In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

soul. He was trying to teach his young charge dignitas, yet he could not seem to peel his eyes away from the vision of some inconsequential slave woman drenched in seawater.

      In his frustration, he reached for his guard’s arm and squeezed it. ‘You have listened to me, but you have not heard me, so let me put it plainly: if your true identity is discovered, you will likely suffer a flogging, or you may be dragged through the camp behind a chariot. Do you understand?’

      ‘Yes,’ Clodius replied absently.

      ‘Do you really understand?’ Titus repeated, yanking the young man to face him. ‘It is your life I am talking about.’

      ‘I understand.’

      Titus released Clodius’s arm. Chastened, the young soldier remained silent for so long that Titus feared that he had hurt his pride. ‘The Egyptian,’ Titus said at length.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You asked me whom I choose—of the three handmaids. I choose the small Egyptian.’

      A roguish grin returned to Clodius’s face. ‘Then you are as mad as I suspected.’

      The sun peeked over the horizon and the three soaking maidens turned like sunflowers towards its warm rays while the men—the men!—butchered and cooked the sheep. Soon chunks of cooked mutton were being passed around on knives and everyone ate while Titus and Clodius looked on hungrily.

      ‘Mutton or maiden?’ asked Clodius with a smirk.

      Titus’s stomach rumbled. ‘Certainly mutton,’ he said.

      Clodius rolled his eyes. ‘I would starve for a week if only I could have just a single taste of maiden.’

      ‘If we stay any longer, I fear we will begin to howl like wolves,’ Titus said, stepping from the shade. ‘Let us depart.’

      But it was too late. Mardion and his guards were already running up the beach towards them, their swords drawn. ‘What is happening?’ asked Clodius, reaching for his gladius sword. ‘Why do they attack?’

      ‘They do not attack, so do not fight back!’ whispered Titus. ‘We are at their mercy now. Remember the ruse.’

      The guards seized Clodius’s arms and Mardion spoke. ‘Titus Tillius Fortis, son of Senator Lucius Tillius Cimber, you are now a royal hostage of Queen Cleopatra.’

      Clodius froze. For the first time all morning, the young soldier appeared at a loss for words. ‘Your guard will accompany the Queen to Alexandria and guide her to Caesar,’ explained Mardion. ‘You will stay here at camp. As long as Cleopatra remains alive, so will you.’

      ‘Dignitas,’ Titus whispered, and the guards dragged Clodius away.

      Titus drew a breath. It had not been the most graceful of partings, but they had managed to sustain their ruse. And it had been worth the effort, for the Queen and her advisors had taken Clodius, believing him to be Titus. As a result, the real Titus was now headed back to Alexandria—back to his post at General Caesar’s side. There, he could resume his command of the Sixth, as well as his other, more important work.

      Relief washed over him as he followed Mardion towards the fire. When he finally looked up, he noticed that Wen was watching him, her large dark eyes as steady as stones. She shook her head slightly, as if in disapproval, then cocked her head at him like a kitten.

      Did she suspect him of something? Impossible. He had done nothing to warrant her suspicion. And even if he had, she could not produce any proof of his deception.

      Besides, she was just a woman, with a woman’s limitations of intellect. He had no reason to worry, though he admitted that in that moment he felt stripped naked by her gaze, as if she were the priest and he the sheep.

      * * *

      They set off at dawn across a glassy sea. Wen stood against the starboard rail, staring out at the vastness, but all she could think of was his crocodilian grin and the poon-poon-poon of his beating heart.

      ‘The water is beautiful in the morning, is it not?’ said Apollodorus, one of the rowers heaving backwards on the row bench.

      ‘A more beautiful sight I have never seen,’ said Wen, tossing the Sicilian a friendly grin.

      She deliberately ignored the Roman, though he occupied the bench directly behind Apollodorus and his gaze seemed to follow her beneath his heavy lids. She did not appreciate his watching her, for it prevented her from watching him.

      She peeked at him sidelong, pretending to watch a gull. He had removed his chainmail cuirass and as he pulled backwards on the oars his tunic hugged against the deep contours of his chest. She had never seen such a powerful man and he flexed his legs with a languid ease that was unnerving.

      Restless, she strode behind the deckhouse to the stern, heralding the two rudder boys and pausing near the deckhouse window. Inside, the Queen and her handmaids dozed, snoring in rhythm with the rocking waves. Wen whispered a prayer to Hathor for their peace and safety and another prayer to Isis to give thanks.

      Because of Queen Cleopatra, Wen would never again stare at the mud-brick walls and wonder what lay beyond them. Nor would she ever have to endure the stares of drunken Romans, or defend herself against violent lechers, or feel her life slipping away with each pour of beer. Never again—for the Queen had saved her.

      In return, she vowed to save the Queen. Wen could not stand up to invading armies, of course, but she could protect Cleopatra from hidden plots and reckless advice. Wen had been trained in such matters, after all—by the High Priestess of Hathor herself. And she would use that training as best she could to support Cleopatra’s reign.

      * * *

      Wen stared out at the placid sea once again, hardly able to believe it was real. She had always known the sea was there—somewhere beyond the brew-house walls. It had been close enough to smell, to hear, yet never close enough to touch.

      Once, when she was much younger, she had been determined to know the sea. She had begged her master for permission to visit the harbour, hoping to find her way beyond it. Just once in her life, she wanted to gaze out at the open ocean, to witness the tempestuous realm that the soldiers and sailors spoke of with such awe. To see what lay beyond.

      Her master said he would consider her request and, as the months passed, she developed a plan. She would follow the shoreline promenade to Heptastadion Bridge, where she would cross to Pharos Island. There, she would make her way to the base of the Lighthouse, sneak past the toll taker and climb to the middle platform. Upon that high perch, she would gaze out at the endless sea and the meaning of her life would be revealed.

      It was a beautiful dream, and Wen clung to it fiercely, even as the months passed, and then, slowly, the years. She reminded her master of the request several times, but he only nodded without hearing.

      Then, one evening, a fight broke out in the brew house and, in the chaos, Wen was dragged to the rooftop where she struggled against a man twice her size. There were blows and blood, and a terrifying jump. As she wallowed unaided on the stony ground, she became fully aware of how little her dreams mattered. How little she mattered.

      After her wounds had healed, her master finally granted her wish. ‘You may take a day of rest and visit the Lighthouse,’ he had told her. He had even given her money—a small round coin for the toll taker: an apology cast in bronze.

      But it was too late. ‘Thank you, Master, but I would rather stay here,’ she had said, returning the coin to his wrinkled hand. She no longer wanted to visit the harbour, or the Lighthouse, or gaze out at the Big Green Sea. Such dreams were not for women like her.

      Or so she had believed, until the Queen had saved her.

      Wen returned to the stern and stared at Titus, daring him to meet her gaze. She resolved to do everything in her power to be worthy of the Queen’s kindness, even if it meant appointing herself as a royal spy. If Titus was a snake hiding in the grass, then Wen would be the hawk. She would not rest until she discovered