In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

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 I was commanded to come, thought Titus. He had been awoken by Cleopatra’s advisor Mardion in the middle of the night. The old man had told Titus to gather his belongings. He was to make haste to the beach, by orders of the Queen.

      ‘I believe I was meant to help those fishermen,’ said Titus.

      ‘It seems a little early for fishing, does it not?’

      Titus gazed at the sky. The stars were fading, but the light of dawn had yet to arrive. A realization struck him.

      ‘That is not a fishing boat at all,’ Titus said. ‘That is the Queen’s ship, man. It is bound for Alexandria.’

      ‘But her route is not yet decided,’ said Clodius.

      Titus studied the unassuming, double-oared boat, its two young oarsman rowing out past the waves. ‘I think Queen Cleopatra is cleverer than we thought. Look there.’

      A jewelled hand was reaching around the curtains of the deck cabin, tugging them closed. Clodius gasped. ‘She is already aboard?’

      ‘I fear we will soon be parted, Clodius,’ said Titus urgently. ‘You must remember our ruse. You are the son of a Roman senator now. You must comport yourself with dignitas at all times.’

      But Clodius was not listening. His attention had been captured by two elegantly dressed women who appeared at the far end of the beach.

      The first walked with smooth grace, her limbs long, her hair a wide cascade of tight curls. Her beautiful dark skin shone like polished obsidian and her appealing slim figure was enhanced by the snug Egyptian tunic she wore. In her arms she carried a medium-sized chest that Titus guessed contained belongings of the Queen.

      ‘Venus’s rose,’ said Clodius.

      ‘I believe she is called Iras,’ said Titus. ‘She stood behind Cleopatra at the war council. I believe she is the Queen’s first handmaid.’

      Next to Iras walked the woman the Queen had called Charmion, her Greekness evident in the wreath of flowers adorning her hair. She walked with an energetic bounce, exaggerating the sway of her lovely hips. Charmion, too, carried a small chest, but it was propped on her side, resulting in the favourable display of her abundant breasts.

      ‘Forget Venus—I should like to worship one of those two. Which do you choose, Commander?’

      ‘Remember your dignitas, Clodius. You must—’

      ‘But there is a third,’ Clodius interrupted. ‘Do you not see her?’

      It was true. There was another woman walking half a pace behind the other two. She carried a chest that was of much greater size and apparent weight than the other women’s, though she was plainly the smallest of the three. Still, she appeared quite equal to her burden and she walked with an almost comical determination.

      ‘That is the Queen’s translator,’ Titus said. ‘Wen.’

      ‘She is not quite as grand as the first two, but pretty in her way,’ said Clodius.

      Titus swallowed hard. To him, she was more than pretty, though he was unsure what it was about her that made him admire her so.

      She had clearly bathed and oiled herself, and her skin shone bronze in the increasing light. Her long black hair had been braided, then pinned in a neat spiral around her head, revealing the alluring column of her neck.

      But he had admired many such necks.

      Perhaps it was her eyes. The already large, dark lamps had been made larger with the liberal application of kohl, giving her a feline quality that was compounded by her unnerving alertness. She made Titus’s blood run hot.

      ‘Well, which do you choose?’ asked Clodius. ‘Commander Titus?’

      Titus cringed. ‘You must not address me as Commander Titus!’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You are Titus now, remember? You must play the part.’

      What happened next was one of the strangest things Titus had ever seen. The handmaids hurried to join the men loading the shore boat. They placed their chests in the boat and removed their sandals. Then the whole group dropped to their knees in prayer.

      ‘What are they doing, Commander—I mean, ah, Clodius?’

      ‘I believe they are asking their sea god for his good will.’

      ‘The women are allowed to pray alongside the men?’

      ‘In Egypt it is so.’

      Suddenly, Mardion and two guards appeared at the edge of the beach. They were towing a large sheep.

      ‘And what now?’ asked Clodius.

      ‘I believe they are going to sacrifice that sheep.’

      ‘Does that mean there will be mutton to eat?’

      ‘A son of a senator would never ask such a question.’

      ‘About mutton?’

      Titus shook his head in vexation, grateful they were out of earshot of anyone else.

      The sheep’s death was mercifully swift, though Mardion took his time studying the animal’s entrails. When his examination was complete, he took a bowl of the sheep’s blood and offered it to the waves. When he returned, he handed the empty bowl to Iras, and bowed to her.

      ‘Did I just see what I think I saw?’ asked Clodius.

      ‘An elder statesman bowing to a young woman—yes, you did.’

      Clodius shook his head in vexation. ‘It is as if the women here are—’

      ‘Equal to the men. No, but they are certainly more equal than in Rome. Did I not warn you about Egypt’s backwardness?’

      The strange ceremony was not yet over. The men and women gathered at the edge of the surf and, one by one, they dived into the waves, then emerged and headed back towards the fire.

      ‘Jove’s balls,’ said Clodius, staring at the saturated figures of Iras and Charmion. Their white garments had become transparent as a result of their watery inundation, revealing the dark round shadows of their pointed nipples. ‘Just look at those Venus mounts!’

      ‘Watch your language,’ Titus scolded. ‘And stop gawking. Dignitas!’

      If Titus had been in his right mind, he might have explained that Egyptian tradition held unusual ideas about female nudity. Visible breasts were common in Egypt and an educated Roman nobleman knew better than to gape at them. Still, when he caught sight of Wen, Titus became culpable of the very behaviour he was trying to prevent.

      Her long, dark tunic clung tightly to her flesh, leaving none of her soft curves undefined. It was as if his own body held a memory of those curves and he yearned to pull her against him once again.

      Wen’s breasts were not as visible as the other women’s. The taut peaks of her nipples remained concealed by her tunic’s dark hue, but he was inspired