Eternal Spring A Young Adult Short Story Collection (11 page)

My mother is a brilliant
peacock in my father's court, but I grow up in shadow. I never learn to stand
up for myself against Lysandra. She 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.

Still, when my brother calls to me, I think I wouldn't be
able to hear him if I were only a shade.

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.

I mistake him for a slave boy,
when first I see him with the reigns of a sleek black filly in his hands.

Oh, why do I lie? It is not the young man that I see first.
It's the horse.

With long graceful legs, a powerfully muscled chest and fur
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, because 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 so stunned that I cannot believe him. Surely there's
some mistake. "A gift for me?"

"Yes, Princess."

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.

The sting of his announcement--that I'm to be married to a
stranger--lingers. And makes me silent.

"I'm named after Alexander's companion."

"It is a big name for a groom," I finally murmur.

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, that is my brother Agathocles. 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 groom or a bastard. I've known him for only
the space of a few breaths. Yet, for a moment, I wished I was betrothed to him.
"So then, I will 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
step-mother."

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 the polished mirror 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 fur 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 look
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's arms and ask 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?" 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. Here, where I 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 the place our ancestors ruled. To 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 Lysandra. "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 shrugs. "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. It's also an honor, Arsinoë."

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

My mother strokes my hair. "Is that what you think?
Lysandra's husband 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 son with a claim to 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, Arsinoë, life is a bargain."

"
You're
no broodmare, are you?" I ask Styx,
petting her withers as we walk side by side. She 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 that oversee the
stables,
nor
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 like rope, 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 through loamy
soil, which gives way to sand, and 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 sweet waters of Lake Mareotis. She drinks for a
long time while I watch the fishermen in their flat boats pushing their way
through the marshy reeds with long poles.

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.