The Princess of Egypt Must Die

The Princess of Egypt Must Die

Stephanie Dray

Copyright © 2012 Stephanie Dray

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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THE PRINCESS OF EGYPT MUST DIE

"Remember always that you’re a royal princess of Egypt," my mother says, wiping tears from my cheeks.

"But I'm not the only one.” There is also Lysandra, my half-sister. The source of my tears.

My mother uses clean linen strips to bandage my bleeding knees, both of which were scraped raw when Lysandra nearly trampled me beneath the hooves of her horse. "You mustn't let Lysandra bully you."

"She's never punished for it," I complain. "She knows she can do as she pleases just because she is the daughter of the king's chief wife."

"Not for long," my mother vows. "Soon,
I
will be first wife here."

My father's harem is filled with women who wait upon his every whim. He has wives and concubines and even
hetaeras
like Thais, who sells her favor to the king. But my mother, Berenice, is fast becoming the king's favorite wife.

She is young and clever, making herself available to hear the grievances of the Macedonian lords who have been snubbed by Queen Eurydice. My mother has allies, beauty, and a keen mind for intrigue. "I swear,
Arsinoë, one day I will be the king's first wife. When that happens, I will see that Lysandra is punished for her cruelty. Until then, you must stand up for yourself."

"How can I? Lysandra is taller than me. She's prettier than me. The king notices her; he gives her a horse just for learning to play the lyre, but I can't have one until I copy all of Plato's writings onto papyrus scrolls."

"That may be true, but Lysandra isn't smarter than you are," my mother says. "You must outsmart her. You must make the price for hurting you so steep that she won't want to pay it. You must teach her to expect
revenge
."

I bite my lower lip, sniffling all the while. "I don't want revenge."

"Then what is it that you want, my soft-hearted little fool of a daughter?"

"I only want us to be sisters," I cry, the sting in my heart sharper than the sting of my bleeding knees. I remember a happier time when Lysandra and I were very little and shared the same nursemaid and we didn’t know we had different mothers…

"You and Lysandra are
not
sisters," my mother hisses. "You're
rivals
. Never forget it."

My mother is a brilliant peacock in my father's court, but I grow up in shadow.

Lysandra teases me when I get my first woman's blood. She points at the spreading red stain that ruins my white linen gown. She whispers behind her jeweled hand and her friends laugh. Yet I do nothing but slink away from the feasting hall in shame.

I tell myself that when
my
mother is the king's chief wife, Lysandra will ask my forgiveness. And, struck with a sadness in my heart, I decide that I
will
forgive her. Then we can be true sisters.

Unfortunately, that is a far-off day. And in the meantime, she tortures me.

The king never defends me. Sometimes he even forgets my name. Though he is Pharaoh, worshipped as a god, it's as if he can't even see me. I wonder if I'm even truly
alive
. Perhaps I'm only a shade from the underworld who lurks the palace halls.

Of all the children in the harem, Ptolemy is my only full-blooded brother. He's named after my father. Ptolemy is older and prefers the company of other boys his age, but sometimes he invites me to come to the stables with him.

Those are the best days of my girlhood.

After all, horses don't mind that I'm shy. They eat from my hands even if I
am
a soft-hearted fool. They
see
me, even if I don't shout. Even if I don't fawn and flatter at court. And so I spend much time in the stables, though I have no horse of my own. Ptolemy lets me ride
his
horse, though the steed never goes as fast as I want to. I want to gallop in the fields or ride a fast chariot. And one day, after a ride on the banks of the Nile, I dream that I will become Pharaoh.

I dream that, like the great pyramids, I endure forever.

Eventually, that dream fades and I tell myself it no longer matters. The day comes, when I am fifteen years old, that I have stopped waiting for anyone to notice me at all.

And that is the day I meet Cassander.

When I first see him with the reigns of a sleek black filly in his hands, I mistake him for a slave boy. Oh, why do I lie? It's the horse that has my whole attention, not the young man.

With long graceful legs, a powerfully muscled chest and a coat as black as night, the horse is a marvel. She is so beautiful that I overcome my shyness to ask the stranger, "What is she called?"

"Styx," the young man replies.
Styx
. That is the river between the world of the living and the midnight world of the dead. It's a good name for this horse; she looks so fierce I would believe she belongs to Hades himself. "She's a gift for Princess Arsinoë of Egypt from my lord, King Lysimachus of Thrace."

I am stunned. I cannot believe him. Surely there's some mistake. "A gift for me?"

At my words, he bows. "Yes, Princess. For you."

The filly turns gentle eyes to me. She may be a fierce and dangerous creature, but she longs for love. I know it. And I'm afraid to take her reigns unless she is truly mine. It is this fear that forces me to speak. "I've never met the King of Thrace. To what do I owe this kindness?"

"It's the first of many such gifts, Princess, in accordance with the terms of your betrothal."

Betrothal
. I am betrothed? This is the first I hear of it. That I'm to be married without my consent or
knowledge
is so humiliating that I strive not to show the slightest bit of surprise. "Please thank my bridegroom...whoever you are."

"I'm Cassander," the young man says with a smile. "I'm named after Alexander's companion."

The sting of his announcement—that I'm to be married to a stranger—lingers. And makes me silent. "Cassander," I finally murmur. "That is a big name for a stable boy."

He shrugs. "It was chosen for me by my father, the King of Thrace."

In an instant, my shame is compounded. Before me stands a prince! I should have known it. His leather boots are too well-made, the laces wound with golden thread. His tunic is simple homespun, but the cord tied around his waist is ornamented with beads of turquoise and jade. His shy smile isn't what I'd expect from a prince, but his green eyes and handsome face mark him as a Macedonian nobleman.

I dare to hope. Could this young man be my intended bridegroom? Mortified at having thought him low born, I want to sink into the ground and disappear. With my cheeks burning, I can do nothing but beg his forgiveness. "I apologize, Prince Cassander. I—I didn't know."

"Prince?" Now his smile bends with mischief and a sparkle lights his green eyes. "No, my brother Agathocles is the prince. I'm merely an illegitimate son. One of many."

Why do I swallow back disappointment? Why should it matter whether or not he is a prince, a stable hand or a bastard? I've known him for only the space of a few breaths. Yet for a moment, I wished I were betrothed to him. "So then, I am to marry your brother?"

"You will marry my father," he says, turning my disappointment into despair. "It seems absurd, doesn't it? After all, I'm older than you are."

"I'm fifteen," I say, straightening my spine for my tattered pride is the only thing holding me up now.

"Then we're of an age. But you're too pretty to be my stepmother."

He speaks with insolent boldness. In my place, Lysandra would strike him for it. I only veil my face in helpless modesty as his words echo in my mind. He thinks I'm
pretty
? I've seen my reflection in polished mirrors and worried over the length of my nose. Does he not see the flaws?

The black filly gives an impatient snort then nudges against Cassander's shoulder. "Your gift, Princess Arsinoë," he says, holding out the reigns to me.

When I take the leather straps from Cassander, our fingers brush.

I flush. To hide it, I press my cheek against the horse's long neck. Styx smells of the olive oil that has been brushed into her coat to make her gleam. She nickers gently in appreciation of my touch.

Then Cassander flourishes me a bow. "It seems as if you've made
two
new friends today."

I search for my mother in the women's quarters. Instead, I find Lysandra playing a game with one of the slaves. Lysandra's pretty head is bent in concentration as she races her agate stones across the game board. I hope she doesn't look up and notice me. I almost make it round the lotus-capped pillar before I hear Lysandra crow, "There she is! The new Queen of Thrace."

I should run away before she can tease me. I should run to my mother and demand to know the meaning of my betrothal. But a boy noticed me today. He may only be a king's bastard. He may only be a stable-hand. Still, he
noticed
me and said that I was pretty. And so I find the courage to square my shoulders and face my half-sister. "What do you know of it?"

"I know you're to marry a very old man," Lysandra says.

"But my bridegroom is a king, isn't he?" I ask, pretending pride I don't feel.

She laughs cruelly, letting the dice fall from her hand before moving more agate pieces on the board. "Only the King of Thrace.
My
husband will one day be the King of Macedonia."

So then Lysandra is to be married too. She must be miserable inside and afraid to show it.

"Will we have to leave Egypt?" I ask. At fifteen, I'm too old to cry. Nonetheless, I'm blinded by sudden tears. My home is
here
in Alexandria, where the green Nile River flows into the vast blue sea. Here, where the hieroglyphics scroll down temple walls. Here, where the scent of lotus perfumes the air and the white marbled buildings gleam in the sun.