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“You should’ve come out the first time I called.”

The Seleucid grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her up until she stood.

“Tell me, child, and tell me true: what did you hear?”

“I—I heard nothing,” she stammered.

“You are quite the little liar,” he spat. “What a knack you have for catching conversations that were better left unheard.” He hit her hard across the face. Her head spun as she fell, and she could taste the hot iron of blood. She watched his fist recoil, the ring that had split her lip dripping red.

“I don’t—I didn’t hear a word. I promise you.” Her words swirled, as though her swelling mouth had grown too big for them.

“Oh, you promise, do you? And what, Nereus, do you make of the child’s promises? Should we trust them?”

The old man said nothing; he wouldn’t even meet her eye. He wouldn’t protect her, then. He didn’t care if she lived or died.

“What ails you?” her attacker sneered at Nereus. “True, we didn’t wish to be overheard, but this is a stroke of luck, if we merely turn it to our favor.”

“I don’t know what’s taught in Antioch,” the old man replied, “but in Alexandria it’s considered poor form to play with one’s food.”

“Oh, yes, you vaunted Alexandrians have quite the reputation for manners and civility. No doubt that’s why they so often murder your kings.”

Arsinoe stilled her breath; she ignored the stabbing behind her eyes, the aching of her jaw. Perhaps the men would fight each other first. It wouldn’t buy much time—the old man wouldn’t hold out long. But even a small distraction might be enough to allow her to flee to more peopled grounds.

“Don’t think about trying to escape.” The younger man stepped on her wrist, digging his boot into her skin. Arsinoe shrieked in pain. “You’ll not leave until I’ve finished with you.”

“I haven’t heard anything. I promise you.” In her terror, she repeated her words as if on a spool, the same piece of wool spun over and over again. “I promise you. I haven’t heard anything. I won’t repeat a word. Not any of it.”

“Not any of what?” he mocked. “I thought you said you didn’t hear a word.”

“I—I—I didn’t.” She hated when she stammered.

This time, it was his boot that came slamming toward her face. She rolled to the side, letting it smash against her stomach instead. The pain pulsed angrily in her chest, her head, her wrist. And then, finally, Arsinoe thought to scream.

“Shut your mouth!” he yelled over her screams. “Shut up!”

And still her voice carried on the wind. He grabbed her tunic’s neck and yanked her to her feet. His blade kissed her throat, and she fell quiet. She dug her teeth into her lips to keep from crying out.

“There.” He grinned. His teeth were mossy. His breath stank. “That’s better.”

“Enough,” Nereus snapped. His eyes squinted around the grove. “You’ve scared her. Now let her go.”

“What good will that do? You’re too soft, old man. Too soft. What tales Selene once told of you…your great bravery. Be grateful she’s passed on to the next world. She’d be shamed to see what a craven fool you’ve turned out to be.”

Seleucus’s man shoved Arsinoe against her tree, her favorite laurel. His forearm knocked her shoulders into the bark. Her blood throbbed against the dagger. And so this would be the end. Here she would meet her death.

A cry of agony. His—not her own. And the knife dropped away. Arsinoe collapsed beside it. The Seleucid flung his arm against a boy.

“Get your hands off her,” yelled Alexander, who’d been struck to the ground. He’d come to rescue her. But when the man spun around to face her friend, she realized that she’d been a fool to hope. The Seleucid dwarfed Alexander in height and breadth—there was no chance of an even fight. She tried to shout out, to warn the boy, but her voice caught in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nereus moving toward her. A boot smashed against her temple, and she saw only black.

Feathers danced on the breeze. She flew over the river’s banks. Past the stone sphinxes of Thebes and the great pyramids of Memphis. She left the Nile, and sailed toward the setting sun until the farms gave way to white sands. A keen hunger drove her forth, a hunger that goats and heifers and lambs could not quench. And there, at last, she saw her prize: a carcass dark against the desert. She circled, dipping lower with each rotation. A child’s bones, not yet picked dry. She alighted at the corpse’s side. Its eyes were fresh and open, staring up a bright gray-green. The face looked both familiar and transformed, a face from another life. She cocked her head to study its contours, its chapped lips and high cheeks.
Alexander.
The word echoed.
That had been the boy’s name.
And then she plunged her beak into its flesh.

Arsinoe awoke to a strange calm. A warm cloth dabbed her brow. Her nurse cooed over her. The muses danced slowly round and round. But something nagged at her. There was poison in the air.

“Where is he?” Her voice sounded distant, spoken underwater. “Where is he? What’ve you done with him?”

“Hush, my dear.” Myrrine smoothed her sweat-soaked hair. “You need to sleep. The doctor said you shouldn’t upset yourself.”

“No, tell me, Myrrine.” Arsinoe swatted away her nurse’s soothing hands. “You must tell me. What happened to him?”

“Calm down, little one. Take deep breaths.” Myrrine stroked her hand. “Speak slowly and clearly. What must I tell you? What happened to whom?”

“To Alexander.” Arsinoe sat up violently. Her eyes darted about the room, but she saw no sign of her friend. “Where is he?”

“Hush, my dear, there’s time to talk of that later. Now you must rest.”

“I’m plenty rested.” Her head throbbed. “Tell me what happened to Alexander!”

“Only if you promise me you’ll go to sleep when I am done.”

Arsinoe nodded frantically.

Her nurse sighed, reluctant. When her words came, they came slowly, as though she was speaking to an idiot or an invalid. “I’m not sure what you remember, my dear, but that man, that Seleucid—gods only know what came over him—beat you black and bloody. Nereus says the monster might have killed you, if he and Alexander hadn’t come upon you two. The boy attacked that barbarian, dug his teeth into his hand. He’s only a child—no match for a grown man—but he made such a commotion that half a dozen soldiers came running.” The nurse paused. “You know, little one, you shouldn’t wander so far on your own.”

“But—but—Alexander. He didn’t—he is well?” She’d dragged him into this, into her foolishness. And now she could hardly remember why it had been so important to follow Nereus, to listen to what it was he had to say.

“I wouldn’t say he’s well.” Myrrine gave her a hard look. Harder than she deserved. It hadn’t been her fault she’d been attacked. “He suffered more blows than you did. It’ll be some time before he’s healed. The boy took quite the beating for you. I hope you remember that, my dear. The Fates don’t often send friends such as that.”

But the Fates had sent her other gifts too: men eager for her death, and her own reckless, angry search for them. And dreams that sometimes gave a glimpse into the future, and sometimes told her nothing at all.

Arsinoe shied from Nereus when she saw him in the halls, and looked on Seleucus with new loathing. They plotted something—she remembered that much—but each time her thoughts crept closer to the answer, it flitted away in the wind. Bits and pieces came back to her. Murmurs of honor and trueborn children, and a woman named Selene…When she thought of it, she’d tell Berenice. She had to tell the queen, because their plot was aimed against her rule. She’d clung to the wisps of her father long enough; he wasn’t coming back. Not for her.

Elder

T
he god-raised stars hung heavy in the sky, and Berenice lay awake. Her husband’s snores killed any chance of sleep. With every grating inhale, an image flickered in her mind: a pillow sealed over his mouth, a twitching corpse, and then blissful silence.

She hadn’t expected Seleucus to come to her that night, stinking of sour booze and the stale sweat of whores. It seemed that he employed a whole army of them. But they couldn’t give him what he needed. And so he raided her chambers, speech slurring with threats of “wife” and “heir” and “duty.” Rough hands bruised her flesh, and her body acquiesced to his.

Sleep soothed the demon. Traces of a sweet-faced child emerged, a dimple at his left cheek, a curl falling over his brow, parted teeth between parted lips. Desire sated, he lay helpless, and a maternal feeling awoke in Berenice’s breast. But she wasn’t a fool. Men like him could be tamed only by great beauty or great lust. Her own looks were ordinary at best, and on their wedding night, he’d made it quite clear that she lacked the skill to break him by other means.

Berenice rolled onto her side, pressing her face into her pillow, clamping bedclothes over her ears. Between her legs dripped a pink and milky substance, spilt seed congealed with spilt blood. “A hardy woman like you,” he’d sneered. “I didn’t think I’d have to be gentle when I took my marriage rites.” The remembrance nearly made her gag. She pushed the tender thoughts of motherhood from her mind.

At last, his breathing quieted and Berenice closed her eyes. She prayed for auspicious dreams, but she awoke to a blank and empty mind. His arms had wrapped around her in the night and she struggled to be free of the unwelcome weight.

“Hush,” Seleucus whispered. “Lie a moment with me.”

“Why?” Whatever yearning she’d had for closeness had been razed. She’d embrace the balm of hatred and purpose. Strength, not softness.

“I thought we might waste some gentle moments together before the rush of day.”

“You’ve already wasted my night of sleep. I won’t sacrifice my morning too.” Berenice twisted from his grasp.

“Life shouldn’t be torture between us, my dear. We’re cousins, not siblings. We don’t need to share your parents’ woes. The gods don’t frown upon our union.”

His eyes played over her breasts, her belly, her hips. Berenice wrenched the bedclothes from him and wrapped them tightly around her form.

“What’s made you shy?” He teased the fabric from her fingers. “I’ve seen your body bare and bloody. I like it well enough. I appreciate women of all shapes.”

“Last night you certainly appreciated a great number. Though I can’t speak to their shapes.”

“Does that bother you?” His fingers pinched her waist. “I hadn’t pictured you the jealous sort. I thought you were too high and mighty on your throne to bother with petty envies. But it seems I was wrong. All women, even queens, are the same in that respect.”

She hated him, with even more venom than when he was rutting on top of her.

“If I thought your whores would keep you from my bed, I’d welcome them as warmly as babes born of my own womb. But no matter how often you visit them, they don’t quench your desires.”

It wasn’t true. She almost wished it were.

“And you think you do? Such a romantic heart, Berenice.” He laughed. “I came to your bed so I might sire a child with you. A rightful heir to the Ptolemaic line, born to the last trueborn descendant of Ptolemy the Benefactor—”

“You put too much stock in your tangled blood. My father ruled Egypt for twenty years. Your mother ruled for none. You may consider the double kingdom your birthright, but Alexandria sees you for what you are: a Seleucid whose brother lost his empire.”

“And how do they see you?” The man in her bed smiled. His eyes were large and striking, with the delicate lashes of a child. Berenice could see how they might have been comely if they didn’t brim with such malice. “Are you lauded as the Ptolemy whose father lost his empire?”

“No, my husband, because I’m not known for my father, nor for my storied line, but for my own deeds. I am the Ptolemy who seized the throne from the Piper and saved the double kingdom from Roman rule. Don’t lecture me on dynasties. Your blood marks you as a passable consort. Your deeds mark you as nothing.”

“Last night you didn’t speak so rudely. You need another lesson in manners.” He sat up suddenly, as if his lurching could bend her to submission.

“The sun’s risen.” Berenice shrugged. “Soon my maids will come to bathe and dress me for court, where I dictate how my lands are run. A word from me and my guards will arrest you. At night, I may keep the secrets of this marriage bed, but once dawn breaks, the world changes. If you lift a finger against me in the light of day, I will scream. And I promise, you don’t want to see what happens when I scream.”