In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

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,