‘He has made no alliance with Ptolemy,’ answered Titus. ‘He wishes to reunite the Lord and Lady of the Two Lands.’
There was a collective gasp and then the room went quiet. ‘Reunite me with Ptolemy? For what motive?’
‘Your Divinity...ah...to please the gods.’
‘He wishes to collect the money my late father owed him,’ Cleopatra said to a flood of laughter.
A bald man in a green robe bent to whisper something into Cleopatra’s ear. The Queen gave a resigned nod, then set her flickering gaze upon the crowd.
‘This priest of Osiris believes that Caesar and my husband-brother conspire to kill me. Who here agrees that Caesar summons me to my death?’
A chorus of voices sang out in agreement, and Wen thought to herself how mistaken they all were.
‘You there,’ the Queen called out. ‘Why do you shake your head in dissent?’
The room went silent. Wen looked around, but she could not discern which of the men had been addressed. ‘Do you disagree with the Osiris priest and these other distinguished men?’ asked the Queen. She was staring directly at Wen.
She had addressed Wen.
Wen felt heat rising in her cheeks. ‘Ah, yes, My Queen,’ she sputtered.
‘Come forward,’ said Cleopatra.
Wen willed her quaking legs through the crowd of advisors, imagining what her head would look like on a spike. When she arrived before the Living Goddess and kneeled, her hands were trembling like a thief’s.
‘You may rise,’ said Cleopatra. ‘Who are you and by whose permission do you appear in my presence?’
‘This is Wen of Alexandria,’ offered an ancient man with long white hair. ‘She is the woman you requested, Goddess. Egyptian by birth, but speaks a commoners’ Latin.’
‘Ah, yes, the...translator,’ Cleopatra said. ‘Thank you, Mardion.’ Cleopatra studied Wen with interest and Wen became painfully aware of her bare feet on the Queen’s fine Persian carpet. ‘Tell me, Translator, why would Caesar not kill me if I go to him now?’
Wen felt every eye in the room upon her and her courage flickered with the braziers.
‘Speak,’ Cleopatra commanded. ‘The fate of Egypt is at stake!’
‘I have heard that Caesar has a taste for h-high-born women,’ Wen blurted, instantly aware of the veiled insult she had made.
But the Queen only nodded. ‘I have heard this rumour as well. Go on.’
‘Th-the Gabiniani of Alexandria say that he has conquered as many women as he has kingdoms. The wives of Crassus and Pompey—even Lollia, the wife of the Gabiniani’s own beloved General. I do not think Caesar will kill you, Goddess. Instead he will seek to conquer you as he does all women of power and beauty. In order to prove his worth.’
Cleopatra wore a puzzled expression. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you support my brother Ptolemy’s claim to the Horus Throne?’
‘No, my Goddess!’
‘Then why do you mingle with the Gabiniani?’
‘They frequent the brew house where I toil. Toiled. In Alexandria.’
‘In other words, you were bound to serve Roman soldiers and speak to them in their tongue?’
‘I did not speak, my Queen. I only listened.’
‘An Egyptian woman fluent in the Latin of Rome, yet wise enough not to use it,’ the Queen said. She sat back in her throne. ‘You are a rare coin, Wen of Alexandria.’
Wen exhaled, feeling that she had passed some sort of test.
A beautiful woman with a halo of black hair bent and whispered something in the Queen’s ear. The Queen nodded. ‘Speak your question, Iras.’
The woman stepped forward and fixed her thick-lidded gaze on Wen. ‘You say that Roman soldiers value conquest above all else. How come you by such knowledge?’
‘The Roman men I serve often brag of it, Mistress. They seek to conquer foreign women as a kind of sport. I know this to be true because I—’ she began, but her mind filled with a hot fog and she could not continue.
The Queen and Iras exchanged a knowing glance. ‘You do not love Roman soldiers, I presume?’ asked Cleopatra.
‘You presume correctly, Goddess.’
‘What is your name again, Translator?’
‘Wen-Nefer, my Queen. Wen.’
‘Wen, do you believe I can conquer this Caesar of Rome?’
‘I do.’
‘Tell me how you would have it done.’
‘You must make him believe that he has conquered you.’
‘And you know this to be the best way possible, based on your knowledge of Roman soldiers?’
‘Yes, and because you are cleverer than he.’
‘You seek to flatter me?’
‘I seek... I seek only to avow that Egypt is cleverer than Rome. And you are Egypt.’
The Queen sat still for several long moments. She motioned to her advisor Mardion and whispered something in his ear. He studied Wen closely, then whispered something back.
She glanced at her two handmaids, both of whom gave solemn nods. ‘It is decided,’ she said at last. ‘I shall heed Caesar’s call. I shall travel to Alexandria in secret and meet him in my palace. I shall trick him into conquering me and thus shall conquer him. And you, Wen, will come with me.’
* * *
It trespassed the boundaries of reason. A Queen of Egypt relying on the political advice of a simple slave woman? Madness. Either the witty Queen Cleopatra had lost her wits, or the woman who called herself Wen was not who she appeared to be.
Who was she, then? The question gnawed at him. He studied her from his position at the tent’s periphery, hoping to discover a clue.
She was a disaster of a woman, in truth. She stood rigid before the Queen in that sack of a dress, staring at her grubby toes. Her hair was a tangle of dirty locks that cascaded over her bronze shoulders in wild black tongues. He could not discern her shape, but her bare arms displayed the unfeminine musculature of a hard-toiling slave. He might have pitied her, if he were not so totally perplexed.
How could an Egyptian slave woman have such profound insights into Rome’s greatest General? Her assessment of Caesar had been brilliant—something a military officer or political advisor might have given. It seemed impossible that she could have gleaned such knowledge by simply pouring beer for Roman soldiers.
Perhaps she does more than pour beer, he thought. Perhaps she served as a hetaira, a learned prostitute for high-born men. He watched how she held herself, searching for clues. Impossible. Her posture alone suggested a kind of defeat and her chapped, calloused hands told the story of a life of washing dishes and scrubbing floors.
Nay, she was no hetaira. She was about as far from such a role as a woman could get. He scanned her body and noticed the pink stain of a scar rising up from the small of her leg. He followed the scar’s intriguing path, wondering where it led, but it quickly disappeared beneath the ragged hem of her tunic.
She was an enigma: the only thing about this tedious war council that he did not understand.
Yet she already seemed to understand him, or at least to suspect his ruse.
He had given her no reason to suspect him of anything. He had played the role of soldier flawlessly, had approached the Queen with a single-minded militancy and correctly feigned ignorance of her royal Greek. If there had been a weakness in the performance, it had been in the fumbling commands of his guard Clodius, though none in the Queen’s audience seemed to have noticed.
None except—what had she called herself?
Wen.
She seemed to be the only one to suspect anything, for as he, the real Titus, had returned to the shadows beside her, she had flashed him a suspicious glance—one that had rattled him to his bones. Even if she did not know that he and his guard had switched places, she obviously suspected something. And if she could tease out that secre
t so easily, what other, more serious secrets might she be capable of discovering?
He shook off a shiver and directed his attention to the discussion at hand. The advisors were debating how the Queen might travel to Alexandria without detection by Ptolemy’s spies.
‘The Queen must make the journey by the River,’ one of the priests was saying. ‘She can take the Pelusiac branch of the Delta up to Memphis, then back down the Canopic branch to Alexandria.’
‘That would take five days or more,’ said one advisor.
‘And the river boatmen gossip like wives,’ said another. ‘She would be discovered and Ptolemy would send out his assassins.’
‘To go by land would also be unwise,’ called another. ‘Ptolemy has offered a reward in gold for the Queen’s capture. There will be men in every village looking to profit from her head.’
‘Then she must go by sea!’ someone called. ‘It is the only way.’
‘Ptah’s foot!’ barked the advisor Mardion. He wagged a knobby finger at them all. ‘Her vessel would be seized the moment it entered the Great Harbour.’
The room erupted in another spate of discussion—one to which even young Clodius did not appear immune. Wen appeared to be the only one in the room not engaged in the debate. She remained eerily still and silent against the din.
At length, Cleopatra stood and raised her hands. ‘Gentlemen, it is late. Decisions made in the hours of Seth are never good ones. Tomorrow afternoon we shall reconvene and make our decision.’
There was a collective sigh of relief as the council turned to await the Queen’s exit. Titus felt himself relax. They had succeeded in their ruse. None seemed to guess that the two Romans had switched places—that he, the elder and the stronger, was the true son of a senator and the real commander of Caesar’s Sixth.
None except, possibly, Wen. She remained still and unmoving as the Queen’s entourage of women bustled about their beloved monarch. She had become invisible, it seemed, to everyone but him.
Chapter Three
Wen kept her head bowed as the war council concluded and the Queen and her entourage exited the tent. The advisors followed after, streaming out of the tent in a garrulous mass. Someone pushed Wen forward and she became swept up in the exodus.
She recalled Sol’s words—one of the Queen’s attendants will find you—and realised that she needed to get herself to a place where she could be found. Outside the tent, she headed towards the only torch she saw, then bumped squarely into a wall.
A human wall. Of muscle and bone.
The Roman guard.
His titanic figure bent over her, as if trying to make out the features of her face. ‘You,’ he breathed in Latin.
Her heart raced. She turned to retreat, but he took her by the arm. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who are you?’ she returned, yanking herself free. There was little light and they were surrounded by bodies. He encircled her in his arms, creating a cocoon of protection against the jostling crowd. Her head pressed against his chest.
Poon-poon. Poon-poon.
She had never heard such a sound.
Poon-poon. Poon-poon. Poon-poon.
It was the sound of his heart, she realised—loud enough to perceive, even through the hard metal of his chainmail, like a small but mighty drum.
Poon-poon. Poon-poon. Poon-poon. Poon-poon.
The night wind swirled around them.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered huskily. He brushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. ‘Who?’
She pushed against his embrace, testing his intentions. ‘Why does it matter?’
He slackened his hold, but did not release her. ‘I wish to know you better.’
Know me better? In her experience, the only thing Roman soldiers wanted to know was how she planned to serve them. Still, there was something unusual about this Roman soldier. When he had cleared the hair from her face, it was as if he had been handling fine lace.
‘Why do you wish to know me better?’ she asked.
‘I sense that you are not as you seem.’
‘Is anybody?’
He chuckled. ‘I supposed you have a point.’
The crowd had cleared. There was no longer any reason for him to be holding her, though he pulled her closer still, and she could feel the twin columns of his legs pressing against her own.
He uttered something resembling a sigh and she felt the upheaval of his stomach against hers. He moved his large hand down her back, forcing her hips closer and manoeuvring one of his legs between her thighs.
Her stomach turned over on itself and a strange thrill rippled across her skin. It occurred to her that she was straddling his massive leg as if it were a horse.
‘Curses,’ he groaned. He took a deep breath and buried his nose in her hair.
What was he doing? More importantly, why was she not stopping him?
‘Why do you feel so good?’ he asked with genuine surprise, moving his hands in tandem up her back.
She wanted to pull away from him, but she could not bring herself to do it. It was as if his body was having a private conversation with hers and cared not what her mind might think. He pressed his leg more firmly between hers, sending pangs of unfamiliar pleasure into her limbs.
He thrust his hips towards her and she felt the hardened thickness of his desire press against her stomach.
‘Enough!’ she gasped. She wrenched herself backwards, stumbling to keep her balance.
‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I do not know what overcame me.’
‘I must go,’ she said, stepping backwards.
‘Answer my question.’
‘What question?’
‘Tell me who you are.’
‘I am nobody.’
‘You do not understand my meaning,’ said the Roman. ‘I am Clodius of the familia Livinius. My kin have lived in the same house in the Aventine neighbourhood of Rome for over three hundred years. My father was a soldier and so am I. A soldier and a son. That is who I am.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Do you doubt me?’
She held her tongue.
‘I am not a liar.’
She took one more step backwards. ‘I have not called you a liar.’
‘But you suspect that I am one.’
‘I suspect nothing.’
‘You cannot hide from me,’ he said. His voice grew in menace. ‘You have been trained in the art of suspicion and I want to know who trained you.’
Suddenly, it all became clear. She threatened him: that was the reason he had held her so close. He wished to gain some advantage over her, to redirect her doubt of his own dubious identity. He did not care for her or desire her at all.
‘I am nobody,’ said Wen, turning away in stealth. ‘I am a slave.’
She heard him take another step closer, but she had already tiptoed beyond his sights. She spied a large tent at the perimeter of camp and began to make her way towards it, glad she knew better than to trust a Roman.
* * *
‘They cannot stand the sight of us,’ Clodius observed. He and Titus were sitting together on the beach, watching a group of Egyptian soldiers launch a fishing boat into the sea.
‘Can you blame them? Cleopatra’s father owed Rome over four thousand talents. Our presence here is like the appearance of wolves at a picnic.’
‘So why were we commanded to come?’
Only I was commanded to come, thought Titus. He had been awoken by Cleopatra’s advisor Mardion in the middle of the night. The old man had told Titus to gather his belongings. He was to make haste to the beach, by orders of the Queen.
‘I believe I was meant to help those fishermen,’ said Titus.
‘It seems a little early for fishing, does it not?’
Titus gazed at the sky. The stars were fading, but the
light of dawn had yet to arrive. A realization struck him.
‘That is not a fishing boat at all,’ Titus said. ‘That is the Queen’s ship, man. It is bound for Alexandria.’
‘But her route is not yet decided,’ said Clodius.
Titus studied the unassuming, double-oared boat, its two young oarsman rowing out past the waves. ‘I think Queen Cleopatra is cleverer than we thought. Look there.’
A jewelled hand was reaching around the curtains of the deck cabin, tugging them closed. Clodius gasped. ‘She is already aboard?’
‘I fear we will soon be parted, Clodius,’ said Titus urgently. ‘You must remember our ruse. You are the son of a Roman senator now. You must comport yourself with dignitas at all times.’
But Clodius was not listening. His attention had been captured by two elegantly dressed women who appeared at the far end of the beach.
The first walked with smooth grace, her limbs long, her hair a wide cascade of tight curls. Her beautiful dark skin shone like polished obsidian and her appealing slim figure was enhanced by the snug Egyptian tunic she wore. In her arms she carried a medium-sized chest that Titus guessed contained belongings of the Queen.
‘Venus’s rose,’ said Clodius.
‘I believe she is called Iras,’ said Titus. ‘She stood behind Cleopatra at the war council. I believe she is the Queen’s first handmaid.’
Next to Iras walked the woman the Queen had called Charmion, her Greekness evident in the wreath of flowers adorning her hair. She walked with an energetic bounce, exaggerating the sway of her lovely hips. Charmion, too, carried a small chest, but it was propped on her side, resulting in the favourable display of her abundant breasts.
‘Forget Venus—I should like to worship one of those two. Which do you choose, Commander?’
‘Remember your dignitas, Clodius. You must—’
‘But there is a third,’ Clodius interrupted. ‘Do you not see her?’
It was true. There was another woman walking half a pace behind the other two. She carried a chest that was of much greater size and apparent weight than the other women’s, though she was plainly the smallest of the three. Still, she appeared quite equal to her burden and she walked with an almost comical determination.
In Thrall to the Enemy Commander Page 3
