battle?”

“In—in battle, my queen?” Leda stammered. The woman might advise on men easily enough, but she knew better than to involve herself in politics.

Berenice wished for the other sort of confidence, though—confidences from a wife, a woman. As her father’s army neared, she found herself filled with a tenderness toward Archelaus, no matter how she tried to quench it. She wanted to be at his side in peace as in war. Was she looking for absolution, then—for a reason to call Archelaus to her? How her mother would have sneered that she sought justification for weakness from her nurse. Like some child in changing clothes. Berenice shook her head in disgust. “Never mind, Leda. It doesn’t matter.”

The nurse looked at her intensely, as though she might be able to read her mistress’s mind. Berenice could make out the shadow of the young woman, the girl Leda must have been. Hers had been a thoughtful face once, with no small hint of beauty.

“Men who win on the battlefield must first win in the bedroom,” her servant told her quietly.

And there it was—her pardon. She could summon her husband not for herself, not from any desire to sleep once more, while time was left, with the one man she’d ever cared for. No, there was a grander purpose: he needed her for victory. She would sacrifice her body. Her machinations sounded pathetic. She had grasped at straws and Leda had handed her one.