“It’s true, then,” Pullo whispered.
“What’s true?”
“Walking here I heard a rumor that another of the magistrates failed to report for duty.”
Vorenus frowned. “That leaves three?”
“Aye,” Pullo said.
The sound of movement from within the bedchambers ceased the whispers in the room, and the guarding legionnaires reached out to pull aside the cloth doorway for the general. Antony, too impatient for such things, pushed through ahead of them, leaving the men grasping at the folds to keep them from falling back on the graceful Cleopatra, who glided straight-backed into the room in the wake of his pounding strides. Unlike the queen’s, Antony’s face was easily read: his cheeks were flushed with anger and frustration—perhaps, too, with wine—and his eyes flashed like a caged tiger’s despite the circles beneath them. The men in the room snapped to attention, saluting crisply as he settled into the heavy chair one step above the floor. “Reports,” he commanded.
Insteius and Caius Sosius exchanged glances before looking to Delius, but the third commander didn’t acknowledge them. He was staring, features taut, as Cleopatra moved around to stand behind Antony’s chair, her hips swaying beneath her fine linens and her wrists twisting to clink the ornate bracelets that wound around them like thin gold snakes.
Insteius swallowed hard before bringing his full attention to Antony. “My lord,” he said, “Delius brings word that another consular magistrate has failed to report. We’ve only three remaining.”
Antony didn’t blink. “Malaria?”
Insteius shook his head. “No, my lord. He’s gone to Octavian.”
Defection had been occurring in massive numbers in the past week as men from all levels of the army went to Octavian’s side. One more reason he was content to wait them out. The loss of any man was difficult for a commander, Vorenus knew, but losing a high-ranking man like a consular magistrate was a heavy blow indeed.
“The cause of this treachery?” Antony asked.
Insteius started to say something, but his jaw froze. Instead, it was Delius who spoke out, his voice strong and firm, coldly impassive. “You’ve asked the men to fight the son of a god for an Egyptian sorceress. Or so such men are saying,” he added.
Antony’s face darkened with blood, his eyes burning even more fiercely as he glared at Delius. “A sorceress, you say?”
“They say, my lord,” Delius replied evenly. “I … we … believe that the queen’s presence is, more than any other, the cause of the defections.”
Cords were twitching in Antony’s neck, and the muscles of his arms and legs seemed to be bunching as if he intended to throw himself down on his commanders, to throttle them with his bare hands. Before he could move, however, the long smooth fingers of Cleopatra draped over his shoulder, gently restraining him to his chair. “They believe a woman on the battlefield is”—her painted lips parted sensuously, seemed to work around the word in Latin that she was searching for—“improper?”
Vorenus noted that Insteius and Caius Sosius seemed embarrassed to look at the queen. Delius, however, remained as he was: proud in his armor, eyes firm and certain. “Yes, my lady. Improper is the word. War is man’s work.”
“War is man’s work,” Cleopatra said. She stepped around Antony and paced back and forth before the men. Vorenus, watching her sinuous movements, was reminded of something, though at the moment he couldn’t place the image. “Do the men not realize their work would be difficult without the weapons they need to slay their enemies, the armor to deter their foes, the ships to bring them to their destination? Or is it that they have forgotten that all these things are bought with Egypt’s coin? My coin?”
“Begging my lord’s pardon, I think the men know all too well the influence of the queen of Egypt.”
“The influence?” Antony rose, his temper ready to break again, but Cleopatra, passing before him, quelled him with a smile and brush of her fingertips across his wide chest.
“Yes, my love. They fear I’ve seized power over you. That you’re not yourself. That I’m a … sorceress, was it? Yes. A sorceress. And you, dear Antony, are subject to my spell.” There was a dangerous undercurrent to the mirth in her voice, the seductive smile on her face.
A snake, Vorenus suddenly realized. She reminded him of a beautiful but deadly snake.
“It matters not, of course,” Cleopatra continued. She’d returned to her place behind Antony, who’d calmed enough to sit back down. “Lost men are lost. What matters now is tomorrow. Does it not, Delius?”
“The lady speaks true,” Delius said. He looked back down to the maps on the table. “We can wait no longer. Between disease and defection, the time to act is now. We should begin our withdrawal south, fighting through Agrippa’s men on land as best we can. We’ll lose men, but without—”
“No,” Antony interrupted.
Delius blinked, his focus still on the map. Insteius and Caius Sosius appeared unsure where to look among the polished figure of their colleague, the seething general on his throne, and the slyly smiling queen behind it. In the end, Vorenus observed, they opted to look at each other. The lesser leadership in the tent tried to fade into the background of the cloth walls. Pullo just stared, looking tired.
“My lord, we cannot stay,” Delius said. “Each day Octavian’s opportunities grow. We didn’t strike when we first had the chance here. We didn’t retreat when it was clear all advantage to this position was lost. We cannot stay now.”
“I agree,” Antony said.
Delius looked up, something like hope on his face. “Well, since we cannot push north through Octavian’s force—not now, not after these months of loss and entrenchment—we have no option but to move south and—”
“There,” Antony said, cutting him off. “That’s where you’re wrong. We do have another option.” He stood and barreled down to the maps, thrusting a thick finger into the sea just west of their position.
All three of his commanders were around the table now, staring. Cleopatra, too, had come down to the table and was resting her right hand between Antony’s shoulder blades, her fingertips reaching up to spiral in the ends of his curly hair. Delius shook his head slowly, disbelievingly, but it was Insteius who spoke. “With the disease and the … losses, my lord, we cannot outfit many of our ships. And even at full complement, we are outnumbered against Octavian on the water. Our men are tired and hungry, his rested and full.”
Insteius didn’t say it, but Vorenus was certain that he was also thinking about the same additional fact they all had in mind: Octavian had Agrippa commanding his navy, the greatest admiral in Rome. Antony, on the other hand, was a man for the land, not the sea.
Antony at last released his finger from the table. “You would have us retreat by land?”
“Yes,” Delius said. “We would. All of us. South out of Actium. The army Agrippa landed is small and scattered. Enough to cut supplies, but not to stop the full might of this army, even hobbled as it is. We push south out of Actium, down the coastline—”
“And leave my ships here to rot?” Cleopatra asked. “My treasury for the plunder of that cold fish Octavian?”