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But Archelaus merely blinked at her in interest. That rid him of any hesitation.

“It’s a great honor, my queen.”

His voice was low, a coo, but it echoed through her head. He strode toward her, his bearing brash. His fingers brushed her throat as he crossed the jewels over her breast. A shiver twitched down her spine as he fastened the clasp at the nape of her neck.

“I hope you find it worthy of you,” he whispered. His beard scratched behind her ear. Her heart stirred, and her loins too. So this was what it was to be charmed.

Archelaus addressed her advisers. “I bear other gifts as well, now that no man here can accuse me of ill intent.” Dryton leaned forward in feigned interest. Thais scribbled away at his lists. He recorded every gift with precision, down to the smallest bauble. “An emerald diadem, a set of golden bracelets to adorn the queen’s wrists, a silver-studded bridle, a saddle wrought from the skins of the finest heifers in Cappadocia,” Archelaus recited. “My land is known for its well-blooded horses; of these I have brought three hundred as gifts for the queen. And if my suit proves successful, I shall add another twelve thousand men to the three thousand who sailed with me. Of these, some one thousand have chargers of their own.”

Berenice’s men sorely needed horses to face Rome’s cavalry. And the soldiers of sea-starved Comana certainly knew how to fight on foot and steed alike. Fifteen thousand was no paltry number. Seleucus had offered only six to buy his place at her side.

“These are generous gifts, Archelaus.”

“And there is one more as well.” He smiled, giving a discreet nod to one of his serving men. Two guards stepped forward, a cedar chest inlaid with enamel and pearl balanced between them. “It’s not proper to call it a gift, for by rights it belongs to your house more than it ever did to mine.”

Such a cedar chest had once belonged to the House of Ptolemy. How often she’d heard tell of such a box.
No,
she scolded herself.
It isn’t possible.
Her father’s legends of what he’d seen as a guest in the Pontic court could hardly stand as truth.

“My father loved it well, this treasure that he stole,” Archelaus went on. “He wore it in many a victory over Rome. He used to say that it gave him the strength of its first wearer.”

Even now, even when he’d all but said the words, Berenice couldn’t believe that the talisman of her house would be returned—to her. It was bright portent, the sort around which dynasties were formed. She didn’t dare trust it. And so she bit her tongue and said nothing at all.

“Queen Berenice the Shining One, it is an honor to present you with the cloak of Alexander the Conqueror.” Taking a few steps back, Archelaus threw open the chest.

Berenice leaned in close to examine the worn and weary purple garment, as threadbare as any she’d ever seen. The cloak of Alexander had been stolen from her family by Mithradates himself, and now, at last, it was returned. This was no paltry bauble.

The eunuch cleared his throat. “How strange. I thought that the cloak was found among your father’s treasures in Talaura when Pompey decimated Mithradates’s armies and destroyed his lands. It is said that the Roman general wore that very garment in his third triumph as he paraded your sisters through the streets.”

Berenice suspected that Pieton was driven by some relentless desire to ruin any match for her other than to her brother. The eunuch clung dearly to his jealousies.

Archelaus smiled in return, as though Pieton’s impertinence had been a simple pleasantry. “Pompey is a man of many tales. What man would not wish to claim that he wore the great conqueror’s cloak?”

“What man indeed…” The eunuch studied her suitor with tight lips. “Tell me, son of Mithradates, bringer of so fine and great a gift: who was your mother?”

“She was a concubine,” he answered, his tone light. “You wouldn’t know her name.”

“I might. Your father was a great man. Even the concubines of great men may become legends. Chryseis, for instance, has had her name passed down for generations upon generations. And she didn’t share your mother’s fortune: she never whelped a son for Agamemnon.”

Berenice felt her irritation rising at the eunuch’s insistence. Archelaus, to his credit, remained calm.

“But my mother had no priestly father begging for her release. I fear it’s a rather different tale. A sadder one.”

Pieton pressed on, impervious to Berenice’s glares. “Every story has its intricacies. I’d quite like to hear yours. Let us at least begin here with a name.” The eunuch overlooked her anger, intent to irk her with his disregard, and her patience wore thin.

Archelaus’s voice grew terse. “Metis was my poor mother’s name. Few have bloodlines as pure as the queen’s.” He had no reason to feel shame, Berenice thought. Neither of her own parents had been born by either of Ptolemy the Savior’s wedded wives.

“Metis.” The eunuch tasted the word carefully. He was reaping far too much delight from this. He was, Berenice saw, a twisted creature, spurred only by his envies. Perhaps she should have heeded her mother’s warning. “I do recall that name,” Pieton continued. “But I was under the impression that she bore Mithradates only daughters. Not a single son.”

Her suitor shrugged. “That I stand before you contradicts your claim.”

“That you stand before me contradicts nothing. I could just as well myself proclaim to be a son of Mithradates. I’ve no less proof of it than you.”

The eunuch’s mockery made a mockery of her; Berenice would stand for no more of it. “Pieton, silence,” she snapped. “Archelaus has brought worthy gifts. I’ll hear his plea.”

The man grinned. There was a certain mischief, a boyishness, beneath that lion-headed hood. And when he spoke, his words rang with measured charm.

“My plea is short, though not for want of sentiment. I come to wed you, to join my power in Comana to yours in Egypt. We’re a small power, but a brave one. And I swear I will fight for this kingdom as if it were my own. My father battled hard against the Romans for many long years; they called him King of Kings and said he would unite the East against the She-Wolf’s spawn. There are those who say his death marks the end of that great campaign against the Republic’s greedy talons. That we should all bend our knees, and kiss their purple hems, and be content to rule as client kings. That there can be no fight against the encroaching eagle without my father at the fore.”

Archelaus paused. The quiet throbbed in Berenice’s ears. The whole hall hung breathless on his words.

“But I’ve come to tell you that those men are wrong. I proclaim loud and clear before this court, and before any court you choose: in Queen Berenice the Shining One, I see Mithradates reborn.”

Mithradates was dead, his kingdom lost, his family slaughtered. Archelaus’s words sounded more like a curse than like praise, though Berenice knew that he had meant them favorably. She opened her mouth to object, to cast aside the damning compliment. But it was too late. First one guard cheered, and then another. Then a third. The full set of twelve who attended her banged their sword blunts against the onyx floor.

“Kore Mithradatou,”
they cried out. Daughter of Mithradates.

“He does speak rather prettily,” Pieton allowed after her suitor and his men had left. “It’s a pity his words have no truth in them.”

“You might have kept your insults to yourself.” Berenice scowled at the eunuch, her heart still rippling, the strange words still ringing in her ears. To have a husband such as that, one who could inspire the fight in men, in her—no, perhaps it was too dangerous, that intoxicating charm. She turned to Pieton, to find him unyielding, his hands folded in his lap.

“I don’t stand for liars,” the eunuch answered. “He’s no son of Mithradates. And he’s no enemy of Rome.”

“Thais.” The shrinking adviser trembled at her voice, which, she hated to admit, trembled too. “You deemed him a worthy groom. What say you? I trust you took a passing glance at his lineage.”

“I did, my queen. I did. Of course.”

“And? Is he who he says he is?” Blood pulsed at her temple, at her throat. It unnerved her. A poor idea, to mix matters of the heart and head.

“He—he is the high priest of Bellona. He rules Comana and the surrounding lands.”

Thais had skirted the question. Berenice knew that didn’t bode well. She should abandon this desire to wed and be loved. It sprang from the softness rotting inside her.

“And tell us, Thais,” the eunuch drawled. “Under whose auspices does he rule? By whose sword did he win that position?”

The land minister’s eyes darted quickly to the floor, as though he hoped Dionysus’s leopard might unhinge its jaws and swallow him whole. “By Pompey’s sword. He rules under the banner of Rome.”

Was there a man in this world who didn’t bend before Rome? Her fingers reached for the faience chalice at her side. It sickened her, this feebleness of her generation. The weakness her mother had purged bubbled up once more.

Dryton broke in. “My queen, there are many who rule only at Rome’s word. If you dismiss each of them, you’ll have few suitors indeed.”

Berenice felt her lips twitch. The handsome minister of war had his moments. And he was right in this. The world might be weak and cowardly, but she would show Rome what it meant to be strong. “You do make a point. Do you disagree, Pieton? Is there some secret set of kings who seek my hand? Perhaps there’s an Indian prince who has not yet bowed to Rome. Some Ethiop?”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Bere—”

She cleared her throat. No more of his cloying familiarities. He’d been her tutor once, but that had been a lifetime ago. He’d lost the right to call her by her name.

“I beg your pardon,
my queen.
” He stressed her title with distaste, as though she hadn’t earned it. “But I believe you know my advice. Wed your brother Ptolemy.”

“I told you not to mention that again.” Her anger mounted in her chest. Not only did the eunuch plot with the concubine; he defied her explicit commands. Her mother’s warning haunted her.
Do not trust the eunuch.
It wasn’t natural for Pieton to press her marriage to that useless child. Not when he’d seen how wedding the Piper had destroyed her mother. She could think of only one reason for his obsession: he had already betrayed her for the concubine. Just as her own father had. “But since you continue to ignore my wishes, I can’t help but conclude that you have some other motivation. Which of us do you serve, Pieton: me or that whore?”

Pieton turned pale—paler than Berenice had ever seen him, the sun sucked from his skin. When he answered, his voice quaked.

“Imply what you like, my queen, but don’t imply that. I’m no traitor. You look in all the wrong places for those. I alone have stood by you these long years. I’ve taught you from the cradle, and advised you as you plotted to assume your rightful throne. Who are these men who surround you now? You trust them for the stick and nuts between their legs? They’re your father’s creatures to a one. Except for that over there.” He pointed to Nereus, whose head nodded closer and closer to his lap. “I’m not sure whom he serves. Is it the Piper?” His arm grew unsteady, as though he’d sunk deep into his cups of wine, and he dropped it back to his side. “Or is it still the ghost of Selene?”

“My queen,” Nereus croaked, jerking his drooping chin up. “I serve—”

She ignored the old man. All her fury churned against Pieton, against his eagerness to promote himself at any cost. “You say, Pieton, that you alone have served my claim. Then tell me this: why do you press my brother’s rights? None of these men—my father’s men, as you call them—beg that I share my throne with Ptolemy.” Her voice was shrill, nearly screeching, but she couldn’t temper it. She would spawn no monsters. She would not become her mother. “There are other ways. Find them.”

Pieton answered sharply. “You won’t wed your brother. So be it. Defy reason if you must. But do not wed this man. He lies too well and too easily. He spent the better part of this past year begging for a commission from Rome’s governor in Syria.”

“You’re set against him for your own foolish prejudices. There’s no more to your objection than that.” In that moment, the full blunt of her anger turned against the eunuch. Berenice never should have trusted him. His kind was known for its fickleness.

Pieton bristled as he stood. His every motion made her blood burn in her veins. “Believe what you will about my motivations, but do not marry him. Or do, and suffer for it.”

She let the words—the warning—echo in the empty air. Her other advisers sat in stunned silence as Berenice let her rage mount and fade.

“Is that a threat, Pieton?” Her words came cool and calculated. Just as the eunuch had taught her.

That wiped away his confidence. His body, puffed with anger, seemed to deflate vertebra by vertebra, his frame folding in on itself. Everyone knew the penalty for threatening a queen.

“I—my queen—” The eunuch had become the stammerer.

“Get out.” Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper. He hadn’t earned her screams. “Get out, and don’t show your face in this court again. Any
man
would lose his head for this offense. Count your blessing that you’ve already lost your balls instead.”