Chapter Eleven
Late Morning, day three“Xiphos and Hannibal!” A maid burst breathlessly into the sunny gymnasium as Arsinoe and Cynisca finished their practice of the smoothly flowing movements of capoeira, the blend of dance and fighting skills that Agathoclea taught. Both wore the traditional racing tunic of Spartan girls that covered only one breast and ended above the knee.
“The throne room!” the girl cried. “Hurry, Princess!”
The girls bolted, racing each other down the long palace halls, their long hair flying, to the throne room. Barging in at the back, staring down the length of marble columns marching up to the dais, the young women were aghast at the scene before them.
In a bright beam of sunlight pouring down from the windows high above, Ptolemy and his entourage surrounded Xiphos and Hannibal, who knelt before the throne, arms chained behind their backs. The prince poured garnet-red wine over Hannibal’s head, taunting him with Carthaginian slurs. Magas argued with Ptolemy, while Cato, so recently studying under Xiphos, laughed.
“What’s going on, Ptolemy?” Arsinoe pushed through the crowd, up to the dais, and jabbed her finger in her brother’s chest. “These are two of the most respected instructors at the academy!”
Ptolemy turned, looking bleary-eyed at her. “Ah, the thigh flashers.” He smiled, pleased with his slur against Spartan women. “We must get more Spartan seamstresses in Egypt. Perhaps you shall wear that racing tunic when we wed, dear sister.”
“Let them go!” Flushed with rage and embarrassment, Arsinoe shoved her brother.
The prince stumbled into Xiphos, only barely righting himself. “Release them?” he scoffed. “I think not!”
“Whatever happened here, we’ll figure this out after Father has been cured,” Arsinoe said.
Her brother lifted his nose, though in his drunken state, the action only made him sway dangerously. “There is no cure.” He looked down, raking his eyes over Cynisca’s scant outfit.
“Ptolemy!” Arsinoe snapped, drawing his attention away from her friend. “Cynisca can keep him stable until we find the herb of deathlessness from Qina. Magas and I could head an expedition and be back in a few months.”
Steadying himself, Ptolemy reached for another cup of wine, which a dutiful servant scurried to hand him. “One of these two, no doubt, did it. We’ll sort that out now.”
Sosibius stepped forward, drawing all eyes to himself. He cast a look of disdain down on Arsinoe. “Your Highness, we found the nightshade used to poison your father.”
“Where?” she demanded.
Sosibius smiled. “In Hannibal’s room.”
“What?” Hannibal’s head shot up.
“Did we now?” Arsinoe glared at Agathoclea.
Agathoclea smiled back smugly. “We did indeed.” She smoothed her linen sheath of a dress against her svelte figure.
Hannibal stared at her, eyebrows drawn uncomprehendingly. “There’s no nightshade in my room!” he protested. Wine plastered his hair to his forehead, and dripped into his eyes. Cato struck him, making him sway.
Cynisca took a step forward, but Cato barred her way.
“You know it’s not mine!” Hannibal shouted, though he still knelt on the floor, vulnerable with his hands bound behind his back. He blinked furiously as more wine slid from his forelock into one eye, blinding him.
Agathoclea barely glanced at him before announcing to the whole throne room, “It was in his trunk. Which was locked.”
“And had to be unlocked to find it,” Arsinoe pointed out. “So it could as easily have been unlocked to plant it.” Arsinoe stepped nose to nose with the dance professor.
The older woman shrugged, narrowing kohl-lined eyes. “It’s presumptuous, isn’t it, to believe that nightshade in his locked trunk in his locked room isn’t his.”
“And yet it would be foolish to discount the fact that you’ve spent a fair amount of time in his room,” Arsinoe rejoined.
“Agathoclea . . .” Hannibal stared at her in dismay.
“Including just yesterday morning—very early!” Xiphos added.
Agathoclea glanced at the acting pharaoh.
Ptolemy’s eyes narrowed, jealous anger flushing his cheeks.
“To learn what I had to.” Agathoclea looked to Hannibal with a sultry curving of red lips.
Hannibal looked at her in shocked betrayal. “How could you?”
“Hannibal is a traitor to the throne,” Agathoclea informed Arsinoe, “and he shall die as befits a traitor and assassin of the pharaoh.”
Sosibius interrupted pompously. “Our relations with Emperor Zheng are delicate at the moment. However, we were able to apologize to Ambassador Li Si before he departed. He has agreed to help us find the assassins and the gold horse from Amarna, which is a great loss to our kingdom.”
Arsinoe turned disdainfully from Agathoclea to Sosibius. “Oh, is it Emperor now?” She turned from her older brother, sprawled on the throne, to Agathocles and Cato. Agathocles had a flat, cruel affect, but even he seemed flushed with excitement at the turn of events. Cato turned leering eyes on Cynisca, leaning so close that he forced the young princess back against one of the throne room columns.
“Cato!” Arsinoe stepped toward the Roman, shoving him away from her friend. “How dare you!”
“Easily.” His hand went to his sword. “She’s just a thigh flasher!”
Arsinoe raised her hands, ready to begin chanting.
“Princess!” Sosibius interrupted. “We must remain calm. Egypt needs stability.” He looked her up and down. “It would be cause for great celebration if you and Prince Ptolemy could marry and officially become co-regent while your father recovers. The prince and I have discussed it.” He lifted his chin, speaking down as if from a height as late-morning sun flashed off the jewels in the golden collar around his neck. “We think it best if you and Ptolemy marry, like your grandfather and his sister, Ptolemy and Arsinoe Philadelphus. Serapis and Isis, the brother and sister gods, together and eternal, forever.”
Arsinoe looked from the high priest to her drunken brother, the realization dawning on her that they were serious. She glanced at her friends, on their knees and shackled, and returned her gaze to meet Sosibius’s forcefully. “I won’t even consider it until you release Hannibal and Xiphos into the custody of Hasdrubal for a fair trial.”
“I rule here!” Ptolemy lurched so suddenly that his wine cup tipped, spilling red wine down his already stained shendyt. “I rule here! You’ll marry me and provide the kingdom with offspring from my royal bed!”
Arsinoe smiled. “Ptolemy, you drink too much. You’re not made for politics, as Mother always said.”
The red deepened on her brother’s already florid complexion. “Shut up!”
Arsinoe lifted her chin, sneering at her brother. “Go smoke more Scythian hemp and contemplate reincarnation.”
“Arsinoe, stop!” Xiphos hissed.
But the words were already coming from her mouth. “Settle back into your orgies and poetry.” She started up the stair toward his throne. “Let the adults figure out what to do.”
Ptolemy slapped Xiphos hard. The Spartan toppled, hitting his head on the marble floor.
Arsinoe stopped, stunned, but immediately pulled herself together. “It’s all right, Ptolemy,” she soothed. “We’ll talk about a wedding.” She glanced at Xiphos, struggling back to his knees as blood flowed from his temple, and back to Cynisca. She drew a slow breath, gave her friend a slight nod, and said, “Cynisca, attend to my father.”
“Yes, Princess.” Smiling, Cynisca dropped a deep curtsy in her short dress, bestowed a dazzling smile on Ptolemy, and headed toward the double doors at the far end of the throne room, humming a soft tune. She began to emit a pale yellow light. Her tune became louder as she approached the door. The guards, listening to her song, became glassy-eyed, spellbound by her voice and movements.
Cynisca smiled at the nearest guard and spoke melodically. “Close and bar the door, by order of the king.”
The guard blinked, returning her smile dumbly. “Yes, Princess.” He turned and raised his voice in command. “Guards! Close this gate by order of the king!” Two of them swung the great double doors shut.
Arsinoe walked slowly past Ptolemy, speaking soothingly. “Let me just say good-bye.” She touched the wound on Xiphos’s head, and leaned close as if to kiss him on the lips, whispering, “Be ready.” Suddenly she yelled, “Keop!” as she spun and delivered a devastating back kick to Ptolemy’s jaw, flattening the prince with one blow. He crumpled to the marble floor, grunted once, and sank into unconsciousness. “Get Xiphos out!” Arsinoe shouted to Magas and Cleomenes.
Cato recovered first, raising his voice in chant. The air became alive. Arsinoe felt the hairs on her arms and neck rise. Wind blew. The hall darkened as clouds swirled high near the ceiling, blocking the windows and shutting out the sun.
Magas let loose his war cry of “Eleutheria!” and tackled Cato, slamming the Roman into the guard behind him. All three fell into a heap on the marble floor, struggling for knives and swords. Cleomenes raced to his son and Hannibal, struggling to loose their shackles and haul them to their feet at the same time. Sosibius and Agathocles backed away from the combat, casting spells. One guard wrestled on the floor with Magas. Another fought Mago as he tried to reach Hannibal, while six more unsheathed swords and rushed into the fray. Two soldiers struggled to pull the unconscious acting king to safety.
Arsinoe found herself surrounded by guards with raised weapons. Agathocles thrust his fingertips toward the ceiling, shouting, “Angra atten!” The throne room darkened with thickening storm clouds. Winds tore through the hall, thunder rolled, and rain spattered. Thunderbolts shot from the clouds, striking Arsinoe and singeing her tunic. She dropped to her knees, gasping in pain. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
“Thunderbolts!” Xiphos yelled, even as he stumbled to his feet with Cleomenes’s help. “They ambushed Qibo with thunderbolts!”
As Mago fought a soldier, Cleomenes fumbled with Xiphos’s shackles. He sprang them as the guard knocked Mago aside and swooped on them. Pressing the key into his son’s hand, he said, “Find your brother! Mago, get out with them!” A slashing blow crashed down on his left arm.
Xiphos stumbled, weakened from the blows to his head and body. But he managed to slip the key into Hannibal’s shackles, freeing him. Grabbing his friend by his arm, Xiphos pulled Hannibal toward the throne, shouting, “Help me, Mago!”
Twenty cubits away, a guard closed in on Cynisca. She flung her hands out, shouting a mantra. A cone of exploding, ricocheting balls of light shot from her fingers, knocking the guard back. He fell hard, his skull colliding with the floor in a sickening thud. Cynisca spun for Arsinoe. She laid hands on her, reviving the princess as cold rain pelted them.
Sosibius waved his hand over the battle. He smiled as viscous yellow-green vapor emanated from his fingertips. Choking the guards and the unconscious prince, the fog drifted toward Arsinoe and Cynisca.
Agathocles drew his sword and leapt at Cynisca, yelling, “Die, thigh flasher!” The exiled princess stumbled back even as she threw a spell at him. His sword glowed pale blue. Ice crystals sparkled on its surface. Agathocles stared in horror as they spread up its surface. He screamed, trying to drop the sword, but it froze to his hand.
Arsinoe saw the poison cloud floating toward her. Drawing breath, she dropped to the ground, wiggling under the vapors and between the guards surrounding her. Finding Sosibius, she slammed her foot into the back of his knees, knocking him on his back. She scrambled atop his chest, pummeling with fists and elbows, as her brother, Magas, wrestled with Cato, beating him until he was bloodied and unconscious.
Guards pulled on Magas. “Prince Magas! Stop, lest you kill a Roman diplomat!”
“He’s no diplomat!” Magas yelled, his fists flailing. “He’s a student, no more, who tried to kill my father!”
Cleomenes disarmed his opponent. “Get out, Magas, go with them!” He jerked his head at the dais. Xiphos sagged against the throne while Hannibal searched the wall.
Magas scrambled to his feet, tossing guards off. He sprinted past the throne, found the secret compartment, and yanked a lever. A hidden door slid open smoothly, exposing dark corridors. “Let’s go!” With Hannibal and Mago, he hoisted Xiphos’s arm around his shoulder, and they escaped into the dark, hitting another lever to prevent pursuit.
Chapter Twelve
The four stumbled as fast as they could, Xiphos supported between Hannibal and Mago, as Magas led the way. Hannibal and Magas, having spent their youth sneaking out at night while Xiphos was home studying healing spells, were more familiar with the secret passages than their Spartan friend, but the light spell he cast on his sword helped them navigate the dark, dank tunnels.
Finally, they burst into a narrow alley. Tall buildings leaned in close, blocking the glare of the noon sun, but still, all three blinked, shielding their eyes, before Hannibal looked cautiously up and down the length of the alleyway, which was strewn with wooden crates, garbage, and an old rickshaw leaning drunkenly against one wall. There was no sign of life, or of pursuit.
“Ptolemy doesn’t know where it comes out,” Magas assured him.
Nonetheless, Hannibal inched forward cautiously, his sword drawn.
Magas turned to Xiphos, whose face was marred on one side with dried blood. “You all right?”
Xiphos nodded. “Channeling . . . qi. Getting better . . .”—he stumbled, was caught by Hannibal and Mago, and righted himself—“every minute.”
Fifteen cubits down the alley, Hannibal turned. “Good, because we have some swimming to do. Follow me.” He bolted down the narrow passage, weaving between crates and jumping over heaps of garbage buzzing with flies, before bursting into full daylight at the end, across a busy city street from the dock. He sprinted across the road, dodging among merchant wagons pulled by donkeys, and dove headfirst into the sea, narrowly missing a fishing boat. Mago and Magas dove in behind him, slicing the water neatly. Xiphos toppled in, sinking awkwardly before flailing to the surface, trying to get heavy limbs to work. Mago lagged behind, helping Xiphos as he struggled in his weakened state.
Hannibal swam hand over hand, grabbing great breaths of air as warm water washed over his body, until his hand connected with the solid hull of a ship. He looked over his shoulder. He heard shouting from the city but saw no sign of pursuers.
“What are you doing?” Magas hissed, coming up alongside him.
“My family owns it,” Hannibal said. “Come on!” He reached for one of the ropes dangling from the rail above and began hauling himself up the side of the ship. On either side, Mago and Magas, streaming with water, scrambled up their own ropes, while Xiphos followed more slowly, still drawing painful breaths.
Swinging over onto the deck, Hannibal landed amid a dozen surprised sailors. Lifting his voice to be heard, he called, “To your stations! Prepare to sail!”
Magas scrambled over the rail, dripping water across the cedar planks. “Are you crazy?” He grabbed Hannibal’s arm.
Xiphos landed beside them with a thump. He pushed his wet hair back, shaking water from his eyes. “It’s not the first time,” he told Magas.
“Not even close,” added Mago, clambering over the side.
Indeed, several of the sailors seemed amused, with indulgent smiles, as they prepared for departure.
The captain burst from his quarters, pulling on his coat. “What’s going on?” he shouted. He looked in bewilderment at his men, scrambling up ropes and hoisting sails. His face reddened. “Who gave these orders?”
Hannibal stepped forward, sketching a bow.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Get off my boat, Hannibal!” He swung his head to Mago. “You’re part of this? I’d have expected better from you!”
“Pharaoh—” Mago began.
“Gisco, my old friend!” Hannibal embraced the captain, who glanced at his dripping clothes and shoved him back, scowling.
Hannibal laughed. “Welcome our friends to the flagship of our merchant fleet, Cartagena! I believe that is Iberian for ‘New Carthage.’” Hannibal gave a flourish with his hands, showing off the deck of the latest from Carthaginian naval engineers, including the oversize catapult at the bow of the ship.
Gisco huffed. “I told Hasdrubal you cost us too much with the last of your naval adventures.”
“Alas.” Hannibal gave an exaggerated sigh. “My friends and I find ourselves in need of assistance. I ask this of you in good faith and, for my part, guarantee payment for your cargo.” He drew a pouch of gold from his waterlogged pocket. “With this small bonus.” He offered it to Gisco. Gisco glared at it. “I’ve always kept my word, have I not?” Hannibal asked.
“You have,” Gisco acknowledged grudgingly.
“Also”—Hannibal smiled—“my family owns the ship.”
Gisco snatched the pouch, still scowling, but gave a nod to his first in command, then ushered Hannibal, Xiphos, Mago, and Magas into his quarters. “Dry clothes in the chest,” he barked, and left.
“Where are we going?” Magas asked as they peeled off their dripping shirts.
“Well?” Hannibal looked to Xiphos. “You are the oldest, the most senior instructor, and”—he smiled self-deprecatingly—“have perhaps the coolest head.”
“Ephesus,” Xiphos answered promptly. “On the west coast of Anatolia.” He draped his damp shirt over a chair at the captain’s table and pulled a dry one over his head. “We’ll find my brother, Agis, there. He commands the Ephesian regiment. If we can reach him before word gets out, he’ll help us.” He turned to Magas. “Would you like to be crown prince of Egypt?”
“Is that the plan?” Magas asked. “To usurp the crown?” He put a hand to the wall, steadying himself as the ship lurched forward.
“Think,” Hannibal said harshly. “At best, your brother’s a drunken, incompetent fool, in charge of Egypt until Cynisca and Arsinoe can find a way to heal your father! At worst, he was part of the assassination attempt!”
“Hannibal is right.” Mago gripped the table, bracing himself against the ship’s motion. “You’re the only one of the royal family now who can help your people.”
“I’ve never led an army,” Magas objected. “I’m not even through with my studies at the academy.”
Hannibal placed a hand on the young prince’s shoulder. “Magas, with the greatest humility, I say that you have the academy’s two finest instructors at your side. I’m well versed in Ptolemaic armed forces. I offer you analysis and advice.”
“Your counsel is most welcome, my friend,” Magas replied gravely. “But I’m only eighteen.”
“Alexander was eighteen when he led the crucial left wing at the Battle of Chaeronea that established Macedonian supremacy,” Xiphos said.
“You think men will follow me?” Magas pressed. He released his hold as the ship settled into smoother motion.
“It’s no secret the army favors you over your brother,” Xiphos said.
“You have garrisons in Samos and Ephesus,” Hannibal said. “Samos consists primarily of navy and marines commanded by career Macedonian officers who just want to sit tight and collect their pension. Ephesus, however, has a large mercenary army, made up primarily of Peloponnesians but including many Spartans, most of whom still regard Cleomenes as their king.”
Xiphos nodded. “Which means they may well listen to me, as his son, and stand with us.”
Magas considered a few moments before shaking his head. “Possibly, but you and Xiphos may have a better chance without me. If we’re right and Sosibius is behind this, he’ll move heaven and earth to find me. He sees me, rightly so, it seems—as a threat to the diadem he has placed on my brother’s head.” Magas turned to the small window, bracing his hands on the frame and staring out to the glittering blue sea sliding by outside. After several moments, his voice strained, he asked, “What’s going to happen to my family?”
Xiphos placed a hand on his shoulder. “Arsinoe can take care of herself.”
“And they won’t dare touch a princess of the house of Egypt,” Hannibal added. “Not so soon after an assassination attempt on the king. Your brothers are too young to pose a threat.”
“It’s Cynisca I’m worried about,” Xiphos said. “She’s the only one who can keep the king alive at the moment. My hope is that Sosibius and your brother can’t risk any appearance of having let the king die when they could have stopped it.”
“Let’s hope,” Hannibal chimed in. Dressed in his dry clothes, he looked around the small quarters. “Let’s get some rest,” he advised.