In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

and, if necessary, to prevent the great General from making himself into a king.

      And now that Caesar had defeated his rival Pompey, there were no more armies standing in his way. What better way to begin his rule than by occupying Egypt, the richest kingdom in the world, and turn its warring monarchs into tributary clients?

      Or perhaps just murder them instead.

      Titus could not guess General Caesar’s intentions, but he feared for the young Queen sitting before him now. Much like the woman he had seen outside the tent, she appeared to have no idea of the danger she was in, or how very helpless she was.

      * * *

      It was growing darker outside the tent. Wen had been ordered to wait inside, but could not gather the courage to enter. She placed her ear between the folds of the tent and listened.

      ‘Caesar means to conquer Egypt—the Queen cannot trust him.’

      ‘The Queen must trust him!’

      ‘He will take Egypt by force.’

      ‘The Roman Senate would never allow it.’

      ‘The Roman Senate does not matter any more!’

      The clashing voices rose to a crescendo, then a woman’s voice sang out above them all. ‘Peace, now, friends,’ she said. ‘There are many ways to be bold.’

      Wen drew a breath, then slipped into the shadows.

      She could see very little at first. The torches and braziers were clustered at the centre of the room, illuminating a handful of nobles gathered around a wide wooden throne. On its pillowed seat sat a slight, dark-eyed woman dressed in a simple white tunic and mantle, and wearing the ivory-silk headband of royalty.

      Cleopatra Philopator, thought Wen. The rightful Queen of Egypt.

      The Queen wore no eye colour, no black kohl, and her lips displayed only the faintest orange tinge. Her jewellery consisted of two simple white pearls, which dangled from her ears on golden hooks.

      To an Egyptian eye, she was sinfully unadorned, yet she radiated beauty and intelligence. She motioned gracefully to the figure of a man kneeling before her on the carpet. ‘Good counsellors,’ she sang out, ‘before we disagree about what Caesar’s messenger has to say, let us first allow him to say it.’

      Laughter split the air, morphing into more discussion, all of which the Queen summarily ignored. ‘Rise, Messenger,’ she said, ‘and tell us your name.’

      ‘I am, ah, Titus Tillius Fortis,’ the young man said, rising to his feet, ‘son of Lucius Tillius Cimber.’ The room quieted as the counsellors observed the young messenger. He wore a diplomat’s toga virilis, though he appeared uncertain of how to position its arm folds.

      ‘The name is familiar,’ said the Queen. ‘Is your father not a Roman Senator?’

      ‘He is, Queen Cleopatra.’

      ‘I believe I met him many years ago. I was in Rome with my own father, begging the Senate to end their designs on our great kingdom.’

      The Roman appeared at a loss for words. There was a long silence, which Cleopatra carefully filled. ‘Your father said that one of his sons served in Caesar’s Sixth.’

      ‘That is I, Goddess,’ the man said, taking the prompt. ‘I command that legion now. I am their legate, though I appear before you in a messenger’s robes.’

      ‘Caesar sends his highest-ranking officer to deliver his message?’ Cleopatra gazed out at the crowded sea of advisors. ‘That is promising, is it not, Counsellors?’

      Someone shouted, ‘Is he not very young to command a legion?’ There were several grunts of assent and the Queen looked doubtfully at Titus.

      ‘I have only recently been promoted,’ Titus said. ‘I took the place of General Maximus Severus, who died defeating Pompey at Pharsalus.’

      The Queen gave a crisp nod. ‘You may rise, young Titus,’ she said. ‘This council will hear your message.’

      Titus demonstrated the seal on his scroll to a nearby scribe, who gave an approving nod. The young commander broke the wax and cleared his voice.

      ‘Before you begin,’ interrupted the Queen, ‘will you not also introduce your companion?’

      Titus paused.

      ‘The one who lurks at the edge of the tent there,’ said the Queen, pointing to the very shadows in which Wen hid.

      ‘My Queen?’ asked Titus.

      Wen prepared to step forward, certain that the Queen had noticed her.

      ‘Do not play the fool, Titus,’ said the Queen, craning her neck in Wen’s direction. ‘He is as big as a Theban bull.’

      There was a sudden movement near Wen and a towering figure stepped out of the shadows beside her.

      ‘Ah, you refer to my guard,’ said Titus. ‘Apologies, Queen. That is, ah, Clodius.’

      Wen’s heart skipped with the realisation that a Roman soldier had been standing beside her all the while, as quiet as a kheft. ‘He accompanied me from Alexandria for my protection,’ Titus continued. ‘He is one of our legion’s most decorated soldiers.’

      Wen sank farther into the shadows as the Roman guard made his way through the crowd. He wore no sleeves and his chainmail cuirass fit tightly around his sprawling chest, as if at any moment he might burst from it. The red kilt that extended beneath his steely shell was too short for him, exposing most of his well-muscled legs. He held a helmet against his waist and walked in measured strides that seemed to radiate discipline. Wen wondered how she had not noticed him.

      ‘You may stop where you are, Clodius,’ said Cleopatra, holding up her hand as her own guards gripped their swords.

      The towering Roman turned to his young compatriot in apparent confusion.

      ‘You heard her, Comm—ah—Clodius,’ he said in a rough soldier’s Latin.

      The guard dropped to his knee and bowed. The torches flashed on the muscled contours of his arms, giving Wen a chill. She feared such arms. They were Roman arms, designed to destroy lives.

      ‘Apologies, Queen Cleopatra,’ said Titus. ‘My guard does not speak the Greek tongue.’

      ‘Of course he does not,’ said Cleopatra, regarding the man’s arms as Wen had done, ‘for his realm is obviously the battlefield, not the halls of learning.’

      ‘Shall I dismiss him?’

      A buxom young woman standing beside the Queen bent and whispered something into her ear. ‘Do not fear, dear Charmion,’ Cleopatra answered aloud. ‘He will not harm me. As you know, the Romans value glory over all else. There would be no glory in assassinating a queen on the eve of her military defeat now, would there?’

      ‘You heard her, ah—Clodius,’ said Titus in Latin. ‘Please, return to your post.’

      There was something curious about the way Titus spoke to Clodius. Something in the tone of his voice, perhaps, or in his choice of words. The High Priestess would have sensed it right away and known exactly what was amiss. But Wen could not identify it and was soon distracted by the sight of Clodius himself striding back towards the shadows in which she stood.

      Time slowed as he took his position beside her and she perceived the long exhale of his breaths. She braved a glance at him, but his brow was too heavy to see his eyes and the rest of his expression was a mask of shadowy stone. ‘General Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Titus began, reading from his scroll, ‘Protector of the Roman Republic, Defeater of Pompey the Great, Conqueror of Gaul...’

      The Queen held up her hand. ‘We do not have time for scrolls, good Titus. Please speak Caesar’s message in your own words.’

      The Roman looked up. ‘My Goddess?’