Queen of Kings - Maria Dahvana Headley [10]
They sat together after the feast, on the deck of her barge, the lamps above them sparkling like constellations. Her voice was low and musical, and she spoke to her various servants, and to the people of Tarsus as well, each in their own tongue. She flattered him with the comment that she’d been following his military career for years. Most seductively of all, she laughed, throwing her head back in pure delight, joking with him and teasing him, as though neither of them were persons of consequence, as though they were two children who’d met in the marketplace and were playing a game of riddles.
Antony’s then wife, Fulvia, had no sense of humor. He had never heard her laugh.
The evening ended in Cleopatra’s bedchamber. He had no shame; any man in his senses would have done the same.
As he made his way to the queen’s rooms, already stiff with anticipation, Antony gloated, thinking himself tremendously clever. He would gain power over Cleopatra, and she would gain tenderness toward him, both of which would smooth their business dealings. He fumbled into her bedroom, peering into the dark, but she wasn’t there. He was running his hands over her pillows to be sure, when she leapt on him, a knife in her hands. He was so startled, he didn’t make a sound as he fell to the floor.
“Rome wants to use me,” she said. “Is that true?”
“Not Rome,” he said, grinning. “A Roman. And only for my own purposes.”
“Surrender,” she said in his ear, kneeling atop him. He inhaled her scent, felt the soft skin of her thighs against his chest. Naked and shameless.
“Surrender to me,” she repeated, and he nearly laughed. Did she not realize how small she was? He could span her waist with one hand. Did she not know she was a woman?
His smile faded as he felt her lashing ropes around his wrists and tying him to the bed. He could not tell if she was playing with him or warring against him. The knife was sharp, that was certain. It pressed against his jugular.
“I surrender,” Antony agreed, already plotting his next move. He would flip her onto her back and disarm her, and then there would be a conversation. What did she think she was doing? He was a general. He’d summoned her.
“Then you are mine, Roman,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. She slipped forward, and he tasted her wetness. He forgot the knife.
She did not untie him until morning, and when she did, she laughed at his sore wrists.
He was lost.
Years passed. Fulvia died, and he married again, forced into a political alignment with Octavian’s sister, Octavia, but Cleopatra remained his true wife. Two years ago, he’d divorced Octavia and married Cleopatra in a formal ceremony. Even as Octavian declared himself an enemy, even as Antony was vilified in the streets of Rome, Cleopatra stood beside him, his equal.
Twelve years had passed since their first meeting, and it was still as glorious as it had ever been. He glanced bitterly at his arm now and could still see the white marks her teeth had left on him that first night, the scar like a tattoo commemorating a victory. As the sun rose, he’d heard the words coming from his mouth, unplanned.
“I love you,” he swore.
It shocked him, but he knew it to be true, truer than anything else in his life. He held her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.
“I am yours,” she told him. “You are mine, and I am yours.”
Had she been lying even then?
Of course he’d chosen her over his troops. She was his wife. There was no other option, but fifty thousand men, his dearest friends, his own soldiers, had become with that one decision his enemies. They’d gone back to Rome.
Two days before, Antony, weary of sacrificing soldiers, had sent a letter challenging Caesar to man-to-man combat, the results of which would settle the war, but Octavian sent back a terse if cowardly reply: that the sort of combat Antony proposed,