In Thrall to the Enemy Commander

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘Understood.’

  Marni held out her arms grandly as they reached the far side of the hall. ‘As you may have guessed, this is the Hall of Greeting. It is where the guests will arrive and receive their first refreshments.’

  Wen noticed servants moving in and out of the great hall through small, shadowy openings along its sides. ‘You will use the servants’ closets to replenish your wine and to refill your tray with small bites. Anything that you serve to the Queen you must taste first, and you must ensure that she sees you do it.’

  ‘I may taste the dishes?’ Wen asked in disbelief.

  ‘You must taste them,’ said Marni.

  Wen smiled at her good fortune as she followed Marni to the beginning of the longest mosaic. Marni’s eyes raked over her body. ‘You are comely enough, but can you walk?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At a royal banquet, the men and women who serve the guests must reflect the beauty and the grace of our ancient land. As such, they must also be able to walk properly. Walk for me.’

  Wen took only a few strides before Marni stopped her.

  ‘Did nobody ever teach you how to walk like an Egyptian?’

  ‘What?’

  Marni pointed to the mosaic beside which they now stood. ‘Do you see the woman in that image?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wen said, studying a picture of a woman carrying a plate full of dates.

  ‘Do you see how erect she stands? How she holds her chin? She is not proud; but neither is she shy. She is one with everything and everyone around her. Tell me how she is walking.’

  ‘Heel to toe?’

  ‘Yes. Now try again. Hold your head with dignity. Keep your upper body straight, but not stiff. And do not rush. Imagine that you are floating just above the floor. Like an Egyptian.’

  As Wen practised walking, Marni continued her instruction ‘When the Pharaohs arrive, the guests will place their goblets on our trays and then drop to their knees in obeisance. Those of us designated to serve the Pharaohs will make their way to their sides. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Wen said, her heels already beginning to ache.

  ‘Our next task is to see if you can wash.’

  Wen followed Marni through two large tortoiseshell doors into another banquet hall with a ceiling so high it might have been the sky itself. As she stared up at the amazing structure, she noticed that its tree limb–shaped beams were plated in gold. Amidst those gilded branches soared two massive golden eagles.

  She blinked several times to make sure she was not suffering from an illusion. The eagles appeared suspended in the air, their talons flexing, their great wings outstretched. She wondered what it might be like to be as free as such a bird.

  To be free at all.

  ‘This is the Hall of Sustenance,’ Marni said. ‘You may wonder at the sights as much as you like now, but when the guests arrive you must not observe either the food or the furnishings. Nor should you ever lock eyes with anyone. The difference between a servant and a guest is precisely that restraint and you must keep it in the first two halls. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ Wen said, hoping she could remain indifferent to the opulence all around her.

  The Hall of Sustenance was lined with a single long table of polished ebony currently being set with golden tableware. Do not gape, Wen told herself, though she had never seen so much gold gathered together in one place.

  ‘I assume you know how to wash someone’s hands,’ said Marni.

  ‘I have never provided that particular courtesy,’ Wen answered.

  Marni appeared mortally wounded. She demonstrated a golden bowl filled with a floral-smelling paste. ‘This is a mixture of rose petals, oil of almond and lye. Pour a little water into it and then stir it with four fingers. Four fingers—remember that! Wait for the Queen to place her hands in the water, then massage her hands in it. When she lifts them out of the bowl, you must place them in the water basin directly to rinse. Then dry them with this cloth. Say, “Bastet bless you”, and take the basin away. Do you understand?’

  Wen nodded meekly. She had served the Queen throughout their journey to Alexandria in what she had believed to be quiet competence. Now she was questioning her abilities. Would she remember everything Marni was telling her? She did not wish to dishonour the Queen before her guests, but she feared betrayal by her own inexperience. Marni motioned her into the next chamber.

  Where the second hall was a towering cavern, the third hall was an inviting cave. It was smaller than the first two and felt slightly warmer. As in the first, a single fountain dominated the middle of the space. This fountain was graced by the figure of Dionysus, god of wine and ecstasy. In the god’s left hand was a bunch of grapes. In his right, he cradled a large amphora from which a purplish liquid was continuously poured. Wen gaped in astonishment when she realised what that liquid was: wine.

  ‘This is the Hall of Delights,’ said Marni. ‘It is the third and final hall, where the guests will rest and be entertained after they have dined.’

  The room contained multitudes of couches upon which innumerable pillows had been arranged and were presently being fluffed. There were low tables everywhere and Wen saw all manner of sweet delicacies set upon them. Overhead, long drapes of cloth gave the room a feeling of comfort and intimacy.

  ‘We will remove our guests’ sandals here at the entrance and wash their feet following the same custom as for their hands.’

  Wen nodded, noticing several unusual couches occupying the centre of the room. Four lions’ heads—frozen in eternal snarls—perched at the ends of each of their armrests and real lions’ paws graced their posts. ‘That is where the Pharaohs and their attendants will repose,’ explained Marni. ‘At first, we will pour for the royal women and do their bidding.’

  ‘At first?’

  Marni studied Wen gravely. ‘A Ptolemaic banquet is like a journey and the Hall of Delights is the journey’s end. Here, to honour the god Dionysus, guests often seek their own undoing. Through dance, music and wine, they pursue union with the divine. Differences are less important in the Hall of Delights, and boundaries between people may be breached. As the festivities progress, you may begin to receive commands not just from women, but also men.’

  Wen felt her stomach tighten. ‘What kind of commands?’

  ‘Simple commands, usually. A man may ask you to cool him with a fan, for example, or to help him adjust his repose by retrieving a pillow or two. Such commands should be cheerfully fulfilled. Your primary purpose is to help the guests enjoy themselves, after all. However, later in the evening, a man may ask you to dance for him, or rub his feet or...other things. You may fulfil such requests or refuse them. It is your choice. If you refuse, however, it is customary for you to take your leave.’

  Overcome with relief, Wen gave a mighty sigh. She would not have to run in terror from the Hall of Delights! She had heard many stories about the banquets of Cleopatra’s father, including rumours of licentious behaviour and indulgences of the flesh. She certainly did not want to participate in such things, though part of her wondered exactly what such indulgences entailed. In truth, she did not wish to leave the hall exactly, only to disappear into the shadows so that she could witness everything.

  Her curiosity became worry as she realised that Titus would surely be among the guests, taking his enjoyment. Would he choose to partake of the pleasures offered in the third hall?

  Surely he would. He was strong and virile and handsome, and he wore no symbol of commitment to any woman. Surely he partook of Dionysian rituals—or Bacchanal rituals, as they were called in Rome. She felt a strange pang of displeasure as she imagined him spotting some beautiful servant woman and requesting that she sit upon his lap.

  What if that woman is you? she thought hopefully. A warm energy travelled beneath her skin as she imagined Titus lounging upon one of those luxur
ious couches, motioning to her with his hand. In her vision, he poured Wen a goblet of wine and asked her if she would like to hear a poem.

  It was an absurd notion. When would an exalted Roman commander ever stoop to pour wine for a servant? He had stooped to kiss her on two different occasions, that was true. But in both cases, she had been the only woman anywhere near.

  Now he would be surrounded by them—women of beauty and breeding, who would surely be competing for the attention of such a handsome, high-ranking man.

  ‘In the Hall of Delights, a guest—man or woman—may ask you to join in the revelry,’ Marni was saying. ‘They may even wish to serve you in some way.’

  It was as if Marni had read Wen’s thoughts. ‘Yes, in the Hall of Delights, the servants become the guests and sometimes the guests become servants. And that is well, for we are all people, are we not?’

  ‘We are indeed,’ Wen replied, deciding that she liked Marni after all.

  ‘That is why it is so important to follow the rules of service in the first two halls. It allows for a greater catharsis when they are undone in the third hall. It is the nature of tryphe and also of life.’

  So now Wen knew. The Ptolemaic banquets that were so famous throughout the world were not simple indulgences of the senses. There was a religious principle at work in them: three seasons of the year, three stages of life, three parts to a banquet.

  She recalled the Queen’s words: The roles and riches of this world are illusions. They matter not. It seemed that this was the lesson of the third hall. There was the doing, the being and finally, the undoing.

  Wen realised suddenly where she had heard that saying before. It was one of the High Priestess’s favourites.

  ‘Come,’ Marni said. ‘Let us fit your gown.’

  They travelled through a dark corridor, then somehow emerged into the same room in which they had first met.

  ‘Try this,’ Marni said, presenting Wen with a tubular white linen gown. As she slipped into the fine garment, Wen sighed. The fabric felt like cool breath upon her skin.

  ‘Theban linen,’ Marni said when she saw Wen’s delight.

  ‘It does not fit,’ she said, trying to pull up the tunic’s low band.

  ‘Oh, it fits,’ said Marni. ‘You look—worthy of serving the Queen.’

  Wen stared at her naked breasts resting above the tunic’s elegant band. ‘But I am a slave.’

  ‘You are lovely. You represent the grace and beauty of Egypt.’

  Wen wondered what Titus would think of her bared breasts. Would he consider them blessings? She hoped he would and feared he would not. She could think of little else as she joined the other servants in their preparations. They worked the rest of the afternoon—polishing goblets, folding napkins and spreading rose petals upon the floors. Soon Ra hung above the horizon in an amber haze and it was time to don their gowns.

  Arriving in the Hall of Greeting, Wen was relieved to find a hundred other women dressed just like herself, along with a hundred men wearing white pleated kilts and little else. Both the men and women were young and of fine physical form, and Wen observed that many of them looked quite similar to the idealised statues among which they walked.

  ‘Do you see, Wen?’ whispered Marni. ‘The nobles of Alexandria only wish to walk amongst beauty and admire its form, be it of stone, bronze or flesh.’

  Their army of servants had a most unlikely commander—a tall reed of a man with a voice that sounded like a boy’s. ‘Attention, please!’ he sang out from the Greeting Hall’s entrance. ‘As many of you already know, I am Hemut, the High Steward. Tonight we celebrate a great success—the reconciliation of our beloved Pharaohs.’

  There was a wave of loud cheers.

  ‘This banquet must be a celebration like no other. Through it, we will show the noblest men and women of Alexandria that our kingdom is at peace, that our rulers are sound, that our trade is secure. Most importantly, we will show them that Egypt is General Caesar’s gracious host and not his supplicating client!’

  More cheers.

  ‘Now, it is true that this banquet was hastily arranged, but that does not mean it will be hastily deployed. We will uphold the reputation that we hold dear and our guests will walk away transformed. To achieve this distinction, you know what you must do. You must conduct yourselves in a way that honours your sovereigns. You must be the embodiment of beauty and grace. Tonight, you are like the Nile: you are everything that is beautiful and eternal about this glorious land. Now go forth and flow.’

  Chapter Eleven

  It did not take long to spy her. She sauntered amongst the other servants like a Pegasus among horses. Still, it was not her gait that caught his attention, but her inappropriately exposed flesh. Her abundant breasts, unclothed and fully visible, swayed gently with her movements, drawing his astonishment, then, might Jupiter strike him down, his desire.

  It was profane, the way that she was dressed. He could not believe that the Queen had allowed it. He knew that Egyptians did not follow traditional codes of modesty, but this went far beyond a mere cultural conceit. This was a corruption of decency.

  He could not abide it. He was a military commander and a senator’s son, after all. He had been gently raised. He had been educated at Rhodes, had been weaned on Pericles and the ideals of self-rule. Who was he if he could not rule his own lust?

  She was just a woman, after all. A woman was only as powerful as a man allowed her to become. That was what he had always believed, had been taught since he was a boy. You have no dominion over me, he told himself now, as he watched her move amidst the Queen’s allies. You are just like all the other women serving at this banquet.

  But she was not like the other women. She wore the same long white tunic and same black, shoulder-length wig, but her eyes were brighter, her lips redder, her honey skin flush with some greater store of vivacity.

  And her mind? Her mind was a mysterious weapon—as elegant and clever as the Trojan Horse.

  He wanted her so badly that he felt ill. She had rejected him, mistrusted him, even threatened his life, yet he wanted her more and more each day.

  Her lips alone were like medicine. He craved their healing, their soft uncertainty. The feel of her body against his had been a salve for his troubled soul, one that stimulated and soothed all at once. There was a peculiar magic at work for certain—some ancient Egyptian curse that turned educated, honourable men into helpless fools.

  He drank down his goblet in the hopes of calming himself, but the wine only increased his ardour. It seemed that every Roman officer in the room had his eyes on her, along with every Alexandrian high-born worthy of his robe. Who is that gracious Egyptian beauty with breasts like Venus and eyes like a doe’s? they whispered.

  She is mine, he wished to say, though it would have been a lie. She had allowed him to kiss her, that was true—both in the boat and in the Library. And the kisses, while chaste, had sent him spinning. But both kisses had been interrupted: the first by the call of duty and the second by Wen herself, leaving him to wonder if she wanted him at all.

  He adjusted the folds of his toga and downed another goblet of wine. He would speak with her this very night. He would take her aside and ask her all the questions cluttering his mind. Who are you? What are you hiding? Would you let me kiss you again?

  And again?

  He had just begun to make his way towards her when he felt a large hand gripping his elbow. ‘Was it not Aesop who said to be careful what you wish for?’

  Titus turned to regard a young cavalry officer whom he barely knew. ‘Well met...ah...’

  ‘Gnaeus.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Titus, raising his goblet in greetings.

  ‘I do not blame you, Legate Titus,’ Gnaeus said, casting his gaze across the hall. ‘She is quite a lotus. Just look at those...blooms.’

  ‘You speak as if your ed
ucation took place in a corral,’ Titus snarled.

  ‘I merely observe where you direct your attention.’

  ‘My attention has been preoccupied with certain affairs of state, if you must know,’ Titus said absently, craning to keep Wen in his sights.

  ‘You refer to the reconciliation of the Pharaohs?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Titus lied. He wished Gnaeus would find another peer to plague.

  ‘Then why do you wear a frown, Commander? Surely you should be enjoying yourself,’ said Gnaeus, gazing admiringly at Wen. ‘And if you do not wish to enjoy yourself, then I hope you do not mind if I do.’

  Titus was so preoccupied with keeping an eye on Wen that he did not immediately catch Gnaeus’s meaning, and, by the time he turned to respond, the young cavalry officer had already begun to make his way towards Wen.

  Titus growled at the veiled warning Gnaeus had issued him and growled again when he realised he needed to find a latrine. Soon he was standing impatiently before an elegant marble basin, praying he would reach her before Gnaeus did.

  A Roman soldier entered and stood beside Titus, and Titus recognised him instantly. He was one of Caesar’s bodyguards.

  ‘Strange to have to do this indoors,’ Titus remarked.

  ‘I was just thinking the same,’ said the man. ‘Though I am happy for the privacy.’ He stepped away from the basin suddenly and bent over as if in a bow. Then he caught sight of the tattoo behind the man’s ear.

  It was a large letter B—the unmistakable mark of the Boni. The man was a spy, just like Titus.

  Titus’s heart began to pound. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I thought that I was the only one in Alexandria.’

  ‘You will be soon. I leave for Rome tonight.’

  ‘What will you report?’

  ‘That the bull has allied himself with the rose and that the two aspire to rule together.’

  ‘They have said no such thing.’

  ‘No, but is it not obvious?’