He heard Wen gasp as she beheld the floor-to-ceiling mosaics and watched her marvel at the grand tapestries adorning the towering space. Sun shone through the high stained-glass windows, onto the shoulders of acolytes kneeling in prayer beneath a great bronze statue of the conqueror.
Titus hardly noticed any of it. He could only see Wen walking ahead of him through the hall, its colourful light painting her cheeks.
They followed the crowd down a dark corridor. Natural light was replaced by torches and braziers, and soon they found themselves waiting outside the heavily guarded inner sanctum.
Only two people at a time were allowed into the sacred space and Titus could feel Wen’s palm begin to sweat as they neared their turn. Finally they were allowed to enter the hallowed burial chamber of the greatest conqueror the world had ever known. Inside, the air was thick and still. Candles wavered in their holders, further heating the stifling space. Titus had to force himself not to plug his nose, for the subtle stench of decay seemed to have permeated the walls.
This was not Titus’s first visit to Alexander’s resting place. He had come here with Caesar the day they had landed in Alexandria. Caesar had entered the chamber by himself and, when he had re-emerged, Titus had noticed the stains of tears upon his cheeks.
Titus had gone in eagerly after Caesar, wondering what could have moved the great General to such emotion. It was what he did not behold beneath the glass-covered sarcophagus that surprised him the most. Alexander’s corpse sunken and leathery, his eyes hollowed-out bowls. His three-hundred-year-old arms were only bones. They rested in a position resembling the expression of thirst.
Titus wondered what Caesar had seen in the tomb that Titus had not. It was not until the following day that he had finally pieced together the puzzle. ‘Do you remember how they received me at Ephesus?’ Caesar had asked him.
‘They called you the son of Venus,’ Titus had answered. Caesar gave a satisfied nod.
It was in that moment Titus realised why Caesar had been so moved by Alexander the Great. It was because he wished to be Alexander the Great. He wished to be worshipped as a god.
‘He is so wrinkly,’ whispered Wen. ‘Though for three hundred years old, he is remarkably well preserved.’
‘Do not think divinity produced that effect.’ He bent to her ear. ‘Unless you are speaking of the divine workmanship of the Egyptian embalmers.’
It might have been the joke itself, or just the effect of his breath in her ear, but a delicious, unholy smile spread across her lips. ‘And this is how I looked when I slept? As if I was preparing to strangle myself?’
‘I fear it is so. You are lucky that I was there to prevent such a thing.’
She gave him a playful punch. ‘His breastplate is a wonder, is it not?’
‘I heard that it takes six men to lift.’
She walked to the base of the massive alabaster crypt. ‘And his sandals appear also to be made of gold.’
He knew what she was thinking: Just one of those sandals could pay off Egypt’s debt to Rome.
She looked up at him curiously. ‘Is this what it is like, Titus?’
‘What?’
‘To be free? Is this how it feels? To go where one chooses and do what one likes? To wander about as if the world were one’s own?’
‘Yes,’ he said, then paused. ‘But freedom is more than that.’
‘What more?’
‘It is an endeavour.’
‘You are speaking politically? You refer to the Roman Republic?’
He nodded gravely. ‘It must be guarded from those who would take it.’
‘You mean kings.’
And generals, he thought. ‘Kings are dangerous, because they can do what they like. It is kings who would have us worship them in this way, as gods.’ He gestured to Alexander’s corpse. ‘But even he was just a man.’
‘You will surely be stricken by Alexander’s thunderbolt for saying that,’ Wen whispered.
‘I have already been stricken by a thunderbolt, but not one belonging to Alexander.’
A guard stepped into the chamber. ‘Next,’ he announced, motioning mechanically to the door. Already, the next two visitors were being ushered into the chamber behind them—a pair of Buddhist monks.
Titus and Wen exited the room in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. He had never before had such a stimulating conversation with a woman and the exchange had only made him want her more.
As they stepped into the dappled light of the entrance hall, she flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘Husband, will you answer me one question?’
‘Anything, Wife.’
‘Is our marriage a kingdom, or a republic?’
‘I think it is a kingdom, but that we disagree about who rules. Therefore, we both rule.’
‘Which makes it something of a republic after all, does it not?’
‘Your intellect slays me.’
‘You mock me, Husband?’
‘I admire your reasoning.’
‘And I admire yours, but I fear there are some flaws in it.’
‘What flaws?’ he responded lightly. He recognised the dangerous look in her eye.
‘You were speaking of freedom, but you were referring to the freedom of men only, not women or slaves.’ He could see her watching him. Beneath her cheerful facade she was deadly serious. ‘Did you not once suggest that women were naturally inferior to men and that slaves were beneath you?’
‘I believe I have been recently cured of those particular errors in logic.’
‘You refer to Queen Cleopatra? Of her influence on you? A woman ruler equal to men.’
‘I refer to you, Wen.’ He took her hand and kissed it.
‘Me?’
‘You have proven it to me beyond refute. You are both a woman and a slave, but you are Cleopatra’s equal.’
They stepped out into the sunlight. ‘You flatter me,’ she said.
‘I would never be so foolish as to flatter you, my cara.’ He directed her down the stairs, and they turned up a quiet street. His body seemed to hum with aliveness.
‘Do you believe me to be an exception, then?’ she asked innocently. ‘Do you think that women and slaves are generally inferior, but that I happen not to be?’
He pulled her down a quiet alley and aimed her for the sloping awning of an abandoned shop. ‘I believe that women and slaves are equal to men. You have convinced me of it.’
‘I wonder about your sincerity, for you are an educated man, and an educated man would not allow a single anomaly to negate the rule.’
‘Not if the rule itself is flawed.’ He pulled her beneath the palm leaf shade. ‘And the anomaly is so cursedly beautiful.’
‘That is not a—’ But he would not allow her to finish. He placed his lips upon hers and let his desire tell her the rest. He had spoken the truth, though he knew it would take time to convince her of his sincerity. But now he could not stand any more talk. He needed to feel her body against his. He needed to taste her lips.
Chapter Fourteen
Her retort was at the ready, but he obliterated it with his lips. She was going to say that this was not an exercise in circular logic, but his warm, wet tongue began making circles in her mouth instead.
She felt dizzy. In one moment, she had been strolling down the steps of Alexander’s tomb, conversing civilly; the next, she was sneaking up some empty alleyway like a grave robber.
And then this—mad, hot bliss.
He pulled her more firmly against him, stepping backwards until he crashed into a wall and she crashed against him. He guided her hand to touch the fullness of him. ‘Do you see, carissime?’ he said, switching to Latin. ‘There is nothing to fear. It is just me wanting you.’
She had some idea of what men did to women out of desire. The Roman man who had tried to harm
her had flashed his desire before her like some terrible weapon.
Now, feeling Titus’s desire for her, that memory surfaced along with a creeping fear. Her head swam.
She pulled her hand out from beneath his and pulled away.
He let out a long disappointed breath. ‘As you wish.’
‘Apologies,’ she began. ‘I just—’
‘You just did not wish it,’ he finished for her. He stepped away from her, lifted his arms and pressed them against the wall. He looked like Atlas pushing back against the sky. ‘I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Wen,’ he said, speaking to the ground. ‘Sometimes my desire for you becomes too strong, that is all. I will not try that again.’
But I want you to try that again, Wen thought, though it was too late. She knew that she had vexed him. ‘You must grow tired of my fears,’ she offered. ‘They come at odd times, I admit.’
‘I only grow frustrated, for life is short and love is shorter, and we are running out of time.’
‘Love?’
He shook his head and stepped before her. ‘I know why you are fearful.’
‘I fell off a roof.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘I overheard you speaking to the Queen that night on the dock. You did not fall. You jumped.’
‘You spied on our conversation?’
‘I have been trained to make myself into a ghost.’
Wen stood silent for a long while, thinking. ‘Titus, who are you really?’
His eyes darted around the shadowy space as if he could not find a place for them to rest. He touched his hands to his chest. ‘I am a Roman man. That is all. Do you fear me?’
‘Only a little.’
‘Well, that is one small step.’ He ran his hand through his crop of hair. ‘I can teach you, Wen, if you will let me.’
‘What can you teach me?’
‘How to...not be afraid.’
‘I would like that,’ she said.
‘Let us begin now. Give me your leg.’
‘What?’
He motioned to the leg around which her sheath was tied, and she lifted it into his grasp. ‘You still wear it,’ he breathed.
‘I never take it off.’
‘The knots have held.’
‘They were well tied.’
He removed the knife from the sheath and set her leg back upon the ground.
‘It must feel strange to walk around in a simple toga without any of your weapons,’ she remarked.
‘But I am armed,’ he said. ‘Because I have you.’
With her knife, he cut a strap from one of his sandals. ‘Now I am going to turn around and I want you to tie this strap around my wrists.’ He turned around and put his wrists together behind his back. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Wife.’
Obediently, she tied his wrists together, knotting the strap tightly. Titus turned to face her with his hands behind his back. He pulled against his restraint, his large arms flexing. ‘Do you witness my total restraint?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. Now I would like you to kiss me.’
‘Kiss you?’
‘Kiss me, Wen, or I shall surely lose whatever dignitas I have left.’
She stood on her toes. ‘I can barely reach you.’
Titus dropped to his knees. ‘Is that better?’
She could not conceal her surprise. She stood a head taller than Titus now and for several moments she marvelled in the peculiar delight of the reversal. She bent to study his lips, then traced them with her finger. They were wondrously large, ponderously soft.
‘Your lips are pleasing,’ she observed.
‘You may do what you like to them.’
Carefully, she set her lips down upon his. For a fleeting moment, she saw his arms strain against their tie, then go slack. He cannot touch me, she marvelled. She closed her eyes and focused on the taste of him—a delicious combination of beer and melon and some darker, muskier scent. She pushed her nose on to his neck and breathed him in deeply, taking her fill.
He let out a soft groan of pleasure. She wondered what she could do to inspire more such groans.
She stepped back and studied his face. Such a stern, heavy brow—no wonder she had feared him. How was it possible that such deep, soulful eyes lay nestled beneath it?
She ran her hands through his short, thick hair and was surprised by its silken texture. He watched her beneath heavy lids as she bent to kiss him once again, this time letting her tongue slide gently against his.
Her inexperience was vexing him, surely, because his breaths grew shorter with each sweep of her tongue and his body quaked with impatience. She was just running her tongue gently over his lower lip when he took a deep, heaving breath and plunged his own tongue deep into her mouth.
She pulled away in surprise.
‘That is called passion,’ he whispered. He sat back on his heels. ‘You awaken it in me. Sometimes it is difficult to control and I apologise for it. You may continue.’
He closed his eyes and his lips stretched into a grin. She could not help but smile herself. He was trying so hard to make her feel safe.
She kissed down his neck—small, soft kisses that seemed to delight him. With each kiss she breathed in just a little more of his maleness.
She kissed behind his ear. ‘What is that?’
‘What?’
‘That strange marking—it looks like hieroglyph, or a Latin letter.’
‘It is a tattoo. I, ah, I got it as a child. It is a representation of my familia.’
‘Of Tillius?’
‘Yes, but an ancient spelling.’
She sensed there was more to the story, but she did not press. ‘It is mysterious,’ she said. ‘Like you.’
She wondered what she might do next. She had always been curious about his chest. She dropped to her knees before him and reached out to touch it. His expression was sober—even strained—but he nodded with encouragement as she placed her hands on the twin flanks of his chest muscles.
‘You have done much labour, or piloted many boats,’ she said, for their size was remarkable.
‘Yes, but none such as you,’ he intoned.
She was not certain of his meaning, but the words had given her an odd feeling deep in her belly. He nodded with solemn approval as she traced her fingers down his stomach. Even through the thick linen of his toga, she could feel his rippling strength. He was a wall of contoured muscle, and she imagined kissing each sinew and seam of him.
She let her finger trace a leisurely course around his umbilicus and he drew a dangerous breath. ‘Careful,’ he growled, though he seemed to be speaking to himself. She recalled images of Egyptian gods, their large chests and slim waists, and of Greek gods with their bulging muscularity. Titus could have resembled any of them.
Wen was not naive. She was well aware that he was the kind of man sculptors wished to study and women wished to bed. His suitability as a mate had been vigorously avowed by both Iras and Charmion, and even the Queen seemed attracted by his divine proportions.
It was all the more reason to doubt that a man such as him could possibly desire a woman such as her. Yet that was what he claimed.
She placed both her hands on the tops of his legs and felt them flex. He said nothing, but looked more deeply in her eyes and flexed them again. It gave her a thrill, to contain such latent strength inside her hands. But it was the look in his eyes that made her bones turn to reeds.
She traced her finger along his lower lip, filling with the warmth that had so often disturbed her waking hours. It was not distress, she realised, but desire. She desired Titus. Beneath her panic and fear, beneath her uncertainty and confusion, it was there. Burning like a tiny fire deep in her belly.
He turned his head slightly and his lips cl
osed around her finger. That fire flickered, filling her body with more heat than light, and a warm wetness between her legs.
She wanted to make him feel pleasure, but she did not know how. She had never spoken to another woman about such things. She had never had the chance. The men she served at the brew house often spoke of their pleasure with women, using the same words they used for violence. She had long ago ceased to listen.
She wondered if he wished to touch her breasts. Marni had suggested that they were appealing, and she had seen Titus glance at them many times. Her physical beauty was no match for his, but she wondered if the feel of the softest part of her might bring him pleasure.
She pulled her tunic up over her head and laid it carefully on his shoulder. She heard him gasp. She stepped backwards a few paces to gather her courage. She felt bolder already, however, knowing that he could not touch her. She was in control, and grateful for the power he had given her.
It seemed that Titus’s lesson was working.
* * *
His lesson was clearly not working. In a single motion, she had removed her tunic and placed it over his shoulder and her breasts splayed before him like two ripe melons. This was no subtle introduction to love. This was a torturous tease meant to break his will.
She took a step closer, and his hands involuntarily strained against the bond that held them.
She was so very beautiful in the simmering shadows—so exposed, yet so mysterious—like a shade-blooming flower unfolding in secret.
Her small linen loincloth enveloped her most womanly places, but all else was abloom in the sultry air. He wanted to touch her more than anything he had ever wanted before. He wanted to hold her in his arms and whisper to her that she was adored...and safe.
‘Do you wish to touch me?’ she asked, as if she were asking if he wanted honey with his grain. She looked down at her own nakedness. ‘I mean, my breasts,’ she clarified.
He could barely speak his reply. ‘I do.’
In Thrall to the Enemy Commander Page 17
