Antony and Cleopatra. Colleen McCullough

are just names, Quintus Dellius. To be one of those five men is to be of pure Macedonian stock going back to the barons of Ptolemy Soter. They are the Alexandrian aristocrats,’ Cleopatra said, sounding amused. What, after all, was Atticus if not an accountant, and would any Roman of patrician family scorn Atticus? ‘We have not planned a reception for this evening,’ Cleopatra went on. ‘Just a quiet supper for Marcus Antonius alone.’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll like that,’ said Dellius smoothly.

      When Caesarion couldn’t keep his eyes open, his mother firmly packed him off to bed, then dismissed the servants to leave her alone with Antony.

      Alexandria didn’t have a proper winter, just a slight chill in the air after sunset that meant the breeze walls were closed. After Athens, more extreme, Antony found it delightful; could feel himself relaxing as he hadn’t in months. And the lady had been an interesting dinner companion – when she managed to get a word in edgeways; Caesarion had bombarded Antony with a staggering variety of questions. What was Gaul like? What was Philippi really like? How did it feel to command an army? And on, and on, and on.

      ‘He wore you out,’ she said now, smiling.

      ‘More curiosity than a fortune-teller before she tells your fortune. But he’s clever, Cleopatra.’ A grimace of distaste twisted his face. ‘As precocious as the other Caesar heir.’

      ‘Whom you detest.’

      ‘That’s too mild a verb. Loathe, more like.’

      ‘I hope you can find it in you to like my son.’

      ‘Much better than I expected to.’ His eyes traveled over the lamps set around the room, squinting. ‘It’s too bright,’ he said.

      In answer she slid from the couch, picked up a snuffer and quenched all save those flames that didn’t shine in Antony’s face. ‘Have you a headache?’ she asked, returning to the couch.

      ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

      ‘Would you like to retire?’

      ‘Not if I can lie here quietly and talk to you.’

      ‘Of course you can.’

      ‘You didn’t believe me when I said I was falling in love with you, but I spoke the truth.’

      ‘I have silver mirrors, Antonius, and they tell me that I am not the kind of woman you fall in love with. Fulvia, for example.’

      He grinned, his small white teeth flashing. ‘And Glaphyra, though you never saw her. A delectable piece of work.’

      ‘Whom clearly you did not love, to say that about her. But Fulvia you do love.’

      ‘Used to, more like. At the moment she’s a nuisance, with her war against Octavianus. A futile business, badly conducted.’

      ‘A very beautiful woman.’

      ‘Past her prime, at forty-three. We’re much of an age.’

      ‘She’s given you sons.’

      ‘Aye, but too young yet to know what they’re made of. Her grandfather was Gaius Gracchus, a great man, so I hope for good boys. Antyllus is five, Iullus still a baby. A good mare, Fulvia. Four by Clodius – two girls, two boys – a boy by Curio, and mine.’

      ‘The Ptolemies breed well too.’

      ‘With only one chick in your nest, you can say that?’

      ‘I am Pharaoh, Marcus Antonius, which means that I cannot mate with mortal men. Caesar was a god, therefore a fit mate for me. We had Caesarion quickly, but then –’ she sighed – ‘no more. Not for want of trying, I can assure you.’

      Antony laughed. ‘No, I can see why he wouldn’t tell you.’

      Stiffening, she lifted her head to look at him, her big, golden eyes reflecting the light of a lamp behind Antony’s close-cropped curls. ‘Tell me what?’ she asked.

      ‘That he’d sire no more children on you.’

      ‘You lie!’

      Surprised, he too lifted his head. ‘Lie? Why should I?’

      ‘How would I know your reasons? I simply know that you lie!’

      ‘I speak the truth. Search your mind, Cleopatra, and you’ll know that. Caesar, to sire a girl for his son to marry? He was a Roman through and through, and Romans do not approve of incest. Not even between nieces and uncles or nephews and aunts, let alone brothers and sisters. First cousins are considered a risk.’

      The disillusionment crashed upon her like a massive wave: Caesar, of whose love she was so sure, had led her a dance of pure deception! All those months in Rome, hoping and praying for a pregnancy that never happened – and he knew, he knew! The God out of the West had deceived her, all for the sake of some stupid Roman shibboleth! She ground her teeth, growled in the back of her throat. ‘He deceived me,’ she said then, dully.

      ‘Only because he didn’t think you’d understand. I see that he was right,’ said Antony.

      ‘Were you Caesar, would you have done that to me?’

      ‘Oh, well,’ said Antony, rolling over to come a little closer to her, ‘my feelings are not so fine.’

      ‘I am destroyed! He cheated me, and I loved him so much!’

      ‘Whatever happened is in the past. Caesar’s dead.’

      ‘And I have to have the same conversation with you that once I had with him,’ Cleopatra said, furtively wiping her eyes.

      ‘What conversation is that?’ he asked, trailing a finger down her arm.

      This time she didn’t remove it. ‘Nilus has not inundated in four years, Marcus Antonius, because Pharaoh is barren. To heal her people, Pharaoh must conceive a child with the blood of gods in its veins. Your blood is Caesar’s blood – on your mother’s side you are a Julian. I have prayed to Amun-Ra and Isis, and they have told me that a child of your loins would please them.’

      Not exactly a declaration of love! How did a man answer such a dispassionate explanation? And did he, Marcus Antonius, want to commence an affair with such a cold-blooded little woman? A woman who genuinely believed what she said. Still, he thought, to sire gods on earth would be a new experience – one in the eye for old Caesar, the family martinet!

      He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. ‘I would be honored, my Queen. And while I can’t speak for Caesar, I do love you.’

      Liar, liar! she cried in her heart. You are a Roman, in love with nothing beyond Rome. But I will use you, as Caesar used me. ‘Will you share my bed while you are in Alexandria?’

      ‘Gladly,’ he said, and kissed her.

      It was pleasant, not the ordeal she had imagined; his lips were cool and smooth, and he didn’t shove his tongue inside her mouth at this first, tentative exploration. Just lips against lips, gentle and sensuous.

      ‘Come,’ she said, picking up a lamp.

      Her bedroom was not far away; these were Pharaoh’s private quarters, on the small side. He pulled his tunic off – no loincloth underneath – and untied the bows that held her dress up at the shoulders. It fell in a puddle around her as she sat on the edge of the bed.

      ‘Skin is good,’ he murmured, stretching out beside her. ‘I won’t hurt you, my Queen. Antonius is a good lover; he knows what kind of love to give a frail little creature like you.’

      As indeed he did. Their coupling was slow and amazingly pleasant, for he stroked her body with smooth hands and paid her breasts delightful attention. Despite his assurances that he would not, he would have hurt her had she not given birth to Caesarion, though he teased her into torment before he entered her, and knew how to use that enormous member in many ways. He let her come to