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
"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
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