But the man was obviously a glutton. He had breath like a stinking beetle and a stomach the size of a cow’s. How could she choose such a man? And why, more importantly, had she chosen him over Titus?
Chapter Four
They departed before dawn the next morning. As Titus and Apollodorus found their rhythm at the oars, Wen appeared alone on the deck. She gazed out at the sea, her arms tight around her chest.
He could have said that his trouble began when his thigh grazed her arm, or moments after that instant, when she stood beside him at the Queen’s war council—though that would not have been entirely true. When she slipped into the shadows beside him, he had regarded her as a mere mouse, probably sent from the gossip-hungry soldiers to steal a bit of cheese.
He could have said that his trouble began when he held her against him, trying to protect her from the crowd, but that would have also been a lie. His reaction to her had not been unusual. Women were women after all. Their bodies were designed to give pleasure, though he had to admit that her body had felt better than most.
No, his trouble began that second morning at sea, as she strolled about the deck. She had unfastened her braid from its fixed circle around her head the day before and had failed to refasten it since. The result was a maddening distraction, for its delicate tips brushed back and forth across her bottom as she moved. When she finally spoke to him he was not in full possession of his wits.
‘It is a lovely morning, is it not?’ she asked.
He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped himself.
She knew that he claimed ignorance of Greek, yet she had asked the question in that language. And in his distraction, he had opened his mouth to respond.
‘It is not my place to pry,’ she began in Latin, ‘or to insert myself in the affairs of those greater than me. I am a slave and you are a soldier, and your life of course is more important than my own. But since we both now find ourselves in service to Egypt’s rightful Queen, I wondered if you might forgive my boldness in asking you a question?’
For a moment he wondered if he was not listening to the questions of a simple slave woman, but to the rhetorical machinations of Cicero himself. ‘Ah, yes, of course,’ he managed.
‘Why did you not bow to him?’
‘Bow to whom? I’m sorry, I do not understand.’
‘Why did you not bow to your commander Titus yesterday when he was taken by the guards?’
‘I did not bow to him? Well, that is uncharacteristic of me. I shall apologise to him when I see him next. He must have been quite affronted.’
Her fix on him was so steady, he began to feel unnerved.
‘Then he must have been doubly offended when you seized his arm.’
Titus ceased his efforts at the oars. ‘I seized his arm? Are you certain?’
‘You do not remember? You held it very tightly.’
For all his rhetorical training, he was uncertain as to how to respond. He coughed out a laugh. ‘Ah! Look there,’ he said, pointing over her shoulder at the rising sun.
She turned. ‘Ra is reborn,’ she said. She looked at him expectantly.
‘I’m sorry, but I do not adhere to the cult of Ra.’
‘May I ask what cult do you subscribe to?’
‘The cult of logic. It is mostly unknown here in Egypt, but in Rome we Stoics revere it.’
‘May I ask what is a Stoic?’
‘One who believes that kings and gods should not steer men’s fates.’
He saw her blink and was satisfied. Egyptians were quite unreasonable when it came to the subject of their gods and he was certain that he had offended her enough to put her off the subject. He noticed the tiny black blades of her lashes.
‘Does the cult of logic have duplicity as its requisite?’ she asked, batting those blades.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me, good Clodius.’
He was stunned into silence. Had she just accused him of lying? But she was a slave. She was not allowed to accuse anyone of anything. ‘I’m sorry, Wen, but you are mistaken. I have known the legate Titus since he was a boy. I am his guard and sometimes his mentor, though I should not be required to explain any of this to you.’
She shook her head, having none of it. ‘Forgive me, but I was valued by my former master for my ability to detect dishonesty and I cannot help but notice that your mouth twitches when you say your commander’s name. I am compelled by my position in service to the Queen—to whom I owe everything—to request from you an honest answer. Whoever you are, I know that you are neither guard, nor mentor, nor simple soldier.’
He was appalled. ‘And whoever you believe yourself to be, it is quite clear that you are just a slave.’
He watched her swallow hard, instantly regretting his words. He had wounded her for certain. She turned back towards the rising sun. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper.
‘It is true that I am low,’ she began, ‘and that I was purchased by the Queen as her slave. As such, I am bound to protect her. But that is not why I do it.’
‘Why do you do it, then?’ he asked, but she ignored his question.
‘You speak of logic. Well, logic tells me not to believe you, for you are a Roman and I have never known a Roman I could trust.’
‘You are a woman for certain, for you are ruled by humours and whims,’ he growled, aware that his own humours were mixing quite dangerously.
A wave hit the side of the boat, causing it to tilt. To steady herself, she placed her hand over his, igniting an invisible spark.
She glared at him before snapping her hand away and stepping backwards. ‘Good Clodius—though I know that is not your name—I would ask that you please not insult my intelligence.’
Her sunny words seemed to grow in their menace. ‘I may not be as big as you, or as smart as you, or as sly as you, but believe me when I tell you that I know how to handle Roman men.’ She flung her braid behind her as if brandishing a whip. ‘If you do anything to endanger the Queen, or our quest to restore her rightful reign, or if your deception results in harm to either the Queen or either of her handmaids, you will be very sorry.’
Her audacity was stunning. No woman had ever spoken to him in such a way.
He refused to give her the satisfaction of revealing his discomposure, however, so he placidly resumed his efforts at the oars, taking care to stay in rhythm with Apollodorus.
Still, his troops were in retreat; they had lost the battle. His unlikely adversary had utilised all the tricks of rhetoric, along with the full force of her personality, to enrage him, then confuse him, and then finally to leave him speechless.
Nor was she yet finished. As the great yellow globe shone out over the shimmering sea, he felt her warm breath in his ear. ‘Just remember that I have my eye on you, Roman.’
He turned his head and there were her lips, so near to his, near enough to touch.
And in that moment, despite everything, he wanted nothing more in the world than to kiss them.
And that was when his real trouble began.
* * *
She could not focus her thoughts. They were like tiny grains of sand, endless in their number, impossible to gather. She told herself that her inattention was the result of her worry about the Queen, but she knew that was not true.
It was because of him.
She had pretended his words could not harm her, but in truth they had split her in two. Whoever you believe yourself to be, it is quite clear that you are just a slave. That was what he had said to her. Just a slave.
And it was true. She was just a slave. She was nothing. No one. Her thoughts mattered little, her suspicions even less. To a man like him, she was simply a piece of property, like a tunic or a sword. Her only worth was in her ability to stay out of his way.
Well, she was not going to stay out of his way.
She would prove it to herself.
She walked to the water’s edge and stared out at the sparkling white caps, wondering at their beauty. It was the second and final day of their journey and they had made an early camp upon the sands of a small azure bay. Just down the beach from her, the men and boys were fishing from the shore—casting their lines into the gentle waves as if they had not a care in the world.
In truth, it was the beginning of the most dangerous night of all their lives. Their plan was to depart after nightfall and travel the final stretch into Alexandria’s harbour under the cover of darkness. They would tie off at the royal fishing dock in the deepest part of night, and travel in silence, avoiding any of Ptolemy’s night patrols as they made their way towards Caesar’s villa.
And prayed they were not walking into a trap.
Wen watched Clodius from the corner of her eye. He stood knee-deep in the water, casting his line clumsily into the gentle waves. He seemed incapable of trapping anything—at least in this light. Clearly he was not a fisherman. Nor was he a simple soldier. What was he, then?
He was certainly strong. He had removed his armour and stood amidst the waves wearing only a loincloth. His large, muscular chest stretched with his breaths and the long flanks of his back moved like oars as he cast and recast his line into the waves.
She hated herself for staring, but she could not help it. His stomach was a ripple of large, defined muscles, as if they had been shaped by a sculptor from clay. He looked rather like a statue of Heracles she had once seen—that powerful Greek hero with divine blood. She did not blame Charmion and Iras for admiring him. If he did not pose such a threat, she might have done the same.
She had lied when she said she preferred the Sicilian. She favoured the Roman—irrationally, maddeningly so. When she had whispered her threat into his ear that morning, a strange feeling had overcome her. She felt a fire deep inside herself, and a powerful desire to kiss his lips.
It was an odd feeling—to desire a man. She had never done so before. There had been many brew-house clients who had noticed her over the years, a few had even pretended to be kind, but she was careful not to encourage them. She knew how men truly felt about slave women. Especially Roman men. They used them and discarded them as they wished.
Which was why she did not understand her body’s strange yearning for this particular Roman. The High Priestess had taught her much, but she had not prepared Wen for a situation such as this—when her body’s desires were at war with her better senses.
She was preparing to dive into the waves when Iras’s voice rang out, summoning Wen to the Queen’s tent.
Moments later, Wen was stepping inside the shadowy space and beheld the Queen staring at herself in a polished copper mirror. She caught sight of Wen in her reflection. ‘Tell me, Wen, how does an Alexandrian beer maid learn the art of debate?’
Wen paused. The Queen must have heard her heated words with Clodius that morning.
‘A priestess once told me that there is power in words,’ Wen said. ‘She taught me how to use them.’
Cleopatra looked up from her mirror and turned to face Wen. ‘Then your priestess must have had some training in the rhetorical arts.’
Yes, Goddess. She was the High Priestess of Hathor. She was extremely learned. That is what Wen wanted to say, but she could not, because she had not been questioned directly. No matter what happens, you must never address the Queen directly. You must wait until she speaks to you. That was Sol’s advice and she meant to heed it.
‘Here it is, my Queen,’ said Iras, holding up Wen’s old hemp tunic.
‘It will be a brilliant disguise,’ said the Queen. ‘Do you not think so, Wen?’
I have been questioned directly, thought Wen. I may respond freely. ‘I—do not think so, my Queen. I think Pharaoh Ptolemy’s guards will be more likely to stop and question a beggar, and less likely to believe her.’
Cleopatra shot Iras a look and Iras gave a resigned nod. ‘She speaks wisely, Goddess. Let us think of a different disguise.’
‘I have it!’ burst Charmion. ‘We shall disguise her as a man.’
‘But look at her,’ said Iras. ‘She is too small to pass for a man and too womanly to pass for a boy.’
Wen had an idea. She knew that she was not supposed to address the Queen directly, but she also knew that their lives were at risk. She dared to speak. ‘The Queen could wear a hetaira’s robe,’ she whispered. ‘It would cover her completely. Only her eyes would be visible.’
Wen waited to be scolded for her insolence. ‘It is impossible,’ Iras said, shaking her head in disagreement.
‘No Queen of Egypt would ever debase herself in the costume of a Greek harlot,’ added Charmion.
But Cleopatra was nodding her head in a kind of wonder. ‘It is a brilliant idea,’ she said softly.
Iras and Charmion stood in stunned silence. ‘But it would debase you, my Thea,’ said Iras.
Charmion buried her face in her hands.
‘Do not fear, sisters,’ the Queen said. ‘It is only a Janus face that I will wear. Besides, the garment is beyond modest. It will cover everything but my eyes. It will be as if I am wearing a carpet!’
The Queen crossed to Charmion and wiped the tears that were now rolling down her handmaiden’s cheek. ‘Do not despair, my dearest Charmion,’ she said. ‘I would never bow before any Roman, as my father once did. I will pretend debasement, but I will never suffer it. I am descended from Alexander the Great, after all! Do not fear for my honour. My honour is Egypt’s honour. I will keep it, or I will die.’
The Queen’s three attendants stood silent—a Greek, a Nubian and an Egyptian—their hearts humming with pride. This was no spoiled young princess, playing at politics. This was a woman on a mission. This was a queen. Their Queen.
They were so enthralled by Cleopatra’s speech that none of them noticed the visitor standing outside the tent. ‘Veniam in me,’ he said, begging their pardons, his large naked chest shading the entrance. In one hand, he held his fishing rod. In another, he held a fish the size of a cat.
‘An omen!’ exclaimed Charmion.
‘It will make a fine meal,’ said Cleopatra, her gaze paralyzed by the sight of Clodius’s chest. ‘Wen, please accept the fish and tell Clodius that we are pleased.’
Wen swallowed her misgivings and thanked Clodius in Latin. She took the fish into her grasp along with a small blade from the cooking chest and stepped outside the tent. Clodius followed after her.
‘Would you like me to end its life?’ he asked, gripping the hilt of his pugio dagger.
‘That is not necessary,’ she said as she wrestled with the writhing creature. The last thing she wanted was to be indebted to the Roman for anything.
‘Are you able to do it?’
‘Of course I am able,’ she told him. ‘Am I not a woman?’
‘Yes, and I am a man and thus you are naturally inferior to me,’ he paused, regarding her frown. ‘In strength, I mean.’
Once again, he had given away his true feelings and they maddened her. ‘If you will forgive me, I must fulfil the command of the most powerful woman in the world.’
He frowned and she took the opportunity to rush past him towards a cluster of nearby boulders. Her effort was for naught, however, for she sensed him watching her backside as she walked. A quick glance behind her confirmed her suspicion and she threw him a scowl. He returned the look with a sheepish grin and settled himself on a rock.
She kept walking, searching for a suitable place to dispatch the f
ish. Finding nothing, she was forced to double back around to the cluster of rocks where Clodius sat. She placed the slithery fish on a rock not paces from him. He folded his hands in his lap and smiled at her, as if he had just taken his seat at the theatre.
Good, she thought with satisfaction. Let him observe how skilfully I wield a knife.
She steadied the poor, magnificent creature upon the rock, then dispatched it with a quick thrust of her blade. Titus’s eyes were riveted upon her, so she lifted her knife and severed the fish’s head in a show of strength. It was not an easy thing to do, though she tried to make it appear easy.
When she looked up again, he was still watching her closely, as if she were territory he planned to conquer. She returned his gaze in defiance. I am in service to Queen Cleopatra, she reminded herself. You cannot harm me.
On impulse, she made a swift cut up the fish’s belly and pulled out a long strand of its innards. With the innards in one hand and the bloodied knife in the other, she stood and faced the Roman. ‘Is this what you want?’ she shouted. She held up her handful of innards. ‘This is what I do to my enemies!’
* * *
As she held the entrails aloft, he suffered a spasm of laughter so profound that the only way to conceal it was to feign a series of violent coughs. If the entrails had belonged to an enemy, she might have been terrifying. As it was, the only thing he feared was that he might burst some internal part of him in his convulsions, or perhaps even die of laughter.
Her boldness was so unexpected—like a splash of seawater upon his face. The slave Spartacus would have liked her for his army, he thought, for she seemed to care not whom she threatened. Women the world over had always seemed to appreciate Titus, but not this little pigeon.
Still, the more she rebuffed him, the more he seemed to want her. He wanted to link her gory hands with his. He wanted to look into her doubting eyes. He wanted to plant a kiss on her sweet, pursing lips. It was an altogether ridiculous notion, made more ridiculous by his awareness that he vexed her mightily.
Titus watched with rapt attention as she gathered small pieces of driftwood, then set to work whittling them with her knife. Her skewers complete, she deftly filleted the fish into eight equal portions and skewered them, then absently wiped the knife on the skirt of her tunic.
In Thrall to the Enemy Commander Page 5