In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

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?

       Chapter Four

      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