“I thought you’d be beautiful,” he finally said, “given all the lives you’ve ruined.”

In spite of her pain, Cleopatra nearly laughed. Was this the conversation they’d have, here, now, after all that had come before? Did he think beauty mattered to her? And yet, even as she thought this, she wondered what she looked like. Was she no longer beautiful, even gilded and glittered, wrapped in diaphanous silks like a gift to the conquerors? No. She’d seen herself in the mirror. He was merely trying, in his small way, to wound her.

She was disgusted to realize he’d succeeded.

“Just as I thought you would be a man,” hissed Cleopatra. “It seems we are both disappointed.”

“You’ve dallied too long in the company of eunuchs and drunkards,” Octavian said. “It is no wonder you do not recognize a man when you see one. Your consort —”

“My husband,” Cleopatra corrected.

“My sister Octavia’s husband, Mark Antony, was a glutton. He never saw wine nor woman he didn’t sample. You were an exotic meal, nothing more. He tasted Cleopatra, and then he moved down the table, dipping his spoon in every other dish. You do not imagine your lover was faithful, do you? Not to Fulvia, not to Octavia, and certainly not to you.”

Cleopatra was not injured by this liar. Antony had had a queen at his disposal, ready to make love to him and counsel him on battle, all at once. They’d spent countless nights together, their bedchamber filled with soft silks and sea charts, Cleopatra plotting the routes of his ships even as he kissed her thighs. What need could he have had for other women when he was married to an equal? No. It was not true.

“What is it you want from me?” she asked Octavian. “I have nothing for you.”

“A friendly meeting,” the boy general said, and smiled an unfriendly smile.

In other days, she would have wooed him. Talked sweetly, extended her arms in graceful motions, sung and danced, shown him his importance. She’d done as much in the past and profited by it, with his adoptive father no less, smuggling herself into Julius Caesar’s chambers, wrapped in a carpet, then rolling out of it like a spirit and slipping directly into his bed. Time had passed, though, and things had changed. She could not find it in herself to seduce her enemy today. It was as though her past did not belong to her.

And there was something disgusting about Octavian. He smelt of nothing. What was he, this thing adopted into emperor?

“Libations?” she offered.

“I do not drink,” he replied.

“I suppose you don’t eat, either,” she said.

“Not while a queen starves before me,” he said, and smiled, revealing small and somewhat crooked teeth. He drew the gilded chair toward her couch.

“Such courtesy is unusual in a barbarian,” she commented.

“I am a family man. My daughter Julia is my chief joy. I would not have your children lose a mother,” he said. “Bastards though they are.”