beckoned to his men, and they approached Cleopatra. One of them came from behind, bringing a chain from beneath his cloak, and before the queen knew what was happening, heâd wrapped it about her wrists.
The metal burned her skin, and she cried out at the unexpected pain.
âBehold, a chain fit for a queen,â Octavian said. âDid you not put Mark Antony on a silver throne while you sat above him, on the gold? And he thought you were naming him king instead of slave, the fool. This chain is forged of that throne.â
âHe was never my slave,â Cleopatra whispered, curling into her couch, willing the pain away. âHe is my husband. Summon a physician. I tell you, I am not well.â
Octavian gazed at her, impassive.
âLook at the whoreâs false tears. I know them, lady, just as I know a whoreâs false cries of pleasure. Force the food down her throat if she will not eat it herself,â he said as he left the room. âI will not be seen to starve the queen of Egypt.â
8
I n the corridor outside Cleopatraâs chamber, Octavian leaned against the wall, panting with the effort of the conversation. He hadnât expected seeing her to be so jarring, unpredictable emotions rising within him and threatening to disable his voice. He thought heâd conducted himself well, despite this, but he was not certain. Perhaps he should not have involved the children. Perhaps he should not have met with her at all.
Octavian groaned quietly, seeing Cleopatra as if she were still before him, the diadem in her hair, the soft gown draped over her breasts. The fullness of her lips. She had not looked well, no, but it had been profoundly shocking to see her so close.
She was his prisoner. He might do as he pleased with herâ
No. It was not safe.
Cleopatra was a witch, he knew that much. Antony had clearly been under her spell for years. Heâd left Rome for her, left glory, left peace. Heâd left everything that made him a man in order to follow her like a slave, kissing her feet and carrying her through crowds on his shoulders. It was shameful.
In spite of himself, Octavianâs mind boiled with visions of their lovemaking. It was only with effort that he put it from his mind. He refused to think of her the way heâd thought of her these past sixteen years. He remembered their single meeting quite clearly, though Cleopatra had clearly forgotten it.
If Octavian closed his eyes, he could still summon every detail of the young queenâs weight beside him on his sickbed, of the heavy outline of her milk-swollen breasts, the way they had been revealed when she bent over him, telling him heâd live through the fever that had almost killed him.
It was that sentence that had kept him fighting his way free of the delirium, the hope of seeing her again that had kept him alive.
And now, here he stood in her palace, her conqueror.
When heâd received the news of Antonyâs suicide, heâd felt a strange uncertainty rising within him. Heâd behaved dishonorably in sending that false message, though only Marcus Agrippa knew what heâd done. To his horror, Octavian had begun to weep in front of all his men. Heâd found himself pawing through his trunk, unearthing old correspondence and waving it in the air.
âHe was my friend!â heâd heard himself shouting. âI warned him! I tried to warn him away from the witch!â
They had never truly been friends, but despite their differences, they had, until this most recent series of battles, fought for fifteen years on the same side. When Antony had disappeared into Cleopatraâs arms, Octavian illegally raided the temple of the vestal virgins for his will and discovered proof of betrayal.
Even if he died in his own country, Antonyâs will demanded that his body be sent to Egypt and Cleopatra. No Roman would ask such a thing. Rome was home and heart. Octavian read the shocking
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