Page 53 of Cleopatra

As he opened the door, I glimpsed the guard who had touched me against my will.

“I have one other request, Julius.”

Seeing me there, two of the guards reached for their blades.

“Peace,” Caesar said, and they dropped their hands. “The Pharaoh will be returning to her chambers tonight.” Then he looked back at me. “How else can I help?”

I raised a finger to the guard furthest from me. “Dismiss him from your army.”

The guard’s expression went slack as he recognised me. There was almost no sound to his voice, only breath. “No.”

“Yes,” I said.

Caesar looked between us, not understanding. I obliged him with the details. “This guard touched me without my permission.”

“I thought she was an apprentice,” he whispered. Sweat had sprung up across his brow.

“Pharaoh, how would you sentence such a crime?” Caesar asked.

We both knew the punishment for the soldier’s violation. But I sensed that Caesar was testing my mettle. He wanted me to say it—to condemn the man with my own tongue.

“Death,” I said without hesitation. If he thought to question my fortitude, he had chosen the wrong means to do it. I had passed this verdict many times, you may be surprised to learn. I have not lingered in those memories—not because I am ashamed, but because they are insignificant. As Pharaoh I courted death often, ushering in the will of the gods for those I deemed beyond salvation.

Do not judge me for this. Judge my other deeds in life, if you must, but not this. For death was merely the pathway to the afterlife where the soul would receive their final sentence. Osiris, the King of the Afterlife, would weigh the hearts of the dead against the feather of Maat. If the scales tipped upwards, sending the heart to the sky, then Osiris would welcome them to his realm. But if the heart proved heavier than the feather of the sacred goddess, they would be consumed by Ammit the devourer.

Those I sentenced to death, I handed over to higher judgement.

Caesar seemed impressed with my assertiveness. With a fluid motion he pulled his gladius blade from his waist. The hilt was gold and silver, but I had little time to appreciate the short sword before he plunged it into the soldier’s heart.

The soldier slumped forward, his last breath leaving him.

It was the first time Caesar killed for me. There would be many thousands more to come.

I remember the shock I felt, the revulsion at the hot blood soiling the tiles at my feet, but most of all I remember the first tendrils of desire. He was so much that I was not, or was at least only learning to be: bold, emphatic, self-assured. His power was contained, like a muscle clenched, ready to release.

I found his strength intoxicating.

He wiped the blade on the edge of his toga before returning it to its sheath. “I will have another guard replace the one we have lost, and the body removed, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Is there anything else you desire?”

Yes.

“My throne will be more than enough.”

“Indeed.” Then he gave me a disarming smile. “Sleep well, Pharaoh. I hope the bed is more comfortable than the chest.”

I returned to the balcony and the wine, my mind heavy with the implications of all we had discussed. Every now and again I would stretch out my fingers, remembering the roughness of his touch.

I don’t know how long I stood like that, but half the bottle of palm wine had gone when I heard a sound at the door. I turned around just in time for arms to wrap around my waist.

The alarm I felt dissipated as soon as I smelled the distinct aroma of Charmion’s hair. Frankincense and cinnamon, a heady mix.

“I am so happy you’re safe,” she murmured into my shoulder.

“Me? It was you I was worried for.” I held her head in my hands and kissed her firmly on the mouth before embracing her once more.