In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

toothy grin. ‘A cat with the heart of a lioness.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I am Sol,’ he said, sketching a bow.

      ‘I am—’

      ‘Wen-Nefer,’ he interrupted. ‘I already know your name, Mistress Wen, and much else about you, though I admit that you are more beautiful than I had anticipated.’

      Wen-Nefer. That was her name, though her master never used it. Nor did the clients of the brew house. They preferred you there, or girl. It had been so long since she had heard her own name aloud that she had nearly forgotten it.

      ‘I suppose you cannot read,’ said Sol, producing a scroll from beneath his belt, ‘so I will tell you that this scroll attests to your conscription by Cleopatra Thea Philopator the Seventh, Lady of the Two Lands, Rightful Queen of Egypt.’

      His words became muffled—replaced by the loud beat of her heart inside her ears. He traced his finger down rows of angular Greek script and pointed to a waxen stamp. It depicted the same queenly cartouche that Wen had observed on the coin.

      ‘Your master has been paid,’ Sol continued, ‘and has released you to me. I have been instructed to escort you directly to Queen Cleopatra’s camp near Pelousion. Our driver awaits us outside.’

      He was halfway through the open doorway when he turned to regard her motionless figure. ‘I see,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I must have been mistaken about you. It appears that you support Ptolemy’s claim to the Horus Throne.’

      ‘What? No!’

      ‘Then why do you not follow me?’

      ‘I...’ She paused. Her thoughts would not arrange themselves. How could she trust this strange man when his errand stretched the bounds of reason? ‘Forgive me, but I must know, why would the Queen want...me?’

      ‘It is my understanding that you have a special skill.’

      Skill? She searched her mind. Beyond pouring beers and mixing brews, she had only one skill. ‘Do you refer to my ability to speak Latin?’

      ‘It must be that,’ said Sol, ‘though the Queen did mention something about your holy birth. Does that mean anything to you?’

      ‘I am a child of the Temple of Hathor.’

      ‘Ah! A child of the gods—it is no wonder the Queen summons you.’

      Wen stood in confounded silence. Up until that moment, she had perceived herself unfortunate in her birth.

      ‘I assure you that I mean you no harm,’ said Sol. ‘But neither do I have time to waste. You may come with me now or remain here for the rest of your days. It is your choice. Only choose.’

      Wen turned the coin over in her hands. She studied the profile that had been etched into its golden metal. It was a woman’s profile to be sure—a woman who, until only a year before, had ably ruled the oldest, most powerful kingdom in the world. She was a woman who had never known her own mother, had been neglected by her father and was hated by her husband-brother, who had lately put a price on her head.

      If Sol was telling the truth, he would be leading Wen into mortal danger. Cleopatra was a woman surrounded by dangerous men, fighting to survive and likely to perish.

      ‘Well?’ asked Sol. ‘Are you coming or not?’

      * * *

      The carriage was of modest size, but to Wen it seemed a great chariot. They raced past the grand colonnades of Canopus Street with such speed that the pedestrians paused to observe them, staring out from beneath the green shade cloths.

      Wen’s heart hummed. How bold she felt sitting on the bench with Sol—how wholly unlike herself. She undid her braid and let her hair fly behind her like a tattered flag.

      Soon they had boarded a barge and were sailing upriver with the wind at their backs. Wen gazed out at the verdant marshlands as long-forgotten memories flooded in.

      As a child, Wen had often travelled the River as part of the holy entourage of the High Priestess of Hathor.

      It had been a great honor to travel with the High Priestess. As the goddess Hathor’s representative on earth, the Priestess was required to attend ceremonies from Alexandria to Thebes. She would always select from among the children of the temple to journey with her, for she loved them as her own.

      There were dozens of children to choose from and more every year. They were conceived during the Festival of Drunkenness, when high-born men were allowed to couple with the priestesses of Hathor and experience the divine. Any children that resulted from their holy act belonged to the temple, their paternity unknown, their maternity unimportant.

      For each of her journeys, the High Priestess chose a different set of temple children to accompany her, but she never failed to include Wen. While they sailed, she would invite Wen beneath her gauze-covered canopy and instruct her in the invisible arts.

      She called the lessons ‘reading lessons’, though they had nothing to do with texts. They were lessons on how to read people—how to look into a man’s eyes and discover his thoughts.

      She taught Wen how to spot flattery, how to uncover a lie and how to use the art of rhetoric to pull the truth from a man’s heart. She told Wen wondrous tales—the Pieces of Osiris, she called them, for they were words gathered together to teach Wen lessons.

      ‘You have the gift,’ the High Priestess told Wen one day as they floated towards Memphis. She stared into the eyes of her golden-cobra bracelet as if consulting it, then gave a solemn nod. ‘When you are ready, I will take you to meet the Pharaohs and we will find a place for you at the Alexandrian court. You will become a royal advisor, just as I have been.’

      But that day never came.

      Wen gazed at the silken water. So much had changed since then, though the River itself seemed unaltered. They skirted around shadowy marshes thick with lotus blooms, and floated past big-shouldered farmers who laboured in the deepening dusk.

      Sol studied Wen with amusement as she gaped at the sights. ‘You watch with the eyes of a child,’ he mused, ‘though a child you are not.’ He glanced at her scar, which she had allowed to become exposed.

      ‘It is a battle scar,’ she offered, quickly pulling her leg beneath her skirt.

      ‘And did you win the battle?’

      ‘I am here, am I not?’

      They travelled relentlessly into the night, moving from the gentle current of the river to the jarring bumps of unseen roads. Wen willed herself awake, fearful she might close her eyes and discover that the journey had been nothing but a dream.

      She must have finally slept, however, for by the time she opened her eyes it was evening again and the souls of dead Pharaohs had already begun to salt the sky. Wen sat up and smelled the air. It was thick and briny, and she knew the sea was near.

      They descended into a wide, flat plain where thousands of men loitered amidst a collection of tents. Sol explained that the men were soldiers—Syrian, Nabataean and Egyptian mercenaries who had been hired by Queen Cleopatra with what remained of her wealth. They were her only chance against her husband-brother’s much larger army, which was stationed in the nearby town of Pelousion, preparing to strike.

      They came to a halt beside a large cowhide tent, and Sol leaped to the ground. ‘We have arrived. This is where we must part.’

      ‘Arrived where?’ asked Wen, taking his hand and jumping down beside him.

      He flashed her an enigmatic grin, then motioned to the tent. ‘Go inside and wait. The Queen’s attendants will find you when her council concludes. No matter what happens, you must never address the Queen directly. You must wait until she speaks to you. Now go.’

      ‘You are not going to accompany me?’

      He laughed. ‘The fate of Egypt will be