The Princess of Egypt Must Die (2 page)

Here, where I once dreamed I would be a Pharaoh.

"I would rather be Queen of Egypt than any other place."

Lysandra snorts. "
You
would. And I don't care if you do. Go be the broodmare of some old man. Call yourself queen of barbarians here or in Thrace. I'm returning to Macedonia, where our ancestors ruled. The place from which Alexander the Great conquered the world."

I realize that I may never see Lysandra again. It should make me gleeful. Instead, it forces the tears to spill over my cheeks. Now there will
never
be any chance for us to be sisters. Only rivals, as my mother said. Or strangers.

My mother sweeps into the room wearing light Egyptian garments, the finest linen made anywhere. She sees the tears in my eyes and demands, "What are you doing to my daughter
now
, Lysandra?"

"Only telling her about our betrothals," Lysandra replies with an expression of innocence.

My mother glares at her. "Run along. Queen Eurydice is looking for you."

It is a lie and we all know it. Lysandra's mother and mine are locked in combat for the king's favor. Never would one rely upon the other to carry any message. Nevertheless, Lysandra casually tosses her game pieces on the floor for the slaves to clean up. Then she leaves us alone.

"You knew of my betrothal?" I ask my mother. "You knew that I was to marry some old man?"

"Of course I knew," my mother replies, beaming with pride. "You're to marry Lysimachus, the King of Thrace. He was one of Alexander's bodyguards. One of his successors."

Which means he's old enough to be my father, several times over. "He's a stranger."

My mother fans herself with an ostrich feather. "It was the best bargain I could make for you. Egypt needs Thrace for an ally. Your father needs you to assure his alliance. This is an opportunity and an honor, Arsinoë."

"Not as great an honor as my father shows to Lysandra!"

My mother reaches out to stroke my hair. "Is that what you think? Lysandra's bridegroom is only the second son of a king. Lysandra will still be a princess while
you
become a queen. Be
glad
that your bridegroom is an old man. I've arranged that you'll be his chief wife. You'll also be younger than any of the other women in your husband's harem—none of them will be able to steal his love away from you before he dies."

These things I don't want to think about. The scheming at court. The lies and manipulations. The women all currying for favor. One rising in fortune, the other sinking into obscurity. How will I fare in such a nest of vipers? "But Mother, when the King of Thrace dies, I'll be a widow. I'll be alone in a strange place."

My mother sighs as if I were a very stupid girl. "You'll be wealthy and the mother of sons with a claim to the thrones of Thrace, Macedonia, and Egypt besides. When your husband is dead, you'll have no man to rule over you. And you can eliminate your rivals. That's the best gift I can give you, Arsinoë."

"But I don't want rivals!" I cry. "I don't even want a husband. I want to live in Egypt, forever."

"Then you shouldn't have been born a royal princess," my mother snaps. "This is the fate of royal women. To be traded by men in power. Or we become
hetaeras
like Thais and trade ourselves away. One way or another, life is a bargain."

"
You're
no broodmare, are you?" I ask Styx, petting her withers as we walk side by side. The filly is eager to get out and away from the stables. The moment the hot sun of Egypt glows upon her glossy flanks, she trots, shaking her long mane as if preening for the other horses. She knows that she's special; she's barely tamed and her wildness calls to me.

Not waiting for the guards or the grooms who oversee the stables, or even for the eunuchs who chaperone me, I leap up onto her back.

Having given her no warning, I'm not surprised when she rears up.

To stay on her, I squeeze her sides with my thighs. I am reckless. Let her throw me, trample me. I don't care. So long as I have this moment.

Styx whinnies, pawing at the air. Then, while the grooms and guards and palace eunuchs shout warnings, she's off like an arrow shot from a bow. I cling to her back, every muscle straining to make her accept me. Behind us, I hear hooves clattering against the stone path as mounted men give chase.

But I don't want to be saved.

She gallops past the gardens. There is a low wall facing the ocean and she makes for it. It's her escape.
Our
escape. Knotting her black mane in my hands, I hold tight, leaning forward to encourage Styx to jump the wall. She's like the wind beneath me, a power that surges up and up and up.

We land hard, but I don't fall. We ride on. Loamy soil gives way to sand, but Styx never loses her footing. I half hope she'll gallop into the ocean even if we both drown. But at the last moment, she turns from the surf, pounding down the shoreline.

It's glorious.

We ride past the
agora,
where merchants do their trading. We ride past bricklayers straining and sweating in the sun to build our library. We ride out the Moon Gate.

The wind tears the ribbon from my hair, and together, we fly free.

Thirsty from our long ride, Styx dips her muzzle into the waters of Lake Mareotis. She drinks for a long time while I watch the fishermen in their flat boats using long poles to push their way through the marshy reeds.

The sun is low and red in the desert sky when I hear someone call my name.

Styx is munching on the grass, but her ears prick up in alarm. I think it's one of my father's guards sent to fetch me. Instead, I see the gilded sandals of Cassander.

"How did you find me?" I ask.

"I looked for Styx," he says, making his way through the shrubbery. "She has a taste for tall grasses, so I thought she might take you to the lake."

Picking at the wild grass, I say nothing, which Cassander takes as invitation to sit beside me. "I don't want to marry your father," I blurt out. "I don't want to go to Thrace."

Cassander nods, taking up a handful of pebbles and skipping one across the surface of the lake. "So what do you plan to do then? Jump into one of those reed boats and offer yourself as a wife to a local fisherman?"

His mockery gives me sharp offense. "I am a royal princess. Do you think I would lower myself?"

Cassander shrugs. "I'm just a bastard boy; what do I know of royal honor?"

He skips another stone over the water. To his surprise, this one comes up under a rush of white froth. And a hippo lifts its snout from the water to roar at him.

"Zeus Almighty!" Cassander shouts, scrambling to his feet.

The hippo must have slipped past the patch of reeds without our notice. Now it has our full attention. Styx whinnies in sharp fear. I'm the only one who doesn't move, even though I know how truly dangerous a hippopotamus is. This one fixes black eyes on me, rivulets of water streaming down its pinkish grey flesh. It opens its mouth in another roar and shows enormous teeth.

Then it rushes me.

"Run!" Cassander cries.

As the great creature closes in on me, I only close my eyes. I'm too terrified to move, or too resigned to my fate. Perhaps this is no ordinary hippo, but the Egyptian goddess Taweret come to claim me for Egypt forever. I wait for the painful crush of a hippo's jaws.

Instead, Cassander's steely grip closes around my wrists and I'm yanked to my feet. "I said, run!"

So we run.

Cassander is strong and swift. With my horse, we clamber up the bank onto the road, away from the hippo—which, in spite of its blubber, could probably catch us if it really tried. We don't speak until we are well away, leaning against the city wall, doubling over from our efforts.

Styx is still on alert from our narrow escape. She trots in a circle, head high, making her outrage plain.

I rub the sore spot on my wrists where Cassander's grip left marks. "You saved me."

"Only by a hair!" His eyes are clouded with anger, his face red with exertion, and he pants like the breath has been stolen from his lungs. "Why didn't you run?"

I too am fighting for breath, and I gasp, "I don't know."

He stares at me. "Did you
want
to be eaten alive?"

I lower my eyes to the ground. "I don't know."

"What's wrong with you? Thrace isn't so bad. It's a barbarous land, but there is a palace and all the luxuries you find here."

"You don't know me well if you think all I care about is luxury."

Cassander snorts. "I don't know you at all. And I can't get to know you better if you're inside the belly of a hippo."

Dusty and glowing with perspiration, I'm surprised he wishes to know me better. Moreover, given his rank, I'm acutely aware that he should not be so familiar with me. His easy manner tempts me to ask him what his father is like—to tell me about this stranger that I'm to marry. But even if my bridegroom is a cruel man, how could Cassander speak against his own father and king? Nonetheless, this boy has become my own personal hero, so I confess, "I'm afraid."

"You can't know what will come, Princess. None of us can. The world turns in strange ways. We can't change how we're born, but we have some say over everything after."

I marry before Lysandra does. In this one thing, I finally come first.

Before the wedding, I sacrifice all my girlhood toys to Artemis. It's a goodbye, for the virgin goddess can't protect me anymore. I will belong to Hera now. After, I wash in a sweet-smelling bath of milk, honey, and water drawn from a ritual spring and carried by a special vase. The servants anoint me with oils, style my hair, and swath me in veils.

My brother is garbed in a crown of thorn and nuts. He is to be my companion at the wedding and pass out bread at the wedding feast. "I'll miss you, Arsinoë," Ptolemy says, his voice thick with emotion. I wish he could come with me to Thrace, but he's part of my mother's plans. When she becomes the Pharaoh's chief wife, my brother will become the heir to the throne. He must stay here and be King of Egypt after my father. It now seems like a childish thought that I should have ever remained here, or become Pharaoh, so I embrace my brother in fond farewell.

The wedding feast is a raucous affair with men and women celebrating together, though they eat separately on either side of the hall. All the while, Lysandra sneers at me, as if hoping to provoke me to tears. She nearly does. Or perhaps I am upset only because when I look for Cassander, I don't see him.

At last, my father calls to me. I go swiftly because it may be the last time I ever hear the Pharaoh speak my name.

I'm presented to my groom, Lysimachus, the King of Thrace. "Before this assembly," my father intones, "I give this girl to you that you may beget legitimate children upon her."

Daring to peek at my groom from beneath my veils, I see a hard face with a furrowed brow and hollows in his cheeks. This stranger will be my husband. My king.

He's at least sixty years old; his hair thins over his brow. He is old. I make the mistake of thinking he is also frail. I'm surprised when he grabs me hard by both wrists, his fingers digging in where Cassander's had been the day before. My new husband shakes me like a captive, for that's what I am, and a cheer goes up from the crowd.

Then I am carried off into the night to be unveiled.

Thrace is not Egypt. My husband is not Pharaoh. The land he rules holds no wonders. No pyramids rise up from the sand to amaze and inspire. Thracians are fierce fur-clad tribesmen who dwell in the mountains, climbing up to their fortress villages each night like sure-footed goats.

"They are barbarians who must be
forced
to live like civilized men," my husband says to me in the early days of our marriage.

It's one of the few things Lysimachus says to me at all. Like my father, he takes little notice of me. If there is anyone or anything my husband loves, it is his hunting dog. The hound is always close at his master's knee, peering up with open adoration, keen to amuse by fetching sticks or performing tricks.

But the dog hates all others. Come too close to the king, and the dog snarls and growls. Try to pet the dog, and you may lose a hand to his snapping jaws. The king never scolds him for this. To the contrary, I think it makes him love the dog more.

I'm given a banquet to welcome me as the new queen of Thrace. The host is Prince Agathocles, a youth of no more than eighteen years. He looks like Cassander, but with a narrower mouth and a haughty bearing. I worry that he might resent me as a replacement for his dead mother. But he welcomes me to Thrace with a toast. Lifting a goblet he cries, "To Queen Arsinoë. May she give comfort to my father in these golden years of his life."

The guests all cheer to honor us, but I see that my husband the king isn't pleased. He doesn't like to think of himself as elderly, and he narrows his eyes at his son as if Prince Agathocles were a danger to him and not the bearer of his blood and his legacy.