Page 122 of Cleopatra

“Not a queen?”

I hesitated, unsure whether to divulge the truth. But there was something about Antonius that made me wish to be wholly me.

“No, Pharaoh was never my calling. My sister Berenice was the elder, and so I did not expect to wear the crown.”

“Ah, yes, Berenice,” he said.

I did not want to speak on my sister, and he sensed it.

“Can we go to the marketplace next?” he asked brightly.

I shook my head. “It is too busy. My guards find it difficult to escort me through there safely.”

“For you are loved by your people.”

Again, I studied him for a hidden meaning, but he spoke the words with honesty.

“It was not always so,” I admitted. “I have worked hard to maintain my citizens’ approval.”

“It is clear that they appreciate you now.”

I clasped my hands in front of my waist as if to guard myself from his compliments.

—

That evening, after we had feasted on roast boar and stuffed goose, we retired to the courtyard to enjoy the cool evening air.

Antonius reclined on a couch beside me and I watched him from under my lashes as I sipped my wine. He was smiling faintly, taking in the sights of the garden around us. The bougainvillea was in bloom, its pink flowers like a budding kiss.

“I should like to see the flowers here in the sunlight,” he said.

“So, you do not leave tomorrow?” I did not let him see how much I dreaded his next words. Did I want him to stay, or to leave? Both made me afeared.

“Do you not enjoy my company?” he said with a grin. When I did not return it, he let out a sigh.

“Every morning, I awake and tell myself that today is the day that I must go, and every day I cannot bring myself to leave.”

My hand rested on my clavicle, where I could feel the flutter of my pulse.

“What of Octavian? He cannot be pleased by your absence.”

Antonius’s expression soured and I watched the first cracks between the triumvirs grow.

“It matters not what Octavian wants. In this I am resolute.”

“He is your partner in rule,” I said. “His thoughts have consequence.”

Antonius rarely raised his voice. His anger was quiet, the tone deep, simmering with fury. “Do I not bring my enemies to their knees? Do I not time and time again fight for the rights of all Romans? Do I not dole out justice with mercy and grace?”

I knew his anger was not directed at me but at Octavian, and I did not baulk in the face of it. Instead, I appreciated the warmth the frustration brought to his face and the glint of danger it lit in his eyes.

“I am not a horse to be pulled home by the reins,” he continued. “I will stay in Egypt if I choose it.”

He had flung out an arm in emphasis, and suddenly he winced and clutched his shoulder. I had seen him do it more than once, and tonight the warmth of the wine gave me the confidence to ask after it.

“I was struck by a spear in Philippi,” he said.

“Show me.”