Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior

by Greta Gilbert

  It is a powerful demon you face, he had said and was clearly letting her face it alone.

  And that was well. She wanted to be alone. There were only thirty days left until her foretold death, after all. Or was it twenty-nine?

  She searched her mind, but it yielded only confusion. How on earth had she managed to lose track of the days? She paused on the goat path. They had arrived outside Pella on day thirty-five, had they not? Or maybe it was thirty-four. And how many days had it been since then? Four? Five?

  It was what she had been wondering when a bulging hulk of a man crashed into her. ‘Apologies!’ he exclaimed, reaching out to steady her.

  The man was breathing so hard beneath his chain mail shirt that Atia had the strong urge to lift it off him. ‘You saved me from a fall, soldier,’ she said. ‘I am grateful.’

  ‘But it was I who caused the stumble in the first place.’

  ‘Then we shall call ourselves even,’ she said.

  ‘Not in the least!’ exclaimed the man. ‘I vowed to deliver you safely to the Legate in Rekem. Until that blessed moment I shall never say that we are even.’ His expression was so earnest that she could do nothing but bow her thanks.

  His name was Livius. He was the most talkative and also the stoutest of the soldiers, though he seemed better suited to kneading bread than tromping up hills. Each morning he would seek her out and attempt to engage her with small talk.

  ‘I do not wish to talk, Livius,’ she would say, though it made no difference.

  He would always open their one-sided conversation with a remark about the sun, then remove his helmet and scratch his bald head ponderously, as if its light and heat were one of life’s great mysteries.

  He would go on to describe some detail of his homeland—Gaul—his sisters—unmarried, fine weavers—his family’s vineyard—burned by Caesar, since replanted—or his physical state—chafing between his thighs, a toothache.

  Then he would urge Atia to ride a donkey for a while and take a bit of rest. ‘You must be tired, domina. Why not relieve your weary bones?’

  ‘I prefer to walk, thank you,’ she always replied. She knew that Livius was secretly speaking of himself and that, if he were given the chance, he would mount the sturdiest of the donkeys and ride it all the way to Rekem.

  ‘If you wish to suffer, I cannot stop you,’ Livius always said.

  Atia did wish to suffer. She wanted to walk and walk, to feel the burn of muscle and the ache of bone—anything to keep her from thinking of the poppy tears.

  It is a powerful demon you face, she told herself over and over again. And you are defeating it.

  She occupied her mind with games of distraction. How many steps to the next hill? Which was the tallest soldier? How many seconds for a hawk to make a single spiral in the air? She gathered up pretty stones and then threw them away one by one. One evening, she carved a message into a slab of soft sandstone: Atia was here.

  She was getting better with each passing day, but it was still hard to distinguish herself from the yearning, which had transformed from a physical illness to an illness of the mind. She decided that she much preferred the physical malaise to the mental. One could escape the physical through sheer exhaustion, but there was no escaping the mind.

  Atia was not here, she carved the next evening. It seemed much closer to the truth.

  * * *

  Rab kept a blistering pace. The soldiers’ limbs grew redder by the day, their search for shade more desperate. Rab began their march earlier and earlier each morning. In the evenings, he roused them for several more hours in the wake of the sun god’s retreat.

  It was as if he were trying to sneak around the heat, as if he believed that if they marched quietly and stealthily enough, it might not notice them at all.

  Inspired, Atia tried to sneak around the yearning. She steered her thoughts to other things she wished for: shade, a good meal, a plunge into a deep pool.

  The wish to be desired by a pair of eyes flecked with gold.

  It was not an unreasonable wish, for no one had ever desired her before. ‘It is your nose more than anything, dear,’ her third husband had told her once. They had been strolling together at a banquet, admiring a lovely garden. ‘Everything else about you is quite adequate.’ He had said it as if he were paying her a compliment, then had motioned to a woman standing nearby to join them.

  ‘Atia, I would like to introduce you to my mistress.’

  ‘Hello,’ the woman had said with a shy grin. Her nose had seemed so small as to be almost invisible.

  Atia had nodded at the beautiful woman, but had been unable to say a word.

  ‘Come now, Atia,’ her husband had said. ‘I thought you would be pleased. You no longer have to perform those duties that I know are so odious to you.’

  Though Atia had no love for her wifely duties, she knew in that moment that her third husband had been speaking of his own odium—of Atia.

  Though the manner of the rejection varied with each husband, the reason was always the same. And thus her path was laid. With each step she was drawing closer to a fate as familiar as it was dreadful. Another husband. Another series of disappointments. More long years of smiling with feigned contentment through what amounted to a prolonged rejection inside a marble prison.

  It was no wonder she craved the tears.

  * * *

  I am tired of being used. The thought came to her on the twenty-sixth day of the march. Or was it the twenty-fifth? She was sitting in the shade of a boulder, noticing the contours of new muscle in her legs. She realised that she was tired of sitting in a haze while her life slowly passed her by.

  She was tired, she realised, of doing nothing.

  They marched and marched and Atia’s legs grew stronger still. She was not alone. About half of the soldiers appeared to be growing stronger as well. They seemed to view the heat like Rab did, as a puzzle to be solved.

  The others, however, were not faring so well. They spent much of their energy in active rebellion against the heat, not realising that half of the battle lay inside their own minds. Plotius might have been the worst of them. He spent his days kicking rocks from his path and scowling at the sun.

  Meanwhile, the New Trajan Way stretched to the east, its wide, smooth surface mocking them as they threaded their way along steep, rocky goat paths.

  Another temptation lay to the west: a giant lake into which the River Jordan flowed. The Romans called it the Bitumen Lake after the tarry black substance that floated up from its depths. The Nabataeans had many names for the expanse, including the Sea of Zo’ar, the Sea of Forgetting, and even the Dead Sea, for its waters were salty and void of life. At a distance, however, the water seemed fresh and fecund, like the pool of some divine oasis.

  Atia had to remind herself of what Rab had warned—that both routes were traps: to follow either would be to invite attack.

  Supplies ran low. The donkeys’ loads diminished, only to be replaced by the soldiers’ helmets and chainmail, which most men could no longer bear to wear. The more enterprising among them had ripped their bed sheets into strips and wrapped the small pieces of cloth around their roasting limbs.

  * * *

  ‘You look like an overstuffed mummy, Livius,’ Atia said one morning as they broke camp. The portly soldier paused in exaggerated surprise.

  ‘You made a jest! Good for you, Atia,’ said Livius. ‘I had begun to worry that you resided in the Land of the Dead yourself.’

  ‘Nay, Livius,’ Atia said, feeling an actual smile creeping across her lips, ‘just the land of dusty spirits.’

  ‘Another jest!’ Livius burst out. ‘We will need that good humour over the next few days.’ He pointed down at the canyon plunging before them—the largest they had yet traversed.

  Moments later, Rab stood before the entourage to describe that day’s journey. ‘They call thi
s the land of the three wadis,’ he announced. ‘The canyon you see to the south is the first—Wadi Ma’in. There will be two others after this one, Wadi Hidan and Wadi Mujib, each larger than the last.’

  Atia lent her voice to the chorus of groans.

  ‘You favour him,’ whispered Livius. ‘I can hear it in your voice.’

  Ignoring Livius, Atia focused her attention on Rab, who was pointing at the large peak in the distance. ‘Our goal is to reach the third wadi by nightfall, for at its bottom we will encounter a perennial stream. It will be our reward.’ His eyes found Atia’s.

  She quickly looked away.

  ‘And he favours you,’ whispered Livius. ‘That is abundantly clear.’

  ‘You are wrong, Livius.’

  ‘I am always right about such matters. My sisters used to say I have a nose for love.’

  ‘And I have nose for scaring love away,’ jested Atia, motioning to her terrible nose.

  Livius only shook his head. ‘I would not be so sure about that, domina.’

  Atia wanted to ask Livius what he meant, but Plotius pushed past them. ‘Why do we not travel along the Bitumen Lake?’ he barked. ‘There are many large settlements on its shores and many opportunities to obtain supplies. It is but a day’s journey away. All downhill.’

  ‘As I have said, Nabataean rebels patrol the eastern shores. It is not safe,’ stated Rab. ‘Come, we must keep moving.’

  But Plotius held his ground. ‘How could you possibly know that?’ he demanded. They had gone nowhere, yet Plotius’s corpulent face was already covered in a curtain of cloudy sweat.

  ‘I know it from the bitumen traders,’ blurted Rab. ‘They come to Bostra on the ides of each month to trade their black tar. They talk.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Plotius.

  ‘I am as concerned as you are about securing supplies,’ explained Rab. ‘We will pass an encampment of herders just before the Wadi Mujib stream. They will sell us enough wheat to see us through to the next encampment.’

  Plotius scowled, but he commanded his men to move out. It was not long before he was groaning once again beneath the sun.

  It was their most difficult day yet. Marching out of the second wadi, several of the men collapsed and had to be placed atop donkeys. The heat only increased as they descended in the great chasm of Wadi Mujib, but just as Rab had promised, they soon stumbled into an encampment of herders. Atia and the soldiers stood beside a corral of braying sheep while Rab and Plotius bartered with a young shepherd for several sacks of wheat.

  ‘Ask him how much for a sheep,’ Plotius said, his eyes shot with blood.

  ‘The sheep are not for sale,’ explained Rab. ‘They are meant to see this man’s family through the summer.’

  ‘Everything is for sale,’ Plotius said. ‘Ask him how much.’

  Atia could hear the apology in Rab’s voice as he switched to Nabataean and asked the man if he would be willing to sell one of his sheep. The man shook his head apologetically. ‘He is very sorry,’ said Rab. ‘His family is large. He cannot part with a single one.’

  Rab and the shepherd agreed on a price for the wheat and Plotius paid the shepherd from a store of coins. Their food secured, the soldiers fell into line behind Rab as they followed a single narrow path that led over a hill and out of the encampment.

  The only one who did not follow was Plotius. Atia noticed him lingering beside the corral, so she stepped behind the tent and lingered, too. The soldiers were almost halfway up the hill when Atia watched Plotius lift the large ewe from her stall.

  ‘Put the sheep down, Plotius,’ Atia cried, stepping out from behind the tent. She hardly recognised her own voice. ‘Now!’

  She planted herself at the start of the narrow path. He could go nowhere without pushing past her.

  ‘Get out of my way, Atia!’ he shouted. ‘We need her more than they do.’

  Atia’s heart was pounding. It is a powerful demon you face, she told herself. And you are defeating it.

  ‘Leave the sheep,’ she said, then added, ‘You are acting against provincial law.’

  He released a laugh—a long, cold, terrifying laugh that was meant to defeat her. But she held her ground as he attempted to push past her and when he stepped off the path she adjusted her own position so as to remain standing before him, not allowing him to pass.

  ‘Are you mad, woman? Move out of the way, or I will make you regret it!’ He was lifting his leg to kick her when Atia saw a large wooden pole rise up behind his head. The shepherd gave a terrifying howl and the staff came crashing down on to Plotius’s skull. Goliath went tumbling to the ground.

  Chapter Eleven

  It had taken time to secure Plotius’s stunned body atop a donkey and to apologise to the shepherd, who had made his opinions about Rome and Roman soldiers known to Rab for the better part of an hour. It must have been close to midnight by the time they reached camp.

  All of this meant there had been no time for Rab to thank Atia for what she had done.

  * * *

  The next morning, the soldiers tried to wake Plotius, but could not. A half-empty bottle of poppy tears was discovered beside his slumbering figure and it was decided that they would stay by the stream for a day while the commander recovered.

  Rab found Atia around midday. She was basking in a secluded part of the stream about a half-mile upstream from the soldiers. He heard her gasp as he approached and watched her dive behind a large boulder.

  ‘You know I can see you,’ said Rab.

  She swam out from behind the boulder and scowled. ‘I thought you were one of the soldiers,’ she said, keeping the entirety of her body submerged. ‘Why do you laugh?’

  ‘You were trying to hide behind a boulder the size of a rabbit.’

  ‘I was blending into my surroundings,’ she countered, which only made him laugh harder. Soon she was laughing, too, though he could see she did not wish to.

  ‘I apologise for disturbing you,’ he said, returning to formality. He reminded himself of the last time they had spoken. She had set a clear boundary between them that night. She would not tell him why her father wished to punish her, or why she had gone to meet Plotius, or anything at all, it seemed. I am fine. Everything is fine, she had said. Please, just go away.

  And so that was what he had done. Now he squatted to the level of the stream and quickly announced his intentions. ‘I came to tell you that what you did yesterday—when you confronted Plotius about the sheep—it was...very brave.’

  He had expected her to ignore him, as she usually did when he paid her a compliment. Instead she smiled, and her cheeks flushed with warmth. ‘It is kind of you to say.’

  * * *

  It was more than kind of him to say. It was perhaps the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

  ‘And you claim that you are powerless,’ he said. ‘You are the strongest woman I know.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ she said, though the sentiment buoyed her spirit. In a fit of boldness, she sent him a splash. To her amazement, he splashed her back.

  And in her cock-eyed glee she splashed him again with so much energy and joy that it was as if she had poured the whole of the river over his linen robe.

  He stood and stared down at his drenched figure. ‘Siren!’ he shouted. She splashed him again and it was as if the wall that had built up between them over the past dozen days had not been made of stone, but of sand.

  ‘So you want to play dirty, is that it?’ he asked.

  ‘On the contrary,’ she said, pretending to wash herself in the stream, ‘I want to play clean.’

  She was laughing so hard now that she did not consider that her breast wrap and loincloth were soaked through.

  She simply stood, unaware of her near-naked state until his shouting abruptly ceased and he tilted away from the bank as if to get a better look
at her.

  She hugged her arms to her chest and turned, lunging awkwardly towards the opposite bank where her tunic lay.

  But it was far too late for such a dramatic display of modesty. He had seen the whole of her.

  Now her blush was no longer limited to her cheeks. It travelled down her neck at great speed. When she finally got her tunic wrapped around her most private parts, it had colonised her chest.

  When she finally dared to look at him, he was still gazing at the place where she had emerged from the water. She wondered if she had somehow offended him. ‘Is something the matter, Rab?’

  ‘No, ah, I mean, yes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Apologies. You are just so...beautiful.’

  He had spoken it like a confession, like something he did not wish to tell, but simply had to, lest he invoke the wrath of the gods.

  And it was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard in all her life.

  Their gazes locked, and she felt a rush of heat. There it was—the look. His eyes were so focused, so hungry and alert. They made her stomach feel weak. She never dreamed he would be looking at her this way again.

  Blood thundered in her ears. He had no reason to feign his lust. And yet there it was, burning in his eyes, which were now looking her up and down, as if he were tracing all the parts of her he wished to touch. She studied him in return, though she had long ago imagined how she would touch him.

  She would first trace her fingers softly along the contours of his arms. Then she would remove his robe and place a chorus of kisses all along his chest. Then she would run her fingers through his long, scraggly hair and touch his sensuous lips. Finally, she would lift her own lips to kiss them.

  And that was just the beginning. She had imagined a great deal more and now that she was staring into his eyes it all seemed unnervingly possible.

  Still, her wild fantasies meant nothing if he found her unsatisfactory. And she was certain that no matter what fuelled his desire for her—loneliness, isolation, a dearth of other female candidates—he would quickly lose interest in her if she did not give him a reason to keep it. I will pay him, Atia thought.