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She recalled Sol’s words—one of the Queen’s attendants will find you—and realised that she needed to get herself to a place where she could be found. Outside the tent, she headed towards the only torch she saw, then bumped squarely into a wall.
A human wall. Of muscle and bone.
The Roman guard.
His titanic figure bent over her, as if trying to make out the features of her face. ‘You,’ he breathed in Latin.
Her heart raced. She turned to retreat, but he took her by the arm. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who are you?’ she returned, yanking herself free. There was little light and they were surrounded by bodies. He encircled her in his arms, creating a cocoon of protection against the jostling crowd. Her head pressed against his chest.
Poon-poon. Poon-poon.
She had never heard such a sound.
Poon-poon. Poon-poon. Poon-poon.
It was the sound of his heart, she realised—loud enough to perceive, even through the hard metal of his chainmail, like a small but mighty drum.
Poon-poon. Poon-poon. Poon-poon. Poon-poon.
The night wind swirled around them.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered huskily. He brushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. ‘Who?’
She pushed against his embrace, testing his intentions. ‘Why does it matter?’
He slackened his hold, but did not release her. ‘I wish to know you better.’
Know me better? In her experience, the only thing Roman soldiers wanted to know was how she planned to serve them. Still, there was something unusual about this Roman soldier. When he had cleared the hair from her face, it was as if he had been handling fine lace.
‘Why do you wish to know me better?’ she asked.
‘I sense that you are not as you seem.’
‘Is anybody?’
He chuckled. ‘I supposed you have a point.’
The crowd had cleared. There was no longer any reason for him to be holding her, though he pulled her closer still, and she could feel the twin columns of his legs pressing against her own.
He uttered something resembling a sigh and she felt the upheaval of his stomach against hers. He moved his large hand down her back, forcing her hips closer and manoeuvring one of his legs between her thighs.
Her stomach turned over on itself and a strange thrill rippled across her skin. It occurred to her that she was straddling his massive leg as if it were a horse.
‘Curses,’ he groaned. He took a deep breath and buried his nose in her hair.
What was he doing? More importantly, why was she not stopping him?
‘Why do you feel so good?’ he asked with genuine surprise, moving his hands in tandem up her back.
She wanted to pull away from him, but she could not bring herself to do it. It was as if his body was having a private conversation with hers and cared not what her mind might think. He pressed his leg more firmly between hers, sending pangs of unfamiliar pleasure into her limbs.
He thrust his hips towards her and she felt the hardened thickness of his desire press against her stomach.
‘Enough!’ she gasped. She wrenched herself backwards, stumbling to keep her balance.
‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I do not know what overcame me.’
‘I must go,’ she said, stepping backwards.
‘Answer my question.’
‘What question?’
‘Tell me who you are.’
‘I am nobody.’
‘You do not understand my meaning,’ said the Roman. ‘I am Clodius of the familia Livinius. My kin have lived in the same house in the Aventine neighbourhood of Rome for over three hundred years. My father was a soldier and so am I. A soldier and a son. That is who I am.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Do you doubt me?’
She held her tongue.
‘I am not a liar.’
She took one more step backwards. ‘I have not called you a liar.’
‘But you suspect that I am one.’
‘I suspect nothing.’
‘You cannot hide from me,’ he said. His voice grew in menace. ‘You have been trained in the art of suspicion and I want to know who trained you.’
Suddenly, it all became clear. She threatened him: that was the reason he had held her so close. He wished to gain some advantage over her, to redirect her doubt of his own dubious identity. He did not care for her or desire her at all.
‘I am nobody,’ said Wen, turning away in stealth. ‘I am a slave.’
She heard him take another step closer, but she had already tiptoed beyond his sights. She spied a large tent at the perimeter of camp and began to make her way towards it, glad she knew better than to trust a Roman.
* * *
‘They cannot stand the sight of us,’ Clodius observed. He and Titus were sitting together on the beach, watching a group of Egyptian soldiers launch a fishing boat into the sea.
‘Can you blame them? Cleopatra’s father owed Rome over four thousand talents. Our presence here is like the appearance of wolves at a picnic.’
‘So why were we commanded to come?’
Only I was commanded to come, thought Titus. He had been awoken by Cleopatra’s advisor Mardion in the middle of the night. The old man had told Titus to gather his belongings. He was to make haste to the beach, by orders of the Queen.
‘I believe I was meant to help those fishermen,’ said Titus.
‘It seems a little early for fishing, does it not?’
Titus gazed at the sky. The stars were fading, but the light of dawn had yet to arrive. A realization struck him.
‘That is not a fishing boat at all,’ Titus said. ‘That is the Queen’s ship, man. It is bound for Alexandria.’
‘But her route is not yet decided,’ said Clodius.
Titus studied the unassuming, double-oared boat, its two young oarsman rowing out past the waves. ‘I think Queen Cleopatra is cleverer than we thought. Look there.’
A jewelled hand was reaching around the curtains of the deck cabin, tugging them closed. Clodius gasped. ‘She is already aboard?’
‘I fear we will soon be parted, Clodius,’ said Titus urgently. ‘You must remember our ruse. You are the son of a Roman senator now. You must comport yourself with dignitas at all times.’
But Clodius was not listening. His attention had been captured by two elegantly dressed women who appeared at the far end of the beach.
The first walked with smooth grace, her limbs long, her hair a wide cascade of tight curls. Her beautiful dark skin shone like polished obsidian and her appealing slim figure was enhanced by the snug Egyptian tunic she wore. In her arms she carried a medium-sized chest that Titus guessed contained belongings of the Queen.
‘Venus’s rose,’ said Clodius.
‘I believe she is called Iras,’ said Titus. ‘She stood behind Cleopatra at the war council. I believe she is the Queen’s first handmaid.’
Next to Iras walked the woman the Queen had called Charmion, her Greekness evident in the wreath of flowers adorning her hair. She walked with an energetic bounce, exaggerating the sway of her lovely hips. Charmion, too, carried a small chest, but it was propped on her side, resulting in the favourable display of her abundant breasts.
‘Forget Venus—I should like to worship one of those two. Which do you choose, Commander?’
‘Remember your dignitas, Clodius. You must—’
‘But there is a third,’ Clodius interrupted. ‘Do you not see her?’
It was true. There was another woman walking half a pace behind the other two. She carried a chest that was of much greater size and apparent weight than the other women’s, though she was plainly the smallest of the three. Still, she appeared quite equal to her burden and she walked with an almost comical determination.
‘That is the Queen’s translator,’ Titus said. ‘Wen.’
‘She is not quite as grand as the first two, but pretty in her way,’ said Clodius.
Titus swallowed hard. To him, she was more than pretty, though he was unsure what it was about her that made him admire her so.
She had clearly bathed and oiled herself, and her skin shone bronze in the increasing light. Her long black hair had been braided, then pinned in a neat spiral around her head, revealing the alluring column of her neck.
But he had admired many such necks.
Perhaps it was her eyes. The already large, dark lamps had been made larger with the liberal application of kohl, giving her a feline quality that was compounded by her unnerving alertness. She made Titus’s blood run hot.
‘Well, which do you choose?’ asked Clodius. ‘Commander Titus?’
Titus cringed. ‘You must not address me as Commander Titus!’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You are Titus now, remember? You must play the part.’
What happened next was one of the strangest things Titus had ever seen. The handmaids hurried to join the men loading the shore boat. They placed their chests in the boat and removed their sandals. Then the whole group dropped to their knees in prayer.
‘What are they doing, Commander—I mean, ah, Clodius?’
‘I believe they are asking their sea god for his good will.’
‘The women are allowed to pray alongside the men?’
‘In Egypt it is so.’
Suddenly, Mardion and two guards appeared at the edge of the beach. They were towing a large sheep.
‘And what now?’ asked Clodius.
‘I believe they are going to sacrifice that sheep.’
‘Does that mean there will be mutton to eat?’
‘A son of a senator would never ask such a question.’
‘About mutton?’
Titus shook his head in vexation, grateful they were out of earshot of anyone else.
The sheep’s death was mercifully swift, though Mardion took his time studying the animal’s entrails. When his examination was complete, he took a bowl of the sheep’s blood and offered it to the waves. When he returned, he handed the empty bowl to Iras, and bowed to her.
‘Did I just see what I think I saw?’ asked Clodius.
‘An elder statesman bowing to a young woman—yes, you did.’
Clodius shook his head in vexation. ‘It is as if the women here are—’
‘Equal to the men. No, but they are certainly more equal than in Rome. Did I not warn you about Egypt’s backwardness?’
The strange ceremony was not yet over. The men and women gathered at the edge of the surf and, one by one, they dived into the waves, then emerged and headed back towards the fire.
‘Jove’s balls,’ said Clodius, staring at the saturated figures of Iras and Charmion. Their white garments had become transparent as a result of their watery inundation, revealing the dark round shadows of their pointed nipples. ‘Just look at those Venus mounts!’
‘Watch your language,’ Titus scolded. ‘And stop gawking. Dignitas!’
If Titus had been in his right mind, he might have explained that Egyptian tradition held unusual ideas about female nudity. Visible breasts were common in Egypt and an educated Roman nobleman knew better than to gape at them. Still, when he caught sight of Wen, Titus became culpable of the very behaviour he was trying to prevent.
Her long, dark tunic clung tightly to her flesh, leaving none of her soft curves undefined. It was as if his own body held a memory of those curves and he yearned to pull her against him once again.
Wen’s breasts were not as visible as the other women’s. The taut peaks of her nipples remained concealed by her tunic’s dark hue, but he was inspired to imagine them: succulent dark olives that begged to be tasted.
