Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior

by Greta Gilbert

  And then it had found her again just three days ago, when her father had taken away the tears from her for good.

  Gods, the heat.

  Quiet and suffocating, it had cooked her where she lay inside the cart each day, crushing her will, turning her thoughts into polentum.

  The donkeys. Did no one else worry for their well-being? The poor beasts had been grossly overburdened and so Atia had spent all of the second evening going through their saddlebags trying to balance their loads. Her efforts had helped a little, but not enough, and so this third evening she had dedicated herself to placing the heavier items in her own cart.

  ‘What are you doing, domina?’ Plotius asked her. He had removed his officer’s armour and his sweat-soaked undertunic clung to his outsized muscles. Atia noticed that he looked down at those muscles regularly, as if congratulating himself on them.

  ‘I cannot rest, Plotius,’ she said. ‘I am worried about the donkeys.’

  Plotius gazed at the carriage full of supplies. ‘But where will you sit tomorrow during the march?’

  ‘I will not sit. I will march like the rest of you.’ She had grown restless over the past two days and a walk sounded most welcome. She had never gone this long without a few drops of tears to calm her nerves.

  ‘You are trembling, domina,’ said Plotius.

  ‘I am nervous for the donkeys,’ she said, though in truth she had never experienced such a trembling before. ‘I fear for them.’

  ‘And I fear for you. You seem to be ailing.’

  ‘I have a headache. That is all.’ But it was more than that. She felt as if she was crawling out of her skin.

  ‘How can I help you?’ asked Plotius.

  Atia glanced around the camp. The men were sprawling on their bed mats, exhausted and unable to move. The sun had set, but the heat lingered, tormenting them all. Many paces away, two of the soldiers laboured over a small fire upon which they had arranged several pots of polentum. Sweat poured from their brows, landing in the soup.

  The only man who did not appear to be suffering was Rab. He had found a seat on a large boulder at the perimeter of the camp. He had caught the current of a breeze, for his ghutrah fluttered behind him in a way Atia could only describe as graceful. He was staring out at the stark rolling hills, sipping from his water bag, calm as a camel. He seemed to know something she did not and it irritated her.

  ‘There is a way you can help me, Plotius,’ Atia said, lowering her voice. ‘Do you have any tears of poppy potion? I fear it is the only thing that will quiet my headache.’

  ‘I do,’ Plotius said carefully, ‘but I am afraid your father has forbidden me from giving it to you.’

  ‘I only need a few drops. Please, Plotius.’ She must have spoken a bit too loudly, because she saw Rab turn slightly as if to listen. Atia lowered her voice. ‘The tears will cure what ails me, you understand? I need them badly.’

  Plotius flashed a crooked grin. ‘Not a soul can know of this.’

  ‘Of course. Just tell me what to do.’

  ‘Meet me on the other side of that hill around the second watch,’ he whispered, glancing at a low rise about a half-mile beyond the camp. ‘You will have your poppy tears.’

  You will have your poppy tears. The words were like a balm. They echoed in her mind for the rest of the evening, crowding her thoughts. She scratched her skin and swatted at flies, trying to be patient. The soldiers were eating now. One of them was approaching her with a bowl of polentum.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said, waving him away. Just the thought of food made her sick with nausea.

  She turned to find Rab still sitting on his rock, regarding her disapprovingly. What right did he have to watch her that way, his eyes so full of judgement?

  She stomped towards him, utterly annoyed. ‘Why do you stare at me?’ she demanded.

  ‘You are foolish not to eat,’ he said.

  ‘Pah,’ she spat out. How arrogant he was—presuming he knew what was best for her. First the shade, then the gods and now this.

  ‘The journey requires that you preserve your strength,’ he added. He held out a handful of dates. ‘Take these.’

  She shook her head, looked away. She reminded herself that he had been charged by her father to see her safely to Rekem—that was all. He was only pretending to care for her.

  Still, there was something almost tender about the way he held out the small fruits. They appeared to be all he had to eat, yet he was offering them to her.

  She reached out to accept them and noticed that her hand was trembling. Overcome with shame, she pulled it back to her side.

  ‘It is your choice not to eat,’ he said, ‘but it will be your fault when you are too tired to scale the steep slopes ahead of us.’ He brushed away a fly and tilted his face to the breeze, and her irritation returned.

  ‘You act as if you own the desert,’ she barked.

  ‘No one can own the desert,’ he returned.

  ‘Well, you have certainly made yourself the mayor of this wretched patch of earth,’ she said.

  He blinked, then erupted in laughter.

  ‘What is so funny?’ she clipped.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Funny and foolish.’

  She shook her head, realising only after many moments that such vigorous denial was both funny and foolish. ‘I am the Governor’s daughter and the highest-ranking person here,’ she reminded him. ‘I am the embodiment of our party’s dignitas.’ A fly buzzed around her face and she swatted at it uselessly.

  He was laughing again.

  ‘I am glad I am able to entertain you so much,’ she said and could not suppress her own small grin. Curse him. Even in her agitated state she was a victim to his charms.

  She drew a breath and held her arms tightly at her sides. She tried not to scratch the itches that seemed to be breaking out all over her body. If only she could stand before him in a state of indifference—not wavering with this terrible restlessness.

  ‘It is not just yourself you harm by not eating,’ he said at last. ‘It is everyone else in the party.’

  And there it was: how he truly felt. It was the party’s well-being he cared for, not hers. The offer of dates was his way of telling her to pull her own weight, nothing more.

  She stalked back into camp, consoling herself that in only a few hours, she would have her tears and a measure of calm. But moments made up hours and the moments were passing far too slowly.

  You have grown too attached to the tears, her father had told her.

  The morning of their party’s departure, he had summoned her to his office. He had been sitting at his desk, holding a candle carefully over the lip of an envelope. Plotius had stood behind him and both men had watched with interest as the crimson wax dripped on to the delicate white page.

  ‘This letter is for Julianus, the commander of the legion in Rekem,’ her father announced. He had pressed the face of his signet ring into the circle of wax and held it there. ‘You must deliver this to him without fail,’ he said, blowing softly on the wax. ‘It contains important instructions, and will explain the contents of the box that Plotius carries.’

  Atia had glanced at the sandal-sized iron box in Plotius’s arms. Why had her father not just said that the letter was a marriage contract and the box contained her dowry? Perhaps he had not thought it necessary. It was an obvious match, after all—the Governor of Arabia, stationed in the north, allied by blood with the Legate in charge of its most powerful legion in the south. The north and south of Arabia, bonded through family. Of course he was sending her to be married.

  But he had said not a word. It was as if he wished to keep her in suspense. Or perhaps punish her with it.

  ‘Remember to deliver this letter to the Legate personally,’ he said, and handed it to her. ‘And the seal must remain u
nbroken, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Consider it a test of loyalty.’ Atia had bowed, then turned to take her leave. ‘And, Atia?’

  ‘Yes, Father?’ He was thrumming his fingers upon the desk.

  ‘No more poppy tears.’

  It was all he had said. There had been no sharp words or bitter admonitions. Just those four words accompanied by the quiet thrum of his fingers on the desk.

  She could still hear their steady thumping inside her mind. The sound was at war with her nerves, which cried out for relief. What difference would a few drops make? She was already far from home and Plotius would not dare tell her father he had given her the tears, lest he implicate himself in the deed.

  Besides, if the foretelling of her death was true, she would likely never even make it to Rekem, for in exactly thirty-seven days, Atia was meant to die.

  She paced about the camp until she was certain that all the men had gone to sleep. The thought of her own demise had always brought with it a sense of relief, but that night it felt almost thrilling.

  In only thirty-seven days, she would quite possibly be free of this itching, trembling, restlessness. She would no longer ache for her mother and sisters, or be complicit in her father’s wicked deeds, or cringe as she recalled the uselessness of her life. She would no longer have to depend on the tears to numb the pain inside her heart. She would be permanently numb, for she would be gone from this terrible world for ever.

  Until then, she would do what was necessary to return herself to comfort. She made her way over the hill and waited upon a rock for Plotius.

  Soon she heard the soft snapping of twigs and saw the flash of a candle drawing near.

  ‘You are early,’ said Plotius in a honeyed voice. The candle lit the flesh of his face in an eerie glow.

  ‘My headache grows worse,’ Atia said. ‘Do you have the tears?’

  ‘I do,’ he said, lifting a small bottle from beneath the belt of his dagger. Atia moved to take the bottle, but he pulled it out of her reach.

  ‘Do you realise the risk I am taking by giving this to you?’ he said. ‘If your father were to find out, I would be stripped of my command.’

  ‘He will not find out,’ said Atia.

  ‘How can you assure me?’

  ‘I can assure you because he would do worse to me. Much worse,’ she said. She held out her palm.

  ‘I am afraid I need one more small assurance.’ He wedged the candle between two rocks and placed the bottle between his teeth. Then he pulled off his tunic.

  Atia froze in horror. He was standing before her in only his loincloth, which he was hurriedly unwrapping. The length of cloth tumbled to the ground.

  She stepped backwards, catching sight of the growing column of his flesh. ‘I am sorry,’ Atia said, trying to keep her voice even. ‘I think we have misunderstood each other.’ She took another step backwards. It was so dark. She wondered how fast she might be able to run back to camp.

  ‘Do you want the poppy tears or not?’ he demanded. He took himself in hand.

  Terror shot through her. ‘I have changed my mind,’ she managed to say. ‘I must go.’ She turned to run, but he caught her by the wrist.

  ‘You are not going anywhere, my dear,’ he breathed. His long nails dug into her flesh.

  ‘Release me!’ she shouted, as if anyone could hear her so far from camp. She twisted her arm, but could not seem to break free of him. He grasped her other wrist and pulled her towards him. Terror split her mind.

  Suddenly, the candle blew out. There was scuffling in the dirt, followed by a soft, choking sound. Plotius gasped, then released his grip on both her wrists. Atia stumbled forward.

  ‘Go!’ cried a voice, and Atia did not stop to think. She just ran.

  * * *

  She had shivered beneath her blanket that night, despite the heat, and had not slept a minute. When their march began the next morning, she found a place as far away from Plotius as she could get. She did not wish to see his fleshy face or remember the feel of his hands on her wrists, though the pain of the bruises was making it difficult to purge the memory entirely.

  He had almost defiled her. Right there in the lonely wilds of the Arabian north, with no witnesses but the stars. The thought was quietly terrifying. No amount of poppy tears was worth such a risk. And yet in her desire to obtain the treasured potion, she had walked blindly into his trap.

  Trouble. She had always thought that it searched for her, but this time, it seemed, she had searched for it. And she had found it. If her anonymous saviour had not miraculously emerged from the shadows to stop Plotius, she knew she would be suffering from more than just bruises.

  The sun rose higher in the sky and she watched the soldiers closely, trying to discover some clue to the identity of her hero. But the soldiers’ laboured movements and blank faces told no tales. He could have been anyone.

  She marched on. The sun was hotter today than it was yesterday, or so it seemed. The naked, boulder-strewn hills sprawled before them, their spring flowers gone, their wild grasses long dead. She knew that they were to avoid New Trajan’s Way to the east, but there was a perfectly good river valley a distance below them to the west. A river by the name of Jordan flowed lazily through it, wandering past a mosaic of dry farmlands with its meandering swath of green.

  ‘Why do we not follow the River Jordan?’ she asked weakly, but nobody seemed to hear.

  How lovely it would be to take a plunge in that river, Atia thought. She was growing more nauseated by the minute and these endless hills were devouring her strength.

  * * *

  ‘Halt,’ Plotius commanded towards the end of the day. A small flock of goats had appeared and was pouring down a steep slope into the dry wadi in which their party had been marching all afternoon.

  ‘I see our dinner, men,’ Plotius said. He motioned to a soldier, who seized one of the goats and held it to the ground. ‘Snap its neck,’ Plotius commanded.

  Atia moved to protest. It was a crime to take another man’s goat anywhere in the Roman provinces and Plotius knew it. Besides, Roman soldiers were not allowed to consume meat while on duty. Plotius knew that, too.

  But Plotius shot her a glance that froze her in place. The soldier dutifully snapped the goat’s neck, then hoisted the dead beast over his shoulders while the other soldiers cheered.

  In the same instant, an old shepherd rounded a bend in the wadi and gasped.

  ‘What are you looking at, old man?’ said Plotius. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and strode forward. ‘Get yourself gone before we take another.’ Stunned, the man did not move. Plotius unsheathed his sword as if to strike.

  Stop! Atia’s mind shouted. She saw a small trickle of urine run down the man’s leg.

  ‘Leave us, shepherd!’ shouted Plotius, lunging forward, and the man threw off his staff and stumbled back around the bend, narrowly escaping the sting of Plotius’s blade.

  Atia stole a glance at Rab. His granite expression betrayed no emotion, but the colour had left his cheeks. ‘We must leave the cart,’ Rab said suddenly.

  ‘What?’ said Plotius. ‘We will do no such thing.’

  Rab pointed down the wadi. ‘Nabataean shepherds are dangerous enemies and you have just made a small army of them. They will wait for us further down the wadi, where they will ambush us and attempt to stone us to death. So we cannot follow the wadi any longer.’ He pointed to the steep, cliffy mountain rising to their left. ‘That is our route now. We must transfer our supplies to the donkeys’ saddlebags and leave the cart behind. Now.’

  Rab did not wait for Plotius’s reply. He simply started up the steep slope.

  Atia looked around in desperation. Did Rab really expect them to scale such a cliff?

  The soldiers were watching Plotius, awaiting instruction, when a terrifying shrie
k resonated from down the wadi. The cry was followed by another and then half-a-dozen more.

  Plotius motioned to Rab. ‘You heard him. Now move quickly.’ The men transferred the contents of the cart into saddlebags, then started up the slope. There was so much loose rock. For each step the soldiers took, they seemed to fall backwards an equivalent distance.

  Atia stood and stared, unable to move. It seemed that she was just swimming in trouble now. Drowning in it.

  Atia began to climb—though climbing was a poor way to describe the stumbling, slipping, lunging efforts she made.

  Once again, the only one who seemed at all comfortable was Rab. He was cutting a path vertically up the mountain, not attempting to ease the route. It was as if he meant to punish them.

  ‘Why do you not ease the way?’ she shouted. No reply. ‘I command you to answer me!’ She stopped to await a response, but that only made her fall behind.

  The ground was not behaving. It was beginning to undulate beneath her feet, making her stumble. How did the goats do it? she wondered. How did they scale such mind-bending heights every day? She could see their small round droppings. They were so very sweet—like small, plump olives fallen from imaginary trees.

  And then suddenly there they were—goats! A hundred of them. A thousand. A million. They were travelling across the hillside like a flowing stream.

  She sat down and they began to flow towards her. She opened her arms.

  She did not recall what came next. There was the sound of voices near and she was scooped up by a pair of arms. Now she was no longer walking, but floating up the hillside. And that was well, because her head felt light and full of air.