He winced, and she rushed to his side, her tirade of self-pity over.
“Wine,” he gasped, and she motioned for one of her handmaidens to fulfill the request. Cleopatra sat on the couch, lifting his head gently into her lap, tears rolling down her cheeks and onto her bosom, dignity no longer something she cared about, her grief overtaking her, for she knew her lover was about to die.
The wine arrived, she held it to his lips, and he drank it thirstily at first, then with each sip, slightly weaker, until finally his lips drew no more, and he sighed one final time, looking into her eyes, his own filled with tears, as a weak smile looked up at her. She caressed his cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped, and returned his smile.
“I love you, my darling.”
“And I you,” he whispered, his eyes closing, his smile waning, and his body going slack in her arms.
“No!” she screamed, dropping her face to his, pressing her lips against his forehead, holding him tighter than she could remember doing before, as her handmaidens rushed to her side, comforting her and urging her away from the corpse that now lay in her lap. She fought them off, refusing to let go, and it was hours before she finally could be convinced to release him.
And with one last kiss, she whispered in his ear, “I shall be with you soon, my love.”
But it wasn’t to be. The treacherous Octavian had captured her in her mausoleum in the middle of her grief, and ordered his freedman Epaphroditus to guard her lest she should attempt suicide. It was her final defeat. Her armies were wiped out or had deserted her, her lover was gone, dead by her own words, and now she, in a final act of humiliation, was being denied her right to suicide, her right to reunite with her lover, and instead, if she knew Octavian, would be paraded through the streets of Rome, humiliated before the masses, then condemned to either a life of isolation, or worse, torture.
And she was determined not to let that happen.
She let go of her pillow and sat up in her bed, causing the ever alert Epaphroditus to rise as well.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, always the model of politeness.
“My handmaidens.”
He nodded, exiting the room and whispering something to the Roman Centurion standing outside. Within moments her handmaidens arrived, rushing to her side, one brushing her hair, another wiping her face of her tears, another straightening her clothes.
It was her trusted confidante, touching up her face, that she whispered her orders to. And as she hoped, the young girl gave no indication she had even heard the horrific directions, other than to make momentary eye contact.
Cleopatra stood up, her entourage scurrying with a flick of her wrist, her plan set in motion.
Residence of Queen’s Preferred Goldsman, Alexandria
11 August, 30 BC
“Your Queen needs you.”
Tarik’s eyebrows shot up, the hooded man who stood in the doorway at first thought to be a beggar, was anything but, the quality of his robes dismissing the very idea. He stepped over the threshold and into the luxurious home of one of Alexandria’s greatest goldsmen, and one of several personal jewelers to the Queen.
Tarik regarded the man skeptically. How can I possibly help the Queen? She’s a prisoner of that pile of camel dung Octavian! He looked at the man again, but all details were hidden by the robes that covered him from head to toe.
Suddenly the man flipped the hood back, and all doubt was removed, the royal markings painted on his face, the necklace that adorned his neck made by Tarik himself.
He bowed, deeply, to this stranger.
“How may I be of assistance to my Queen?”
“Her majesty requires two king cobras to be delivered to her chambers tomorrow morning.”
Two king cobras?
Tarik’s mind raced as he tried to imagine what she could possibly want them for. They were deadly, terribly deadly, just one bite would kill a man. It would be a slow death, but painless, the venom first paralyzing the eyes, then the body, so nothing would be felt as the heart stopped beating, and the body slowly starved itself of oxygen.
Then he smiled.
A fitting way to strike back at Octavian, who no doubt entered her chambers unannounced, unwanted, to gloat at his victory over her and the great Antony.
If she could have one of the cobras strike him, he would be dead, and even if she were killed, she would have the satisfaction of knowing her enemy died first.
It was an incredible plan, but how he could possibly help her execute it eluded him. He said as much to the messenger.
“Your brothers are farmers?”
“Indeed.”
“Suppliers of the royal household?”
Tarik nodded.
“Each day you deliver, among other things, a basket of figs to her majesty?”
“Yes, yes I believe they do.”
Tarik wasn’t involved in the deliveries, but he remembered his brothers mentioning it once that the Queen had a love of the chewy treat when in season.
“Place the snakes in the basket, pile the figs on top. Once delivered, we will take care of the rest.”
Tarik nodded, and before he could ask any further questions, the man had flipped the hood back up, covering his face, and departed into the night, leaving Tarik to tremble in the doorway at what he was about to take part in.
He grabbed a nearby robe, tossing it over his shoulders to protect himself from the chill outside, then stepped from his house to help strike the final blow against their oppressor.
Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site
Two Days Before the Liberty Island Attack
Professor James Acton looked up slightly, spotting a pair of brand new boots, covered in dirt, with pant legs to match. He needn’t look any higher to know it was his friend, Hugh Reading, a man who was quickly discovering that an archeological dig site in the desert was not his cup of tea.
“Bloody hell! Look at these trousers!”
Laura Palmer, Acton’s fiancée and love of his life, leaned over and playfully flicked some of the dirt away with her brush.
“Better?”
The former Scotland Yard Detective Chief Inspector harrumphed and walked away, muttering about getting some fresh air, which Acton knew meant the tent he and Laura slept in. Reading had questioned why they were the only two blessed with air conditioning in the desert, and Laura had tried to explain it was a communal tent during the day, and at night in the desert, you didn’t need air conditioning.
Reading had done his best Iceman “Bullshit” cough, which Acton was impressed he knew what with the cultural and partial generational divide. The next morning a shivering Reading had asked how the hell they slept in such bloody cold.
“Didn’t bring any warm clothes, did you?” Acton had jibed.
Reading had glared at him. “It’s the bloody desert. Of course I didn’t bring warm clothes.”
Warm clothes were donated by Acton and several of the students, along with his former partner at Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Martin Chaney. Chaney had been eager to accept the invitation, Reading not as much, but with enough cajoling from his friends had agreed. After all the four of them had been through over the past several years, a bond had formed. Reading and Chaney the bond formed between police partners; Acton and Laura the bond of a love forged under fire, and the sharing of those experiences binding them all.
Reading was Interpol now, which had proven convenient for them during recent events in Rome. Chaney’s work for the Triarii, a two thousand year old organization founded from the ruins of a Roman legion tasked with protecting the crystal skulls by their Emperor Nero, allowed him the freedom to travel anywhere if it were on Triarii business, and after what Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer had done for them when they all first met, favors were owed.
Which meant Chaney was able to follow his friends into the middle of nowhere and play archeologist, but with a purpose that he had alluded to, but hadn’t mentioned to Acton
yet. It was driving Acton a little nuts, because he was certain it was Triarii related, and every time they entered the picture, bullets started flying.
All Acton wanted was a nice, peaceful two weeks in the Egyptian desert with his fiancée and friends.
Gunfire erupted to Acton’s left, but he ignored it.
“Is it that time already?”
Laura looked at her watch.
“No, not for another five minutes.” She looked around then sighed. “Must be Terrence again, I don’t see him anywhere. I’m going to have to have a talk with him. The self-defense training is encouraged, but not at the expense of his studies.”
Terrence Mitchel was a young university doctoral candidate from the University College of London where Laura taught. He was eager, brilliant, and had discovered recently he loved shooting things. After the events in London and elsewhere around the globe, Laura had used her considerable inherited wealth to provide both her dig site in Egypt and Acton’s in Peru with exceptional security, provided mostly by ex-SAS British Special Forces.
Acton knew they both slept at night a little more secure knowing these guys were around, but also because they were taking the opportunity to be trained in self-defense techniques, along with how to handle pretty much every weapon imaginable. This training had saved their asses on more than one occasion, and allowed them to contribute meaningfully to several operations they had been mixed up in.
After the recent turmoil in Egypt, Laura had thought it might be a good idea if the students, at least those interested, were taught some basic self-defense and survival skills.
They had both been stunned when every single student requested the training.
So at ten each morning the camp would gather for one hour and train with the SAS guards. Much of it was straight physical fitness, but at least half of every session was basic hand-to-hand combat and weapons training, along with a five to ten minute lecture on surviving a hostage situation, tricks on how to break out of zip ties, how to kick down doors, and a myriad of other things that Acton wished he had known years ago. His training with the National Guard and his tour during Desert Storm hadn’t prepared him for much of what he’d been through. Straight combat, sure, but escape and evade, recon, hostage rescue, sniper tactics, etc., were all Special Forces type training that he had never been exposed to.
He and Laura took these training sessions seriously, discussing each lesson amongst themselves, and now the students, while working the site. They all found talking about what had just been taught reinforced it in their minds, and they all knew it just might save their lives one day.
Reading’s head poked out from the air conditioned tent.
“What the bloody hell was that?”
“Self-defense training starts in five. Want to join us?” asked Laura, still on her knees, chipping away hundreds of years of caked dirt from what they had determined to be the foundation of a house, probably from around two thousand years ago.
“Between the Falklands War and you two, I’ve heard enough gunfire for a lifetime.”
He disappeared back into the tent as Chaney roared with laughter at his former boss. “He just wants to get back to the air conditioning.” Chaney turned to the professors, hands on his hips. “Rather than shoot at paper targets, I think I’ll go for my morning constitutional.”
“Huh?”
“‘Walk’, dear,” explained Laura.
“Oh.”
“See you soon,” said Chaney who then strode away from the camp and the dig site.
“Where do you think he goes?” asked Acton.
Laura shrugged. “Probably nowhere in particular. There’s not much to see around here, we are kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
Acton stretched his back then wiped his brow with a handkerchief he had fished from his pocket.
“If he finds an ice cream stand, let me know.”
“At ten in the morning? You’ll lose your figure,” teased Laura.
Acton dropped his head, raising his eyebrows, and gave her a look.
“Exsqueeze me? I’ll have you know my stomach is still flat after all these years, despite your cooking.”
Laura feigned hurt.
“Are you insulting my cooking?”
Acton grinned and wrapped his arm across her shoulders, drawing her into him.
“Not at all, my dear, I love your cooking.” He lowered his voice. “Especially your home cookin’.”
“Is that another American euphemism?”
Acton laughed as he led them toward the training area and the ever increasing gunfire.
Alexandria, Egypt
12 August, 30 BC
Cleopatra stirred at the sound of her door opening, and immediately fought to contain her excitement as her servants entered, bringing her usual supplies for her morning ablutions. Scented hot water, cold water, soaps and perfumes, a basket of assorted fruits, and another of her favorite figs, the basket larger than normal.
But she successfully contained her glee, and instead simply stood, stance wide, arms outstretched, as she was attended to by her servants. Their ministrations seemed impossibly slow today, and her trusted handmaiden looked her in the eye, then glanced at the basket of figs, and she knew her orders had been fulfilled.
She would have her revenge on Octavian, the traitorous heathen who would dare to usurp a Pharaoh. She knew she had lost, she knew it was over for her, and there was no way Octavian would get close enough to her for her to exact the revenge she truly wanted.
Her thoughts turned to her children. Her first son, with Caesar, before Antony, would be named Pharaoh. But Caesarion she knew wouldn’t be allowed to live. Her heart ached as she thought of her beautiful boy and the pain he was about to endure after she was dead.
But at least it would be short lived.
There was no glory in parading a seventeen year old boy through Rome, and no reason to torture him, for he had done nothing to Octavian.
He would die, swiftly, before the notice of his ascension to the throne reached the outer edges of the kingdom.
And what of her other children, those she had with her beloved Antony? Ptolemy, and the twins Alexander and Cleopatra Selene? Would they too be killed, or would mercy be shown? She closed her eyes, praying to the gods to spare her children, to let them live, even if in obscurity, the life of a Pharaoh, or royalty, no life at all.
She waved off her handmaiden who tried to wrap her robe around her shoulders, instead letting it hang around the tie at her waist, her breasts exposed to the cool morning breeze making its way through the windows. It was a perfect day. A beautiful day. And on any other day she would have sailed the Nile were she permitted, but no more. No more could she rule her people. No more could she gaze upon her kingdom.
And no more could she make love to her dearest Antony.
She walked over to the table where the supplies had been placed, and took a drink of water. She selected a fig, and chewed on it absentmindedly, staring at the basket, looking for the king cobras that should be at the bottom. She had requested two, should the first escape, but only one was needed to do the deed.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was her trusted handmaiden, who had arranged the delivery. Her eyes were glassed over, but her face strong. Cleopatra gave her a smile of thanks, then motioned for her to distract the alert eyes of Octavian, Epaphroditus. Her servant slinked over to the man, her lithe body irresistible to most, but Epaphroditus ignored her.
What is he, a eunuch?
She bent down in front of him, and Cleopatra smiled as the man’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the remarkable example of womanhood being displayed. He shifted in his chair.
Cleopatra began removing the figs from the basket, and before Epaphroditus noticed, she had nearly reached the bottom. Sinking her hand into the remaining figs, she felt something move. She grabbed it tightly, and the basket shook in protest, drawing the attention of Epaphroditus, who pushed her handmaiden away with a brush of his large hand.
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br /> Cleopatra pulled her hand from the basket, revealing the king cobra, a young one, less than an arm’s length long, but as deadly the day it was born as any adult. She spun toward Epaphroditus, holding the menacing creature out. With her free hand, she reached for its head, grabbing it tightly, it now under her control, but the creature now writhing in anger.
“Stay back!” she ordered, Epaphroditus still advancing. She rushed a step forward, the cobra’s hooded head facing her captor, and he stopped, retreating several paces, shouting for help. She rounded her bed, placing it between her and him, her handmaidens huddled in the corner, cowering in fear of the vicious, deadly creature. The door sprung open, several Roman Centurions rushing inside.
“If you take one step toward me, if anybody takes one step toward me, you won’t live beyond the morning!”
The creature writhing in her hand flared its hood, the “brave” Roman troops jumping back at the famous hiss, it so low it was easily mistaken as a growl. Who’s in control now? She smiled as she felt the rush surge through her veins, the feeling of control she hadn’t had for days suddenly restored. This was her chamber, her city, her kingdom, once again, and she was a Queen, a Pharaoh, to once again be listened to and respected.
The snake slithered in her hand, its head squirming in protest, but she merely squeezed tighter, controlling it as she had once controlled an empire with her Antony. And now she would strike one final blow in their name against their enemy, by denying him his greatest prize.
She looked at Epaphroditus who stood the closest, but too far to interfere with her plans, even his loyalty to Octavian not great enough to risk the bite of a king cobra.
“You will deliver a message for me to your master.”
Epaphroditus bristled at her words.
“I am a freedman,” he said, his voice cold, a hint of anger at having to define himself to her creeping into his voice. “I have no master, but I serve, by my choice, Octavian.”
The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 3