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 her—

No. It was not safe.

Cleopatra was a witch, he knew that much. Antony had clearly been under her spell for years. He’d left Rome for her, left glory, left peace. He’d 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, Octavian’s 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 he’d 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 queen’s 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 he’d 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 he’d received the news of Antony’s suicide, he’d felt a strange uncertainty rising within him. He’d behaved dishonorably in sending that false message, though only Marcus Agrippa knew what he’d done. To his horror, Octavian had begun to weep in front of all his men. He’d found himself pawing through his trunk, unearthing old correspondence and waving it in the air.

“He was my friend!” he’d heard himself shouting. “I warned him! I tried to warn him away from the witch!”

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 Cleopatra’s 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, Antony’s 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 provisions aloud in the Senate, drumming up support for the war. If Antony was so loyal to Egypt that he wanted his soul laid to rest there, what would prevent him from other loyalties? What if Cleopatra desired more from him? What if she wanted Rome for her own plaything?

Octavian had found himself in frantic pursuit, bewilderingly unable to let Antony depart into Cleopatra’s bed.

Now, though, Octavian wondered whether his pursuit had been legitimate. Antony had died for Cleopatra. Perhaps he had wedded himself to Egypt for love, and not for ambition at all.

Octavian coughed, inhaling dust from some corner of the palace. He wanted nothing so much as to leave this wretched country. He’d put someone else in charge of Egypt. Some lower general. There was a list in his mind already, of suitable men who were owed reward. Some reward, this mosquito-ridden hell. Octavian felt infuriated that he’d been forced into this war by arrogance, by Antony’s disobeying the rules of Rome. The man could have been discreet about his love affair. He should never have divorced Octavia. He’d provoked Octavian, and he deserved what he got.

He stomped down the hallway, relishing the sound of his steps. Let her wail there in her chamber. Let her refuse to eat, even though it was obvious she was hungry. He did not care. She’d destroyed Antony, and now she destroyed herself, and none of it mattered to the soon-to-be emperor of Rome.

None of it mattered in the least.