The Princess of Egypt Must Die (6 page)

We kiss. It is soft. It is sweet. I breathe him in.

And when we break apart, he says, "Thank you for that. Now, nothing can hurt me. You're already breathing for me, Arsinoë. I'm already half gone."

When the rooster crows, we go out into the warm spring morning, where a platform is being erected for the execution. It takes longer than it should for my husband's harem, all his children and all of the most important nobles to assemble. Then we wait beneath blooming almond trees that weep pink and white flower petals down upon us.

King Lysimachus is solemn. This is his fault, I think. Men like him. Men like my father. Men who marry so many wives and make so many children that we must compete for attention, for power and for survival. But it isn't
only
his fault. Prince Agathocles played his part. So did his sister. Now these monsters sit here to watch the murder of their own brother.

The soldiers lead Cassander onto the wooden platform. His hands are tied behind his back and I feel the cords cutting into my own wrists. When the executioner places a knotted rope around his neck, my throat aches. Cassander doesn't move. He stares straight at me—and my heart batters against my ribcage. I want to run to him, even if it means my own death. The pain cannot be worse than losing him; let them plunge knives into both of us.

But Cassander's eyes beseech me to live for him; it is a horrible choice.

The king nods to the executioner and Cassander blows out his last breath.

The springtime breeze carries it my way and I gasp, filling my lungs. I hold it inside me as the executioner twists the rope, cutting off Cassander's air.

My beloved begins to strangle. As I watch, I squeeze my hands into fists, wanting nothing more than to pummel the executioner and make him stop. I want to save Cassander. I'm desperate for him to live. Then, as Cassander's lips begin to turn blue and his eyes bulge in agony, I want nothing more than for him to die.

Die. Die swiftly. Be free of these pains! Be free of this world and its betrayals.

Then I know that I'm wrong. If Cassander lives inside me now, he'll never die. For as I watch them murder him, I make this solemn vow.

I will have revenge.

I will have revenge on King Lysimachus. I will have revenge upon Prince Agathocles and his sister. I will destroy each and every one of them. I will see them suffer. From this day forward, no one—not even Lysandra, wherever she is now—will ever hurt me, or anyone I love, without paying a price. And I will make that price steep. My enemies will pay in blood.

Rivers of blood.

For I have Cassander's breath inside me. To hurt me now is to hurt
him
too, and I'll defend him with the ferocity of a hippopotamus.

Until now, I've been only that soft-hearted Princess of Egypt who did not want to listen to her mother's warnings. I’ve been that fool of a girl who did not want to see rivals or learn to play political games. That girl, that princess, dies with Cassander. She
must
die.

For today I'm born anew.

Today I'm born a
true
queen...and an avenger. My rivals will learn to fear me. They will tremble at the sound of my name. And when I've destroyed them, I'll take those dreams I had on the banks of the Nile and make them true.
Somehow
, I'll make them true.

For Cassander, I will return to Egypt.

I
will
become Pharaoh.

And we will
both
live forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Based on the life of Queen Arsinoë II who was born into the Greek-Macedonian Ptolemaic Dynasty that ruled Egypt, this story imagines an explanation for the ruthless woman who would become one of history's greatest survivors.

Except for Cassander, I based all the characters upon known historical figures. King Lysimachus would go on to lose the support of his people—in part—for murdering a son. That's what gave me the germ of my story idea.

It took Arsinoë years, but she eventually
destroyed
the royal family of Thrace. Later, she returned to Egypt, became queen and was anointed Pharaoh in her own right. She planned victorious wars. She won an Olympic medal for horse harnessing. And she was deified as an incarnation of the goddess Isis, whom the Greeks believed was the eternal goddess of spring.

She was also an ancestral heroine of Cleopatra Selene, another Egyptian princess who is the stars in my award-winning historical fantasy series based on the truth life story of Cleopatra’s daughter. LILY OF THE NILE, the full length-novel that started the series is available in all bookstores and e-book retailers but you can start reading it now by turning the page.

LILY OF THE NILE

Chapter One

Something coiled dangerously within the basket I carried, but I’d been told not to open the lid nor to ask what lurked beneath its woven reeds. The basket smelled of comforting cedar and lush figs, but it was embroidered with emblems of Anubis—the jackal-headed Guide of the Dead.

Anubis was a kind god, so I should have taken solace, but seeing him only magnified my sense of dread. Since we’d lost the war, Alexandria was quiet and filled with ill omens.

I had once been the safest child in Egypt, but the world held terrors everywhere for me now, and the twisting motion in the basket convinced me that I held treachery in my arms. I came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the avenue, beneath a marble colonnade that cast dusk shadows over the silent street. “I don’t want to carry the basket anymore,” I said.

“Sometimes we have to do what we don’t want to, Princess Selene,” our royal tutor said, daring to nudge me forward with his divination staff. That he’d poked me offended my royal dignity, but I knew better than to chastise Euphronius, for the old wizard was unusually anxious that day. The metallic scent of dark magic clung to his white linen kilt and wafted behind him as he hurried us along. He kept glancing back at the Roman guards who accompanied us at a barely respectful distance, and even though the sun was low and the evening cool, perspiration glistened on his bald head.

Euphronius lifted my littlest brother, Philadelphus, into his arms and urged us to walk faster. “Let’s hurry before Octavian changes his mind about letting you see your mother.”

I tried to keep pace, but the basket was unbearably heavy and my silvered sandal caught on the hem of my pearl-beaded gown. I heard the fabric tear but managed to regain my footing, albeit with a complaint. “I could walk faster if a servant carried the basket. Why should I have to?”

After all, I wasn’t just a princess of Egypt. Wasn’t I also queen of all Cyrenaica and Libya? I wore a royal diadem embroidered with pearls upon my brow. Why should I carry anything for myself much less something that frightened me?

“I’ll carry it for you,” my twin brother offered.

But Euphronius waved Helios away. “Princess Selene, your mother wanted
you
to bring the basket as an offering to your father. Will you dishonor Lord Antony by failing to provide for what remains of his soul in this world?”

Our wizard needn’t have used the blunt cudgel of guilt; the reminder that my mother had commanded me was enough to make me obey, but his mention of my dead father plunged me into a grief-stricken silence.
My poor, disgraced father
.

I first met him when I was four years old. He’d worn a sword on his belt, a tall horsehair-crested helmet, and sculpted armor beneath a bloodred cape; he’d terrified me. When his studded military sandals first thundered on the marbled floors, I’d cowered and cried. My mother had scooped me into her arms and told me not to fear, for my father had gifts for me and my twin, and a marriage proposal for her. The Romans were our friends and protected us, she had said.

But now I knew she had lied.

When the
real
Romans came—for that’s what Octavian’s men called themselves—they came to conquer. When the
real
Romans came, not even my father with his mighty sword could protect us, and unable to live with this failure, he plunged that mighty sword into his stalwart heart.

Now, without him, everything was crumbling. Our palace was overrun by enemy soldiers, my two oldest brothers were missing, and my mother was a captive. All I could do was stumble along behind our tutor, silenced by the enormity of our loss.

Conquered Alexandria’s spacious streets were empty. Only the awnings of the marketplace stood as a colorful reminder of the usual bustle of its merchants. Even the gold-domed temples were deserted and I wondered if the gods had abandoned us too.

“Where is everyone?” little Philadelphus asked.

“They fled,” Euphronius said curtly as we passed the rows of statuary inside the royal enclosure. “The people fled when they heard Octavian’s legions were coming. Those who stayed have shut themselves up in their homes, doors locked and bolted.”

“So only statues stand bravely before the Romans,” Helios said, and I felt him bristle. My twin’s dark mood made mine even blacker. With my heavy basket, I trudged up the marble stairs, unable to swish my skirts in the royal fashion I had practiced. There were no crowds to wave to me now anyway. We had come to my mother’s tomb where she had hidden from Octavian, but he had found her. Now it was virtually her prison.

Euphronius approached the Roman guards. “Queen Cleopatra’s children are here to see her. The honorable Octavian gave his permission.”

One of the guards searched Euphronius. He actually put his unclean hands on our wizard’s holy person. I watched, aghast, trying to ignore the curious motion within the basket, an echo of the fear that snaked around my heart. Then the ill-mannered Roman guard approached me and I held my basket out to him, hoping he’d reach inside. Hoping that whatever evil spirit lurked there would fly out and strike him dead!

But the guard sniffed dismissively and waved me through like a peasant. It was the first time, but not the last time, I realized how easily Romans discounted a girl. Of course, my mother had learned that lesson long ago.

We found my mother in her tomb beside a wax statue of my father. She was setting out a meal for his
ka
, as if she were but a humble wife, and not Cleopatra, Pharaoh of Egypt.

Where my skin was fair, hers was a sun-kissed copper, befitting a ruler of a desert nation. Her hair was a curious mixture; dark strands shot through with bronze. And though her features were indelicate, her coloring was that of a golden goddess. Millions of people believed that she was just that—Isis reborn.

Candlelight glittered off the gilded walls of the tomb to surround her with an ethereal glow and for a moment, I thought she was working magic on my father’s statue. The common folk said that statues imbued with
ka
could be brought to life, but Euphronius had told us the rest of my father’s soul must pass through the gates into the next life, and my mother had agreed.

Now she turned to us with an expression of otherworldly serenity, which only added to my alarm, for serenity was never one of my mother’s famed characteristics. She bid her servants Iras and Charmian to take the basket from me, and I surrendered it eagerly. Then she opened her arms wide. “Come.”

We ran to her.

“The soldiers are everywhere!” Philadelphus wept, for he was only six years old, and frightened.

“Don’t cry,” Helios commanded.

“It’s all right,” my mother said, gently running her fingers over my little brother’s tearstained cheeks. “Kings and queens cry with family. Hide your grief from subjects and strangers.”

“The Romans won’t tell us anything,” I said, fighting back tears of my own. “Where’s Caesarion? Where’s Antyllus? What of our cousin, Petubastes? They’re all gone from the palace!”