‘Ask me anything,’ said Cleopatra.
‘What?’
‘Anything. Ask me any question you like, from any discipline—science, rhetoric, history. I vow that I will answer it correctly. And if I cannot, one of my women will. Women are just as able as men to think for ourselves.’
‘A test then,’ Caesar pronounced, seemingly aware of his audience. He sat back in his chair. ‘All right, Queen Cleopatra. Here is a question from the sciences. You mentioned Archimedes. Explain the principle at work in Archimedes’ Screw.’
There was a spate of whispers among the dinner guests followed by a low hush. ‘You seek to trick me with your very first question,’ said the Queen, her voice ringing across the hall. ‘Archimedes is known for his principle of calculating volume, though that is not the principle at work in his screw. The principle you allude to is friction. Aristotle spoke of it in his experiments with inclined planes. The screw minimises the friction of the water, making it easier to lift.’
There was a collective sigh followed by a spate of discussion. The Queen had done well. Very well. Even Caesar was nodding his head, apparently impressed. ‘All right then, here is a question that will challenge you in a different way. Where do our thoughts form, in the head or in the heart?’
‘Of course you would ask such a question. Visitors to Egypt often do,’ said Cleopatra. ‘To prepare our mummies for the afterlife, we remove the contents of the head, but not the heart. But Herophilos proved many years ago that the head is where the mind is located and all our thoughts good or ill.’
Another spate of celebratory whispers rippled through the crowd, and Caesar narrowed his eyes. ‘What is the best treatment for the sacred disease?’ Caesar asked.
‘Valerian, of course!’ said the Queen. ‘And heat around the head.’ Caesar cocked his own head in amazement and Titus inwardly did the same. Few people knew that Caesar himself suffered from that ailment.
‘Do not look so surprised, General Caesar,’ said the Queen. ‘Did Homer not say that the people of Egypt are more skilled in medicine than any of human kind?’
‘What are the three modes of persuasion?’ he fired back.
‘Logos, ethos and pathos. You used them to great effect yesterday when you addressed the Alexandrian mob.’
Caesar shook his head in frustration. He turned to Titus. ‘You ask her something, Titus. Let us see if you can give her more of a challenge.’
Titus nearly choked on his fig. He felt the eyes of everyone seated at the table focus on him. His mind raced. Caesar had asked questions in science, medicine and rhetoric. What subject remained? History.
‘Ah, who was the last Roman King and when did he reign?’ Titus asked.
It was a suitable question and Caesar gave him an approving nod. Titus took a sip of water.
‘Hmmm,’ said the Queen. The guests were frozen in their seats. Even the servants had stopped their work. She craned her neck down the table. ‘Women, I must request your aid on this particular matter.’
Charmion and Iras looked at one another, then shook their heads. Arsinoe sighed and gave a nod of resignation. ‘Wen?’ Wen was standing behind the Queen, holding the Queen’s wash water.
‘Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, my Queen,’ Wen said. ‘Five hundred years ago. After Superbus’s bloody reign, Rome became a republic.’
There was a collective hum of satisfaction, and Caesar sat back in his chair. ‘You are right,’ he admitted.
She was right—incredibly so. Tarquinus’s reign was the most significant in all of Rome’s history, for it had motivated the people to abandon monarchy and put a better form of government in its place. The leaders of this change were good men and it was for them that the Boni themselves had been named.
The Queen clapped her hands together. ‘Are you satisfied, General?’ she asked Caesar. ‘Have you not witnessed that women are equal in science, rhetoric and history? Or shall we answer more questions?’
Caesar sat back. ‘I am persuaded.’
The Queen gave a dazzling smile.
‘Though I wonder,’ Caesar continued, ‘if a woman could be equal to the task of ruling a kingdom?’
The question was breathtaking in its recklessness. Sitting right beside Caesar was the actual ruler of Egypt—a young man. What Caesar was suggesting could easily be construed as a threat.
‘Now there is a question for which I am glad I do not have the answer,’ said Cleopatra. ‘Nor do I ever wish to, for I have my husband-brother. Only together can we carry out that weighty task.’
Now Titus recognised Caesar’s aim. The General had deliberately spoken the question at the back of every Alexandrian’s mind to give Cleopatra the opportunity to refute it.
News of this exchange would travel around the city faster than the north wind, and surely the exiled Queen would find herself with more sympathisers. Even in the safety and comfort of the Hall of Sustenance, Caesar was preparing his defences.
Still, Titus could not believe that the exchange had been entirely strategic. Caesar appeared genuinely impressed with the Queen’s knowledge. Even now, he seemed to marvel at her, his expression a mixture of awe and puzzlement. It was as if she were some strange chimera whose existence he had doubted until now.
In sum, Caesar looked the way Titus had long ago begun to feel—about Wen.
The dinner waxed on and there seemed to be no end to the delicacies placed before them.
‘Warblers in plum sauce,’ Hemut pronounced. ‘Roast piglet stuffed with pomegranates. Baked sturgeon stuffed with goat cheese.’ The wine flowed and the conversations became louder and more jovial.
Titus drank more wine and watched Wen with growing boldness. He had to speak to her again—if only to bid her farewell. He feared that at any moment Ptolemy’s army would attack Alexandria and Caesar would send Titus to secure aid.
But there was something he feared even more—that the Boni would command him not to bring that aid and that he would never see Wen again. Once, he looked up and it seemed that the golden eagles perched in the towering ceiling had begun to flap their wings.
When it seemed that there could not possibly be more feasting, Hemut announced that the Pharaohs would be pleased if their guests would accompany them to the Hall of Delights.
‘Let it be done!’ exclaimed Cleopatra, clapping her bejewelled hands into the air. The guests stood from their chairs and watched in awe as two large tortoiseshell doors at the back of the hall creaked open, though no servants appeared to be pulling them.
‘They are hydraulic doors,’ Iras remarked, passing by Titus’s side. ‘They are powered by a current of water that flows beneath the palace.’
‘Really?’
‘It is invisible, but it is there,’ she said, tossing a glance at Wen. ‘Enjoy your evening, Titus.’
The Hall of Delights was a room dressed in finery. Colourful cloths plunged from the ceilings and billowed over thick couches draped in silks. Beneath the couches lay the finest carpets; beside them, tables were overflowing with sweets. Small fires flickered in braziers throughout the room and there was the soft hum of lutes following the beat of a deep-hearted drum.
Wen followed the Queen as she entered, not giving Titus a second glance. Titus was ushered into a chair and a servant began washing his feet. As the young man soberly massaged sweet-smelling oils between his toes, he felt as if he might burst into laughter.
He cast a glance at Caesar, but the General seemed strangely heedless of the absurdity of it all. It gave Titus a chill to watch the General indulge in such extravagances. Every day he seemed less like a general and more like a king.
Titus waved his servant aside and towelled off his own toes. Then he stood and stepped forward into the Hall of Delights—barefoot, a little drunk and smelling of lilies, hoping to declare his interest to a woman forbidden to speak to him.
This is all
perfectly normal, he told himself, scanning the room for an innocuous place to sit. He caught a glimpse of a man wearing the hooves and horns of a goat.
He had to blink his eyes. The man was completely and unashamedly unclothed. His manhood stood out from his waist in an obscenely engorged horizontal shaft. His only adornment were his hooves and horns, and a short, goat-like tail that had been fixed to his backside.
He was, Titus realised, a satyr. Titus had read about the mythical beings and seen them depicted in plays—though never so completely exposed. They were the mischievous, lustful goat-men who accompanied the wine god in his adventures. He looked around the luxurious room and discovered many such satyrs, some playing music, others dancing, others playing dice and drinking from large amphorae.
The satyrs were not the only mythical creatures darting about. There were also alarmingly amorous young women wearing deerskin skirts and crowns of ivy. They flounced amongst the guests, playfully caressing the men and herding them on to the couches. Nymphs!
This is no banquet, Titus thought. He had not known it, but the moment that he had stepped through those magically moving doors, he had unwittingly become a character in an illicit satyr play.
He saw Wen push past one of the satyrs. The goat-man tickled her with his tail as she retrieved an amphora of wine. Titus tried to identify the overbold creature, but quickly lost sight of him in a blur of flesh and hooves.
He stumbled aside as the herd headed towards a shallow wooden basin just behind him. The attention of the guests was upon the goat-men as they linked their arms together and broke into a traditional Greek drinking song. They stomped their legs in unison as they sang, and Titus noticed a dark purple liquid staining their hooves.
They were stomping grapes.
A throng of interested onlookers was now heading towards the stomping satyrs, and Titus knew he needed to escape that part of the hall. Spying an empty sofa just beyond the chaos, Titus put his head down and began to trek towards it. He was just reaching it when he felt a tap upon his shoulder. He turned to discover a bare-breasted nymph blinking up at him with a wicked glint in her eyes.
The nubile young woman wore a crown of ivy in her hair and green leaves were painted on her nipples. She tipped a goblet of wine into Titus’s mouth, then finished the rest herself.
‘You are a handsome man,’ she chirped, rubbing her chest. She pushed Titus back on to the couch and began to crawl up his body like a cat. ‘Would you like a massage?’ she purred, squeezing his legs. ‘I can help you off with that heavy toga.’
In his youth, he might have gladly seized upon such an opportunity. Glancing around the room he saw many Roman officers already doing just that. In one illicit corner, a Roman officer was shouting lewd commands to a dancing nymph, who appeared to be obeying him in her provocative movements. In another, several of his countrymen had stripped down to their loincloths and were kissing and petting their own nymphs in a tangle of limbs.
But Titus had no enthusiasm for such indulgences of the flesh. The only nymph he wished to tangle with was Wen and he had already lost sight of her. He leaned his head back as the nymph still seated upon his lap placed a path of warm kisses up his neck. He closed his eyes, imagining she was Wen.
When he opened them, he gave a start. It was Wen. She was staring at him from across the room.
‘No, no, no!’ cried Titus, sitting up. He felt the moisture of the nymph’s wet tongue inside his ear. Seeking rescue, he heralded a roving satyr. The goat-man lifted the amorous nymph to standing, then bent her over the arm of Titus’s couch.
This is all perfectly normal, Titus told himself again, preparing to intervene. But as the satyr feigned his act of lewdness upon her, the nymph only laughed and shrieked. At last, the nymph wriggled herself free and ran off towards a group of men in cows’ horns.
‘Gratitude,’ Titus said to the satyr. The satyr bowed, then trotted away towards some new misadventure.
Titus did not even have a chance to breathe before another woman was invading his ear, this time with a whisper. ‘Can I fill your goblet or tie you up?’ she asked. She was dressed only in tattoos—a human canvas of writhing snakes, beetles and crocodiles. In one hand, she held a deep blue amphora, in the other, a whip.
‘Erm, wine, please,’ he said, for it seemed that she had offered him a choice between the two. He lifted his empty goblet and accepted the cloudy crimson liquid the woman offered.
‘Gratitude,’ he said and drank a small sip.
‘You are a beautiful man,’ she said, raking her eyes up and down his body. ‘You deserve a kiss.’ Before he could move away she had planted her lips on his.
When he looked up from the strange encounter, he felt many sets of eyes upon him. ‘He kissed the maenad,’ someone whispered.
‘Nay, the maenad kissed him,’ said another.
He glanced towards the fountain and noticed that one of his observers was Wen. She was standing just behind the Queen, smiling placidly. All the colour in her cheeks had gone.
Did she think that he had kissed the tattooed woman on purpose? Curses! He shooed the maenad away, then stood. He needed to cross the hall and speak to her. But there was Hemut standing at its entrance, shaking his finger at Titus in warning.
Titus slumped back upon the couch.
And that was his front-row seat for the spectacle to come, for in that instant, Gnaeus sidled up to Wen and offered her a goblet of wine. Gnaeus! And she accepted it. She shot Titus an injured glare, then took a hearty sip.
* * *
‘Yes, drink up, my sweet,’ said the Roman. He was a portly young man with a lecherous grin and cheeks red with the effects of drink. He did not look Wen in the eyes. Instead, he appeared to be addressing her breasts directly. ‘What fruits are you offering this lovely evening?’
‘None, I am afraid,’ she said. She had not meant to lead him on. She had been so unnerved by Titus’s kiss with the maenad that she had accepted his goblet without thinking. Now she did not know how to escape him.
‘Come, let me rub your feet,’ he said, leading her to a nearby couch. He was clearly a Roman soldier and his simple chainmail marked him of low rank. He reminded Wen of the men whom she had served at the brew house and, as she gazed into his eyes, she felt a dull loathing.
The Roman took a slice of orange from a nearby tray and blandly held it out to Wen.
‘Feed it to me, would you?’ he asked. He was sitting far too close. She held it out to him and as he bit into the fruit, a tiny bit of juice dribbled on to her breasts.
‘It appears that the oranges you offer are overly juicy,’ he slurred, staring at the stain of syrup upon her breasts. ‘My apologies, little Venus. Shall I help you clean them?’ He opened his mouth and the fire of panic shot through her.
* * *
Gnaeus was hovering over Wen like a panting hyena. And Titus could do nothing about it. He glared at Hemut, who glared back at him. Do not even think of it, the Steward’s expression seemed to say.
Curse Hemut, Titus thought. And curse Gnaeus. And curse the Hall of Delights. He fumbled inside his coin purse for a silver coin and motioned to a passing nymph.
‘This is yours if you would attend to Steward Hemut for a few moments. I have heard he likes to be tickled with feathers.’ A grin stretched across the nymph’s face as she plucked the coin from Titus’s hands.
Freed from Hemut’s watchful gaze, Titus crossed to the couch where Gnaeus and Wen reclined.
‘Excuse me, Brother,’ said Titus, ‘but would you mind if I cut in? I promised this young woman I would oil her feet.’
‘This one is taken, Commander,’ replied Gnaeus, ‘but as you can see, there are many others to choose from.’
Titus closed his eyes, struggling to control his desire to punch the young cavalry officer in the face.
‘Apologies, Brother,’ he said calmly, ‘but I must
insist. Priority of rank, you see.’
‘But there is no rank in the Hall of Delights,’ Gnaeus protested. ‘Or is that not the point?’ He slid an oily glance at Wen’s breasts.
Dignitas, Titus told himself, though he was about to explode. ‘I bid you stand, Brother.’
Slowly, Gnaeus stood, his short, portly figure dwarfed by Titus’s towering one. ‘Let us settle this dispute as men,’ Titus said at last.
‘That is not necessary,’ said Gnaeus. He grabbed Wen by the wrist, yanking her up off the couch. Wen gave a small cry and tried to struggle free.
‘That was a mistake,’ said Titus, raising his fist to Gnaeus’s face. ‘You must never, ever grab her by the wrists.’ The Hall of Delights went silent.
‘You there!’ cried Caesar. He was reposing on a nearby couch. ‘As your General, I command you to step away from that woman. She belongs to Titus.’
Gnaeus released Wen’s arm as if it were a venomous snake, then slunk away into a group of roaming satyrs. Titus gave the General a deep bow and was left standing before Wen without any words at the ready.
‘Gratitude,’ she said at last. ‘It seems that you have saved me once again.’
‘That man is a toad.’
‘I did not know how to get free of him without disturbing the ma’at and dishonouring the Queen.’
‘There is very little you could do to dishonour the Queen after your performance in the Hall of Sustenance. Will you sit with me a while? I have taken up residency on that couch over there.’
Titus motioned to the corner where his couch remained thankfully unoccupied. Wen frowned.
‘Are you sure you do not wish to sit with another? The maenad, perhaps?’ She glanced at the tattooed woman, then studied the floor.
‘I would no more want to sit with that kiss-stealing human canvas than I would want to cosy up on a mat with Gnaeus.’
Wen smiled. ‘And what of the nymph?’
‘What nymph? You are my nymph,’ said Titus.
In Thrall to the Enemy Commander Page 15
