Queen of Kings - Maria Dahvana Headley [71]
“He is nowhere to be found. My men have sorted through every grain of sand in Egypt. He’s likely cowering in a cave somewhere. The man you seek is a tutor, Octav—Augustus. He is no assassin.”
“The night is filled with enemies. You know that as well as I,” Augustus said. “Where is the last witch?”
Agrippa surrendered for the moment.
“You will not enjoy her company,” he said. “She offered herself into our service. This one comes from Thessaly, and my men say that the village near where they found her was filled with tales of her deeds. The men thought she was a whore, but she is not. She is certainly not. I met her tonight, and I do not think Rome should trust her.” The general’s face rippled with distaste.
“Who are you to say whom I should and should not employ?” Augustus asked.
The third of Rome’s defenders was led into the room. There was a moment of silence before Augustus could find his voice.
“Your emperor welcomes you to Rome,” he stammered at last.
The third witch was an Aphrodite, her body curving and generous, her limbs perfectly formed and draped in indigo-embroidered linen. Her hair fell to her knees, braided in thousands of complicated plaits, each knotted with beads and shells. Her eyes were wide and emerald green, and her lips, unpainted, were the color of the roses in Caesar’s gardens.
The girl—for she could not be older than seventeen—had the grace of a dancer. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned, catlike.
“It has been a long journey,” she replied in Greek. Her voice was deep and rough-edged for such a fragile creature.
“What is your name?” Augustus asked.
“What is yours?” she replied.
The emperor leaned forward. “Do you not know?”
“Rome is nothing to me,” the girl said. “I live by my own laws.”
“You may call me Octavian,” said Augustus, though he did not know why. It was no longer his name. He felt Agrippa staring at him.
“You may call me Chrysate,” said the girl.
“She is a priestess of Hecate,” Agrippa interjected. “And a psuchagoĝoi. You should not get too near her.”
A summoner of souls. Augustus did not believe in such things.
“I will not harm you,” the girl said, and Augustus believed her. Such beauty could only hold goodness.
“Leave us,” Augustus said, and when Agrippa did not immediately move away, he repeated the order in a voice that left no possibility of resistance. “You will leave us, Agrippa.”
Marcus Agrippa looked defiant, but he sheathed his weapon, nodded his head in a somewhat brusque display of surrender, turned on his heel, and left the room. He slammed the door behind him.
“Have her if you will,” Augustus heard his old friend call, his angry voice fading as he marched down the corridor. “She is nothing good.”
Chrysate came closer. Augustus could see a ring on her finger, a huge, shining opal flashing shades of rose and blue, green and purple. It was carved with an intaglio of some kind, an image of a woman’s face, perhaps.
Augustus reached out and laced his hands around the girl’s tiny waist. He could smell her scent: salt, wood smoke, rosemary, and sex. He put out his tongue to taste her skin.
She threw back her head and laughed, reaching over him to lay her hands on an object on his shelf.
“Is that all you think I am?” Chrysate asked. “A woman?”
“I know you are more or you would not be here,” Augustus replied, though in truth, he did not think she was much more. He smiled into the girl’s throat, and then took her breast in his teeth. This was exactly what was needed to make him forget about the misery to come. What was war without a woman? He pulled the girl onto his lap.
She leaned back, away from him. He noticed that her eyes were greener than they’d been a moment before, her cheeks brighter.
“What is this?” she asked, showing him the object she’d taken from his shelf. “It’s a pretty thing. I might use it for my jewelry.”
It was the engraved silver box containing Antony’s ashes.
“Not that one,” Augustus said. “Let me give you something better. Something made of ivory and rubies, to suit your complexion.”
She smiled. Augustus