Blake's Progress by R. F. Nelson

Author:R. F. Nelson [Nelson, R. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0373720130
Publisher: Laser Books (Harlequin Enterprises)
Published: 1975-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

*

“Wake up, O immortal god of wine,” Cleopatra called from the entrance to Antony’s tent.

Antony groaned but did not reply.

She sniffed. The air in the tent was heavy with the smell of stale spilled wine and vomit. “Wake up, Antony dear. It’s battle time.”

He rolled over but his eyes remained closed, his nude hairy body more that of an aging wrestler than of a potential emperor of the known world. “Leave me alone, bitch,” he mumbled thickly.

“The enemy is waiting, Antony dear.”

“Let ‘um wait.”

“Someone has to lead your fleet into battle, Antony dear.”

“You lead it.”

“Antony!” she shouted, but he had slipped once more into unconciousness.

Angrily she turned on her heel and, muttering obscenities, walked quickly away from the tent. Antony’s second-in-command snapped to attention, thumped his breast with his fist, and gave her a straight-arm salute. Handsome young man, she thought, looking him over from sandaled feet to helmeted head. Perhaps …

The soldier’s crisp voice interrupted her speculations. “Is the general awake, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, more or less.”

“Does he have any orders for us, Your Majesty?”

“Yes… as a matter of fact.” A faint ironic smile appeared on her lips. “He ordered that he be carried on board his flagship.”

“Carried, Your Majesty?”

“You heard me, soldier. Then, he told me to tell you, you are to sail out and engage the enemy.” That would be a sobering experience, she thought maliciously, to wake up in the middle of a sea battle… with a hangover.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” The soldier had turned rather pale.

“One thing more. When I asked him who was to lead the fleet into battle, he confidently placed the responsibility in my hands.”

“But…”

“But I’m a mere woman? My own Egyptian soldiers would not question that, but you Romans with your blustering male pride… very well. I will give the commands, but as far as the troops are concerned, it will be Antony who has spoken the words you pass on. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Dismissed!”

He again thumped his breastplate, gave her a straight-arm salute, and then hurried off to obey her orders.

She continued through the camp, so deep in thought she hardly saw the soldiers who leaped to attention and saluted her. She squinted at the sky. It was a beautiful clear morning, a fine day for a battle. Octavian’s fleet, she knew, was waiting out beyond the mouth of the channel. His ships were lighter, faster and more maneuverable than hers, his men better trained, the cream of the Roman legions. She had Antony’s Romans, but her forces were fleshed out with slaves and freedmen, Egyptian palace guards, the troops of various allied minor kings, and a scraggly mob of local peasants pressed into service. There was, it seemed to her, only one way she could win. She must at all costs avoid hand-to-hand combat, where Octavian’s legionaries would butcher her irregulars, and instead ram his fleet head-on when, as it always did, the wind picked up around noon, blowing his ships so they’d bunch up and show their sides to her.

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