Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior

by Greta Gilbert

  The heat. Gods, the heat.

  She felt sick. Her stomach heaved and, for the final time that day, trouble found her.

  Chapter Eight

  Until this moment, Rab had never in his life watched another person sleep. The realisation hit him as he sat in the cave beside the woman, watching her writhe and shout and mutter.

  He was certain she would wake soon—the pale light of dawn was already painting the cave walls pink. He had been wise to settle her in this small cave well away from the rest of their party, for she had been suffering wailing terrors throughout the night. Her voice had been loud and commanding. It was as if she were a centurion leading troops on the field of battle.

  He smiled at the thought. It was an apt description, as there had been a markedly militant quality to her demeanour of late. The way she had shouted at him on his way up the hillside that afternoon reminded him of certain Nabataean commanders he knew. And it definitely appeared as though a battle had taken place where she slept. She lay amid a tangled confusion of shawl and stola and bedsheet, all twisted and coiled around her like the bonds of Prometheus.

  ‘Release me,’ she mumbled, lost in a dream. Her arm flailed to the side and he caught sight of a cluster of bruises on her wrist. Anger gripped his chest. Roman or not, no woman deserved to be harmed in such a way. Rab fought the urge to gut Plotius and leave him for the crows.

  Though he could do nothing of the sort, for Plotius was the Governor’s most trusted commander and Rab was the Governor’s dog.

  Rab could still hear the Governor’s thick voice inside his ear the night of the banquet, whispering his terrifying promise.

  ‘No, Father,’ the woman muttered, as if somewhere in the tumult of her dreams she had heard the promise, too. She thrust out her leg, nearly kicking Rab in the chest. ‘You are as bad as the white camel,’ he whispered.

  Her expression went soft and she seemed to enter some quiet, peaceful space. She was lovely at rest. Her nose was no longer stern, only chiselled and strong, and her big brown eyes could accuse him of nothing. Her cheeks were soft and full, her chin round and sweet, and her lips made the shapeliest of blooms. Peace became her.

  Yet he knew her heart was full of torment. What did Plotius have that she needed so badly? What powerful demon compelled her to meet with such a crude, violent man in the middle of the night?

  The very thought of her in the clutches of such a man made Rab ill with disgust. If only Rab could understand why she had gone to meet Plotius in the first place, he might be better able to protect her.

  Though right now all he wanted was to feel the reassurance of her breath. He held his hand over her mouth.

  A soft white hand reached up and gripped his wrist. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, her eyes flashing open. He jumped backwards. There was nothing heavy about her lids now. Her gaze was quietly ferocious.

  ‘I am here to aid you,’ he said. ‘You have had an ordeal.’

  ‘I do not need your aid,’ she said.

  He held out his water bag. ‘Drink,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ she muttered, sitting up.

  ‘Water. You have been asleep for many hours.’

  She gave the bag a puzzled look. ‘Have we had this conversation before?’

  ‘You must drink.’

  She untied the mouth and peered into the bag. ‘There would not happen to be any poppy tears mixed with this water, would there?’

  ‘No,’ said Rab. ‘Unlike you, I do not drug people without their consent.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, but her eyes lacked conviction. She took a long swallow of water, then gazed around the small cave. ‘I feel as if I am remembering a dream.’

  ‘Yesterday you were harmed by the sun and too much exertion.’

  Her lips twisted into a scowl. ‘I seem to remember that we were all harmed by too much exertion. You led us up a cliff face!’

  ‘There was no choice, domina,’ he said.

  ‘Call me Atia.’

  ‘Atia...’ he said, testing the name on his lips. It was noble and retreating all at once, he thought. Doubtful but kind. It suited her.

  ‘I see you are trying to become a Roman after all, Rab, son of Junon.’ She glanced at his short red tunic.

  ‘A temporary evil. There was an...accident that required me to wash my robe.’

  He gave her a significant look and watched as she retrieved the memory. ‘I lost my stomach upon you, did I not?’ she asked. She covered her nascent smile with her hands. ‘I am so sorry.’

  He quirked a frown. ‘You do not appear very sorry.’

  ‘I am very, terribly, extremely sorry.’ She was trying so hard not to laugh that it was all he could do not to smile himself. She moved to rise, but was prevented by the confusion of cloth surrounding her. She fell back to the ground with a thump.

  Then he did laugh. ‘You are a tangled mess,’ he said. ‘Arachne herself could not unravel you.’

  ‘I am quite capable of unravelling myself,’ she said. ‘But how do you know of Arachne?’

  ‘Do you think me a barbarian? Of course I know of the Greek gods. As for Arachne, I believe I see a certain minion of hers just there in the mess of your hair.’

  He pointed teasingly to her hair and she shrieked. She shook her hair, then fell backwards, hindered once again by her tangled wraps. He doubled over in laughter.

  ‘You wicked beast!’ she shouted. ‘I thought there was a spider!’ She punched him in the arm.

  He gazed at the sight of the blow and gave a loud tsk. ‘I am afraid that was the most ridiculous, womanish punch I have ever received.’

  ‘That is well, for I am a woman!’

  ‘That you are,’ he said, meaning to sound pragmatic, but the words had leapt from his tongue in a tone of admiration.

  She scowled playfully. ‘Do you wish for another blow, then?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ he said, ‘for I pity you and wish to assist you in retrieving your honour.’

  She raised her arm as if to strike him again, but he caught her elbow in the air. ‘You are very slow. I fear your honour remains in a shambles.’

  Her lips balanced at the edge of a grin. Gods, he wanted to taste that grin. He pulled her arm closer and her body leaned towards his. Suddenly they were back where they had been that day at the baths. Her lips were so close. He could feel her warm breath on his cheeks.

  Suddenly her expression became confused. She pulled her arm back to her side and leaned away. ‘I am afraid such gestures will no longer deliver any advantage,’ she said.

  ‘Apologies, I do not understand.’

  ‘I no longer carry any keys beneath my belt.’ She raised a brow, as if awaiting his response to the puzzling statement. When he gave none, she moved to stand, then swayed with dizziness.

  ‘You are weak,’ he said.

  ‘I am not weak.’

  ‘You have not eaten for two days.’ He pointed to a small bowl of dates he had set beside her bed mat. ‘Those are blessed dates from the plantations of Palmyra. They will help you break your fast.’

  She frowned at the bowl. ‘That is very kind of you, but I am not hungry,’ she said.

  ‘You must eat now,’ he ordered.

  ‘Whether or not I eat is my own concern.’

  ‘I am afraid it is also my concern, for you are a member of the party I am guiding and I have promised your father to deliver you safely to Rekem.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she bit back. ‘Gods forbid the ship of goods not arrive to port.’

  ‘I have no choice in this mission,’ he said.

  ‘Nor do I.’ She was wrestling with the cloth now. She seemed to be tangling herself in it further.

  ‘Will you at least allow me to help you up?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not wish for your help now—or ever,’ she said. S
he wrangled herself free, jumped to her feet and exited the cave.

  Rab felt as if he had just been kicked by a camel. What on earth had he done wrong? He had only been trying to help her. Though that was not the whole truth. He had only been trying to help her at first. After they had touched, he had only been trying to help her lips connect with his. He could not seem to overcome it—that maddening, irresistible pull.

  A pull towards a woman who was a Roman and also likely betrothed.

  Thank the gods she had spoken when she did. Had they got any closer he might have kissed her and kissing a betrothed woman was nothing less than adultery. A Roman woman, no less! He would have dishonoured his family name, not to mention himself.

  I no longer have any keys beneath my belt. What on earth did she mean? But there was no time to think, for she had already returned to the cave and was hovering over him like a battle-ready Athena. ‘You did not answer my question,’ she said.

  ‘What question?’

  ‘Why on earth would a Nabataean camel racer have occasion to learn Greek religion?’ She was doing it again—trying to steer the conversation away from what had just taken place. ‘Well?’ she prodded.

  Had she no idea how distracting were her curves from this angle?

  ‘Is my question so very difficult to answer?’ she asked.

  And what question was that? He could no longer recall. Could you please repeat it? The morning sun was not helping matters. It shone through the skirt of her tunic to reveal the profiles of two very shapely legs. ‘I am simply asking how you came to learn about the Greek gods,’ she said.

  ‘And goddesses,’ he said.

  He considered rising to his feet. That would certainly remove several of the distractions she was currently presenting. But he was taller than she and to stand over her now would strip her of the fragile dignity he knew she was attempting to recover.

  He folded his legs beneath him and sat up straight. ‘Nabataean school children are required to learn the Persian, Roman and Greek pantheons,’ he replied. ‘We are also required to read a good deal of literature in Greek and Aramaic.’

  She cast him a doubting look, so he cleared his throat and switched to Greek. ‘Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, none is bred that is weaker than man.’

  ‘Homer?’ she asked. He shot her a wink. ‘But I thought the Arabs did not value learning.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Your father is mistaken. Learning is all the Arab tribes have ever done. We are traders and trade necessitates learning. I assume you know of my tribe’s particular trade?’

  She shifted her weight and assumed a scholarly pose. ‘The Nabataeans are the shepherds of the Frankincense Road,’ she stated. ‘Across the Arabian wasteland.’

  ‘The Arabian desert is not a wasteland.’

  She paused. ‘It is how they refer to it in Rome.’

  ‘There is life everywhere in the desert. One must simply know where to look for it.’

  ‘But how do you exist in such a place?’

  ‘We control the water.’

  ‘What water?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘The secret water.’

  Her expression softened. ‘Secret water?’

  ‘Very secret water,’ he said, relishing her interest. ‘The Nabataeans have cultivated it for hundreds of years and kept its locations—nay, its very existence—from outsiders.’

  Atia narrowed her eyes in doubt. ‘You cannot cultivate water.’

  ‘Tell that to the men who dig the wells and lay the pipes to channel the rain. Tell that to the builders of the cisterns and the forgers of the dams. The city of Rekem itself would not exist without the elaborate control and storage of water.’

  ‘I have heard the praises of Rekem sung even in Rome,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘People say that the great stone tombs are the glory of Rekem. I say it is the great networks of water.’

  ‘I should very much like to see this secret desert water,’ she said.

  ‘If I showed you, you would be bound to me for ever,’ he said. He flashed a playful grin and was rewarded with her frown.

  ‘But do you not agree that it is foolish to travel in such heat?’ she asked.

  ‘With the whole of my heart,’ he said.

  ‘Then why can we not simply stay in one of the old Greek Decapolis cities here in the north? Pella, for example. We can stay there until the heat of August lifts.’

  ‘I promised your father that I would get us to Rekem by the end of September.’

  ‘Then why can we not simply follow the River Jordan to the west? We would have water always near and we could stop in Jericho—’

  ‘I would love nothing more than to follow the River Jordan,’ admitted Rab. ‘But it is part of Judea now and Jews and Nabataeans have a long, bloody history. I would not be welcome.’

  ‘Surely we could disguise your identity.’ She gave another glance at his Roman tunic and he felt her eyes graze across his exposed thighs.

  ‘I am afraid that Romans are not welcome in Judea either—not right now. Your Commander Quietus did a very bad thing in Lydda recently,’ said Rab, ‘and there are rumours of another Jewish uprising in response. I promise you there would be trouble.’

  Her gaze was owlish. ‘I know of Quietus’s butchery and have also heard the rumours of an uprising. But how would a simple camel trainer know of them?’

  ‘I sometimes work in trade,’ he lied. ‘I hear things.’

  ‘A trader?’ She glanced at his arms and shook her head.

  ‘You doubt me?’

  ‘I observe you.’

  ‘And what do you observe?’

  ‘That you do not have the physique of a trader.’

  ‘And you are an expert in the physiques of Arabian traders?’

  ‘They are tall and thin, like the camels they command. You have the body of a soldier, not a trader.’

  He wanted to be angry, but he could not help feeling a strange pleasure at the thought that she had considered him in such a way. Still, he needed to be careful with this woman. She was far too observant for her own good.

  ‘Shh! Scoot!’ she shouted and he turned to discover a squirrel stealing one of the dates from the bowl he had placed on the ground. The creature took one brazen look at Rab, then bounded away with his treasure.

  ‘Thief!’ shouted Rab and he watched with pleasure as Atia’s face split with a grin.

  ‘Will you not have one small date?’ he asked. The thought of her starving until lunchtime made him bristle with worry. He retrieved just one date from the bowl and held it up to her. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Do it for me.’

  Her expression softened and she accepted the date without a sound. Her hand grazed his.

  ‘Your fingers,’ he said.

  ‘What about my fingers?’

  ‘They are not cold.’

  Nearby, a sword rattled loudly against a shield, splitting the silence. ‘Pack your things,’ shouted Plotius. ‘We march in half an hour!’

  Rab watched a cloud pass over Atia’s expression.

  ‘Stealing another man’s goat is a capital offence,’ Rab mused, ‘yet not one of the soldiers questioned him about the act.’

  ‘Roman soldiers are trained never to question their superiors,’ Atia explained. ‘It is cause for a flogging.’

  ‘In that case, the next time it happens, I will challenge him.’

  ‘Do not think of it!’

  ‘Something must be done,’ Rab replied. He offered his water bag to Atia, who took a final, long draught. Perhaps she would accept another date? He reached for the bowl, only to discover two squirrels now breaking their fasts at the bowl’s edge.

  ‘Leave, you cursed vermin!’ he spat, swatting the air. Atia began to laugh a
nd her laughter seemed to flow into his body, filling him with energy. He leapt to his feet and gazed down at the two furry creatures. They flicked their tails and twitched their ears, as if they were laughing, too. ‘Did you not hear me, you little thieves?’ Rab shouted, lunging towards them. ‘Go!’

  The squirrels bounded away and Atia’s eyes flew open.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Go!’ he shouted, and it was the same ‘Go!’ that she had heard two nights before when she had stumbled out of Plotius’s grip. There was simply no mistaking the voice. It was the voice of her saviour and that saviour, it seemed, was Rab.

  She masked her surprise by feigning anger at the squirrels, causing Rab to laugh. He muttered something about checking the donkeys’ loads and departed, leaving Atia to consider the bowl of dates along with this strange new truth.

  Rab had saved her from Plotius.

  But how? She had never even considered the possibility. An unarmed camel trainer could never subdue a hulking Roman commander, or so she had wrongly concluded. Nor had she considered that he would rescue her from exhaustion, or that he would fill her water bags and bring her dates, or that he would sit beside her as she slept.

  No one had ever sat beside her as she slept.

  But why had he not just admitted to saving her? They had spoken together for a long time—longer than she had spoken to anyone in many moons. If he truly felt that he owed her a debt, then why had he not simply admitted to the good deed and declared that debt paid?

  She suspected that his good deed was not the only thing he was hiding. The man knew far too much about Roman politics to be the simple trainer-turned-trader that he claimed to be. General Quietus’s massacre in Lydda was well known, but the rumours of another Judean revolt were quite new. Indeed, her father had deliberately kept those rumours quiet, lest the Nabataean rebels be further encouraged.

  Yet Rab had somehow heard them.

  It was possible the rumours had been passed to him from one of the soldiers, though it was doubtful that Roman infantry soldiers would be aware of such rumours. She supposed that her father himself might have warned Rab away from a route through Judea—especially given the box of gold coins Plotius likely carried. Gods forbid any harm come to that.