‘Atia, this is madness,’ said Rab, though he had never seen a more magnificent woman. ‘Please do not do this.’
Livius was on his feet, cringing at the effort. ‘Do not go, Atia. It is beyond foolish.’
‘Apologies, gentlemen, but I simply do not have a choice. I will never again sit idly by while good men die.’
Chapter Fourteen
The men were right, of course. It was beyond foolish to set out alone into the mountainous desert. It had only been a handful of hours and already Atia was lost. She had tried to draw a mental picture of the canyon lands she traversed, but once she had descended into them, she found herself inside a maze.
A maze that was also an oven.
An oven that could very well be her tomb.
She gazed up at the angry white sun. Sol. The Greek Helios, the bright, handsome servant of Zeus. How could he be the same god who now threatened to melt Atia’s bones?
She seemed to recall that Heracles had once shot an arrow at Helios while crossing a desert of similar menace. His arrow pierced the sun god right in the heart. Incredibly, instead of punishing Heracles, Helios rewarded him for his boldness.
Why would the sun god not reward Atia right now? She was in a similar fix, was she not? In a fit of frustration, Atia lifted a rock and hurled it at Helios. ‘Where is my reward?’ she shouted, but received no reply.
It was impossibly hot. Heat like the heaviest of burdens or the strongest of winds. It beat her down, made her stumble and grope for balance. It made her care not whether she walked in this direction or that. It made her see things that were not there.
Like sheep, for example.
Sheep?
A single sheep actually, or was it more of a lamb? It was standing at the end of the ravine just ahead—its puffy white coat unmistakable against the dusty cliffs.
She felt the whisper of hope tickle her skin. She descended the side of the small gorge slowly, half-expecting the lamb to evaporate before her eyes. Soon she was standing inside the ravine facing the cutest, cuddliest creature she had ever seen.
‘What news, little lamb?’ she asked. It gave a small bleat. It was staring up at a steep, rocky slope. ‘Is that where your flock went? Would you like some help to find them?’ Another bleat.
Atia took it as a yes. She undid her belt and tied it around the sheep’s neck, then led the creature up the slope. As they crested the hill, the lamb tugged free of its leash and bounded across the flats of a small plateau.
Atia followed after it, though she felt rather more like a turtle than a lamb. When she finally arrived at the plateau she was no longer looking for her escaped captive, but instead searching desperately for shade. It was many moments before she noticed movement in the boulder-strewn valley below her.
It was a great flock of sheep. They covered the valley bottom like a great white cloak.
Atia’s heart thumped. Where there were sheep, there were shepherds. She unwrapped her scarf and waved it wildly in the air. ‘Hello!’ she shouted and there amid the tumble of rocks she saw a ghutrah waving back.
Atia nearly tumbled down the slope. Arriving in the ravine, she stood before the tall, robed figure of an old man and bowed. ‘I am Atia,’ she said. Why had she never bothered to learn more Nabataean? She began to gesture towards the hills. She flailed her body about, trying to mimic Livius’s damaged knee.
The old man stared at her curiously. She placed her hand atop her forehead and pretended to swoon, trying to depict Rab’s fever. Still he stared. She needed to convey their hunger, so she pointed to her stomach, then collapsed before him upon the ground.
‘You appear to be hungry and lost, lady,’ he said in slow, careful Greek. ‘I am Adelze. May I help you?’
* * *
The shepherd led Atia up the canyon towards a sprawling camel-hide tent tucked among the cliffs. A small column of smoke was snaking its way out of an opening at the apex of the structure. She could almost smell the polentum cooking on the fire inside. He gestured to it. ‘My daughters are there,’ he said. ‘They will help you.’
‘I am in your debt,’ she said to the man, but when she turned to bow he was already gone.
Two children were playing outside the large enclosure and, when Atia stepped towards them, they scattered like leaves. Atia pulled back the door flap.
At the far end of the room, a young woman adorned with clanking bracelets was busy milking a goat. Several paces away, a handsome woman with long, raven-coloured hair sat picking through a pot of beans. Closest to the door sat a stout woman with kohl-painted eyes. She shot a look at Atia that froze her in place.
‘Identify yourself,’ she demanded in Greek.
‘I am Atia, daughter of Atius, citizen of Bostra. I come to your doorstep in need. Can you please help me?’
The three women exchanged a series of looks that seemed to substitute for conversation.
‘How did you find us?’ asked the kohl-eyed woman.
‘An old shepherd pointed me here. He said you were his daughters.’
The raven-haired woman gasped. ‘That is impossible. Our father has been gone for nearly twenty years now, may the Goddess Mannat watch over him.’
Atia was confused. ‘He told me his name was Adelze,’ she said.
The three women exchanged another series of looks—this time tinged with alarm—then appeared to come to some decision.
The raven-haired woman rose to her feet. ‘I am Shudat,’ she said. ‘You are welcome here.’
‘Gratitude,’ said Atia, feeling a tear work its way down her cheek.
‘Breath of the Goddess, you are thin,’ said Shudat. ‘When did you eat last?’
‘Ahh...’
‘And how long have you been walking in the sun?’ asked the kohl-eyed woman.
Before Atia could answer, the young woman who had been milking the goat was offering Atia a cup of milk. ‘I am Gamilath,’ she said, her bracelets clanging. Atia stared at the creamy liquid she offered, wondering if it was real. ‘Go on, drink.’
Atia tipped the cup to her lips, and suddenly the only thing that existed in the world was the warm, life-giving liquid that poured into her like the gods’ own nectar. She drained the cup, then realised that she was weeping.
‘Hasten slowly, my dear,’ said the kohl-eyed woman. ‘I am Hageru. Welcome to our home.’
Atia gave a deep bow. When she returned to standing, Gamilath was placing another cup of goat’s milk into her hand.
Atia raised her cup to the three women in a salute of gratitude. She drained it once more, and Gamilath quickly fetched her another. So went their interchange until it became clear that Atia would not refuse a drop. Gamilath gently ushered Atia to the milking bench. ‘Let us put you in touch with the source,’ she jested and all four women laughed. Atia had the unusual sensation of being home.
* * *
By the time they reached Rab and Livius the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. The men lay motionless in the shade, their eyes closed, and did not even respond when one of the donkeys announced the women’s arrival with a bray.
The men’s conditions had worsened. Livius’s knee had swollen and a swarm of flies buzzed over Rab’s wound.
Atia crouched beside Rab and shooed the flies away. He opened his eyes and reached for her wrist. ‘You again?’ he said.
‘I am afraid that you are not rid of me yet,’ Atia said. She could feel the heat of fever radiating from his skin.
‘I am afraid that I missed you,’ he said.
‘Then the fever has clearly attacked your wits.’
‘You found the settlement?’
‘Of course.’
‘But how?’
‘I listened to the story that the desert wished to tell me,’ said Atia. She pressed her hand to his brow. He was so hot that he might have been the sun god himse
lf.
‘You are frowning. You think it might be too late for me,’ he said, reading her thoughts.
‘Do not fear. I do not let good men die.’
‘And what if I am not a good man?’
‘You are a good man.’
‘Then perhaps the fever has attacked both our wits,’ he jested, but she could see the sheen of tears veiling his eyes.
* * *
They arrived at the tent in time for the evening meal, though Rab was in no condition to eat. He collapsed on to a bed mat at the corner of the tent. ‘Stay with me, Atia,’ he breathed, then plunged into a fevered oblivion.
He remained senseless as Atia cleaned his wound and packed it with salt, then pulled his hair into a loose bun and patted his face and neck with water. Hours later, he continued to sleep as she dressed the wound with honey and wrapped it in cloth.
‘Fight it, Rab,’ she whispered as darkness began to fall. Atia knew he was in grave danger. They all knew. They brought her water for washing and supplies for changing the wound. A girl who looked like Hageru laid a flower at Rab’s feet.
Atia gazed at Rab’s face and tried to imagine the world without him. No, it simply could not be. He could not die. She would not let him.
She lay beside him all night, listening to the rhythm of his breaths.
‘S-savages,’ he slurred, thrashing and kicking his legs. He was breathing as if he had just run a hundred miles.
‘Keep fighting, Rab,’ she said. She soaked a piece of cloth in water and dribbled it into his mouth. His breaths slowed.
‘Atia,’ he muttered. ‘Forgive me.’ He turned away.
Early the next morning, she woke to discover his arm wrapped around her waist. She was facing towards him, and could see the slow dance of his eyes beneath his lids.
‘It is a powerful demon you face,’ she whispered to him, ‘and you are defeating it.’ She wiggled closer and, ignoring the cries of the roosters, she closed her eyes and returned to slumber.
* * *
When she awoke once again, Rab had turned away from her and for a long while she watched the rise and fall of his breaths. The sun god’s long arms lingered on his broad shoulders, as if consoling him, and she watched the light travel slowly down his back.
That was strange. The light should not have been travelling down his back at all, but up it. And what had happened to the cries of the roosters? Unless... She heard the clanking of plates. She sat up to discover the family seated on a carpet around a low table strewn with food.
‘Greetings, Atia,’ exclaimed Livius. ‘You are just in time for dinner.’
Chapter Fifteen
Dinner. It was perhaps the most beautiful word Rab had ever heard. No matter that it had been uttered in Latin and by a Roman soldier no less. He could only smile hearing Livius’s voice and knowing that he, too, had survived.
Somehow, Atia had saved them both.
‘How do you fare?’ Atia was asking Livius now. Rab’s back was turned to them and he breathed deeply as if he were still asleep, but was listening to everything they said.
‘Better than I have in years,’ Livius replied. Rab heard the clanking of plates, smelled the rich aroma of roasted mutton. ‘But if you are asking about my knee, it is improving. It seems to be healing in direct proportion to the number of honey cakes I am fed.’
There was a woman’s soft giggle, and Rab heard another woman’s voice speak in Nabataean. ‘I think Livius favours you, Gamilath.’
‘Don’t be silly, Shudat.’
It was nice to hear his mother tongue—like donning an old pair of sandals.
‘Hageru, pass the bread.’
Bread. Rab’s stomach rumbled—a terrible, growling noise that sounded as though it had come from the depths of the earth.
And yet he made no move to get up. He kept his eyes closed, grateful to be alive. He wished to savour this moment.
‘The stew is delicious,’ remarked Atia.
Her voice was like a soft ribbon. Gods, how he loved the sound of it. It had wrapped around him in the depths of his fever, consoling him, cajoling him, keeping him anchored to the world.
‘Have you always lived in this place?’ Atia asked.
‘We grew up here,’ said the woman who had been called Shudat. ‘But before the Romans came, two of us—my brother and I—lived in the open desert. We were frankincense traders.’
There was a long silence. ‘I envy you that freedom. A Roman woman would not be allowed to engage in such trade.’
‘You must become a Nabataean woman then,’ said the woman who had been called Gamilath. ‘We have always enjoyed more freedom than our Roman sisters.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Atia.
‘You can marry our brother!’ exclaimed Gamilath.
Rab’s eyes flew open.
Atia was laughing gamely. ‘If your brother is anything like his sisters, then I would be a fool not to consider it.’
Rab tried to keep his breaths even. The thought of Atia marrying any Nabataean other than himself gave him a strong desire to throw fists.
‘What does your brother do now if he is no longer plying the routes?’ asked Atia.
‘Oh, he is still plying the routes—just not the desert routes,’ said Shudat. ‘After the Romans came, there was no more profit to be had in the desert routes, so our brother went to work at sea.’
‘I am sorry,’ replied Atia.
‘What is there to be sorry for?’ said Gamilath. ‘He works on a large sailing vessel that runs between India and Egypt. He makes more coin than he ever did before. He brings us beautiful things.’
Rab heard the clanking of what he guessed to be bracelets and then the sounds of children squealing. ‘Why do I frighten them so?’ asked Atia.
‘They think you are a Greek goddess,’ Hageru explained.
Rab smiled to himself. She was a goddess—a strong, fearless, beautiful goddess whose divine determination had brought him back from the dead. How could he let her know that? How could he make what was wrong between them right again?
‘Why on earth would they think me a goddess?’ Atia asked. Rab could almost picture Atia putting her hand over her nose.
‘I believe it has something to do with your unusual dress.’
‘Ah, yes, the stola,’ said Atia.
‘That and the fact that you speak perfect Greek,’ said Hageru.
‘That is very kind of you to say,’ said Atia.
Suddenly, Rab saw his chance.
‘But that is not the only reason,’ he said, rolling over to face the group. ‘You are also beautiful.’ He smiled and propped himself on his arms.
‘Rab!’ Atia exclaimed. She moved to stand, but he motioned her to stay seated. ‘Please, if I cannot manage to make my own way to a tableful of food, then I am truly lost.’
Though what he had truly lost was the moment, for in her excitement to see him awake, she had not heard what he had said.
Slowly, he stood. He stared down at himself. His long robe seemed to hang from his wasted bones and his knees shook with weakness. But all he could think about as he made his way across the tent was how good it was to see her.
He took his seat across from her and noticed the sheen of tears in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and feigned a sneeze.
‘An omen!’ shouted the woman whom he assumed to be Gamilath. Her bracelets chimed as she clapped her hands together and grinned. ‘The gods intend to favour us.’
‘They favour us already,’ said Livius, sliding Gamilath a wink.
Rab had the distinct feeling of joining a party that had begun long before his arrival. After a barrage of introductions, he found himself confronted with his wildest dream: a thick, meaty bowlful of mutton stew.
He approached it like a stalking lion: cautious, respectful, determined. When f
inally he lifted the bowl to his lips, something like an explosion took place inside him. He drank slowly, letting the soft shreds of meat caress his tongue and the wonder of their energy suffuse him. At last he returned the bowl to the table and let out a hearty sigh. ‘The gods are great,’ he pronounced and everybody cheered.
* * *
They feasted and talked until the sun had disappeared and the light of oil lamps shone in their eyes. Rab stole glances at Atia across the table. She was so lovely in the low light. Her auburn locks tickled her cheeks, making feathery shadows, and her soft, sensuous lips seemed to glow with a new shade of red.
He wanted to kiss those lips. He wanted to spend the rest of the night kissing them.
And yet it seemed fated that he was to spend the rest of the night among a troupe of friendly strangers.
‘A story!’ shouted Gamilath.
‘Ah, yes, let us have a story,’ repeated Shudat.
‘A story! A story!’ sang Hageru’s boy and girl. Their hosts were gazing at them expectantly and Atia and Livius looked piteously lost.
‘It is Nabataean custom for a guest to entertain his host with a story,’ explained Rab.
‘I fear that the only stories I know are of war and of the gods,’ said Livius.
‘And I know none at all,’ said Atia. She sent Rab a pleading look.
Rab sighed. He was not going to get any time alone with Atia—but perhaps there was another way to speak to her.
Rab levelled a playful smile at the two children and stretched his arms theatrically. ‘Then I believe it is up to me to ensure that our wonderful hosts learn the story of the enchanted horse.’
‘The enchanted horse!’ shouted the children in unison. They clapped and cheered gleefully as Rab cleared his voice and began.
‘If you were to step outside this tent right now and start walking south-east, you would pass over rows and rows of golden hills that would stretch out into a great sand sea, and beyond that sea you would encounter a rich, verdant land between two rivers. In this land there are great herds of horses.’
Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior Page 15
