The sentence having been pronounced, the court files out. King Lysimachus and I are left alone in the throne room, burning oil lamps throwing silent shadows on the walls.
"Come, take your throne," the king says.
I'm shaking all over. I don't think I can walk. But I must convince him, somehow, to change his mind about Cassander. Tentatively, I sit beside him, cradling my wounded wrist in my lap.
"Do you know why I spared you, Arsinoë?" King Lysimachus asks.
"The letter," I say.
"That was only a convenient excuse."
Such hatred is burning in my belly, that I dare to ask, "Then why did you spare me? Because my father is the Pharaoh of Egypt?"
"That is the main reason," the king admits.
He does not want to cause a war with my father, so he will not kill me. It's an advantage I will not forget again.
"But there's one more reason, Arsinoë."
"What is it?"
"I spared you because you worry Prince Agathocles," the king says, merrily. "So long as you're my wife, he'll plot against you. And better you than me."
It's clear to me now. He is happy that I lashed out at those who might harm him. He wants me to become like his horrible dog.
I plead with him. "But Cassander isn't a threat to anyone. Please, have mercy--"
"Cassander has embarrassed me," he says, bluntly. "He has also confessed. And he must die."
I stifle my sounds of anguish. Inside my head, I am screaming. No, no, no!
The king tilts his head. "Cassander did not ask for his life. He only asked to see you once before he dies. That was the price of his confession, and we made our bargain. So go to him tonight, because he dies at dawn."
Cassander is a prisoner in a small room with bars that keep us from rushing together. I don't wait to see if the guards watch me. I don't care if this might be a trap to test my loyalty. I don't care about anything but seeing him again. Rising from a palate in the corner, Cassander comes to the bars, his eyes murky with emotion.
A guard puts a burning oil lamp on the floor near my feet, then withdraws to the hallway.
And we are alone.
"Why, Cassander?" I ask, my voice high and shrill. "Why did you confess?"
"To save you," he says simply. "I told the king that I loved you but that you had nothing for me but scorn."
"A lie," I whisper, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. "That's a lie. I love you. I love you."
He lays a finger over his lips to hush me. "I knew they would find your letter, Arsinoë."
"Why didn't you burn it?" I cry, wringing my hands.
Cassander's lips tilt into a smile. "It smelled like you. I didn't know if I would ever see you again, so I kept your letter. I traced the words, imagining you writing it. I couldn't burn it; it was the only thing you ever gave me."
Oh, how that pains me. I would have given him so much more...
"Arsinoë, I'm not afraid," he says, reaching through the bars to twine his fingers with mine. "I said that we have no choice about how we're born, but we have some say over everything else. I have a say over how I'll die."
"Then I want to die with you!" I cry.
He shakes his head. "No, Arsinoë. You have to live. You have to live for both of us."
I won't believe anything he says now. I'm sobbing. I'm going mad.
"Remember your dream that you'd be Pharaoh of Egypt? Live for that..."
He must know that I can't ever return to Egypt. "It was a silly dream of a silly girl."
He brushes the tears from my cheeks. "Arsinoë, when I die, I will blow my last breath to you. Take it in, and I'll be with you all the days of your life. We'll be one person, one soul. Everywhere you go, I'll go. Everything you see, I'll see. Every time you laugh, I'll laugh. Every time you ride Styx, I'll feel the wind on my face. You must survive, above all."
"No," I say, shaking my head. "He can't kill you. He can't kill his own son. This isn't happening."
"He can," Cassander says calmly. "And he will."
He's so brave, but I feel his fingers trembling. I clutch at him. He pulls me as close as he can, though the metal keeps us apart. His breath warms my face and I look into his beautiful eyes. These eyes, filled with fear. Filled with love. Love for me. And I'm breaking.
We kiss. It is soft. It is sweet. I breathe him in.
And when we break apart, he says, "Thank you for that. Now, nothing can hurt me. You're already breathing for me, Arsinoë. I'm already half gone."
When the rooster crows, we go out into the warm spring morning where a platform is being erected for the execution. It takes longer than it should for my husband's harem, all his children, and all of the most important nobles to assemble. Then we wait beneath blooming almond trees that weep pink and white flower petals down upon us.
King Lysimachus is solemn. This is his fault, I think. Men like him. Men like my father. Men who marry so many wives and make so many children that we must compete for attention, for power, and for survival. But it isn't only his fault. Prince Agathocles played his part. So did his sister. Now they sit here to watch the murder of their own brother.
The soldiers lead Cassander onto the wooden platform. His hands are tied behind his back. When the executioner places a knotted rope around his neck, Cassander doesn't move. He stares straight at me--and my heart batters against my ribcage. I should run to him, even if it means my own death. But his eyes beseech me to live for him; it is a horrible choice.
The king nods to the executioner and Cassander blows out his last breath.
The springtime breeze carries it my way and I gasp, filling my lungs. I hold it inside me as the executioner twists the rope, cutting off Cassander's air.
My beloved begins to strangle. As I watch, I squeeze my hands into fists, wanting nothing more than to batter at the executioner and make him stop. I want to save Cassander. I'm desperate for him to live. Then, as Cassander's lips begin to turn blue and his eyes bulge in agony, I want nothing more than for him to die.
Die. Die swiftly. Be free of these pains! Be free of this world and its betrayals.
But if Cassander lives inside me now, he'll never die. For as I watch them murder him, I make this solemn vow.
I will have revenge.
I will have revenge on King Lysimachus. I will have revenge upon Prince Agathocles and his sister. I will destroy each and every one of them. From this day forward, no one—not even Lysandra, wherever she is now—will ever hurt me or anyone I love without paying a price. And I will make it steep. My enemies will pay in blood. For I have Cassander's breath inside me. To hurt me now is to hurt him and I'll defend him with the ferocity of a hippopotamus.
Until now, I've been only that soft-hearted Princess of Egypt who did not want to listen to my mother's warnings. That fool of a girl who did not want to see rivals or learn to play political games.
That girl, that princess, dies with Cassander. She must die.
For today I'm born anew.
Today I'm born a true queen...and an avenger. My rivals will learn to fear me. And when I've destroyed them, I'll take those dreams I had on the banks of the Nile and make them true. Somehow, I'll make them true.
For Cassander, I will return to Egypt.
I will become Pharaoh.
And we will both live forever.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Based on the life of Queen Arsinoë II who was born into the Greek-Macedonian Ptolemaic Dynasty that ruled Egypt, this story imagines an explanation for the ruthless woman who would become one of history's greatest survivors. Except for Cassander, I based all the characters upon known historical figures. King Lysimachus would go on to lose the support of his people--in part--for murdering a son. That's what gave me the germ of my story idea.
It took Arsinoë years, but she eventually destroyed the royal family of Thrace. She eventually returned to Egypt, became queen, and was anointed Pharaoh in her own right. She planned victorious wars. She won an Olympic medal for horse h
arnessing. And she was deified as an incarnation of the goddess Isis, whom the Greeks believed was the eternal goddess of spring.
***
Stephanie Dray writes historical fiction, fantasy and magical realism. Using the transformative power of magic realism, Stephanie Dray illuminates the stories of women in history so as to inspire the young women of today. She remains fascinated by all things Egyptian and has–to the consternation of her devoted husband–collected a house full of cats and ancient artifacts. Her critically acclaimed debut novel, Lily of the Nile, begins the epic story of Cleopatra's daughter. The sequel, Song of the Nile, has been nominated for a RITA® Award. The third book in the trilogy is expected to release in 2013.
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Spring Perfection
By
Leslie Dubois
I love the smell of springtime. To me, it smells like hot dogs, linseed oil, and the tight stitching on a new baseball. Spring brings my favorite pastime, the happiest time of my life. But not today.
It’s the top of the fifth inning. We, Charleston Preparatory School, are ahead one to zero. I’m pitching a perfect game. It’ll be my first perfect game since joining the baseball team last year as a freshman. A perfect game is the dream of any pitcher. I mean, in Major League Baseball there have only been twenty perfect games ever! Ever! And I was on my way to getting one as a sophomore in high school. A perfect game means no one gets on base—no walks, no errors, no mistakes. Unfortunately, I don't know if this is possible.
My head is not in the game. It’s somewhere else completely. With Reyna. I made a promise to her and because of this stupid game, I don't know if I’ll be able to keep it or not. Of course, the game isn't stupid. Baseball is the greatest game on the planet. And if you ask my mother, she'll say it’s the most important game of my life. But then again, she'll say every game is the most important game of my life. That's just the way she is. It will take too much time to explain my mother. And this isn't a story about her.
In her defense, this is a special game. It isn't every day that a high school team gets to have a spring training game with a college team. And it certainly isn't every day that the high school team beats the college team. But winning will mean nothing without Reyna by my side.
I look over at her normal place in the dugout, where she usually sits next to Doc. She wants to be a doctor one day, so he lets her tag along to all the games and watch how to take care of different sports injuries. It’s free medical training for her future career.
Today she isn't there and I know why. The reason tears at my heart. I momentarily step off the mound in order to get my emotions in check. Most people think nerves are kicking in. They think I realize that it's been five innings and I haven’t allowed a single batter to reach first base. But that’s not what is eating away at me like termite in a tree house. I’m a bad friend. I should be by her side instead of worrying about my baseball stats.
I stick my face into my glove and inhale the scent of the linseed oil. It calms me for a moment and I step back on the mound.
How did I ever get to this point? How did Reyna grow to be so important in my life that I find myself thinking about her instead of pitching my perfect game?
I shake thoughts of her from my mind and throw out a pitch.
Strike three.
I’ve survived another inning. Finally, I can retreat to the dugout and get my head together. I try to purge thoughts of her. I try to concentrate. I try to focus on Carson at bat, but I can't. Instead, I think of how Reyna and I first met.
The Day that Changed my Life
The day my life changed was November 13th, 2002. It was a Tuesday in English class, which meant reading time. But to sixth grade boys, reading time was a synonym for a little game we called Flame it and Blame it. It was a highly intellectual game in which a winner was anyone who could fart in class and successfully blame it on someone else. I was a "Flame it and Blame it" champion three weeks running.
The nation had just celebrated the one-year memorial of the September 11th terrorists attacks, yet at that time, the most serious thing I thought of was how to keep my fart game-winning streak alive. What can I say; I was a pretty superficial kid.
That was the day Reyna Lewis breezed into my life. I couldn't take my eyes off of her from the moment she walked into the door and handed her schedule to Mr. Eckhart. Then her eyes scanned the room, looking for an empty seat.
She had a big, dark, curly Afro that seemed like it bounced in slow motion. She had an arm full of shiny bracelets that played music with each step she took. I had never seen anyone wear so many bracelets on one arm at one time in my life.
At the wise old age of 12, the girls and boys of Charleston Preparatory School were convinced of only of two things:
Boys were gross.
Girls were as boring as watching paint dry on grass.
I was pretty sure both of those facts were engraved on bathroom doors somewhere. It was almost sacrilege for the two groups to mix at that age.
As Reyna made her way through the classroom, stuck-up blond girl after stuck-up blond girl refused to let her sit down. Not because she was black, but because she was new. She hadn't yet proven what social group she belonged. No one wanted to take a chance by including her and later figuring out she didn't so they’d made a mistake. Most people thought it was best to adopt a wait-and-see attitude.
Reyna lifted her head unphased and continued walking toward the back of the class where all the stinky—literally stinky—boys were found.
"You can sit here," I said, offering the empty seat next to me. I heard my voice before I even thought the words.
Reyna looked at me and smiled. Suddenly my mouth went dry and my legs turned to putty. Thank goodness I was sitting down.
After taking the seat next to me, she asked what I was reading. At least, I think that's what she said. The rest of class was a blur. All I remember was meeting her for lunch later that day.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked as we shared a table in the cafeteria.
I shrugged. I really didn't know why. I had never sat with a girl at lunch. Ever. Something about Reyna just felt right though.
She smiled again and I felt that funny feeling. If she kept smiling at me like that, I might not be able to walk again. "That's okay. You don't have to explain. I don't think I've ever eaten a meal with a white person before. I just feel comfortable with you, though."
"You mean, you don't know any white people?"
She shook her head. "I've spent most of my life in Puerto Rico."
"You're Spanish? You're black and Spanish, just like Roberto Clemente."
She started babbling rapidly in Spanish. When she noticed my confused look, she stopped short and covered her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just really excited you knew about Roberto Clemente. I love baseball."
A girl who loved baseball? This was going to be an amazing friendship.
Just then, my cell phone buzzed. Cell phones weren't exactly allowed at Charleston Prep for most people. But I was Scott Kincaid. I wasn't most people. A lot of exceptions were made for me.
I dismissed the call and stuffed the phone into my pocket. I couldn't deal with my mother right at that point. She was probably just calling to yell at me for not finishing my workout that morning or to remind me to run extra laps after school.
"You don't want to answer that?" my new friend asked.
I rolled my eyes. "It's just my mother. She'll have plenty of time to yell at me later. Right now, I'm trying to eat."
Reyna looked concerned. It was like she could somehow sense the pain in the relationship between my mother and me.
"In my village in Puerto Rico, there was an old woman nicknamed La Cienega who once told me that someone can only make you unhappy if you let them."
I thought about this for a second. No one had ever put it that way before. And three different therapists had tried.
"Is that why you were able to smile, even though thos
e girls in class rejected you?"
"That wasn't my smile. That was La Cienega's smile."
I looked at her, confused.
"I'll tell you about her later. Not today. You're not ready. You'll just think I'm weird."
She was right about that. I did think she was weird. And different. And exciting. And unique. She was the most fascinating person I had ever met in my life.
Top of the Sixth
We fail to score in the bottom of the fifth. Now it’s my time to go out and keep my perfect game going. As I walk out to the mound, I feel that maybe I’m still that superficial kid from the sixth grade. I like to think that I’ve changed a lot, that my friendship with Reyna has made me a better and deeper person. But sometimes I’m not sure.
Now is a good example.
What am I doing here? This is just an exhibition game. It really means nothing in the long run.
I throw a strike. The batter doesn't even swing. He expected me to throw high and away, like the last time he was at bat. But this is why I’m so good. I have so many pitches in my artillery, they never know what to expect from me. I have an awesome slider, curve ball and even a knuckle ball. And don't get me started on my fastball. I've already broken the high school record for fastest pitch ever thrown.
I retire the first batter then look out into the crowd. I carefully avoid my mother's eyes. I don't know what to expect from her. Yes, I'm winning the game, but sometimes winning isn't enough for that women. I know she wants this perfect game. It's not like I’ll get a trophy or anything for her to add to my side of the trophy room at home. Although I could totally imagine her going to a trophy store just to create one for me.
My mother wants this so badly because of the publicity it will bring. I know she thinks it’ll help me get signed with a team. But I'm only a sophomore in high school. There’s no telling what can happen between now and when I graduate. And what if I get injured or something? One stinking ACL tear, and my career is probably over. I shiver at the thought. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I wasn't able to play sports. I love sports, but always having to win is starting to wear me down, like tires on a racecar. It's too much pressure. Besides, I want to go to college anyway first before jumping into professional sports.
Eternal Spring (A Young Adult Short Story Collection) Page 11
