Читать книгу In Thrall To The Enemy Commander - Greta Gilbert - Страница 11
ОглавлениеWen kept her head bowed as the war council concluded and the Queen and her entourage exited the tent. The advisors followed after, streaming out of the tent in a garrulous mass. Someone pushed Wen forward and she became swept up in the exodus.
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.
Curses on his wretched soul. He was trying to teach his young charge dignitas, yet he could not seem to peel his eyes away from the vision of some inconsequential slave woman drenched in seawater.
In his frustration, he reached for his guard’s arm and squeezed it. ‘You have listened to me, but you have not heard me, so let me put it plainly: if your true identity is discovered, you will likely suffer a flogging, or you may be dragged through the camp behind a chariot. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Clodius replied absently.
‘Do you really understand?’ Titus repeated, yanking the young man to face him. ‘It is your life I am talking about.’
‘I understand.’
Titus released Clodius’s arm. Chastened, the young soldier remained silent for so long that Titus feared that he had hurt his pride. ‘The Egyptian,’ Titus said at length.
‘What?’
‘You asked me whom I choose—of the three handmaids. I choose the small Egyptian.’
A roguish grin returned to Clodius’s face. ‘Then you are as mad as I suspected.’
The sun peeked over the horizon and the three soaking maidens turned like sunflowers towards its warm rays while the men—the men!—butchered and cooked the sheep. Soon chunks of cooked mutton were being passed around on knives and everyone ate while Titus and Clodius looked on hungrily.
‘Mutton or maiden?’ asked Clodius with a smirk.
Titus’s stomach rumbled. ‘Certainly mutton,’ he said.
Clodius rolled his eyes. ‘I would starve for a week if only I could have just a single taste of maiden.’
‘If we stay any longer, I fear we will begin to howl like wolves,’ Titus said, stepping from the shade. ‘Let us depart.’
But it was too late. Mardion and his guards were already running up the beach towards them, their swords drawn. ‘What is happening?’ asked Clodius, reaching for his gladius sword. ‘Why do they attack?’
‘They do not attack, so do not fight back!’ whispered Titus. ‘We are at their mercy now. Remember the ruse.’
The guards seized Clodius’s arms and Mardion spoke. ‘Titus Tillius Fortis, son of Senator Lucius Tillius Cimber, you are now a royal hostage of Queen Cleopatra.’
Clodius froze. For the first time all morning, the young soldier appeared at a loss for words. ‘Your guard will accompany the Queen to Alexandria and guide her to Caesar,’ explained Mardion. ‘You will stay here at camp. As long as Cleopatra remains alive, so will you.’
‘Dignitas,’ Titus whispered, and the guards dragged Clodius away.
Titus drew a breath. It had not been the most graceful of partings, but they had managed to sustain their ruse. And it had been worth the effort, for the Queen and her advisors had taken Clodius, believing him to be Titus. As a result, the real Titus was now headed back to Alexandria—back to his post at General Caesar’s side. There, he could resume his command of the Sixth, as well as his other, more important work.
Relief washed over him as he followed Mardion towards the fire. When he finally looked up, he noticed that Wen was watching him, her large dark eyes as steady as stones. She shook her head slightly, as if in disapproval, then cocked her head at him like a kitten.
Did she suspect him of something? Impossible. He had done nothing to warrant her suspicion. And even if he had, she could not produce any proof of his deception.
Besides, she was just a woman, with a woman’s limitations of intellect. He had no reason to worry, though he admitted that in that moment he felt stripped naked by her gaze, as if she were the priest and he the sheep.
* * *
They set off at dawn across a glassy sea. Wen stood against the starboard rail, staring out at the vastness, but all she could think of was his crocodilian grin and the poon-poon-poon of his beating heart.
‘The water is beautiful in the morning, is it not?’ said Apollodorus, one of the rowers heaving backwards on the row bench.
‘A more beautiful sight I have never seen,’ said Wen, tossing the Sicilian a friendly grin.
She deliberately ignored the Roman, though he occupied the bench directly behind Apollodorus and his gaze seemed to follow her beneath his heavy lids. She did not appreciate his watching her, for it prevented her from watching him.
She peeked at him sidelong, pretending to watch a gull. He had removed his chainmail cuirass and as he pulled backwards on the oars his tunic hugged against the deep contours of his chest. She had never seen such a powerful man and he flexed his legs with a languid ease that was unnerving.
Restless, she strode behind the deckhouse to the stern, heralding the two rudder boys and pausing near the deckhouse window. Inside, the Queen and her handmaids dozed, snoring in rhythm with the rocking waves. Wen whispered a prayer to Hathor for their peace and safety and another prayer to Isis to give thanks.
Because of Queen Cleopatra, Wen would never again stare at the mud-brick walls and wonder what lay beyond them. Nor would she ever have to endure the stares of drunken Romans, or defend herself against violent lechers, or feel her life slipping away with each pour of beer. Never again—for the Queen had saved her.
In return, she vowed to save the Queen. Wen could not stand up to invading armies, of course, but she could protect Cleopatra from hidden plots and reckless advice. Wen had been trained in such matters, after all—by the High Priestess of Hathor herself. And she would use that training as best she could to support Cleopatra’s reign.
* * *
Wen stared out at the placid sea once again, hardly able to believe it was real. She had always known the sea was there—somewhere beyond the brew-house walls. It had been close enough to smell, to hear, yet never close enough to touch.
Once, when she was much younger, she had been determined to know the sea. She had begged her master for permission to visit the harbour, hoping to find her way beyond it. Just once in her life, she wanted to gaze out at the open ocean, to witness the tempestuous realm that the soldiers and sailors spoke of with such awe. To see what lay beyond.
Her master said he would consider her request and, as the months passed, she developed a plan. She would follow the shoreline promenade to Heptastadion Bridge, where she would cross to Pharos Island. There, she would make her way to the base of the Lighthouse, sneak past the toll taker and climb to the middle platform. Upon that high perch, she would gaze out at the endless sea and the meaning of her life would be revealed.
It was a beautiful dream, and Wen clung to it fiercely, even as the months passed, and then, slowly, the years. She reminded her master of the request several times, but he only nodded without hearing.
Then, one evening, a fight broke out in the brew house and, in the chaos, Wen was dragged to the rooftop where she struggled against a man twice her size. There were blows and blood, and a terrifying jump. As she wallowed unaided on the stony ground, she became fully aware of how little her dreams mattered. How little she mattered.
After her wounds had healed, her master finally granted her wish. ‘You may take a day of rest and visit the Lighthouse,’ he had told her. He had even given her money—a small round coin for the toll taker: an apology cast in bronze.
But it was too late. ‘Thank you, Master, but I would rather stay here,’ she had said, returning the coin to his wrinkled hand. She no longer wanted to visit the harbour, or the Lighthouse, or gaze out at the Big Green Sea. Such dreams were not for women like her.
Or so she had believed, until the Queen had saved her.
Wen returned to the stern and stared at Titus, daring him to meet her gaze. She resolved to do everything in her power to be worthy of the Queen’s kindness, even if it meant appointing herself as a royal spy. If Titus was a snake hiding in the grass, then Wen would be the hawk. She would not rest until she discovered his secret.
* * *
Titus was grateful for his post at the oars, for it gave his body purpose. His mind, unfortunately, was as restless as the sea.
He wanted her and it was a problem. She was not his to want. She was a slave, a bonded soul. Her body was the property of another—in this case the exiled Queen of Egypt.
In truth Titus pitied her, as he did all slaves. There were so many in Rome now. They represented almost a third of Rome’s population and their numbers grew with each military conquest. They were a tragic people, so stripped of their own will that they relinquished it entirely. Not since the time of Spartacus had slaves risen up and he doubted they would do it again. They were a passive, miserable lot, resigned to the injustice of their lives.
Titus pitied slave women: he did not desire them.
That is what he reminded himself as she strolled about the deck.
That afternoon, a wind came up, a strong northerly that allowed Titus and Apollodorus to rest their arms while the rudder boys hoisted the sails. Titus closed his eyes and tried to rest as their small ship began to make speed.
They made camp at the mouth of a small river that evening and enjoyed a simple meal of flatbread, dried fish and grapes. Apollodorus made a fire and soon they were staring into its flames.
Titus must have fallen asleep, for he awoke to the rhythm of Apollodorus’s snores. There was a softer sound, as well—the sound of women’s laughter.
‘I think he is quite handsome,’ whispered a voice that he recognised as Charmion’s. It was coming from directly behind him, as he lay on his side, his back to the flames. ‘Look at how his hair stands upon its ends. I would like to run my fingers through it.’
‘I, too, am partial to the Roman,’ whispered another woman.
Iras, he thought.
‘He is so very like a tree. I would like to climb his branches.’
‘I would like to wander the marshes with him,’ whispered Charmion. There was a conspiracy of laughter that made him wonder if ‘wander the marshes’ really meant exploring Egypt’s prodigious wetlands.
He was sure that it did not. These were women, after all—silly creatures who enjoyed gossiping and making mischief. He was not wholly against their kind, of course. He loved their soft, curvy bodies and found it enjoyable to give them pleasure, though his military career had afforded him little time for such pursuits.
In the camps of Britannia and Gaul he had learned everything he needed to know about women, for they would often visit him in his tent. Mostly they were working women—Roman and barbarian harlots who followed the legions to earn their bread. They never had much to say, though they were always happy to see Titus and seemed to enjoy the pleasures he offered. Still, he was careful not to flatter himself that they actually enjoyed his company and he always paid them well for theirs.
When he finally returned to Rome he quickly learned that not all women were like the harlots he patronised in the camps. High-born noblewomen were another breed entirely. They were boundless in their ambition—greedy and ruthless as any general. And as the highest-ranking bachelor in Caesar’s army, Titus was apparently a territory worth conquering. The mothers of Palatine Hill had made it their business to find Titus a good patrician wife and they presented their daughters to him in a never-ending series of banquets.
But the women were like shells—beautiful, alluring and disappointingly empty. Their desire for wealth and status ranged far beyond their intellect. They were easily bored and seemed unable to participate in even the most basic discussions of philosophy or politics. The women of Rome vexed him, and though he disagreed with Caesar’s bloody civil war, he was happy to be called away to duty.
‘We must be quiet,’ whispered Iras. ‘He is probably listening to us right now.’
‘I do not think he can understand us,’ said Charmion. ‘He does not speak Greek.’
‘Ah! I had forgotten,’ said Iras. ‘Do you think if I lay down beside him he would speak Latin into my ear?’
‘Senatus Populusque Romanus,’ mocked Charmion.
‘E pluribus unum,’ added Iras, snickering.
Women.
Still, these women of Egypt seemed a different breed. Unlike Roman women, they were allowed to study trades and conduct business, as if they were men’s equals. They could even divorce and inherit property—backwards notions if ever he had heard them. Indeed, it seemed that Egyptian women said and did whatever they wished, with no consideration for the men who were their natural superiors.
‘What say you, Wen?’ asked Iras. ‘Which of our two oarsmen do you choose?’
Titus held his breath.
‘Mistress?’ said Wen.
‘Do you also prefer the Roman?’
‘In truth, Mistress, I prefer Apollodorus,’ said Wen.
Titus could not believe his ears.
‘Really?’ said Iras, in surprised delight. ‘How interesting. Well, I suppose the Sicilian has his merits. His loyalty to the Queen is certainly apparent.’
‘Almost as apparent as his pot belly,’ Charmion giggled.
‘Shush yourself,’ snipped Iras. ‘But tell us, Wen, for what reason do you favour the Sicilian?’
Wen’s voice was barely audible. ‘He seems loyal to the Queen and his motives are clear.’
There was a pause, then both Charmion and Iras burst into laughter.
‘That is quite philosophical of you, Wen,’ said Charmion at last. ‘Are you sure you do not prefer a man who can throw boulders?’
Wen gave a polite laugh. ‘Loyalty is more important than strength.’
Something in the tone of her voice pricked at Titus’s mind. It was as if she were speaking to him indirectly, as if she were trying to send him a message.
As if she guessed that he was awake.
He slept little the rest of the night. What bothered him most was not that she did not trust him. He had grown accustomed to the idea of her suspicion, much as a gardener might grow accustomed to an unpicked weed. What he could not fathom was her preference for the Sicilian. Apollodorus was a loyal man, to be sure. Even Titus had heard of his efforts in recruiting Queen Cleopatra’s army of mercenaries.
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?
