In Thrall to the Enemy Commander

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘And if you pass, you shall be handsomely rewarded.’ The Queen ran her finger across the lip of her goblet.

  * * *

  There was a long pause, and Wen held her breath. Cleopatra had just asked the most powerful man in the world to fight for her, with herself as the prize for victory. All of the Queen’s hopes and ambitions—along with both of their lives—depended on Caesar’s answer.

  ‘If we achieve victory,’ Caesar growled. He appeared angry and energised all at once. He set down his goblet and began to pace. ‘I travel with little more than a legion. They are Roman soldiers, but they are not invincible.’

  ‘Send for more,’ said the Queen. ‘Does Rome not have legions stationed in every province?’

  ‘It is not that simple.’ Caesar turned to Titus. ‘Who would send men?’

  ‘Mithridates of Pergamon would do it, if only to spite his late father,’ said Titus. ‘And ambition alone might motivate Antipater of Judea...’

  As Titus spoke, it became clear that he possessed a vast political knowledge—not just of the Roman troops stationed near Egypt, but of their leaders’ proclivities and motivations.

  It should have been no surprise to Wen. He was a commander of a legion and an advisor to a general. It was his job to know such things. Still, Wen sensed some deeper purpose beneath his words. She wondered what it could be. Who are you, Titus of Rome? she wondered. Who?

  ‘Atticus of Crete is close,’ Titus was saying, ‘but he would require some incentive.’

  ‘Incentive?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘You must reach into your coffers, Cleopatra,’ said Caesar. ‘Can you do that?’

  Cleopatra laughed. ‘I have no choice. Without your help, I will be dead by the Festival of Osiris.’ Caesar gave her a doubting look, but the Queen only smiled. ‘Do not fear, General. I will find the gold to pay the legions. I will melt Alexander’s golden sandals if I have to.’

  ‘Do not do that!’ Caesar exclaimed. ‘I mean, let us hope it does not come to that.’

  ‘Then you will help me defeat my brother?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Before I agree, I have a request.’ Caesar gazed up at the Queen’s magnificent throne. ‘Allow me to sit on your throne for a few moments, then join me upon it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wish to sit upon your throne, then I want you to sit on my lap. That is my request. If you will fulfil it, I will help you in your cause.’

  A wickedness had seeped into Caesar’s expression, making Wen’s skin prickle. Here he is at last, she thought, the dissolute womaniser, the famous seducer of other men’s wives.

  She stole a glance at Titus, but his face was a mask of stone. Was he shocked by what the General had said, or merely bored by it? She sensed it was the former, and that there was something Titus continued to hide from her. From everyone.

  ‘Think of it as my...incentive,’ said Caesar.

  To her credit, Cleopatra betrayed no emotion. ‘It appears that we have run out of wine,’ she said. ‘Come Wen.’

  Before Caesar was able to respond, they had disappeared through a servant’s exit and into a small anteroom. The Queen collapsed into a chair. ‘Oh, Wen! Will the debasement ever end?’

  ‘It is an unusual request.’

  ‘Do you not think it unusually depraved?’

  ‘I think that he is a Roman man and thus he is by nature depraved.’

  ‘Hem! Well, I do not believe Titus to be depraved. You hesitate to agree—why?’

  ‘It is just...a feeling that I have about him. He is obviously one of Caesar’s closest advisors, yet there is something about Caesar that disagrees with him.’

  ‘Caesar’s depravity!’ cried the Queen, laughing. ‘If only it were Titus I was obliged to seduce.’

  ‘Perhaps it is well that you find Caesar depraved. It will enable you to keep your...honour from him as long as possible.

  ‘My honour? He wants me to sit on his lap, by the gods!’

  An idea struck Wen. ‘You must ask for something in return.’

  ‘Beyond his promise to defend my throne?’

  ‘He must know that he cannot trifle with your honour. If he pushes, you will push back.’ It was a strange thing to say, especially for a slave, though Wen believed it with all her heart.

  The Queen jumped out of her seat. ‘Gratitude, Wen! You have saved me once again.’ She lifted the amphora of wine and handed it to Wen.

  ‘We must first refill it, yes?’ Wen asked.

  ‘That is not necessary,’ said Cleopatra. ‘It is still quite full.’

  * * *

  Titus saw Wen re-emerge from the shadows and tried not to stare. She followed behind the Queen with quiet grace, the large amphora balanced effortlessly in her arms, her expression full of secrets.

  ‘Apologies for the delay,’ the Queen said, and Wen placed the large jar upon the table as Cleopatra met Caesar’s gaze. ‘Of course I will allow you to sit on my throne, General. And I will join you there, as you have requested. But you must give me a small token in return, so that I may preserve my honour.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ Caesar asked, swallowing his wine.

  ‘Cyprus.’

  Caesar almost choked. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I want the island of Cyprus. Rome took it from my grandfather. Now I want it back.’

  ‘An entire island?’

  ‘Return Cyprus to Egypt and I will allow you to sit upon my throne.’

  Caesar shook his head. ‘It is impossible. Even if it were in my power to grant, I could not appear to favour you over your husband-brother. The Alexandrian mob would murder me in my sleep.’

  ‘Give it to my younger siblings, then,’ she said at last. ‘Give it to Arsinoe and Ptolemy the Younger. In your career, you have doubled Rome’s territory. Are you not allowed to do as you like with a small island? Return Cyprus, and let the Alexandrians marvel once again at your generosity.’

  Titus could see the flattery at work on the great General’s resolve. ‘Did you know that this particular throne belonged to Rameses the Great?’ the Queen continued. ‘It is true. My great-grandfather, Ptolemy the Third, had it transported from Thebes. It is said that Rameses launched his campaign against the Hittites from that throne.’

  Titus wondered if it was true, though it did not matter. Upon hearing the name Rameses the Great, Caesar grew misty-eyed and he walked to the base of the throne like one entranced.

  ‘Cyprus, then,’ he said. If Caesar had not been so distracted by the invocation of Egypt’s greatest King, along with the idea of his own largess, he might have realised that he had been outwitted.

  By a woman.

  ‘Cyprus it is,’ said Cleopatra, grinning in triumph.

  And so it was that Caesar made the short journey to the top of Cleopatra’s throne and settled himself into its wide marble seat. He took several deep breaths of the rarefied air and cast his gaze out across his imagined audience. ‘This is how it should be.’

  Titus glanced at Wen. Her head was bowed, but she was watching Caesar out of the corner of her eye and her lips twisted in the beginning of a grin. Cyprus was her idea, Titus realised.

  It was Wen who had encouraged the Queen to heed Caesar’s call and counselled her in how to seduce him. And now, thanks to Wen, Caesar had postponed his ambition. Whatever designs he had on Egypt would have to wait, for he had agreed to be the champion of its lovely Queen. It occurred to Titus that by neutralising the Roman Republic’s greatest threat, Wen might have singlehandedly saved it.

  When he returned his attention back to Caesar, he noticed that the General’s face had twisted into a mischievous grin. Caesar motioned to the Queen. ‘Come, Cleopatra,’ he commanded.

  Obediently, Queen Cleopatra ascended the stairs and sat down upon the great General’s lap. Titus’s impulse was to look away. Fo
r reasons unknown to him, he did not wish to see Cleopatra in a state of debasement.

  But then something quite unexpected occurred. The Queen began to laugh. He glanced up at the throne—there she was, her mouth agape, lost in a flurry of giggles.

  She had placed the loose ribbon of her diadem over the top of Caesar’s head. It fell over his long forehead, between his eyes and down the long sweep of his aquiline nose. The great General was blowing at the ribbon like a child might do, and it was fluttering in the air above his nostrils.

  It was the most undignified thing Titus had ever seen. Gaius Julius Caesar, Roman General, Senator, Imperator and Consul of Rome, was acting a fool. And Cleopatra Philopator, Queen of Egypt, was baiting him.

  Had the two gone mad? Had they been struck dumb by the gods? Had they simply drunk too much wine?

  Wen stood silently beside Titus, her head still bowed, pretending not to watch. As Cleopatra pulled her ribbon off Caesar’s head and the General moved his arm more tightly around the Queen’s waist, Titus realised that their antics were not wholly innocent: they were expressing what appeared to be real affection.

  Out of respect, he looked away and, in that same moment, so did Wen. Her gaze collided with his and he felt a pulse of warmth vibrate into his bones. On impulse, he reached out his hand.

  Incredibly, she took it and let him pull her next to him. They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched Cleopatra and Caesar share a kiss.

  ‘Congratulations to us both, Titus,’ Caesar said in Latin, peering down from his high seat. ‘You have your woman and now I have mine, though I am certain that yours will not ask you for an island.’

  Titus squeezed Wen’s hand, then smiled and nodded at Caesar, struggling to remain composed. And as the drunken General bent to plant another kiss on Cleopatra’s lips, Titus kissed the top of Wen’s head. ‘He does not know you speak Latin,’ he whispered into her ear.

  ‘But he knows of me, for you told him,’ Wen whispered back.

  ‘Do you find that so hard to believe?’ Titus asked, letting his lips linger in her hair.

  ‘What is this?’ clucked the Queen. ‘Do our two closest advisors conspire against us?’

  Startled, Wen stepped away from Titus.

  ‘They conspire for certain, though I fear only Venus knows their aim,’ said Caesar.

  The Queen and Caesar raised their goblets. ‘I salute you, Wen and Titus,’ said Cleopatra, ‘for there are no two people better matched.’

  Titus reached for Wen’s goblet, and offered it to her with a wink. They had witnessed the bargaining and shared in the revelry of these strange, secret alliances. Their fates were tied together, in victory or in defeat.

  Titus and Wen raised their goblets high.

  And they drank.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Wen stood in attendance at the base of Cleopatra’s throne and willed herself to focus. While the Queen distributed her commands to a never-ending stream of servants and scribes, Wen studied her own hand, remembering how Titus had held it. It was remarkable how easily their fingers had linked together, like the pattern of an unusual weave.

  ‘Beware the heirs of Romulus and Remus,’ the High Priestess had always told her and she tried to recall all the reasons she should not be thinking about him. But when she tried to enumerate them, a vision of his handsome face crowded in on her calculations, and her mind became foggy with desire.

  She felt as if he had conquered her somehow, had taken her inside his crimson cape and enveloped her, until all she could feel was his rippling strength and all she could see was red.

  She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice the small servant boy enter from the side of the hall. Rushing towards the throne, he stumbled on his own two feet.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Cleopatra said as he collapsed on the floor with a pained yelp.

  Wen leapt to the boy’s side. ‘Are you harmed?’ she asked.

  ‘I—I am unharmed,’ sputtered the boy, trembling with nerves.

  ‘Do not fear,’ Wen whispered to him. ‘She is a kind queen.’ Wen tilted her head up at the Queen. ‘He says he is unharmed, Goddess,’ Wen reported, though the Queen did not appear interested in the boy. Her attention was instead riveted on Wen’s exposed leg.

  Wen realised that her tunic had somehow lifted in her efforts to revive the boy, and the length of her pink scar had become fully exposed. She gasped in horror, quickly pulling her skirt over the unsightly mark. The Queen’s expression remained frozen.

  ‘Apologies, Goddess Queen,’ the boy began, struggling to his feet. ‘I was sent by the High Steward. He seeks a trusted servant. For the banquet. To serve the Queen.’

  ‘My apologies, young man,’ said the Queen, turning her attention reluctantly to the boy. ‘You are?’

  ‘Khu.’

  ‘Will you forgive me, Khu? I did not hear your request.’

  ‘It is of nothing, Goddess Queen,’ said the boy, visibly calmed. ‘The High Steward sent me to request additional servants to attend you and your entourage at the banquet. He said that you should send women you trust.’

  The Queen glanced doubtfully around the hall, fingering her pearl necklace. ‘I fear that many of my body servants remain outside Pelousion at present,’ she said.

  Wen cleared her voice, hoping to catch the Queen’s attention.

  ‘I am afraid I can spare no one, Khu,’ said Cleopatra.

  Wen stepped forward. ‘It would be my pleasure to serve at the banquet, my Queen,’ she said.

  ‘That is very generous of you, Wen,’ said Cleopatra, ‘but you are too important to serve at a banquet.’

  But I am just a slave, Wen thought.

  Khu bowed and began to take his leave. ‘Wait,’ said Wen. ‘Goddess, may I approach?’ The Queen gave a nod and Wen bounded up the dais. She bent to the Queen’s ear. ‘Ptolemy does not know who I am, nor do any of the members of his entourage. If I served at the banquet, I could keep my Horus eye on them—perhaps I might learn something. I am skilled at such work.’

  A guileful smile broke across the Queen’s face. ‘You are indeed, Wen of Alexandria. You are also extremely clever.’ She turned to Khu. ‘On second thought, I have decided that Wen shall serve. Please escort her to the Banquet Hall and give dear old Hemut my regards.’

  Khu nodded many times over, clearly pleased. Cleopatra took Wen’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Go forth, dear Wen, and play your part. Only do not forget the roles and riches of this life are illusions. They matter not.’

  Wen paused. The saying was familiar. If Wen had been in full possession of her wits, she would have realized right then where she had heard it before. But she was too excited to think. Like every young Egyptian girl, she had been raised on stories of the splendour and hospitality of the Ptolemaic court. Now was her chance to experience the stuff of her very dreams.

  But there was a deeper reason for her thrill. She believed that Titus would attend the banquet. She could hardly wait for the moment she spied him. She would float up to him and offer him a drink of wine or an edible from her tray. He would look at her with gratitude and perhaps something else, something that would send a sharp pang of warmth down to her toes.

  She was practically skipping as her young escort led her down the promenade and through the main gardens. She knew when they had arrived at the Banquet Hall’s entrance, for its giant white-marble pillars were legendary. They even had a name: the Gates of Luxury.

  The Gates were just the beginning of the opulence of the Ptolemaic court, a lavishness that had been given its own name: tryphe. Wen had heard it sung about in songs and lauded in poems. The High Priestess had even spoken of it to her long ago. ‘The servants carry tableware made of pure gold,’ she had told Wen.

  Now Wen was to be one of those servants.

  Khu led Wen into a small, crowded ro
om where dozens of servants were laughing and conversing. Some ate hungrily. Others appeared to be stretching and oiling their skin. Still others were openly changing their clothes.

  Khu led Wen to the far end of the room. There a tall, handsome woman was putting on an Egyptian wig before a sprawling bronze mirror. ‘Only one?’ she said to Khu in Egyptian, but he had already disappeared into the chaos of the room.

  The woman looked at Wen sidelong, then returned to her task. ‘I am Marni,’ she said. ‘You have been appointed to aid me in serving the Queen’s entourage.’

  ‘I am Wen.’ Wen gave her most supplicating bow.

  ‘It appears you are gifted with natural beauty and that is well. Still, we have much to do to prepare you for this honour in a very short time. Come with me.’

  Wen followed Marni into a large hall that must have stretched to half a stade in length. Colourful mosaics adorned three of the walls. The fourth was transparent. Incredibly, Wen could see all the way through it to the Royal Harbour beyond.

  ‘It is colourless glass,’ said Marni without giving it so much as a glance. ‘The Parthians sent it as a gift to Ptolemy the Tenth.’

  Wen could not take her eyes off it and she nearly stumbled on a large marble fountain rising up in the centre of the hall. Inside the fountain were two finely wrought statues. The first statue was the Greek sea god Poseidon. A stream of trickling water flowed from the mouth of a large fish he held in his iron hands.

  Just behind Poseidon, the Egyptian god Serapis held his own massive creature: a golden-horned bull. The God of Abundance wore a vessel-shaped hat from which an endless cascade of wheat kernels poured.

  It was an incredible sight. Wen had seen fountains in her life, but never one that flowed with both water and wheat.

  As if Poseidon and Serapis were not enough, there were numerous large marble statues scattered throughout the hall—each with its own bronze nameplate—Wen could not help but pause before the statue of a strong, well-proportioned man. He looked so familiar. She glanced down at the nameplate. Heracles, it read.

  ‘You must never do that in the presence of guests,’ said Marni. ‘Nor must you ever speak to a guest, or look one in the eye, understood?’