In Thrall to the Enemy Commander

by Greta Gilbert

She accepted his hand, and he led her to his small island of sanity at the edge of the hall. ‘Drink?’ he asked Wen, offering the goblet that had been filled earlier by the maenad.

  ‘Gratitude,’ Wen said. ‘Though I wish it were water, not wine. All of this washing and drying of limbs has made me quite thirsty.’ She looked around to ensure she had no witnesses, then drank down the goblet in a single swill.

  ‘Well done!’ Titus remarked. ‘I do not think half the men in this Hall could have drunk that as fast as you did.’

  ‘Half the men in this hall have not been on their feet since this morning,’ she said. She rubbed her eyes, then sank deeper into the couch.

  It was a small miracle. Here she was, the most beautiful woman in the whole of Egypt, sitting beside Titus of her own free will. She leaned her head against his arm and his spirit swelled. Finally, they were together, and they had the rest of the night to converse. First he would find her some water, then begin his inquisition in earnest. He would ask her about her life as a temple child and her experiences at the brew house. With each answer, she would add a detail to the picture of her, until she had sketched a canvas so rich and varied that there would be nothing left to know.

  It was an eminently logical scheme and guaranteed to cure the illness of longing that plagued him so that he could be on his way. He watched her close her eyes and a soft blanket of peace suffuse her expression. The problem was that he did not want a cure for his longing, nor did he wish to leave her side. He wanted only to get closer.

  ‘I cannot get you out of my mind, Wen,’ he confessed. ‘I fear that I am in love with you.’

  When he bent to look at her again, he realised that she had fallen into a deep and total slumber.

  ‘Is she all right?’ A tall, handsome servant woman approached, a look of concern wrinkling the swirls around her eyes.

  ‘I believe so. She went to sleep rather quickly, though.’

  The woman glanced at the empty goblet. ‘Who poured the wine, do you remember?’

  ‘The maenad poured it.’

  ‘From a blue bottle?’

  Titus nodded.

  ‘Oh, no. The maenads serve only wine mixed with milk of poppy.’

  ‘What? Why did nobody tell me this?’

  ‘Everybody knows that maenads distribute milk of the poppy,’ said the woman. ‘It is one of our oldest customs.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I will not allow her to recline here all night in a poppy-milk haze,’ he said. He glanced around the room at the Roman soldiers. They were circling like hungry jackals.

  The woman nodded, then gave a musical whistle. A boy appeared at her side.

  ‘I am Marni and this is Khu. He will lead you to my room in the servants’ quarters. You may leave Wen there. It is safe.’ She stepped a little closer to Titus. ‘And you will leave her there, yes?’

  ‘I will not touch her, if that is what you are suggesting,’ said Titus. ‘But I will stay to watch her breaths and to ensure that the poppy haze lifts. She consumed a dangerous amount.’

  The woman seemed satisfied with his answer and gave a deep bow. ‘Follow Khu,’ she said. ‘I will tell the Queen.’

  Khu led Titus through a series of low corridors and hidden rooms, arriving at the end of a long hallway, and Khu motioned to a small door.

  ‘This is Mistress Marni’s room,’ he announced.

  Titus thanked the boy, then tossed him a coin.

  She was quite light and easy to manoeuvre on to the low mattress—a rather threadbare thing that appeared to have been stuffed with straw. Tucked in a corner was a loosely woven hemp blanket, which he spread over her body as best he could. He wished he had a pillow for her head.

  After she was settled, he sat himself down in the corner and studied her face. It appeared even softer in sleep. Her hair shot off in every direction and her black eye makeup spread outward from the corners of her eyes, making them appear like the wings of two soaring birds. Her lips were slack and slightly open, and it was all he could do not to kiss them.

  But such kisses were not to be—not on this night, or any other. The next time they kissed—if they ever kissed again—it would be her idea, not his.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She awoke to the song of a rooster and a throbbing ache inside her head. ‘Titus,’ she whispered, though she knew not why. She knew very little, for a fog had settled over her mind. She opened her eyes to discover that she lay upon a thin mattress in a room with no light.

  Strange pictures flashed behind her eyes—images of sands and seas, of towering white palaces and trays of rich foods and the shadowy profile of a man in a toga walking towards her, making her heart leap. The visions had all the colour and magnificence of a dream—one from which she did not wish to wake.

  The rooster called out again, and she pulled the blanket over her eyes. ‘Titus,’ she said once more, as if whispering a prayer.

  ‘Wen.’

  She caught her breath. ‘Titus?’

  ‘Wen?’

  She sat up. Across the small room sat the man from her dreams, his chiselled face brightening. ‘You are awake!’

  She blinked her eyes. She was indeed awake, though she could not say that she had yet recovered her mind. She blinked again. ‘The Queen!’

  ‘The Queen knows that you are well and under my protection,’ Titus said.

  ‘But, what—?’

  ‘At the banquet last night, I allowed you to drink from my goblet. The wine you drank was not wine. It was a potion of milk of poppy. I brought you here to see you through the night.’

  He glanced at her exposed breasts and she gathered the blanket around her. ‘To see me through the night?’

  ‘I did not touch you, Wen. I am not that kind of Roman.’

  Her head throbbed mightily. She touched her tightly wrapped loincloth. It had not been disturbed.

  ‘I only watched your breathing,’ he added with more softness. ‘Milk of poppy is a potent potion. I feared you were in danger. I feared for your life.’

  ‘I am grateful for your oversight,’ she said, and the silence stretched out between them. There was something she was forgetting, something she needed to tell him, but she could not think of it. She gazed into Titus’s handsome face. ‘You must be quite tired, having watched me through the night.’

  ‘I do not feel tired,’ he said. His eyes flitted over her and the silence between them grew larger still.

  ‘Did I sleep peacefully, or thrash like a crocodile?’ she said at last, offering a light-hearted grin.

  ‘You were peaceful. Though at one point you assumed a rather alarming position.’

  ‘What position?’

  ‘You looked like Alexander in his tomb.’ He volleyed a laugh and seemed to await its return.

  She stayed silent. ‘I am sorry. I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean the pose of Alexander the Great in his tomb. Yours was like his for a time.’

  She examined the weave of her blanket, uncertain of what to say.

  ‘You do not know the pose, do you?’ he asked at last.

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘You have never visited the tomb, have you?’

  She shook her head, feeling the familiar heat of shame rise to her cheeks. She was a woman of Alexandria who had never visited Alexander’s tomb. He could not have done a better job of reminding her of her station had he commanded her to wash his very feet.

  ‘I will take you to it, then,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I will take you to the tomb. Today. Now.’

  ‘That is impossible. I... The Queen. I must go to her.’

  ‘Wen, she is probably still at the banquet.’

  ‘The banquet! I had forgotten. I must go now.’ She jumped to her feet and he rose to his. He stepped to the side an
d blocked the door.

  ‘Wen,’ he began again. ‘There is little time left for us...’ He looked around the windowless room in frustration. ‘Life is a sprawling palace and in it there are many rooms, some grand and some humble. And...and there is always much to do.’

  Wen frowned. She wondered if he had also consumed the milk of poppy. ‘And sometimes in the course of one’s work in this...this palace of life,’ he continued, ‘one passes by a window. When one passes by this window, one must not hesitate to look out, do you see? One must gaze out at the view and let the breeze caress one’s face, for one never knows when one will pass another window. Perhaps never. Do you understand?’

  His deep brown eyes burned bright.

  She shook her head, though she feared that she did understand. ‘I must return to the Queen.’ She moved around him and stepped towards the door.

  ‘You have left your old life, but it has not left you,’ said Titus.

  The words stung. But they burned through the fog in her mind, and suddenly, she remembered what she needed to tell him.

  ‘Last night at the banquet, I overheard Pothinus speaking with General Achillas. He is going to march on Alexandria. He will arrive in three days’ time.’

  Titus closed his eyes. ‘And so it begins.’ He let out a sad sigh. ‘Did you advise the Queen?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You are an excellent spy,’ he said.

  Before Wen could respond there was a knock at the door and a rather tired-looking Marni shuffled inside. ‘Apologies, friends,’ she said, kicking off her sandals. Her wig was crooked and her kohled eyes were smudged and weary. ‘I am happy to see you awake, Wen,’ she said, taking a seat upon her mattress. ‘You have returned to the land of the living.’

  ‘Greetings, Marni,’ said Wen, ‘I did not realise this is your room.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ she said with a small measure of pride. ‘Royal servants of a certain age are granted their own rooms.’ She nodded at Titus. ‘I trust that you slept comfortably and...unbothered?’

  Wen answered with a reassuring nod. ‘I slept very soundly, yes. But I shall leave you, for you are weary, and I must return to the Queen,’ Wen said.

  ‘Go with the goddess,’ said Marni, nodding sleepily. ‘Though I do not think you will be missed by Queen Cleopatra.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She has been awake all night speaking with General Caesar. She was awake even as I left the Hall moments ago, though I believe she was preparing to leave. Surely the General will return to his quarters soon, as well. They were both practically collapsing with exhaustion. I am certain they will both sleep through the day.’

  Just over Marni’s shoulder, Titus was leaning against the side of the door, his thick brows raised.

  ‘Hmmm...’ he said, and his breath was like a warm breeze through a window.

  ‘Marni?’

  ‘Yes, Wen?’

  ‘May I borrow one of your tunics?’

  * * *

  ‘Let us say that we are newlyweds,’ Wen proposed, speaking to him in Greek. ‘We are farmers from some distant Egyptian nome—Abydos, let us say—and we have come to see the sights of our kingdom’s great capital.’

  They were strolling up Heliopic Street in their plain linen clothes, enjoying the late morning sun on their faces.

  ‘Newlyweds?’ he asked and was rewarded with Wen’s blush.

  ‘It is the most logical connection between us,’ she reasoned. ‘Or if you would rather, we could be father and daughter?’

  ‘Newlyweds it is,’ he replied. ‘But in that case we must hold hands.’ He held out his hand and, in her great logic, she took it.

  ‘You are quite cunning in your way, Titus,’ she observed, swinging her arm playfully. ‘Are you sure you are not a spy like me?’

  His stomach sank and for a moment he thought she meant to trap him.

  ‘I certainly am a spy—for beautiful women.’

  To his great relief, she blushed again, then laughed. ‘Beautiful? In this?’ She held up her plain white tunic, then shook her head. She had no idea that she could make any piece of clothing look as lovely as an autumn day.

  And that is what it was—a lovely autumn day. What had she called it? The beginning of peret. The season of planting and growth. ‘Soon we will have to return to our fields, Wife,’ he chided, surprised that the title came so easily to his lips.

  ‘Yes, Husband,’ Wen returned gamely. ‘And the cows will need milking.’

  ‘And the plough will need fixing.’

  ‘And the weeds will need pulling.’

  ‘When will we find time to do our conjugal duties?’

  She let a shocked giggle escape, and he caught her by the waist.

  Venus’s rose—she was beautiful. Her lips seemed even darker with her exertion, a faint henna paint still tracing them, and the sunlight glittered off the green and gold flecks in her eyes.

  He remembered his vow. As much as he wished to kiss her lips, he would not do it. He did not know if she wanted him at all. If she did, she would have to show it.

  Thankfully it did not take long.

  She stretched to the tips of her toes, then gave a small jump, landing a juicy peck on one side of his smile. It was enough to send him soaring.

  He leaned over, positioning his lips conveniently close to hers. ‘That was nice,’ he said. ‘Wife.’

  She gazed into his eyes, as if considering her options.

  ‘Do you know how much I want you?’ he breathed, forbidding himself to move closer.

  Slowly, she put her lips to his again.

  The world around them seemed to fall away. He breathed deeply, following her lead as she parted her lips and then seemed unsure of what to do next. He felt his arousal begin to throb beneath his toga.

  Slowly, she stepped back. ‘Well, that was a husbandly kiss,’ she pronounced, a rush of crimson flooding her cheeks.

  He took her hand in his and they resumed their stroll, though he wondered if their feet were actually touching the ground.

  Wen gazed at the buildings and temples in wonder, and it occurred to him that she was seeing them for the first time. She was splendid in her wonder—cheerful and joyous as a girl. He wanted to show her everything she had missed, not just in Alexandria, but everywhere.

  ‘Ah, there it is,’ he said, leading her to the steps of a massive, many-columned building. ‘The tomb of Alexander the Great.’

  She twirled with delight before the steps, then dashed up them two at a time. ‘Why do you tarry, Husband?’ she teased as she reached the top. She accepted his hand and together they scanned the sprawling concrete expanse that marked the outside of the tomb.

  It was only midmorning, but the patio was already a hive of activity. Dozens of vendors lined the perimeter. They stood outside their stalls and carts, sizing up the visitors. Outside one stall, several priests spoke reverently as they held up an Alexander-themed doll. A bearded scholar strolled past the food stalls, as if considering which fig he might study. A fat merchant lingered near the florist, inspecting a myrtle wreath for sale.

  Old men shouted, children cried and young people huddled in preening packs. As Titus and Wen took their place in the snaking entrance line, Titus could not help but think that the real attraction was not the great General’s tomb, but the variety of people gathered to see it.

  ‘Temple or tourist attraction?’ he asked Wen, turning to behold the spectacle.

  ‘Both,’ she replied. ‘Tourists have become like locusts in Egypt. I have heard that Khufu’s Pyramid and the Colossi of Memnon are the same. Even the Lighthouse is said to be awash with sightseers. I fear that one day all of Egypt will become a tourist destination.’

  He laughed aloud. ‘When you are not sniffing out lies or threatening men’s lives, you are really quite witty.’ He pecked her cheek. �
��Keep our place in line and I will fetch us something to eat. What would you like, Wife?’

  Her lips had frozen into that charming position they took right before a grin. ‘I will eat whatever you present before my lips, Husband,’ she said, and as he walked towards the vendors he wondered if he could keep his lust tethered for the day.

  He scanned the food stalls, searching for something to delight her. He knew that she was hungry, for she had only tasted small morsels of the feast the night before. He filled his cloth with as many different kind of foods as he could.

  ‘What is all that?’ she chimed when he returned.

  ‘These are called meatballs and those are cucumber sandwiches with chickpea paste, and those are slices of melon dusted with an Indian spice called cinnamon.’

  He picked up a meatball and held it to her lips. ‘Taste it,’ he said, and she could not refuse him. She parted her lips and ate.

  ‘I have never tasted anything so delicious in all my life,’ she proclaimed. He selected a bite-sized sandwich from the basket and held it up again.

  ‘Do you not want to sample it yourself?’ she asked, but he was already pushing it past her lips. A look of ecstasy flashed in her eyes as she chewed, making his own stomach go hungry with lust.

  ‘Now I wish to feed you a sample,’ she cooed. She took a slice of melon from the cloth and held it before his lips.

  He devoured the small specimen, along with the tip of her slender finger. Her look of excited alarm as she reclaimed the delicate digit was almost too much to bear. How did you do that? her big eyes seemed to ask. How did you make me feel that way?

  Hot molten desire burned through him.

  ‘I wish to show you pleasure, Wen,’ he whispered. ‘Will you let me?’

  She did not answer. She only plucked another slice of melon. Instead of consuming it, however, she placed the fruit into his hand and opened her mouth wide.

  The next moments were a blur of lust. His finger pushing the fruit between her lips. The gentle pressure of her mouth as she consumed it. The feel of her tongue around his finger. His insides turning to barley mash.

  They must have finished the food and drunk the jar of beer he had purchased, because soon they were holding hands again and the line into the tomb had begun to move. He could think of nothing but the taste of her finger inside his mouth and hardly noticed when they passed into the central columned hall of the tomb.