In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert
General Caesar begs an audience with Your Divine Person,’ he said at last.
Cleopatra’s expression betrayed no sentiment, yet Wen sensed her careful choice of words. ‘What does Caesar hope to gain by summoning me? He allies himself with my husband-brother, Ptolemy, after all, and occupies our very palaces.’
‘He has made no alliance with Ptolemy,’ answered Titus. ‘He wishes to reunite the Lord and Lady of the Two Lands.’
There was a collective gasp and then the room went quiet. ‘Reunite me with Ptolemy? For what motive?’
‘Your Divinity...ah...to please the gods.’
‘He wishes to collect the money my late father owed him,’ Cleopatra said to a flood of laughter.
A bald man in a green robe bent to whisper something into Cleopatra’s ear. The Queen gave a resigned nod, then set her flickering gaze upon the crowd.
‘This priest of Osiris believes that Caesar and my husband-brother conspire to kill me. Who here agrees that Caesar summons me to my death?’
A chorus of voices sang out in agreement, and Wen thought to herself how mistaken they all were.
‘You there,’ the Queen called out. ‘Why do you shake your head in dissent?’
The room went silent. Wen looked around, but she could not discern which of the men had been addressed. ‘Do you disagree with the Osiris priest and these other distinguished men?’ asked the Queen. She was staring directly at Wen.
She had addressed Wen.
Wen felt heat rising in her cheeks. ‘Ah, yes, My Queen,’ she sputtered.
‘Come forward,’ said Cleopatra.
Wen willed her quaking legs through the crowd of advisors, imagining what her head would look like on a spike. When she arrived before the Living Goddess and kneeled, her hands were trembling like a thief’s.
‘You may rise,’ said Cleopatra. ‘Who are you and by whose permission do you appear in my presence?’
‘This is Wen of Alexandria,’ offered an ancient man with long white hair. ‘She is the woman you requested, Goddess. Egyptian by birth, but speaks a commoners’ Latin.’
‘Ah, yes, the...translator,’ Cleopatra said. ‘Thank you, Mardion.’ Cleopatra studied Wen with interest and Wen became painfully aware of her bare feet on the Queen’s fine Persian carpet. ‘Tell me, Translator, why would Caesar not kill me if I go to him now?’
Wen felt every eye in the room upon her and her courage flickered with the braziers.
‘Speak,’ Cleopatra commanded. ‘The fate of Egypt is at stake!’
‘I have heard that Caesar has a taste for h-high-born women,’ Wen blurted, instantly aware of the veiled insult she had made.
But the Queen only nodded. ‘I have heard this rumour as well. Go on.’
‘Th-the Gabiniani of Alexandria say that he has conquered as many women as he has kingdoms. The wives of Crassus and Pompey—even Lollia, the wife of the Gabiniani’s own beloved General. I do not think Caesar will kill you, Goddess. Instead he will seek to conquer you as he does all women of power and beauty. In order to prove his worth.’
Cleopatra wore a puzzled expression. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you support my brother Ptolemy’s claim to the Horus Throne?’
‘No, my Goddess!’
‘Then why do you mingle with the Gabiniani?’
‘They frequent the brew house where I toil. Toiled. In Alexandria.’
‘In other words, you were bound to serve Roman soldiers and speak to them in their tongue?’
‘I did not speak, my Queen. I only listened.’
‘An Egyptian woman fluent in the Latin of Rome, yet wise enough not to use it,’ the Queen said. She sat back in her throne. ‘You are a rare coin, Wen of Alexandria.’
Wen exhaled, feeling that she had passed some sort of test.
A beautiful woman with a halo of black hair bent and whispered something in the Queen’s ear. The Queen nodded. ‘Speak your question, Iras.’
The woman stepped forward and fixed her thick-lidded gaze on Wen. ‘You say that Roman soldiers value conquest above all else. How come you by such knowledge?’
‘The Roman men I serve often brag of it, Mistress. They seek to conquer foreign women as a kind of sport. I know this to be true because I—’ she began, but her mind filled with a hot fog and she could not continue.
The Queen and Iras exchanged a knowing glance. ‘You do not love Roman soldiers, I presume?’ asked Cleopatra.
‘You presume correctly, Goddess.’
‘What is your name again, Translator?’
‘Wen-Nefer, my Queen. Wen.’
‘Wen, do you believe I can conquer this Caesar of Rome?’
‘I do.’
‘Tell me how you would have it done.’
‘You must make him believe that he has conquered you.’
‘And you know this to be the best way possible, based on your knowledge of Roman soldiers?’
‘Yes, and because you are cleverer than he.’
‘You seek to flatter me?’
‘I seek... I seek only to avow that Egypt is cleverer than Rome. And you are Egypt.’
The Queen sat still for several long moments. She motioned to her advisor Mardion and whispered something in his ear. He studied Wen closely, then whispered something back.
She glanced at her two handmaids, both of whom gave solemn nods. ‘It is decided,’ she said at last. ‘I shall heed Caesar’s call. I shall travel to Alexandria in secret and meet him in my palace. I shall trick him into conquering me and thus shall conquer him. And you, Wen, will come with me.’
* * *
It trespassed the boundaries of reason. A Queen of Egypt relying on the political advice of a simple slave woman? Madness. Either the witty Queen Cleopatra had lost her wits, or the woman who called herself Wen was not who she appeared to be.
Who was she, then? The question gnawed at him. He studied her from his position at the tent’s periphery, hoping to discover a clue.
She was a disaster of a woman, in truth. She stood rigid before the Queen in that sack of a dress, staring at her grubby toes. Her hair was a tangle of dirty locks that cascaded over her bronze shoulders in wild black tongues. He could not discern her shape, but her bare arms displayed the unfeminine musculature of a hard-toiling slave. He might have pitied her, if he were not so totally perplexed.
How could an Egyptian slave woman have such profound insights into Rome’s greatest General? Her assessment of Caesar had been brilliant—something a military officer or political advisor might have given. It seemed impossible that she could have gleaned such knowledge by simply pouring beer for Roman soldiers.
Perhaps she does more than pour beer, he thought. Perhaps she served as a hetaira, a learned prostitute for high-born men. He watched how she held herself, searching for clues. Impossible. Her posture alone suggested a kind of defeat and her chapped, calloused hands told the story of a life of washing dishes and scrubbing floors.
Nay, she was no hetaira. She was about as far from such a role as a woman could get. He scanned her body and noticed the pink stain of a scar rising up from the small of her leg. He followed the scar’s intriguing path, wondering where it led, but it quickly disappeared beneath the ragged hem of her tunic.
She was an enigma: the only thing about this tedious