In Thrall To The Enemy Commander. Greta Gilbert

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      ‘Serve this honourable traveller what he requests,’ her master told her, a rare smile beguiling his face, ‘and do whatever he asks. He has paid in full.’

      Do whatever he asks? She felt her ka—her sacred soul—begin to wither. Her master was not a kind man, but she had always believed him to be decent. It appeared that decency had been only in her mind, for he had apparently sold Wen’s body for his own profit.

      I could just run, she thought. I could dash out the doorway and on to the streets.

      But the streets were more dangerous than ever. A Roman general had lately landed in Alexandria—a man they called Caesar—and was conducting diplomatic meetings with Pharaoh Ptolemy in the Royal Quarter. The General travelled with a legion of soldiers fresh from battle. They wandered Alexandria’s streets in search of diversions. If Wen were not captured by slave catchers, then surely she would be captured by one of Caesar’s soldiers seeking female company.

      ‘What do you ask of me, then?’ Wen whispered, speaking her words to the floor. She studied its cracked tiles, as if she might somehow mend the rifts in them.

      But the man said nothing, nor did he attempt to lead her away. Instead, his stretched out his arms and held his hands open. ‘You need not fear me,’ he said in Egyptian, her native tongue. ‘I am not here to take, but to give.’

      Then, as if by magic, a large coin appeared between his fingers. He toyed with it for several moments, then tossed it in her direction. Her heart beat with excitement when she perceived its formidable weight. But when she squinted to determine its worth, she saw that it was stamped with an image of the exiled Queen.

      ‘I am afraid that I cannot accept this generous gift,’ she said carefully in Greek. ‘Coins like this one have been forbidden by Pharaoh Ptolemy since Queen Cleopatra was exiled.’

      ‘Then you view Cleopatra as the rightful ruler of Egypt?’

      Wen felt her jaw tense. It was a question too dangerous to answer. Cleopatra had been the first in her family of Greek Pharaohs to ever learn the Egyptian language and the first of her line to have worshipped the sacred bulls. When the River had failed to rise, Cleopatra had devalued the currency to purchase grain for the starving peasants and had saved thousands of lives. In only two years since she had assumed the throne, the young Queen had shown a reverence and love for Egypt unheard of in her line of Pharaohs.

      Of course Wen viewed Cleopatra as the rightful ruler of Egypt. But she would certainly never admit it to a stranger, especially in the heart of pro-Ptolemy Alexandria. ‘No, ah, not at all,’ she continued in Greek.

      ‘You are a terrible liar, my dear,’ the man said in Egyptian, ‘though I sense much boldness in you.’ He flashed another toothy grin. ‘A cat with the heart of a lioness.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I am Sol,’ he said, sketching a bow.

      ‘I am—’

      ‘Wen-Nefer,’ he interrupted. ‘I already know your name, Mistress Wen, and much else about you, though I admit that you are more beautiful than I had anticipated.’

      Wen-Nefer. That was her name, though her master never used it. Nor did the clients of the brew house. They preferred you there, or girl. It had been so long since she had heard her own name aloud that she had nearly forgotten it.

      ‘I suppose you cannot read,’ said Sol, producing a scroll from beneath his belt, ‘so I will tell you that this scroll attests to your conscription by Cleopatra Thea Philopator the Seventh, Lady of the Two Lands, Rightful Queen of Egypt.’

      His words became muffled—replaced by the loud beat of her heart inside her ears. He traced his finger down rows of angular Greek script and pointed to a waxen stamp. It depicted the same queenly cartouche that Wen had observed on the coin.

      ‘Your master has been paid,’ Sol continued, ‘and has released you to me. I have been instructed to escort you directly to Queen Cleopatra’s camp near Pelousion. Our driver awaits us outside.’

      He was halfway through the open doorway when he turned to regard her motionless figure. ‘I see,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I must have been mistaken about you. It appears that you support Ptolemy’s claim to the Horus Throne.’

      ‘What? No!’

      ‘Then why do you not follow me?’

      ‘I...’ She paused. Her thoughts would not arrange themselves. How could she trust this strange man when his errand stretched the bounds of reason? ‘Forgive me, but I must know, why would the Queen want...me?’

      ‘It is my understanding that you have a special skill.’

      Skill? She searched her mind. Beyond pouring beers and mixing brews, she had only one skill. ‘Do you refer to my ability to speak Latin?’

      ‘It must be that,’ said Sol, ‘though the Queen did mention something about your holy birth. Does that mean anything to you?’

      ‘I am a child of the Temple of Hathor.’

      ‘Ah! A child of the gods—it is no wonder the Queen summons you.’

      Wen stood in confounded silence. Up until that moment, she had perceived herself unfortunate in her birth.

      ‘I assure you that I mean you no harm,’ said Sol. ‘But neither do I have time to waste. You may come with me now or remain here for the rest of your days. It is your choice. Only choose.’

      Wen turned the coin over in her hands. She studied the profile that had been etched into its golden metal. It was a woman’s profile to be sure—a woman who, until only a year before, had ably ruled the oldest, most powerful kingdom in the world. She was a woman who had never known her own mother, had been neglected by her father and was hated by her husband-brother, who had lately put a price on her head.

      If Sol was telling the truth, he would be leading Wen into mortal danger. Cleopatra was a woman surrounded by dangerous men, fighting to survive and likely to perish.

      ‘Well?’ asked Sol. ‘Are you coming or not?’

      * * *

      The carriage was of modest size, but to Wen it seemed a great chariot. They raced past the grand colonnades of Canopus Street with such speed that the pedestrians paused to observe them, staring out from beneath the green shade cloths.

      Wen’s heart hummed. How bold she felt sitting on the bench with Sol—how wholly unlike herself. She undid her braid and let her hair fly behind her like a tattered flag.

      Soon they had boarded a barge and were sailing upriver with the wind at their backs. Wen gazed out at the verdant marshlands as long-forgotten memories flooded in.

      As a child, Wen had often travelled the River as part of the holy entourage of the High Priestess of Hathor.

      It had been a great honor to travel with the High Priestess. As the goddess Hathor’s representative on earth, the Priestess was required to attend ceremonies from Alexandria to Thebes. She would always select from among the children of the СКАЧАТЬ