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“Dora, don’t,” Ajax protested. She ignored his warning. He was always frightened of something. The bigger boys already teased him for being a craven. Bone over her shoulder, she rushed to her wounded friend.

“Dora.” Cerberus spat milky blood. “Run.”

But the warning came too late. Guards, thick with armor, descended from all sides. Ajax had vanished back into the streets. And Cerberus collapsed on the stones.

“Arsinoe.” One of the soldiers knelt by her side. “It’s time to return to the palace.”

That name. How did they know her here?

“You’ve got the wrong girl,” she shouted, backing away.

The man shook his head. “I know your face. Don’t be frightened of me.”

Fear pounded in her veins. She eyed each of the three palace men. Had they always been so hard and menacing? She feinted to the left, and then dove to the right, slipping between two sets of legs. But forceful fingers snatched her wrist and dragged her back.

“Arsinoe.” Again, the first guard called her by that other girl’s name. “No one’s going to harm you.”

She screamed and kicked and lashed, though she knew that it wouldn’t do her any good. Cerberus didn’t move; perhaps he was dead. There was blood—so much blood.

“What d’ya do to him?” she cried in anger, though she knew it was her own fault. It had only happened because he’d befriended her. Everyone who cared for her left, or turned to dust. That was her curse.

“Arsinoe,” the guard repeated. “Calm yourself.”

He clamped his hand over her mouth and scooped her into his arms. She writhed and flailed, struggled and shrieked, but she could not free herself. As they neared the city gate, she redoubled her efforts. She twisted right and then quickly left again. Free, she fell hard against the stone. But before she could scamper up, two sets of hands set her upright and marched her to the waiting litter. She recognized its silver-plated cedar, the gold handles and violet curtains. A thousand times Arsinoe had ridden in it before. But no amount of prodding could convince her to enter quietly now. With guards towering at each side, she’d no hope of escape. But that was no reason not to fight.

Clawing and screeching, she thrashed against their hands. And still the soldiers twisted her body into the carrier. Her head went last. She thought she caught a glimpse of Ajax, tears welling at the prospect of a second cousin lost. But perhaps she’d only imagined it.

As she was trundled into the litter, she heard someone cluck, “Osteodora? I can see why that name fits you now.”

She knew that voice. It belonged to no man.

“Ganymedes?” she asked in disbelief as she looked up at the person opposite her. The eunuch wouldn’t have come to bring Arsinoe to her death. Or at least she didn’t imagine he would.

The tutor reclined calmly on the pillows across from her, and he answered in an idle tone, as though no time had passed at all since their last encounter. “Yes, my dear, it’s only me. Though I’d scarcely recognize you on the street.”

“Why should you? You left me.” She spat the words.

“Yes, for a time, I did. As I warned you I would.”

You said you’d come back.
She wanted to scream and curse him to the stars. But she knew better. Such a display would only show her to be weak. And she wasn’t weak—not now. She’d survived outside the palace with no more than a knife and a bone. She didn’t need Ganymedes; she didn’t need anyone. So instead she asked, “How—how d’ya find me?”

“‘How d’ya find me?’” The eunuch tutted. “Scarcely two weeks gone, and already you’ve picked up some pidgin form of Greek.”

“How did you discover my whereabouts?” she asked with a careful clip.

“My dear.” He squeezed her hand. She didn’t recoil. She’d learned to hide her emotions better. “I live in the palace, yes, but I still have my connections in other corners. And…there are those who keep a close eye on the denizens of that world, the children in particular. I heard someone speaking of a newly arrived girl, Osteodora. It didn’t take long to determine that it was you.”

Staring through the litter’s curtains, she watched as the houses grew large and stately once more. A few dozen street rats had gathered round to follow the gilded carrier, but soon they lost interest and scattered. Perhaps they whispered the tale of Osteodora, snatched from their midst. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they’d already forgotten her. Ajax hadn’t, but he would. He never mentioned his cousin, after all. And he would survive; she had to believe that. He’d find some other protector. Perhaps Cerberus would take him on. If he lived. She had to believe that too. They’d been her last friends, her only friends.

Ganymedes studied her but she wouldn’t return his gaze. She swallowed her berating words. “I could have died when you abandoned me,” she wanted to scream. And also, “I wish that you’d left me there.” But she’d learned patience. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. She pursed her lips and spoke with all the ease she could muster. “And what news comes from the palace?”

“Your father rules. Your sister rots in a cell. You can’t be surprised by that. But Ptolemy the New Dionysus wishes to welcome you, his youngest daughter, with open arms.”

“My father sent for me, then?” The blood pounded in her temple.

Almost imperceptibly, the eunuch shook his head. “Cleopatra is very anxious to see you, my dear.”

It had been her sister, then, who’d saved her. As she always had. But she couldn’t draw any comfort from that.

As they neared the palace, she grew painfully aware of her body: her knotted hair, her grimy face, her filthy fingers. With a surreptitious thumb, she tried to work away the worst of the dirt under her nails.

“A maid will wash and scrub you clean before you are presented. No need to bother yourself with that.”

A maid—not Myrrine. That vision had proved true.

“You’re oddly quiet, my dear. I thought you would be bursting with tales from your rough days on the street.”

Her eyes—Arsinoe’s eyes—caught on the dried flecks of blood that were spattered across her prized possession. “A bone bearer keeps her secrets.”

The eunuch’s gaze followed hers. “And to think that I feared you might be too kind, too gentle for the alleyways.”

Scrubbed and plaited, Arsinoe stared over the great courtyard. It looked larger than she remembered it. Her stomach churned violently. She hardly dared take a step, let alone cross the whole length. The dancing dolphin mosaic that marked the place where the two central paths met looked stades away. Not even a thousand paces would carry her there.

Arsinoe no longer felt brave. Ganymedes had taken her bone from her. “It’s not a proper plaything for a princess,” he’d said. Perhaps he’d stolen her courage along with it. Behind her, a guard cleared his throat. It startled her, to be watched and prompted. All the same, she took the first step, treading lightly on the marble as though her newly sullied feet might destroy its elegance.

Nothing about the palace seemed right. It felt too big, open and treacherous. Arsinoe missed the nooks and crannies of the catacombs, places where people could attack from only one direction. Even the smells disturbed her. The cloying scents of roses and sandalwood, of lilies and honey, stung her nostrils. She’d grown accustomed to earthy odors: the stench of dirt and sweat, her two unwashed friends curled up next to her.

Already she’d reached the dolphin’s nose. Arsinoe stared down to where her sandals met the vibrant pebbles. She squinted at the image until it no longer formed a fish at all, but instead broke into countless disparate dots of blue and green. She couldn’t linger here either. Time marched on, and—as the guard had said—her father waited for her.

With only a little urging, her feet bore her forward, toward the great atrium where she had been called before Berenice on so many occasions. A hand grasped her shoulder. She spun around, swallowing a shriek. It was just the soldier, the throat-clearing one, shaking his head slowly.

“Your father will see you in the royal dining lounge,” he told her gently.

Arsinoe nodded. She remembered now. Her father didn’t care for the atrium, the throne. He preferred to conduct his meetings lazing on a silken couch. And so she turned down the path to her right. She watched the waves of blue shingles ebb and flow along the steps. The dread mounted in her chest. She turned her attention to the bushes in full and regal bloom. Their name flickered at the tip of her tongue. Dilaty? Ditivy? Dittany. That was it: dittany.

Set off to the side, the gold-laced doorframe loomed, its twisted carvings hung with grapes, a promise of the bounties held within. Arsinoe took a breath, steeling herself for whatever would come, and crossed through the threshold.

Twin divans were set head-to-head, and on each lay a familiar figure. Her father, all in purple, his diadem askew, reclined languidly against the silken pillows. He barely glanced up at her entrance. Posed on the other couch was Cleopatra, a changed Cleopatra, with widened hips and sprouting breasts. A thousand times Arsinoe had imagined this moment, this reunion. How she would rush into her sister’s arms.

But her feet were glued to the onyx. It was only when Cleopatra looked at him and whispered “Father” that any of them moved at all. And then the New Dionysus, the Piper, Arsinoe’s father, the king, slid his feet off the divan in order to sit and beckoned her to approach. The gesture should have been one of warmth, but he looked as cold and distant as he did on his coins. Arsinoe approached, and in dutiful silence he wrapped and unwrapped his icy arms about her frame.

Once freed, she saw that her sister had rushed to her side.

“My dear, sweet sister,” Cleopatra whispered, her voice trembling. The Macedonian, the sacred, secret language of their house, sounded strange, unfamiliar to Arsinoe’s ears. “I can scarcely believe you’re real.”

Arsinoe felt nothing. Only emptiness. But she forced herself to weep.

Elder

I
t was the darkness that threatened to break her. The thirst, the stink, the scratch of rats—all that she could have borne. If only she could see. But the four walls of her prison were solid and impenetrable. Though reason told Berenice that the sun still rose each morning, she saw no evidence of it. Alexandria might as well have been cloaked in endless night for all the difference it made here.

At odd hours, the door would creak and release a slit of light. An unknown servant—never the same—would enter with a stale heel of bread or a rotting date. By turns grateful and sickened, Berenice devoured whatever she was offered. Imprisonment had begun to take its toll: her bones ached and her fingers shook. Her thick hair fell out in clumps. At least no one forced a mirror on her.

Sometimes she’d barter for information. A silver bracelet loosened even stubborn tongues, and so she discovered that Dryton, her lofty military adviser, was dead. Brought down by arrows as he fled the battle, white banner in hand. She shouldn’t have trusted that one; he couldn’t even surrender properly. Her vulture amulet bought more secrets. Arsinoe, too, had betrayed her, she learned from some ugly wisp of a slave. But soon the rumors dried. She’d no more jewels, and a mantle, no matter how finely woven, didn’t command the same attention as gems. And so one night she found herself shivering by her chamber pot, weeping over Leda’s death. But she dried her eyes, and asked no more questions after that.

Berenice heard boots banging against stone. She heard them often enough; sometimes she wondered whether the soldiers stomped back and forth to taunt her. But this time their pitch had a different cadence. She could almost hear them crying out: “The time has come, the time has come to die.”

A piercing ray ushered in a pair of guards: one tall, one stout. By their vulture helmets, Berenice could see that they were Alexandrians, not Romans. That was a cold sort of comfort, to be led to her death by her own countrymen. With their unlined faces, they looked too young to be soldiers of any kind, a thousand years younger than she’d ever been. All the same, she stood, smoothing her robes along her legs. She ran dirty fingers through the ashes of her dirty hair. Filthy and reeking, she held her chin high. She blinked against the blinding oil lamps as she emerged, but she didn’t shield her eyes.
Never show them you are soft.

Their silent procession clambered up a slanted corridor and through a set of unfamiliar colonnades, paved only with plain and rough-hewn stone. Here and there, she caught sight of a chipped painting; the nymphs still smiled even when they’d lost their arms and legs and teeth. Would she? In death, would her lips curl into a mirthless grin?