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 might have been just a slave, but she was the Queen’s slave now. She would do whatever she had to do to protect Cleopatra. She might have mattered little, but now she mattered a little more. She was not fragile, or vacuous, or irrational, as he had so sweepingly suggested. She was...intelligent and strong, and she would prove it to him.
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 fish. 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.
She paused, dipping her gaze to the place where she had wiped the knife. Titus watched an expression of horror spread across her face with the realisation that she had stained the fine garment.
She cast him a narrow-eyed glare then, as if she blamed him for the mistake. Then she hurled the knife into the sand in an adorable huff. He chuckled once more as she dashed to the ocean where she began a Herculean effort to scrub out the stain.
For the first time, he observed her naked legs. She had unknowingly lifted her skirt to above her knees, giving him a tantalising view of them and a dark suggestion of what lay just beyond. His desire stirred. He felt like Odysseus in the presence of Calypso. He could not take his eyes off her dripping legs. He wondered how they might feel wrapped about his middle.
He ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to find some occupation, lest his dignitas be lost on this very beach. The sun flashed off the knife where she had thrown it down and an idea came to him.
He walked up the beach to the place beneath a palm where he had laid his tunic. He settled himself in the palm’s shade, watching as Wen returned to the Queen’s tent. He found a small bone and had soon honed it well enough to serve as a needle with which to weave palm fibres. He became so absorbed in his task that he did not notice her until he spied her bare feet stepping beneath the shade in which he sat.
* * *
‘The Queen requests your presence once again,’ she announced with a sigh.
‘Well, that is a relief,’ he mocked. ‘I feared that you had come to sever my head!’
‘The Queen wishes to ask you a question.’
‘Let me guess, the Queen will ask me a question, then you will disembowel me and read the answer in the shape of my innards.’ It was all he could do to keep from laughing at his own cleverness.
She glanced at his naked chest with irritation. ‘You must be fully clothed to appear before the Queen of Egypt,’ she said, then turned and began walking away.
‘Come now,’ he called after her, fumbling into his tunic. He bounded to her side. ‘I was only teasing you, you know.’
‘Hmm. Like when you feigned sleep the other night? Were you only teasing then?’
‘I feigned nothing.’
‘Your breaths were uneven. You would not stop flexing your feet.’
‘You watched me, then? As I slept?’
‘Your stirring drew my attention.’
‘You are right that I could not sleep, for you and the Queen’s handmaids were gossiping like hens.’
‘How would you know we spoke gossip? You do not speak Greek. You could not have understood our words.’ There was a long pause and she took the opportunity to stride past him.
He caught up to her effortlessly and resolved to change the subject. ‘It is a lovely day, is it not?’ he asked. It was, in truth, a lovely day, though she said nothing in response. ‘The sun should not be so warm for Octobris. Do you not agree?’
‘I do not know what Octobris is,’ she clipped. ‘For me it is the first month of peret, the beginning of the season of planting and growth. And, no, I do not find it unseasonably warm.’
They walked together in silence, and she seemed satisfied that she had sufficiently frustrated him. Alas, she was mistaken.
‘Earlier I saw an eagle flying near the shore,’ he offered. ‘Did you not see it? It is yet another good omen.’
She glanced up at him, studying his features. ‘Why do you groom your brows?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Among the Roman Gabiniani whom I served, only officers trim their eyebrows. Infantry soldiers do not.’
‘Well, I am an exception then,’ he lied. He searched for words to fill the silence. ‘We shall see the Lighthouse tonight as we approach Alexandria. Did you know that there are giant copper mirrors at its apex? They send the fire’s light much farther than it would otherwise go alone.’
Wen gave him a curious look, but said nothing.
‘Well, I am glad the Queen wishes to consult with me about our journey,’ he offered.
‘She does not wish to consult with you. She wishes to ask you a question.’
‘Well, I am grateful to you for retrieving me.’
‘I was commanded to retrieve you.’
‘I am grateful none the less.’
She stopped suddenly and dug her feet into the sand. ‘Stop.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop trying to endear yourself to me so that I will not betray your ruse.’
‘That is not what I’m doing.’
‘So you admit that there is a ruse?’
‘I admit no such thing.’
‘Then why are you trying to befriend me? You are a Roman. Therefore, you will never be my friend.’
‘I do not wish to be your friend.’
‘And why is that, exactly?’
‘Because you are beneath me.’
* * *
The response was wholly expected, but it fell upon her like a blow. She felt weak and diminished. She wished that the sands in which she stood would simply swallow her up.
Still, she would not give him the satisfaction of witnessing her shame. ‘I think that is the first true thing that has escaped your lips, Roman,’ she said. She stepped from his path.
‘Apologies, I did not mean—’ he began.
‘There is no need to apologise. You spoke truth. Now please, stop bothering me. As you said, I am just a slave.’
She walked on.
‘I spoke without thinking,’ he called to her. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’
‘You spoke what was in your heart,’ she said without turning.
She was nearing the Queen’s tent, but he managed to catch up to her once again. He stopped her in her path. ‘Listen to me. You have nothing to fear from me. I do not mean you or your Queen any harm.’
He had positioned himself with the sun behind him so that she was able to stand in the shade produced by his shadow. She wondered if he had done so on purpose. His shoulders were slumped, as if he were trying to reduce his size.
She realised suddenly that she did not fear him. She did not trust him, but she did not fear him. On the contrary, standing there in his ample shadow gave her the strange sense of standing inside a cave.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she said at last. ‘Are you or are you not a soldier?’
He took a breath. ‘I am.’
‘In whose army?’
‘I serve Rome.’
‘Not General Caesar?’
He paused. ‘We both serve Rome.’
The Rome that is preparing to swallow Egypt whole? Her mouth had become dry. ‘What is your purpose here in truth?’
Clodius appeared to choose his words carefully. ‘My purpose is to serve the best interests of the Roman people. Now please, can we not be friends?’
Conquest, she thought. That is your purpose. Why can you not just say it? To conquer was the only thing Roman men wanted. It was the only thing they knew. Clodius and Caesar were of different rank, but they were cut from the same cloth. Whatever lay before them, they wished to bring it under their control—whether a fish, a woman, or the greatest kingdom on earth.
‘I am sorry, Clodius, but I do not make friends with Romans.’
* * *
He felt like a dog that had just been scolded. He ducked his head beneath the entrance to the Queen’s tent, having no idea that his punishment had only just begun.
‘Good Clodius!’ said the Queen as he stepped into the shadowy space. ‘Thank you for returning. I had forgotten the important question I had hoped to ask you.’
Wen translated the Queen’s greeting to Titus, and he gave a deep bow. ‘I am at your service, Queen Cleopatra,’ he said in Latin.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw Iras seated on the carpet beside the Queen, searching through a trunkful of clothing. On the other side, Charmion was carefully picking what appeared to be beetles’ shells from one of her pastes. The two women looked up from their tasks as Titus stepped forward. Iras raked her eyes up his legs. Charmion gave a polite nod and followed it with an unseemly moistening of her lips.
Women.
He had no choice but to endure their caprices. He bent to his knees at the base of the Queen’s stool in the required obeisance.
‘My handmaids are just preparing my disguise,’ explained the Queen, touching his shoulder. He rose and stood, but his head bumped against the low cloth ceiling, requiring Titus to crouch awkwardly beneath it. ‘It seems I shall appear before your great General in a cloak so voluminous, it may as well be a carpet.’
The Queen had spoken in Greek and he did his best to appear confused. Then he heard Wen’s voice from behind him.
‘I know you understood everything the Queen just said,’ Wen said in Latin, ‘and that you only pretend not to. So I will not bother to translate it. You should laugh at her jest now, though, as if I have just explained it to you.’
There was nothing he could do but follow Wen’s command. He gave a polite laugh, then bowed his head respectfully.
He realised suddenly that he was surrounded by them—one before him, one behind him, and two beside him—a quorum of fatuous maids who had already begun to play with him like a child’s doll.
The Queen unfurled a papyrus scroll before his eyes. ‘Forgive my crude markings, Clodius, but as you can see, I have made a rough sketch of the palace grounds. Please, study it for a moment.’
‘The Queen wants you to look at the map, but you understood that,’ Wen translated.
Titus stepped forward and stooped to get a good look at the drawing. ‘We will land at this dock here tonight,’ said the Queen, ‘then make our way past the main palace to the inner gardens and the Athena’s Fountain. There we will part. My women will take the boys to the royal Isis Temple up on the cliffs and you will lead me and Apollodorus to Caesar’s military pavilion. Can you show me where that is?’
Wen translated the Queen’s words, and Titus pointed just south of the main palace. Cleopatra nodded with satisfaction. ‘That is where I thought he would be. Can you get me past Caesar’s guards?’
Wen faithfully translated her words, though it irked him that she insisted on standing behind him.
‘My mission is to deliver you to Caesar, Queen Cleopatra,’ he responded in Latin. ‘I will fulfil it.’
Wen translated his words while Charmion made a small mark on the place Titus had indicated. ‘His confidence is reassuring, at least,’ Cleopatra muttered.
‘So is the size of his arms,’ returned Charmion, shamelessly regarding his limbs.
He struggled to keep his breaths even. He could not give any indication that he had understood their conversation, for it had taken place wholly in Greek. ‘I wonder if his mind is as strong as his body,’ said the Queen. ‘Let us put him to a test. Wen, please ask Clodius to name the Roman conquests of the last three hundred years.’
Wen translated the Queen’s question into Latin, giving him precious time to think. ‘There was the defeat of the Latin League just over three hundred years ago,’ he began. ‘That gave us the area around Rome. And the Samnite Wars that brought most of our golden peninsula. By the Third Punic War we had won Hispania and Northern Africa. Then came Macedonia, Greece, and Carthage and finally, with the defeat of Mithridates of Pontus, all the land from Pontus to Syria. And of course you know of Caesar’s recent conquest of Gaul.’ Needing no translation of the places and names, the Queen nodded thoughtfully. ‘Is that all, Clodius?’
Titus nodded with certainty.
‘The Roman says that is all,’ Wen told the Queen in Greek, ‘but the Roman is wrong.’
* * *
Wen stepped out from behind him and took her place beside the Queen. Her new position afforded her a clear view of his heaving chest, and the anger boiling beneath his placid gaze. She had refuted him in Greek, however, and so he could not respond without giving himself away.
‘How is he wrong, Wen?’ asked Cleopatra.
‘He has forgotten the war with King Pyrrhus of Epirus, in which the southern part of the Italic peninsula was taken. He has also omitted the First Punic War, in which Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica were acquired.’
‘I believe you are right, Wen,’ said the Queen.
Wen watched with satisfaction as Titus swallowed bitterness.
‘Can you believe it, Charmion?’ Iras said in Greek. ‘An Egyptian beer maid knows more about Roman history than an actual Roman soldier.’
‘It is a credit to Wen,’ said Charmion.
‘Or a discredit to Clodius,’ said Iras.
The Queen sat back in her chair. ‘I believe it was Plato who said that a man’s capacity for knowledge is inversely proportionate to his capacity for violence.’
Wen watched Titus cringe.
‘It is well that he cannot understand us,’ said Iras, rising to stand by the Queen’s side. ‘I think he would be quite offended by our assessment of his intellect.’
‘Perhaps he would,’ said the Queen. ‘But I am going to give him the opportunity to redeem himself.’ The Queen turned to Wen. ‘Please ask our fine Roman soldier why Rome wishes to conquer the world.’
‘You heard the Queen,’ Wen said. ‘Why does the Roman beast never sleep?’
Clodius cleared his voice. ‘It was Consul Marius who awoke the Roman beast, some hundred years ago,’ he began. ‘He instituted reforms to our military that changed the nature of Roman warfare. Before Marius, only landed citizens could serve in the Roman army and only for the duration of a conflict. They were paid not in money or land, but in gloria—honour and admiration.
‘But after Marius’s reforms, any Roman citizen—landed or landless—could serve in the army and soldiers were guaranteed pay in lands conquered. Since then, a Roman soldier’s livelihood has depended upon the lands he captures. Soldiering is a profession in Rome, like farming is in Egypt. That is why the Roman beast never sleeps, Queen Cleopatra. A Roman soldier must conquer, or die.’
As Wen concluded her translation, the Queen sat back in her throne. ‘I have never understood the Roman bloodlust better than I do at this moment,’ she said. ‘Clodius, you are redeemed.’
‘You heard what she said,’ said Wen in Latin, feigning uninterest, but she had heard the passion in his words. It was as if Clodius had been reading from a history of the Roman Republic penned by someone who wished to save it.
Clodius gave the Queen a deep, relieved bow.
‘Now what can you tell me about General Caesar?’
And there it is, Wen thought, the real reason Cleopatra wished to speak to him.
‘About his character, I mean,’ Cleopatra clarified. ‘I know that you are just a soldier, but surely there is talk about him in the ranks. What kind of man is he?’
Wen translated and Clodius seemed to choose his words carefully.
‘A Roman soldier never opines on his General’s character,’ he began. ‘But I can say this: the Senate is considering bestowing the title of Dictator upon Caesar for a second time.’ Wen noted a grave quality to his voice. ‘The Dictatorship would of course be a great honour for General Caesar.’
‘A Roman dictator is something like an Egyptian pharaoh, is he not?’ asked Cleopatra.
‘Yes, but only for a period of time and it must be a time of crisis,’ said Clodius.
‘What this Roman lacks in historical knowledge he seems to make up for in political expertise,’ observed Charmion. She dipped a small quill into a pestle of kohl paste and began to trace a path of black along the Queen’s eye.
‘It is strange for a soldier to know so much about the workings of his government,’ commented Iras, taking her place beside Charmion.
‘He dons little clothing,’ said the Queen, ‘but I have it in my mind that our good Clodius is wearing a disguise.’
‘I am inclined to agree,’ said Iras. ‘He has far too many opinions for a soldier, and his manners are too refined.’
‘I wonder if he understands what we are saying right now,’ said the Queen.
* * *
Women.
Curses on them and the four representatives of their race who now stood before him. They were staring up at him as if trying to determine which limb would best flavour their soup.
But he was keen to women’s wiles. They could poke and prod him all they liked, they would not break his nerve. He kept his head bowed and his expression blank.
‘Wen, I have admired your skill in the art of debate,’ said Cleopatra. ‘Do you think you can discover the truth about this supposed soldier?’
‘I do, my Queen,’ said Wen.
‘Please, go ahead.’
Clodius steeled himself. He was no stranger to interrogations. He had performed them when necessary for Caesar and was always successful. The key to a good interrogation was to endear yourself to the person you probed, then use that feigned confidence to catch him off his guard. Titus almost pitied Wen, for she had no idea who she was dealing with.
‘Would you say that Caesar is merciful, Clodius?’ Wen asked in Latin.
‘Yes, I would say so. He often forgives his enemies, though not always.’
Wen sighed, as if she were settling in for a long conversation. She took a step in his direction. ‘Would you say that he is impulsive?’
‘I would not say that.’
‘Would you say he is excessive?’ She reached for her braid and began studying it.
‘No, not excessive.’
‘But he is ambitious, correct?’ She brushed her braid’s tail back and forth across her tunic, letting it graze her chest. ‘I will ask again, is Caesar ambitious?’
‘In Rome, ambition is considered a virtue.’ Now she was making small, sensuous circles with the braid, but she was a fool to believe she could divert his attention in such a way.
‘In your opinion, is Caesar ambitious?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I thought that a Roman soldier never opines about his General’s character?’ He rolled his eyes. She is going about it all wrong, he thought smugly. She should not be putting me on the offensive.
‘What is your true mission?’
‘To serve Caesar.’
She stepped closer. Now she stood just inches from his chest. He felt the nearness of her and the warmth of her breath on his skin. She took the tip of her braid and traced it across his naked chest, making his heart thump unexpectedly.
‘You told me before that you served the Roman people,’ she said.
‘What?’
Curse the gods—she was having an effect on him. He could feel the unmistakable swelling beneath his loincloth.
He took a long breath. ‘I serve Caesar, who serves the Roman people.’
She spoke softly, as if it were just the two of them alone together. ‘Do you view Queen Cleopatra as the rightful ruler of Egypt?’
‘I do.’
‘Does Caesar?’
‘I... I do not know.’
Wen glanced back at the other women, giving Titus a view of the long, taut sinew of her neck. It stretched to the base of her delicate ear, where the sharp angle of her jaw descended to a small, rounded chin. Just above that chin, those beautiful, shapely lips stretched into an irresistible frown.
Nothing had changed. He still wanted to kiss them.
She turned to him in that instant, and the black coals of her eyes smouldered. ‘Titus?’ she asked.
‘Yes?’
The Queen gasped.
He had revealed himself. He had responded to his own name.
‘Titus Tillius Fortis, son of the Roman Senator Lucius Tillius Cimber and legate commander of Caesar’s Sixth Legion?’
It was too late to deny it now. To do so would only bring him dishonour. ‘That is I.’
The Queen gasped. Her two handmaids stared incredulously at Titus, mouths agape, while Wen appeared to study the floor.
It was not his most important secret, but it was a secret none the less and the four little hens had pecked it from him. The Queen and her handmaids began to chatter in excitement, while Wen continued staring at the ground, her shoulders slumped. He recognised the posture, for he had assumed it himself quite often. He could not remember how many times he had done things he did not wish to do in the course of carrying out Caesar’s orders. He was certain that she had not meant to steal his dignitas.
Though she must have harboured some small measure of pride. She had used the power of her loveliness to weaken him—had set him afire like a candle, then simply harvested the soft wax.
He had never met any woman like her.
And had never wanted any woman more.