In Thrall to the Enemy Commander by Greta Gilbert

Author:Greta Gilbert [Gilbert, Greta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2018-01-05T14:29:48+00:00

Chapter Twelve

He watched her wash the Queen’s hands—another absurd Egyptian custom, yet there was something wholly sensuous about the way she did it. Her long, thin fingers kneaded and splashed in a quiet rhythm, never spilling a drop.

He imagined her washing his own hands. He wondered how it might feel to have her fingers interlock with his once again, this time immersed in the element of water. He admitted that he wished for much more than that, though he tried to put it out of his mind.

He fingered his coin purse absently. It was much lighter than it had been before his encounter with Hemut. But for everything there was a price and Titus knew he would have given every last denarius he owned to the cranky Steward if it meant being allowed to watch Wen for just a few more hours.

Now she patted Cleopatra’s hands with a linen towel and appeared to be whispering something in the Queen’s ear. What secret was she telling? Probably some trifling, womanly thing, though the Queen shot an urgent glance at Caesar after Wen finished.

Caesar, for his part, was the picture of manners. He sat across the long banquet table from Cleopatra, conversing quietly as his hands were washed by his own attendant.

As Pharaoh Ptolemy’s honoured guest, Caesar sat beside the young monarch. The sullen-looking boy slumped at the head of the table, already looking bored. Beside Caesar sat the portly advisor Pothinus, his eyes never resting, then Titus himself, then the younger Ptolemy brother, and so on according to rank.

General Achillas, the head of Ptolemy’s army, was conspicuously absent, though that absence did not make Titus feel any safer. Indeed, it was painfully obvious that he and Caesar were surrounded on all sides by men who would very much like to see them dead.

Fortunately, the banquet hall—or Hall of Sustenance as they so ceremoniously called it—was no battle ground, unless they were in a war of the sexes. In another strange proclivity, the Egyptians had arranged the seating so that all the male guests were seated on one side of the table and all the female guests on the other.

Cleopatra sat to Ptolemy’s right, directly across from Caesar, then came Cleopatra’s younger sister Arsinoe, then Iras and Charmion, and so on. The result was that whenever a male guest looked up, he beheld the female sitting across from him—in Titus’s case, Charmion—and the bare-breasted female servant designated to serve that female guest—in his case, Wen.

Pothinus slid Titus a patronising grin. ‘Our customs must seem strange to a Roman,’ he said.

‘Not strange,’ Titus lied. ‘Only fascinating.’

‘Women and men remain separated until after dinner—that is a Greek tradition. But ritual hand washing goes back to at least the Seventh Dynasty of Egypt,’ explained Pothinus. ‘We have proof in the form of mosaics.’

‘Is that so?’ said Caesar. ‘I should like to see such ancient works.’

‘That would require a trip upriver,’ Pothinus remarked. ‘I imagine you are anxious to get back to Rome soon.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Caesar.

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