Wen stared out of the western windows of the Temple of Isis, keeping watch. I fear that things will change between us, Titus had told her, and she turned the words over and over in her mind, trying to make sense of them.
Did he mean that when he returned to his duties, he would be obliged to treat her like a slave? Or was he suggesting that there would be more moments like the one they had shared in the deckhouse, when he had pressed his lips to hers? She did not even dare to hope.
Then, as the pale dawn began to illuminate the white buildings of the Royal Quarter, Wen spied an escort of twenty Roman soldiers.
For a moment, Wen’s heart leapt in the hopes that Titus was among them—he had come to rescue them, as she had secretly hoped he would. But she could not make out his face amongst the mail-clad, helmeted men, who all looked alike.
The entourage came to a halt at the entrance to the temple and demanded to speak with the Queen’s handmaids. Fearing a trap, Iras and Charmion hid in one of the inner sanctums while Wen went out to receive their leader.
‘We have come for Cleopatra’s women—to return them to their rightful place at the Queen’s side,’ the leader said.
‘I am one of those women,’ said Wen. ‘How can we be sure this is not a trap?’
‘The Queen told me to tell you that the carpet was a success. Does that mean anything to you?’
Soon they were walking amidst the entourage phalanx of soldiers, past dozens of Ptolemy’s guards.
Wen’s heart hammered in fear. Their mission, apparently, had succeeded, but they appeared to be in more danger than ever. The armoured men delivered them to the entrance of the Queen’s palace, where they hastened up the stairs to the Queen’s living chamber.
‘Oh, sisters, how glad I am to see your faces!’ Cleopatra exclaimed, embracing them each in turn. ‘I am happy to tell you that we are now under the protection of Julius Caesar.’
Wen was glad, though she also noticed what the Queen did not say: We are safe. I have been restored as Queen. Caesar does not intend to conquer Egypt.
‘Tell us everything!’ asked Charmion, taking a seat on the couch opposite the Queen.
‘What did you say to him?’ Iras asked, collapsing next to Charmion.
Wen stepped quietly to a servant’s position, standing at Cleopatra’s shoulder. ‘He did not recognise me,’ the Queen said, ‘so I asked him to guess who I was.’
‘You did not!’ gasped Charmion.
‘Indeed I did. I walked about the room and told him that I felt like an actor in a satyr play.’
‘And what did he say to that?’ asked Iras breathlessly.
‘He laughed at me,’ said the Queen. ‘He said that if that were the case, I should have been hiding a flight of doves beneath my skirts.’
‘Rome’s greatest general said that?’ asked Iras.
‘Hercule!’ exclaimed Charmion. ‘What then?’
‘I reached into my bag and pulled out my cobra bracelet.’
The Queen glanced up at Wen. ‘Then I walked around the room slowly,’ she continued, ‘letting him see me push the bracelet into place. I watched him notice its lapis eyes and study its carnelian-studded tongue.’
‘He is known as a collector of fine things,’ offered Iras.
‘What then?’ cried Charmion.
Cleopatra grinned. ‘He offered me a goblet of wine, which I accepted, though of course I did not drink.’
‘Very wise, Goddess,’ said Iras.
‘Then I reached into my bag and placed each of my rings upon my fingers, one by one.’
‘He must have guessed your identity then,’ said Charmion.
‘If he did, he said nothing. He only raised his goblet and asked me why I hesitated. “Only princesses and queens needed to worry about poison,” he said.’
‘And what did you say to that?’ asked Charmion.
‘I did not say anything at all,’ said the Queen. ‘I only gave a little smile with my eyes.’
‘Oh, but it must have been a moment!’ exclaimed Charmion, clapping her hands together.
‘I believe I caught him quite by surprise,’ the Queen laughed, ‘for his cheeks turned the very colour of the wine! Still, I was careful not to make too much of it. These Roman men have their pride, do they not?’ The Queen cast Wen another glance and smiled.
‘What then, Queen?’ asked Charmion.
‘He asked me if I was going to try to seduce him. I told him that I would never presume to such a thing. We spoke of the flood, the price of olive oil and other quotidian things. Soon we were both yawning.’
Cleopatra shook her head in amusement. That was all she ever said about her first meeting with General Caesar—a story that was sure to be embellished over time. There had been no instant attraction, no grand seduction—at least not the way the Queen told it.
Still, Wen sensed a small change in her. The anxiety that she had expressed on the dock had disappeared, though her circumstances had changed only a little. It was enough to give Wen reason to hope.
‘Come now,’ said the Queen. ‘Tell me about your journey to the Temple.’
As Charmion and Iras described their nervous trek to the Isis Temple, Wen ceased to listen. She stepped towards the window and glanced down at the group of Roman soldiers protecting the entrance to the Queen’s palace. It seemed to Wen that there were not enough of them.
Ptolemy had surely learned of his sister-wife’s arrival by now. He was probably only a few cubits away, in fact, occupying the main palace closest to the sea. If he sent enough of his guards, they could quickly overcome the Queen’s defences. What then?
‘Where is Apollodorus?’ asked Iras suddenly.
‘He is keeping watch just there,’ said Cleopatra, motioning to the balcony.
‘Apollodorus,’ called Iras. ‘Come inside for just a moment so that we may congratulate you.’
Apollodorus stepped inside and the two handmaids embraced him. ‘You are well met,’ said Charmion. ‘Thank you for protecting our Queen.’
‘It was an honour,’ said Apollodorus. ‘Though we are not out of danger yet.’
There was an angry shout from somewhere below, and Apollodorus dashed back out on to the balcony. ‘Who goes there?’ he called down.
‘By order of Ptolemy the Thirteenth, we demand entry!’ shouted a voice.
Ptolemy’s soldiers, Wen thought. They have come to kill the Queen.
The Queen rushed on to the balcony and stood behind Apollodorus.
‘You may not pass,’ one of the Roman guards was shouting, ‘by order of General Julius Caesar.’
Charmion and Iras rushed out on to the balcony and stood flanking the Queen. Wen tried to step out to join them, but she could not bring her feet to cross on to the high perch.
She knew that, at any moment, Ptolemy’s soldiers could come rushing up the stairs to the Queen’s living chamber and would likely slaughter them all.
She ran to the chamber door and bolted it shut, as if a single bolt could possibly hold off a battery of armed men. She searched the room for weapons, remembering the small knife she carried around her ankle.
Titus, she thought. If only he were here. If only he could help them.
Instead, she heard the soft slapping of what sounded like a hundred pairs of sandals on the courtyard below. ‘They have come!’ Charmion exclaimed. ‘Caesar’s soldiers have come! Two centuries of them at least!’
‘Look how Ptolemy’s guards retreat from them!’ cried Iras. ‘We are saved!’
‘Look, there!’ said Charmion suddenly. ‘It is Titus! Do you see the blue-crested helmet he wears? He commands them.’
Wen gasped, though she should not have been surprised. Titus had admitted that he commanded Caesar’s Sixth. She simply had never dreamed that she would see him do it.
But she wasn’t seeing him, not really, for she remained trembling just inside the balcony.
‘You need not fear, Wen,’ said the Queen. ‘The balcony is perfectly sound and you will be rewarded by the sight below it.’
Fighting her fear, Wen stepped out on to the balcony and craned her neck to get a glimpse of him. He was not difficult to find. He towered above the other soldiers, his blue-crested helmet fluttering in the breeze. A long red cape further distinguished him from his men. He wore it tossed over his shoulder, revealing the contours of his dark leather cuirass, which had been moulded to the muscles of his formidable chest.
He was every inch a commander, and Wen was awed by the sight of him.
He is still Titus, she told herself. He is just a man. But he seemed more than just a man. He was a leader, a commander, a model of discipline, strength and no small measure of ambition.
The Roman soldiers whom she had served at the brew house had often spoken of the Cursus Honourum—the steps taken by a Roman patrician who aspired to rule.
First he received tutoring in the rhetorical arts, then distinguished himself as a military leader. Upon his return from conquest, he used his spoils to acquire both a wife and a clientele. Finally, through an elaborate system of choosing that the Romans called ‘elections’, the man acquired a series of ruling positions, culminating in the office of Roman consul.
Clearly, Titus had already completed the most difficult part of that path to glory—he had distinguished himself as a leader. It seemed clear that he aspired to much more. He had said it himself—he feared things would change between them and now Wen knew why. He did not care about her. He could not care about her. Not with a century to command, and a ladder of glory to climb back in Rome. What did she expect? She was just a slave, after all. She mattered not.
Wen saw Titus glance at the balcony and she dared to raise her hand in a wave. But he quickly looked away from her.
Of course he did. He was a Roman commander and she was an Egyptian slave.
‘Wen, why are you laughing?’ asked Charmion.
‘Because I am a fool.’
* * *
All week, he thought about that wave. It was so very small, so very exposed—like a leaf floating in the air.
He should have returned it. He should have given her that small reassurance. But he could not. He was a Roman commander and had been in full view of his troops. A commander did not wave at women on balconies. A Roman was the pillar of dignitas for his legion. As soon as that dignitas was lost, so was all discipline and order. And if all discipline and order was lost, then so would be the Queen’s life.
And Wen’s.
Neither of the women realised how fortunate they were. Instead of eliminating the Queen, Caesar had decided to reinstate her. For days he had been working to reconcile her with Ptolemy and the time had finally come for him to announce their truce. Caesar did not mean to conquer Egypt after all, or so it seemed, and Titus rested knowing the great General’s ambitions were in check.
To announce the reconciliation of Ptolemy and Cleopatra, Caesar had chosen the balcony of the Library of Alexandria, reasoning that the high buildings surrounding it would allow his voice to carry far. For protection from the mob, he had ordered that Titus place two hundred of his men around the Library and two hundred more to escort Caesar, the Pharaohs and their entourages to the site.
Now, as those royal assemblages made their way through the crowd, Titus worried that he had not stationed enough men to protect them. The citizens of Alexandria were rowdy and anxious. Their hate for Caesar seemed even stronger than their love for their young Pharaoh, and they booed the great General even as they applauded the royals who followed him.
Titus did not notice Wen until he was well inside the Library. He had not expected her to come, for she was only a slave and not an official advisor of the court, though he admitted that her function was more difficult to describe.
What was not difficult to describe was her loveliness. She wore a fitted white tunic, glorious in its simplicity, and her skin shone a rosy bronze amidst the dusty shelves. The paint upon her eyes had rendered them both larger and more exquisite than he remembered and her silken black hair had been arranged to fall around her cheeks in a feathery frame.
He wanted to speak with her—nay, he wanted to embrace her—but he knew he could do neither. He laboured in his official capacity once again and needed to remain aloof.
Still, he lingered at the back of Caesar’s entourage as they headed to the second-floor balcony, hoping to keep Wen in his sights. Titus did not see the fireball until it was falling towards Caesar’s head. The General had stepped out on to the balcony impulsively, with little protection, and Titus lunged in front of the burning missile with his shield, sending a cascade of sparks into the air.
‘Move back!’ he urged Caesar and his men. ‘Get off the balcony!’
A burning coal followed close behind and he batted it away with his arm. He searched for Wen, trying to make sure she was out of danger.
‘If we were in Rome, those would have only been melons,’ remarked Caesar with a wry grin.
Titus escorted Caesar back into the Library and spied Wen huddled between two shelves of scrolls. ‘Stay near me,’ he told her. ‘You and the Queen’s handmaids, I mean.’
And to think that earlier that morning, he had resisted Caesar’s suggestion to bring his shield. ‘How much worse can an Alexandrian mob be than a Roman one?’ Titus had asked.
‘You’ll see,’ Caesar had replied.
Now Titus watched in horror as a boat anchor was hurled over the balcony, followed by a rain of stones. ‘The stones are meant to fix the anchor in place,’ explained Caesar, his tone rich with admiration.
The anchor was being pulled from below and Titus watched in alarm as the anchor itself held fast. Imagining a stream of murderous scholars travelling up its taut chords, Titus ran to the edge of the balcony and severed it with his dagger. He was rewarded for his efforts with several more flying hot coals. He shot a glance at Caesar, who only continued to laugh.
He found Apollodorus standing near the Queen. ‘Is there a third-floor balcony?’ Titus asked.
‘No, but we can go to the roof,’ Apollodorus said.
‘Lead them there,’ Titus commanded, and the royal entourages of both Cleopatra and Ptolemy, along with Caesar and his military guard, fell in line behind Apollodorus and headed for the roof.
Meanwhile, Titus fetched several guards and placed them on the second-floor balcony. ‘Do not allow anyone to reach this balcony,’ he commanded.
He was hurrying to catch up to Caesar when he found Wen. She had fallen in line at the rear of the group and was doubled over in the stairwell, trying to catch her breath. Titus knew that he was supposed to be protecting Caesar, but he could not abide the idea of Wen suffering in fear. He watched her struggle upright and attempt to climb. With each step, she appeared to turn a darker shade of green.
‘Wen, are you well?’ Titus asked.
‘I fear high places,’ she mumbled, slowing her pace. ‘Please, just leave me. Do your duty.’
But he did not want to do his duty.
In the week since they had parted, he had found it maddeningly difficult to think of anything but Wen. He could not concentrate on his physical training, his correspondence, even his advice to Caesar. He had paced among the lavish furnishings of his chamber, past trays of food, shelves of scrolls, and mosaics more beautiful than anything in Rome, seeing none of them.
It was as if he had caught a fever—some terrible malaise that brought thirst and shivers and visions of an Egyptian woman with her toes buried in the sand. She had weakened him, the black-braided nymph.
He yearned for her body, but also for her mind, for she wielded it like a secret knife. How could she know so much about Roman history? Or political strategy? Or human nature? No simple slave could possibly have gleaned that kind of knowledge by tilting beer into cups. Nor could a mere child of a temple, if that was what she really was. She was brilliant in the way of a scholar.
But she was a woman. A woman! Women were not scholars. They were mothers and wives, maidservants and harlots. Besides, she was too desirable to be a scholar. Even now, he felt slightly unnerved as he followed behind her. The way her hips moved on her way up the stairs made it impossible to consider her a threat to anything but his self-control.
She was like a scroll whose text he thought he understood, but upon rereading could no longer decipher. How could he solve this difficult puzzle, he wondered, so that he might again sleep at night? How could he comprehend her mysterious hold on him so that he might be free of it?
They arrived on the stairwell landing, and she doubled over again.
‘Are you well, Wen?’ he asked.
‘Please go on,’ she said between breaths. ‘Your General needs you now.’
‘Caesar is capable of deflecting his own fireballs,’ Titus said and thought he saw the hint of a smile traverse her face. She pressed her back against the stairwell wall. ‘I shall accompany you back to the street,’ he insisted. ‘I will take you to a healer.’
‘No, no!’ she gasped. ‘I must rejoin the Queen!’ She lunged up the stairs. ‘I cannot fail her—’
In her rush up the stairs, she stumbled, and he watched her ankle twist beneath her.
‘Wen!’ he shouted. She rolled over, holding her ankle and cringing in pain. Titus bent to help her, but she held up her hand. ‘Please, just go away!’
‘You have injured yourself. I will take you to the healer. Come.’ He bent and grasped her by the wrists.
‘No!’ she shouted, wrenching herself free of him. She appeared to be on the verge of tears. She took a long, slow breath. ‘Apologies, but I do not like to be held by the wrists.’
‘You are injured. You must allow me to help you.’
‘Please just go,’ said Wen. ‘It does not matter. I do not matter.’
‘You matter to me,’ he whispered.
There was a loud thudding sound from the street, followed by a haunting chant. ‘Go home, Roman! Go home, Roman!’ sang the crowd.
‘Curses,’ he said. Caesar needed him, but Titus did not wish to leave her alone. She was injured and in pain.
‘Go!’ she urged.
Hating himself, he bounded up the stairs and arrived on the rooftop. There, Caesar was opening his arms out to the angry Alexandrians as if in a grand embrace. ‘I was told that the only thing the men of Alexandria love more than knowledge is justice,’ Caesar called.
The crowd flailed in a riot of energy and movement.
Titus took his place behind the purple-caped General and put on his helmet. He wondered if Wen was all right. He pictured her limping down the stairs, or collapsing in despair.
‘But what do Alexandrians love more than justice?’ Caesar asked the crowd. Receiving no response, he smiled. ‘Why, beer, of course!’
There was a smattering of laughter, followed by a flood of angry hisses. ‘Wise men of Alexandria,’ Caesar continued, ‘I have come to your fair city to present you with a gift.’
Upon hearing the word gift, the mob quieted.
She is probably down the stairs by now, Titus thought.
‘I was told that the men of Alexandria are the most intelligent men in the world,’ continued Caesar. ‘I was told that they invent great machines and cure diseases and build monuments that stretch to the heavens.’
There was an upwelling of cheers as Caesar motioned to the Lighthouse, then to the giant hilltop temple of Alexandria’s patron god. Finally, he turned and pointed to the building upon which they stood. The Great Library of Alexandria, the shining jewel of the modern world.
She is sitting down near one of the scroll shelves, Titus thought.
‘Now that I am here, wise men of Alexandria, I see that it is true what they say about you. Your rich, fair city reflects your union with the natural order. I believe that here in Egypt you have a name for that union. What do you call that?’
‘Ma’at!’ someone yelled.
‘Ma’at,’ echoed Caesar. Your city reflects your love of wisdom and of ma’at, of heavenly balance.’ With this last serving of flattery, a great hurrah rose up from the crowd.
She is collapsing in pain, he thought. She is all alone.
‘Well, then, wise men of Alexandria, I am sure it must pain your hearts to see that the ma’at of this great city has lately been lost, for the last wishes of your late Pharaoh have gone unfulfilled.’
There was a collective groan.
‘It pains me, as well,’ said Caesar. ‘To see a brother and sister at war with each other is a breach in the natural order. The Ptolemies are descended from Alexander the Great, after all. It is the will of the gods that the greatest bloodline in history reign over the greatest kingdom in the world.’
‘Let Ptolemy rule!’ cried someone.
‘Let Ptolemy rule indeed,’ repeated Caesar. ‘But he cannot rule alone. That is not the will of his father, nor of the gods themselves. Even in Rome, our consuls do not rule alone. There are always two. Thus the scales of justice remain balanced. It is the natural way of things. It is ma’at.’
Discussion pulsed through the crowd. She is sitting all alone in despair, he thought.
‘The ma’at must be restored,’ said Caesar.
* * *
She reached the bottom of the stairs and took a breath. Her ankle felt better, but she felt unsteady. She found a bench just below the high window and listened closely as Caesar continued his speech.
‘Wise men of Alexandria,’ he was saying, ‘do not think that I have come here to plunder, or that I wish to seize the greatest kingdom in the world for Rome. Egypt? Ha!’ Caesar laughed. ‘That would be like a dog trying to seize an elephant!’
There was strident laughter and more cheering, and Wen wondered if Caesar spoke truth. Did he really have no intention of conquest? Listen to what he is not saying, the High Priestess would have said. Read the actions behind his words.
‘No, wise men of Alexandria,’ continued Caesar, ‘I come here to set right what has been wrong, to honour the late Ptolemy’s wishes, to restore ma’at to this great land. This brings me to your gift. I give you your two divine sovereigns. Reconciled!’
As Wen listened to the storm of cheers, a realisation washed over her. That applause had been his intention all along—to stand before the Alexandrian crowd and receive their gratitude. He had given Alexandria back its warring monarchs—a great gift indeed. But the real power lay with the giver.
Caesar wants something, she thought. But what exactly? Egypt? The Queen?
‘He wants the world.’
Wen jumped as his deep, throaty voice settled over her, followed by a strange feeling of comfort.
Titus stepped out from behind a shelf.
‘Titus? You mean that he wishes to be King?’ Wen asked.
‘That is what I fear,’ said Titus.
‘Why would you fear such a thing? As commander of his legion, would you not also wish it?’
She watched the muscles of his jaw flex. ‘You have injured yourself,’ he said, glancing at her ankle. ‘What I wish is to come to your aid.’
He sat beside her on the bench, and the hairs rose up on her skin. ‘Should you not be with Caesar now?’
‘He has won the crowd. I am no longer needed.’
Wen gazed up at the window, wishing her heart would stop beating.
‘Come, let me see your ankle.’ Wen shook her head vigorously. She pulled her whole foot beneath her tunic. She could not allow him to touch her again. Strange things happened to her body when he did.
‘Why will you not allow me to help you?’
‘You are a commander and I am a slave. It is not your place to help me.’ She reminded herself of their last conversation: I fear that things will change between us. The words were proof of his indifference to her and she needed to remember them well.
Titus removed his helmet. ‘What if I were just a man?’
‘But you are not just a man. That is what you meant when you said that things would change between us. I see that now.’
‘That is not what I meant.’
‘For a man of your rank to even sit beside a woman such as me is an affront to the natural order. It is a violation of ma’at.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘I do not know what to believe.’
‘You can believe this.’
His lips found hers and suddenly he was kissing her right there, amidst the knowledge of the ages. His soft lips pressed against hers with the force of some strange propulsion. She stiffened with the shock of it, then found her surprise quickly convert into joy.
She kissed him back, drinking in his desire, swilling it, afraid that this was the last time she would ever taste a drop.
His odour alone seemed to alter her mind—so much salt and lavender and musk—like a potion that would either kill her or save her life.
She only hoped she smelled half as good, tasted half as rich, felt half as wonderful to him. She knew that she was just a slave and that they had no future. Still, none of it seemed to matter when her lips were locked with his.
‘Let us rejoice,’ said Caesar triumphantly. ‘And tomorrow, let us feast!’
But Wen was no longer listening.