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 war council that he did not understand.
Yet she already seemed to understand him, or at least to suspect his ruse.
He had given her no reason to suspect him of anything. He had played the role of soldier flawlessly, had approached the Queen with a single-minded militancy and correctly feigned ignorance of her royal Greek. If there had been a weakness in the performance, it had been in the fumbling commands of his guard Clodius, though none in the Queen’s audience seemed to have noticed.
None except—what had she called herself?
Wen.
She seemed to be the only one to suspect anything, for as he, the real Titus, had returned to the shadows beside her, she had flashed him a suspicious glance—one that had rattled him to his bones. Even if she did not know that he and his guard had switched places, she obviously suspected something. And if she could tease out that secret so easily, what other, more serious secrets might she be capable of discovering?
He shook off a shiver and directed his attention to the discussion at hand. The advisors were debating how the Queen might travel to Alexandria without detection by Ptolemy’s spies.
‘The Queen must make the journey by the River,’ one of the priests was saying. ‘She can take the Pelusiac branch of the Delta up to Memphis, then back down the Canopic branch to Alexandria.’
‘That would take five days or more,’ said one advisor.
‘And the river boatmen gossip like wives,’ said another. ‘She would be discovered and Ptolemy would send out his assassins.’
‘To go by land would also be unwise,’ called another. ‘Ptolemy has offered a reward in gold for the Queen’s capture. There will be men in every village looking to profit from her head.’
‘Then she must go by sea!’ someone called. ‘It is the only way.’
‘Ptah’s foot!’ barked the advisor Mardion. He wagged a knobby finger at them all. ‘Her vessel would be seized the moment it entered the Great Harbour.’
The room erupted in another spate of discussion—one to which even young Clodius did not appear immune. Wen appeared to be the only one in the room not engaged in the debate.
