Page 67 of Cleopatra

So, they live. My relief was brief.

I scowled and whispered to Charmion, “Arsinoe and Ptolemy wage war for money and status.”

Pothinus continued, “Cleopatra only fights for the man in her bed. She is a whore.”

The word struck me like a dagger to the chest. I gasped.

I felt Charmion’s hand slipping into mine and I tightened my grip, grounding myself in the feel of her skin.

It may surprise you that this was the first time I had been called such a name—especially as your historians continue to use it so wantonly. And though I could not deny the feelings Caesar stirred within me, it incensed me that my relationship to him was being used to degrade and diminish me.

But women have ever been defined by their affiliation with men. It is hard to stand alone, to be scrutinised without the pollution of our sexual affairs.

“They will do anything to lure in more recruits,” I said through my teeth.

“Yes,” Charmion agreed.

“Julius will hear of this.”

“Stand against her carnal desires and stand for Egypt!” Pothinus shouted. I wondered if Arsinoe was the author of the words he recited.

There was movement in the ruins behind him, and Pothinus turned in time to be tackled by a cloaked figure. The two of them went down heavily. I saw the glint of a sword, then a spray of blood.

The gathering was too shocked to react immediately. Despite the bloodshed and skirmishes that happened daily, there was something so sudden about Pothinus’s assassination that we were all stunned into silence.

As the assassin fled, pandemonium struck. Some of the fishermen lunged after the assailant. Others ran to the eunuch’s side.

I remained still.

“We need to leave, now.” Charmion dragged me through the streets back to where we had stashed the rowing boat.

“I cannot believe Pothinus is dead. It must have been one of Caesar’s men,” she said breathlessly as she pushed the boat out.

My lips remained closed. For I had recognised the gladius blade and the hand that had wielded it.

—

I strode into Caesar’s chambers without announcing myself.

“Cleopatra?” He sat up as if he had awoken from a deep slumber. His torso was bare. I did not let it distract me.

“It was you.”

For a moment he looked like he was about to deny it. An expression of manufactured confusion crossed his features. His sword leaned against the wall in the corner. I removed it from its sheath. The hilt was still warm from his grip, and Pothinus’s blood had not yet dried on the blade.

“You followed me.”

He sighed and pulled the covers from the bed. He wore a simple white loincloth. My gaze lingered by the contours of his hip bones, where material met muscle.

With gentle hands he took the sword from me and placed it into the waistband of his loincloth. I imagined it was my hand and felt my skin grow hot. If Caesar noticed, he took it for anger.

“It wasn’t my intention to execute Pothinus, just an added benefit of my trip.”

“I told you not to come.”

“You expect me to allow you to walk into danger so readily?” He had drawn himself up, his muscles tightening, his jaw locking. Here was Caesar the soldier. Commanding, unyielding, insufferable.

And altogether intoxicating.