“This sister lives because she is no threat to the queen’s throne, although they share the same father. As Caesar tells it, this sister risked her life to save Cleopatra.” Antony frowned. “But you know the sister’s husband. Remember Lord Ramtat, who led the Egyptian troops at Pharsalus?”
“I did not actually meet him, but his name is not unknown to me.” Marcellus’s mind moved to other matters. “All Rome is talking about Caesar and the Egyptian queen. I have overheard some dangerous murmuring.”
“Caesar is a man in his fifties, besotted by a young, powerful and highly intelligent woman. If you saw her, you would understand the attraction. She is not the first you would notice if you walked into a room of beautiful women, but she would eventually draw your attention, and the others would fade into nothing.” Antony took a deep breath. “I have never seen eyes as green as hers. When she looks at me—” He looked a bit embarrassed. “She is most remarkable.”
Marcellus grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were besotted by this foreign queen yourself.”
“Just to be near her is a privilege. But she sees no man other than the great Caesar.” He gazed back at the orange trees. “A man would do a lot to possess such a woman.”
“If I did not know that you are frequently enamored by a pretty face, I would believe you had lost your heart.”
“It is not her beauty—it is—” Antony struggled for the right words. “It is her whole being, her essence.” He shook his head. “But no matter. How soon can you be ready for the voyage to Egypt?”
“The work on the aqueduct is nearing completion. I have a good man on site, and he will see it finished.”
“Good—very good. You will be traveling with Cleopatra’s most trusted guard, Apollodorus, the Sicilian. You will find him an extraordinary individual.”
“I have had few dealings with Egyptians.”
“My friend, you are about to view a way of life one can only imagine. No one can be unaffected by the beauty and grandeur of Alexandria.”
“Why would Caesar choose me for this mission?”
“The official story is that he wants a diplomat to convince Lord Ramtat to accompany his wife to Rome, and you, my friend, are highly intelligent, from an aristocratic family—someone he will respect.” Antony turned his head to look at Marcellus. “In truth, Caesar wants a man he can trust.”
Marcellus nodded. “I need to speak to you about another matter.” He related to Antony the details of his visit to the home of his mother and stepfather and gave Antony the note his mother had slipped into his hand.
Marc Antony, always one to sniff out trouble where protecting Caesar was concerned, nodded. “This matter must be examined closely. I will let you know what I discover.” He smiled. “Now make ready for Egypt. The queen is anxious to see her sister, and we have not a day to lose.”
Apollodorus turned out to be a surprise. The man was at least a head taller than Marcellus, had curly black hair that hung to his shoulders and black eyes that seemed to see deep within a person. Happily, he spoke Latin and seemed willing to answer Marcellus’s questions—and he had many.
The voyage to Alexandria had been smooth, blessed by a strong wind that blew in the right direction. But Marcellus and Apollodorus did not linger in Alexandria, for they discovered that Lord Ramtat and his wife were in the desert. The Sicilian had turned out to be an enjoyable traveling companion, and patiently pointed out the sights of Egypt. Marcellus was startled to learn that Lord Ramtat, a trusted friend of Caesar’s, was of half-Bedouin lineage, and sheik of the Badari tribe.
As an architect, Marcellus was impressed by Alexandria, with its towering marble and granite buildings so different from the brick structures of Rome. He wanted to spend time on Pharus Island and inspect the great lighthouse that continuously sent its beacon thirty leagues out to sea, but Caesar’s mission would not wait.
At Apollodorus’s suggestion, Marcellus agreed to exchange his uniform for the less conspicuous robe and trappings of the desert dwellers.
“Before the mission has ended, you will be glad you abandoned your Roman uniform. That metal breastplate and helmet would grow hot beneath the scorching desert sun,” the Sicilian advised him.
As they left the city of Alexandria behind, Apollodorus noticed that Marcellus kept looking over his shoulder. “Think about this, Roman—while your ancestors were digging with wooden hoes and living in wooden hovels, the Egyptians dwelled in great cities ruled by pharaohs in marble palaces and were bedecked in gold and gemstones. They had created a written language and become a center of knowledge before your city of Rome was even built.”
“It is a wonder without equal,” Marcellus agreed.
Marcellus and Apollodorus rode on fine Badarian horses that traveled over the desert sands with ease. Three Bedouin from Lord Ramtat’s tribe had been sent to accompany them to the Badari encampment.
When they made camp the last night out, Marcellus took a bite of roasted goat meat and leaned back on his bedroll. “I have heard of Lord Ramtat but know little of him,” he said to the Sicilian.
“He is Queen Cleopatra’s general and trusted adviser. His father was a noble of the court, and his mother is a Bedouin princess. The Ramtat you will meet here in the desert will be Sheik El-Badari. Though the outer garments will be different from those he wears as a high lord of Egypt, the man himself is the same one who is well respected by your Caesar and my queen.”
They sat in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts—then Apollodorus spoke again.
“When we reach the Bedouin village, you will see their women only from a distance. They will be heavily veiled and guarded by their men. Do not attempt to speak to them if you value your life,” he advised Marcellus. “The only exception will be Lady Danaë, Lord Ramtat’s wife. She may, or may not, be veiled, and you will be allowed to speak to her at the encampment since we are on the queen’s business.”
“I saw women in Alexandria who were dressed no different from Roman women; they wore no veils.”
“Ah, my friend, you are about to enter another world. In most of this country, as in Rome, women can own property; but unlike Rome, a woman here can rule the land, and even be a goddess.” Apollodorus nodded in the direction they were headed. “But where we are going, Sheik El-Badari is the law, and the women are not even allowed to eat with the men. I just wanted to warn you so we will not offend our host.”
“What a strange and enchanting country this is,” Marcellus mused. “I would like to spend more time exploring it.”
“It would take many lifetimes to see all Egypt has to offer. And we have only a few weeks.”
Marcellus stared up at the night sky, which was studded with stars and a brilliant crescent moon. The sky, like the desert, seemed to stretch on forever. There was a strange stirring within his blood—an excitement he could not understand. He fell asleep to the soothing sound of one of the Bedouins playing a flute.
Just after sunrise Marcellus halted his horse atop a sand dune and glanced down upon a huge encampment. At last they had reached the home of the desert dwellers. Wild Bedouin tribesmen raced their horses down a course that had been built for the upcoming games—banners flew above the main tents and music filled the air. Driven by excitement, Marcellus nudged his horse down the steep incline, anxious to witness a way of life that few outsiders ever saw—a wild, untamed existence that had gone unchanged for thousands of years.
“There are so many people,” Marcellus observed. “The head count must be in the thousands.”
“There will likely be more before the week is out. You are fortunate that you arrive at a time when the Badari gather to pay homage to their sheik.” The Sicilian smiled, something he rarely did. “You will see horsemanship unequaled anywhere in the world.”
Marcellus could not quell the exhilaration that stirred within.
He was stepping back in time.
Chapter Five
For the past week Adhaniá had though
t of little else except the upcoming games. But now that the time was upon her, she was experiencing doubts. Her heart was racing, her palms were sweaty and she wondered if her brother would be angry or proud of her.
“You don’t have to do this,” Heikki reminded her. “It’s not too late to withdraw.”
“I would like your encouragement and for you to have faith in my ability,” she said haughtily.
“I don’t question your ability, just your sense. What you are planning is unseemly for a woman. Would you not try to stop me if you saw me doing something that was not right?”
“I would trust you,” she told him in a subdued voice. Her hands were trembling, and she gripped them to her sides so Heikki would not notice how nervous she was. In truth, if he continued to press her, she might heed his warning and give up her dream of competing. Regret and indecision were creeping into her mind, growing rapidly.
“Even though I watched you practice every day, I never thought you would really ride in the contest. Would you shame your brother before all his tribesmen?”
These were her people too, and there was nowhere she’d rather be than with them here in the desert. Although most of her time was spent at one or the other of her family’s villas, if she had the choice, she would never leave the desert. Her chest felt tight and she was having difficulty drawing a deep breath. When her father had died, Adhaniá had been very young, and Ramtat had become her father figure. Most of the time he allowed her to have her own way, although their mother accused him of being too indulgent. Surely he would be proud of her accomplishments, even if she did not win the Golden Arrow.
It was her mother who treated her like a child, accusing her of being headstrong, and Adhaniá admitted she sometimes acted before considering the outcome. She stared down at the toe of her red boot, gathering her courage. Regardless of the consequences, she would participate in this contest.
Could she not shoot an arrow with more accuracy than most of the tribesmen?
Why should she be excluded just because she was female?
She set her jaw in a stubborn line that reminded Heikki of the sheik at his most formidable. He watched her hoist herself onto the mare and wrap the reins around her hand.
“Hand me the quiver of arrows,” she said, threading her arm through her ebony bow.
“It will mean trouble for us both if you do this.”
“You have no cause to worry; I shall explain to my brother that you had no part in my plan.” She lifted her brow and sent him a smile that rocked his world. “If Ramtat becomes annoyed with me and sends me to my mother in Alexandria, I will ask if you can come with me.”
His shoulders slumped as he thrust the arrows at her. Then he turned and stalked away.
Adhaniá called on all her courage. Heikki was right, of course—Ramtat was going to be angry with her. And yet, her competitive nature would not allow her to back down now.
She nudged her horse forward, determined to win the Golden Arrow.
Lord Ramtat stood beneath a canopy of green staring into his wife’s equally green eyes. Danaë, half-sister to Queen Cleopatra, was his shining jewel. At the moment she held their two-year-old son, Julian, namesake to Julius Caesar. The child feared nothing and was clapping his hands gleefully as the long line of mounted tribesmen rode past, dipping their spears in homage to their sheik. His son would make a worthy sheik on the day he inherited his titles. He had his mother’s courage and her illustrious lineage, as well as the wild Bedouin spirit of Ramtat’s ancient bloodline.
Ramtat felt his heart swell with love and pride as he looked into Danaë’s eyes. The gods had given him the one woman who could make him happy and a son to walk in his footsteps. There was nothing in the world he wanted that he did not have. His life was divided between his duties as sheik to his wild Bedouin and his duty to Queen Cleopatra. He was, above all, a son of Egypt.
Danaë was talking to Cleopatra’s emissary, Apollodorus, and the Roman officer who had accompanied him to the encampment. Ramtat was curious as to why the men had sought them out in the desert. But they had only arrived that morning, and his duties as sheik had kept him occupied and unable to confer with them.
“I am glad you have arrived on a day when the games are being held,” Danaë told them.
“I, too, am glad,” Apollodorus said to the queen’s half-sister. “But that is not why we are here.”
“You have already assured me that my sister is in good health.”
“She is, indeed,” Apollodorus answered. “But she is in want of company and has asked if you could possibly come to her in Rome.”
Danaë was thoughtful for a moment, and her gaze locked with her husband’s. She saw the concern in his eyes and shook her head. “I cannot make such a journey at this time. I will give you a scroll to take to my sister so she will know the reason.”
Apollodorus looked thoughtful. “The queen will be disappointed.”
Danaë smiled at the fierce-looking Sicilian. “She will understand when I tell her my reason.” She noticed both relief and curiosity in Ramtat’s gaze. He would not have wanted her to make such a journey in any case, but he speculated on the cause of her refusal.
“I am curious as to why Caesar sent you, Tribune Valerius,” Ramtat said, turning his gaze on the Roman officer.
“I was sent to try to convince you to accompany Lady Danaë to Rome. But I see my persuasive skills will not be needed.”
“In any event,” Danaë stated, looking at the handsome tribune, “I hope you will enjoy the games. And the feasting will rival anything you have experienced in Rome.”
“I can assure you, I am enjoying myself already. I will have much to tell my friends when I return to Rome.”
Ramtat turned his attention back to his tribesmen and nodded in recognition to those who were known to him as they passed. Excitement thrummed through the air as old friends greeted one another, and the tribe became one again.
To begin the festivities, there was a contest to demonstrate who could throw a spear the farthest and with the most accuracy. Then there was swordplay, the winner being the last man standing. Ramtat laughed when he saw Danaë cringe and look away.
“Fear not, no one ever dies of wounds received in this game—although there will be cuts and bruises aplenty.”
Ramtat arched his brow and smiled at the beauty beside him. He reached out to touch the hand of his son and the baby giggled up at him. He turned to Marcellus and explained, “This celebration goes as far back as our history is recorded.”
“I am most anxious to see the contest for the Golden Arrow that Apollodorus told me about.”
Danaë watched as the contests progressed, smiling as Ramtat rewarded the winners. Sometimes the gift was a bow and quiver of arrows, a hand-carved spear or a jewel-handled dagger. Later, the greatest prize of all would be awarded—the golden arrow for the most skilled warrior of them all. Already young men were lining up to participate in the final contest.
When the morning games were finally over and the feasting had begun, Danaë had been presented to so many tribesmen, she doubted she would remember any of their names. She handed a very tired Julian over to his nurse, Minuhe, so he could be put down for his nap.
“I have not seen Adhaniá since early morning,” she observed, looking about the banquet tent.
“Nor have I,” Ramtat replied. “I am certain she is becoming reacquainted with old friends. She is a favorite with everyone.”
Danaë nodded. “I have little doubt of that. She is a favorite of mine as well.” She slid her arms around his waist. “When will the Golden Arrow competition begin?”
“As soon as I say the word.” Ramtat took her arm and guided her out of the tent and underneath the shade of the pavilion. A short time later, smiling at Danaë, he raised a red linen cloth over his head and released it, watching it flutter to the ground. “Now,” he said, listening to the roar of approval from the crowd, “let the contest begin!”
Ramtat turned to Marcellu
s. “Some men have trained for years to compete this day. But only the most worthy will actually finish the grueling task, and of that handful, only one will be the winner. It is a great honor to win the Golden Arrow—the man who succeeds will be revered by all, and his name will be entered on a golden tablet alongside many great warriors of the past.
“One of the keys to winning is having a horse with stamina that can jump over the obstacles.” He pointed in the distance. “First they must complete the course with the red flags, and then the harder course with the golden flags. They must jump the high rails and race to the tall sand dune you see in the distance. Once that is accomplished, those remaining will enter the compound and each will show his mastery over his horse by performing difficult tricks. Then he must string his bow while galloping at full speed, and the arrow must go through those narrow rings you see there and hit the center of the target.”
“I can see why only your best warriors compete. It is a daunting course.”
“There is always a winner. My Bedouin raise the finest horses in the world—at least we think so. And you see before you the greatest horsemen in Egypt, perhaps in the world.”
Apollodorus watched with great interest. “This reminds me of the games of my own village.” A brief sadness flashed across his face. “Sometimes I miss Sicily,” he admitted.
Marcellus watched a young warrior riding a stark-white horse—the beautiful animal pranced and tossed its head, instantly obeying the nudge of a heel or the tightening of the reins in the rider’s hand. Marcellus was caught up in the excitement along with the others. The young warrior was already two horse-lengths ahead of the other competitors. Three of the horsemen had fallen behind, and two horses knocked over a rail by missing their jumps and were disqualified. There were only six contenders left, and it was easy to see that the one on the white horse was pulling even further ahead. Marcellus found himself cheering for the leader riding the white mare.
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