In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

Delta up to Memphis, then back down the Canopic branch to Alexandria.’

      ‘That would take five days or more,’ said one advisor.

      ‘And the river boatmen gossip like wives,’ said another. ‘She would be discovered and Ptolemy would send out his assassins.’

      ‘To go by land would also be unwise,’ called another. ‘Ptolemy has offered a reward in gold for the Queen’s capture. There will be men in every village looking to profit from her head.’

      ‘Then she must go by sea!’ someone called. ‘It is the only way.’

      ‘Ptah’s foot!’ barked the advisor Mardion. He wagged a knobby finger at them all. ‘Her vessel would be seized the moment it entered the Great Harbour.’

      The room erupted in another spate of discussion—one to which even young Clodius did not appear immune. Wen appeared to be the only one in the room not engaged in the debate. She remained eerily still and silent against the din.

      At length, Cleopatra stood and raised her hands. ‘Gentlemen, it is late. Decisions made in the hours of Seth are never good ones. Tomorrow afternoon we shall reconvene and make our decision.’

      There was a collective sigh of relief as the council turned to await the Queen’s exit. Titus felt himself relax. They had succeeded in their ruse. None seemed to guess that the two Romans had switched places—that he, the elder and the stronger, was the true son of a senator and the real commander of Caesar’s Sixth.

      None except, possibly, Wen. She remained still and unmoving as the Queen’s entourage of women bustled about their beloved monarch. She had become invisible, it seemed, to everyone but him.

       Chapter Three

      Wen 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