‘For now, let’s just hope we survive this long enough to test that.’
Cassius smiled, bowed his head and left, shutting the door behind him.
Fronto wandered over to the window, heaving the breeze deep into his lungs. He tried to ponder on what he had to do in the morning, but kept finding himself mentally drawn back to Cassius. To the man’s worries about Caesar’s addiction to power, and to the strange sparkle in his eyes.
Damn it, but Fronto wished this war would end so they could all go home.
Chapter Six
The Paneum, central Alexandria, The Kalends of December 48 BC
Queen of the Black Land and daughter of the pharaoh Ptolemy Auletes, Arsinoë “Horus who conquers”, “Watched over by the Two Ladies”, “Sun falcon”, glared at the general.
‘That is your final word?’
Achillas looked down at the queen, still nothing more than a princess in his eyes, with rising contempt. ‘Your brother assumed the throne legally upon your father’s death, and sanctified his reign with his marriage to his cursed sister, as the pharaoh had wished. I have no intention of bowing my head to that bitch queen who thinks herself a new Hatshepsut, but my sword belongs to the new pharaoh, your brother. We fight to oust the Roman interference in our affairs and consolidate his place as king of our land. You have no place in this matter but as a pretty little figurehead to bolster the morale of your brother’s men.’
Arsinoë’s eyebrow cocked a little, dangerously. At less than eighteen summers and slight of frame, the shortest member of her family, she might appear somehow less when standing beside the ageing general in all his military power, but she knew that she had in her veins the blood of the great Ptolemy, that famed general who had conquered the world with Alexander, while Achillas was but a nobody from Thebes.
‘Your avowed noble task and the loyalty you profess would mean a great deal more if it were not for the common and most credible understanding that when you finish off the last Roman in the city, the bodies of my brother and sister will almost certainly be found in the wreckage, sadly caught in the killing and leaving you in sole power to found a new dynasty. Do not think for even a moment that your motives are unobserved.’
‘Watch your mouth, tiny princess,’ Achillas snarled, bunching his fists. ‘I will fight for the king, and you are useful in goading the men into action, but the moment your difficulty outweighs your value, it will be the end of you, mark my words.’
Arsinoë stood still for some time, her glare boring holes into the general’s skull. When finally she shifted her gaze, it fell first left and then right, taking in the other two officers present, who remained steadfast in Achillas’ camp, each accompanied by their guards. She smiled unpleasantly.
‘I wish you luck, then, Achillas sand-born, for you will most assuredly need it.’
Turning, she strode from the room, two half-naked slaves pulling open the doors for her, making the braziers gutter and flicker. As they closed behind her once more, she stopped in the corridor for a moment, composing herself. She had allowed that low-born fool to rile her. She should have kept calmer, made sure to give nothing away. Still, he was short-sighted enough not to recognise a threat. It was, she mused, a failing in men. They always thought themselves superior in both physique and mind. They were often wrong on one or both counts. Achillas was certainly strong, but Arsinoë was fast. Achillas was possessed of a good military mind, but Arsinoë was cleverer in every other respect. Just as her brother had underestimated Cleopatra, so Achillas was doing the same with the youngest daughter of Ptolemy Auletes.
She strode from the building, through the great pylon entrance, between the impressive statues, and stood on the top of the steps looking out over the city. A city divided; cut into defensive pieces like some great senet board with two players eyeing each other warily, for the next move could end the game. The calm was eerie, deceiving. Just like the enemy, the men of her army – her army, not that of the fool back in that room – were quiet, manning the defences. It was, to her mind, a mark of how foolish he was, or possibly how timid, that Achillas had set his men to fortifying their own position with a facsimile of the Roman lines, a hastily-assembled triple wall.
She shook her head, lip curling in a sneer. This army was not a force of builders like the Romans, but one of warriors. While the Romans had in mere days turned rubble into a fortress of strength and power, their own army had cobbled together a poor imitation of ill-fitting and badly-placed rocks. And what was the point anyway? They outnumbered the Romans by a vast margin, and Caesar was hardly going to lead his men forth in an assault against them. The only time the Roman consul might consider attacking would be when substantial reinforcements arrived, and if Arsinoë’s army had not overcome them by then, no fortification would be of use.
No, Achillas was an idiot.
And her brother was the idiot who relied upon this idiot, thinking he was loyal and would come to free him from the clutches of the Romans. The idiot that had calmly ridden into the Roman camp on a mobile throne assuming he could order the consul and his men around. Men. They were all fools, and deserved everything they got. It was a shame about Cleopatra, though. Arsinoë was genuinely sorry that her sister had to suffer in all this. Cleopatra did not deserve to die, really. She was clever, as clever as Arsinoë even, and even had the right to rule, but she was also inconveniently in the way. Cleopatra had all but sold control of this land to Caesar and clambered into his bed. If she were allowed to remain on the throne, the Romans would become the de facto rulers, and that must not happen. So Ptolemy would die because he deserved it, and Cleopatra would die because she could not be suffered to live. Their youngest brother was pliable, and had no expectations as he languished in Memphis far from trouble, so he need not be touched for now. When Arsinoë was sole ruler, she would marry him and legitimise her claim completely.
Now, though, she needed to seize full control – the first of three steps to a secure throne. Then she had to cease these costly and futile attempts to take the Romans’ walls. And then, at the last, she would find a way to end this swiftly before Rome sent her legions to Caesar’s aid, and they became unbeatable.
Standing like some ancient statue, powerful, haughty and taciturn at only seventeen years, Arsinoë gave a single nod. A figure emerged from the shadows of the colonnade off to her left just as a cart rumbled into the open space before the steps, trundling to a halt with the snorting of beasts of burden and a creak of timber. The vehicle rode so low with weight that the wheels groaned and struggled.
The time had come.
In response to a second nod, a man in a Gabiniani officer’s cuirass and high, bright horsehair crest in the old Macedonian style rose from the cart’s bench beside his two companions. Soldiers from Arsinoë’s retinue rattled and clanked in from the rear of the vehicle and lined up around it.
‘Men of Kemet, the Black Land, and of the Gabinius Legion,’ the officer intoned, his voice cutting across the still evening, ‘rejoice. Her Majesty, Horus who conquers, Watched over by the Two Ladies, Sun falcon, Arsinoë, daughter of Ptolemy Auletes, recognises your sacrifice and your loyalty, and rewards you with gold.’
Men threw open chests on the wagon and started to cast small, heavy pouches to the nearest soldiers, who leapt forwards to grab them. In moments the army was flooding from the walls, hurrying to the cart to seize their share of the queen’s largesse.
Men were so easily bought.
Turning her back on the securing of the army to her cause, she walked calmly towards that great pylon flanked by the statues of her predecessors standing, kilted, with one leg forward in the ancient manner, each three times the height of a person. Ahead of her, that figure who had emerged from the shadows was already moving through the vestibule ahead.
She smiled at the sight of Ganymedes. He was a man of immense value to her. First and foremost he was fanatically loyal, and that value was incalculable. Moreover, she knew just how loyal, for he had submitted withou
t argument when they had made him a eunuch on her orders, accepting that his role had changed. And that was another thing of value: he would be forever childless, which meant that he could remain her lover when she married her brother, without fear of siring offspring on her. And he was strong, too. Gods, but he was strong. Of a physique that would allow him to tie Achillas in knots if he so desired, and fast as an asp, besides. And perhaps best of all, he was intelligent.
He was her man, and he knew he was valued.
She watched as the razor-sharp gleaming blade hissed free of its sheath, catching the gleam of the lamps in the vestibule. Two slaves stood by the door to the room currently used as the army’s headquarters. Two on this side of the door, two within. Symmetry. Arsinoë picked up her pace a little, for she needed to be part of this.
The slaves paled as the big eunuch closed on them, sword held out menacingly. They were coming close to panic, Arsinoë noted. Things might become difficult if they screamed, so she hurried ahead and closed on Ganymedes, holding out a soothing hand towards them as she reached him.
‘Fear not,’ she told them, and smiled easily.
They continued to look overly fearful, but neither cried out and Arsinoë maintained her encouraging smile as she motioned for them to open the doors. With worried looks the pair did as they were bade, pulling the doors outwards and almost using them as a shield, lurking behind them out of sight of the big eunuch with the sword and the frightening queen by his side.
‘Achillas,’ she announced with a steady voice as they entered, ‘your usefulness is at an end. Submit to my command and I may yet spare you.’
The general turned, his face a picture moulded in equal parts of derision and disbelief. ‘Princess Arsinoë?’
‘Queen Arsinoë,’ she replied archly.
‘I warned you,’ he snapped, ‘not to test my patience. You may have tipped the balance of usefulness.’
‘You have no patience, Achillas. Like most of your sort you rush at things like a bull, heedless of what goes on behind you. Blind to anything but your own ambitions and desires.’
Achillas frowned, and it was only as Arsinoë gave a meaningful nod to the room behind him that the general turned to look. Arsinoë could not see his expression as he faced away from her, but imagining what it looked like brought a smile to her own face.
Behind Achillas, those two senior officers who had been his anchors and staunchest followers were both being slowly garrotted by their own guards, hands grasping in terror at the narrow but strong chains being tightened around their throats at an almost languid pace. Neither had reached for their swords, but had they done so it would have been fruitless anyway, for their guards had slipped the weapons free and confiscated them even as the chain loops fell over their heads.
There was a series of horrible strangulated gasps, but that was the sum total of the sound of Achillas’ allies perishing. The general turned to face the queen once more, his eyes gleaming darkly. He looked defiant and angry, but Arsinoë could also see the flicker of fear dancing behind that mask. He reached down to his belt for his sword hilt. In that instant, Ganymedes’ head turned just slightly, enough for him to register his mistress’ nod before he leapt.
Achillas’ hand was coming up, the sword not quite free of the mouth of his scabbard, as the big eunuch struck. The blow had been astonishingly swift, swung wide and across at neck height. For a heart-stopping moment, Arsinoë feared he had failed, for there was no sign of a wound, and the general continued to pull his sword free, hefting it.
Her first clue, though, was in the general’s eyes as they widened in horror. Even as he held his blade out to the side, ready to face Ganymedes, his head tipped back just a little, as though he were looking upwards, seeking the favour of the gods.
A wide, dark smile opened up across the general’s throat from side to side, and blood gushed forth, pouring down his neck and chest into his white tunic and cuirass. Arsinoë was impressed. He was dying slowly, and deliberately so. Ganymedes had hit him with just the very tip of his razor-edged blade. Not enough to sever the neck, missing the important blood vessels to either side that would spray like fountains, but opening up the front, cutting through the air pipe and the food pipe together.
The blood slicked down Achillas’ chest, and he took a hesitant step forwards, lifting his own sword, in defiance of the certain knowledge that he had already been dealt a fatal blow. A first step, and then a second.
Ganymedes took a step back himself now, and to the left, away from the general’s sword arm. As Achillas, shock and rage combined in his face, and mouth bared in a silent snarl as the words hissed out breathily from the hole in his neck, stepped forwards again, clearly intent on taking the queen to the afterlife with him, the big eunuch struck once more.
Having stepped left, he swung low and back, his blade biting into the rear of Achillas’ knee. The cords there snapped, severed by the sharp blade, and all the strength went out of the general’s leg, which folded beneath him.
Achillas fell to the stone floor, leg twisted unnaturally and bleeding, a lake already forming under him from the terrible wound in his throat. He lay there for some time making rasping, wheezy sounds as he tried to curse her, pumping his life out onto the ground.
When he finally shuddered and lay still, Arsinoë looked up. The two officers were also dead now, lying on the ground with their faces swollen and discoloured, eyes full of blood. She nodded in a business-like manner and gestured to the slaves at the door.
‘Remove these three. Have them taken beyond the city limits and cast into the wild for the scavenger beasts.’
The slaves hurried to do so, grateful simply to have cause to leave the scene. The two inside the door and the two outside gathered together, a pair of them lifting the blood-soaked corpse of Achillas and bundling it out, the other two each dragging the mess-free corpses of the strangled officers.
Almost mess-free, Arsinoë thought, wrinkling her nose as the bodies went past. Some messes at the end were involuntary and unavoidable, after all.
Stepping into the room, she walked carefully around the pool and spatters of blood, nodding her thanks to Ganymedes as the big man wiped his blade clean and slid it into his sheath once more, squaring his shoulders and straightening. She smiled as she approached the table at the room’s centre.
‘Escort them in,’ she said loudly, seemingly to the empty air.
With the sound of numerous soft-booted feet, the main surviving officer corps of the army were brought in, escorted by Arsinoë’s loyal soldiers. They looked sheepish to a man, but not one appeared remotely defiant, and no blades had been drawn. Gold had bought most of them, and when combined with fear it made a powerful driving force. As they filed into the room and stood in a small group, staring with distaste at the blood on the floor, Arsinoë smiled. They would have passed the three bodies being removed in the corridor outside. It was a statement that said more than any number of words.
‘You are leaders of men, commanders in this army, whether you be sons of the Black Land from some distant nome, officers of the Gabiniani, or vassals from a valued neighbour. Your expertise and strength is appreciated and will continue to be so. Be assured that I do not intend to discipline anyone or impose an iron rule upon this army. You are the warriors of my family, and as such your loyalty is assumed, now that the traitor Achillas and his associates have been dealt with.’
She stepped back, so that she stood beside the towering form of Ganymedes.
‘I do not pretend to possess the mind of a military tactician. I will lead this army, but I shall not command it. That task will fall to General Ganymedes.’ She gestured to the big man, who stood impassive as a statue. There were a variety of looks evident on the assembled faces. Some were unhappy, some disbelieving, some worried, but none, once again, bore even a hint of defiance.
‘This is a fact, not a request. You now answer to Ganymedes, who in turn answers only to me. You are no longer the army of the would-be pharaoh Achil
las. Nor are you the army of the fool Ptolemy, who languishes in golden captivity with our enemy. The former king has failed his land and people by walking into the Romans’ grasp when he should have been leading you against them. Nor are you the army of Cleopatra, who has sold her heritage for the bedsheets of Rome.’
She threw an angry pointed finger towards the doors and the embattled royal palace in the distance beyond it.
‘My older siblings are now tools and prisoners of Rome, and with their foolish acts have encouraged the consul, Julius Caesar, to interfere in our kingdom. Rome has come to insinuate herself into our land. They came uninvited, and they do not intend to leave until their eagle stands above our temples and palaces. But they are vulnerable. At this time they are few, and we are many. They cannot call on vast support, for their republic tears itself in two around them. Here, now, in this campaign, is our one, our only opportunity to defy them and cast them out.’
She smiled inwardly at the effect of her words. Many of those worried, angry, doubting faces had cleared to expressions of resolution. She was right. She knew it, which was why she was so easily able to mould her words, but they knew it too. Rome had to be fought back out of the land before she decided she was here to stay.
‘I see from your faces that I was right. That this army is all I hoped and expected. We will defeat Rome and her acquisitive consul in this city and deny them the Black Land forever.’
There was a chorus of agreement and assent, somewhat hesitant from the men of the Gabiniani who were, after all, Roman themselves, and Arsinoë folded her arms.
‘However, in order to achieve that, our approach must change. Caesar’s men are masters of this kind of warfare. I have seen what they have done from within, while they have done it. Their minds are naturally disposed to ramparts and traps and great weapons. We outnumber them, and we have the equipment and the skills, but what we do not have is their experience. We are not given to their ways of war, so we must find another way. Rome is stalwart and hardy, but we are subtle and cunning.’
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