"Not about the stars," she said, smiling as she slid into his lap. Immediately, he felt another pair of hands on his shoulders, another cloud of perfume.
He ran a hard palm up and down Roxana's spine. She arched, bringing her breasts closer to his face. "It would be best that you never make a mistake about me."
She stiffened slightly. "What do you mean, my lord?"
His hand went to the back of her neck and tightened. He grasped one of her sister's wrists and drew that one before him. He slid Roxana off his lap and forced both women to their knees before him. With a slender neck in each hand he drew both faces close to his own. His face was set in the mask of ferocity that was as much a part of a highborn Roman as skill with weapons. Their doelike eyes went wide with terror and an acrid odor drifted from beneath their clothing, overwhelming the perfume. This was a smell he truly savored.
"I mean that you two bitches are now part of my inner circle, closer to me than my soldiers and my officers. You will be with me in intimate moments. Never think that I am vulnerable. Never try to manipulate me or take advantage of me. Never speak a word of what I have said to other people, or of anything you have seen or heard in my company."
"Never, my lord!" both bleated.
"I have a short way with traitors. The princess of Carthage taught me ways to make people suffer that we Romans never dreamed of. Give me reason to suspect you, and your death will not be swift." Through his palms he felt them shudder, felt the thunder of their hearts. In a hard world, Carthage was a byword for extreme cruelty. Torture was an art form in that land, and execution was never swift.
He loosened his grip and let them rise. The point had been made. "Undress," he said. As their clothing fell away layer by layer, their fear receded and their confidence returned. This was an area where they still had power. Naked except for their jewelry, they were as alike as matched pearls.
"Now," he said, "show me some of your Babylonian depravities."
The twins smiled and did as they were bidden.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Queen Teuta's face twisted, making the tattoos writhe. Her breath wheezed between teeth clenched in a rictus of near-grotesque intensity. Her unbound hair flew wildly, her breasts swung, her hips churned and every part of her body was in abandoned motion. Then she shuddered, stopped as if suddenly stunned and cried out hoarsely as her fingers dug into his shoulders, before she collapsed upon Hamilcar in a sweaty heap.
The shofet, drained by his own, less demonstrative release, stroked her back as his thundering heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He knew that this passionate woman might well be the death of him, but no one else had ever made him feel more kingly. She seemed perfectly unconcerned about possible impregnation, and he gathered that she believed the two of them were above such petty considerations. That, too, gave him satisfaction.
Of course, she had some annoying peculiarities. For instance, she insisted on riding him, holding that as a queen of matchless horsemen, this was her right. He longed to mount her as a lion mounts a lioness, but this she had so far refused to permit. He resolved to enjoy her this way before consenting to a royal marriage. The woman would have to learn to make concessions.
At last she arose from the bed and called for her serving women. As they attended to their mistress with damp cloths and warm towels, he admired her superb body with its covering of tattoos. He had learned that, indeed, not a square inch of her flesh had been spared the needle save her eyelids and lips. A lifetime in Carthage made one a connoisseur of the bizarre, and this was as outré as anything he had ever seen. What made it even more stirring was that the woman was a queen.
Later, dressed and seated on a terrace in the light of a full moon, they spoke of their plans. From the distance they could hear the constant work of hammers and saws. The building of new ships went on day and night now, as Carthage sought to make up the losses from the tremendous fire. The work went swiftly, but harder to replace were the cargoes that had turned to ashes and smoke. The shofet had sent out to his provinces and to neighbor kings for the supplies his armies would need so desperately. He had called in favors going back many years, spending royal capital with abandon. No matter. With the success of this war he would be master of them all.
"Syracuse has fallen," Teuta said in her customarily blunt fashion. "When do we begin?"
"Begin? You mean counterattack?"
"What else could I mean?" she said impatiently. "So far, Rome has had all the advantage in aggression. Let them win any more, and they will think themselves invincible."
"They already think themselves invincible," he pointed out.
"So did the Spartans. Then came the battle of Leuctra. Epimanondas and the Thebans smashed the Spartans and never again did the Spartans or anyone else believe that they were invincible. Once a myth is broken it is never again recovered." She took a generous swallow of unwatered Chian wine.
The woman was a constant amazement. She ate and drank like a Gallic mercenary and could be as crude as a clay pot, but she displayed a fine knowledge of history and was an astute judge of men as individuals and in their masses and nations. But she was trying to rush him and he could not allow her to think she was in charge.
"When the time is right, I shall destroy Rome and its myth together. But one should never go to war without the fullest preparation. Grain and oil, nails, tents, lumber and a thousand other things are as important to a campaign as fighting men, horses and weapons."
"It is possible to be too cautious. Sometimes it is better to hit hard and fast with what you have, than to wait until you have everything you think you must have. Many campaigns have failed because a king has always needed just one more allied contingent, one more wing of cavalry, one more ship. They are usually struck by someone more aggressive and less concerned with preparation. I am not saying that you should go off foolishly unprepared, just that these Romans don't seem to hesitate to attack and you must hit back quickly. Deal them a major setback and they will stop to figure out what went wrong. Then you will have leisure to assemble your fullest force down to the last tent peg in order to fight a war of annihilation."
This was tempting. "I see. You are not, then, suggesting that I send my main army?"
"No."
Hamilcar clapped his hands and a slave stepped forward from the shadows. "Bring my war map and more lamps."
In the light of the new lamps they studied the large parchment. Upon it were drawn all the lands bordering the Middle Sea. Carthaginian possessions were gilt, and fortifications marked, with their garrisons enumerated. Ports and their naval facilities and fleets were likewise depicted. Hamilcar stabbed a finger at a spur jutting from the southern coast of Spain.
"New Carthage. I've assembled an army there, mostly Iberian allies and mercenaries. I had intended to send them into northern Italy as a feint, to distract the Romans and draw away some of their power while I launched the main blow at Sicily and southern Italy."
"Very good," Teuta said. "But why wait until the main invasion? The Romans will know enough to concentrate on the main thrust and leave your Spanish army for a later action. Launch them now. The main Roman force is now engaged in Sicily and they've lost the four legions they left in Egypt. They'll send a minor force northward, thinking they are dealing with a minor incursion. Smash that Roman army and the effect will be demoralizing."
"Just what I was thinking," Hamilcar said, believing indeed that it had been his idea. "They will pass through the southern edge of Gaul, where we have old allies. And they can pick up the garrison of Massilia as they pass."