* * *
They started early the third morning, plunging into a small, beautiful wadi by the name of Phaeno where an unlikely stand of oaks gave them shade enough to pitch an early camp.
‘What are those?’ Atia asked as they unloaded the camels. She pointed at the cave-like openings along the cliffs. ‘They look as if they have been made by men.’
Rab seized the moment. ‘They are copper mines,’ he said. ‘During my fa—during King Rabbel’s rule, they were used to produce funds for the water system that serves Rekem.’
Atia gazed up at the mines. ‘Strange that such a powerful source of revenue is not in use now,’ she remarked.
Rab wanted to seat himself beside her and describe the mines’ long history—how they had been worked continuously by the people of the wadi—a clan that could name their ancestors back for a thousand years. He wanted to tell her how ancient arrowheads had been found in in one of the mines and strange drawings upon its walls. But once again he found himself at the mercy of another man in charge.
‘Come now, let us eat,’ said Yamlik. ‘And then we shall have a story.’
* * *
That night they stared up at the stars while Yamlik told the first part of a two-part Nabataean epic. Rab paid no attention at all to Yamlik. He focused instead on the constellation Libra, wondering if Atia saw it, too, and if she was thinking of him at all. By the time Yamlik was done, Rab could barely keep his eyes open.
* * *
The next day, the route grew stonier and starker. Small bushes and tufts of dry grass gave way to no vegetation at all.
They crested a high pass, pausing to appreciate one of Nabataea’s most remarkable sights: a wadi so wide and long that it could barely be perceived save from above. ‘That is Wadi Arabah,’ said Rab. ‘Its sands flow—’
‘All the way to the Red Sea,’ interrupted Yamlik.
Atia gazed in wonder at the sight. ‘Does it ever fill with water?’ she asked.
‘Once every few years,’ said Yamlik. ‘Nabataeans believe that when it does, it carries all their troubles away.’
‘Let us hope it fills soon, then,’ Atia said. She gave Rab a meaningful look, as if she wished the same for their own troubles. But with only one night left, what hope could there be?
‘Let us hope it fills this very night,’ said Rab.
Chapter Seventeen
She wondered if the camels were the reason she could not sleep. Miraculous creatures, they ferried her across the punishing landscape like a princess of the sands. The beasts never seemed to tire. They walked neither fast nor slow. Their tempers were neither short nor long. The only thing they did to an extreme was drink.
Whenever they came to a cistern or a spring, they would lower their long necks into the water and partake. The previous afternoon, Atia had watched a spring completely drained by the five thirsty camels. Rab had said that they would not have to drink again for ten days.
The camels were made for the desert, which meant that there was no reason for Atia to exert herself at all during the day, which meant she was not tired when they arrived in camp each evening.
Which meant she could not sleep.
Her restlessness was especially keen tonight—the last night of their journey. Tomorrow, they would plunge down into the network of hills and wadis surrounding Rekem—the great city of stone.
At last she would gaze up at rock-carved buildings that many said rivalled the Egyptian pyramids. ‘Herodotus died before Rekem was built,’ Atia’s own tutor had told her once. ‘Or else he would not have given us seven wonders, but eight!’
Still, Atia would have gladly bypassed the great city if it meant spending just a few more days with Rab—or even just a few more hours. All she needed was enough time alone with him to tell him what she had been unable to say that day by the stream: that she had meant no offence by offering him the coin, that she had only wanted to compensate him for any distaste he might experience with a woman such as she, that she had not meant to cheapen their connection, but to ensure its equality.
If they could just have some time alone, she would tell him all that and more. She would fill his ears with her apologies and, once they were full to brimming, she would ask him for one small favour: would he be willing to kiss her lips one last time? It was all she needed—just a small reminder of his lips, of how good they tasted, of how they seemed to melt with hers, of the things they said to her without speaking a word. She wanted something to remind herself what it felt like to be alive.
Atia rolled over on her mat. Beside her, Gamilath lay atop her own mat, deep in slumber. Atia envied Gamilath’s sound sleep, but did not begrudge it. She had delighted in seeing her and Livius’s love bloom.
Propriety demanded that the two sleep apart in the presence of Gamilath’s older brother, but Atia knew that it would not be long before they were huddled together inside some secret cave, their limbs intertwined.
The thought made Atia smile. Livius deserved happiness. He had only five years left of his army contract. Soon he would have the freedom to start building a new life. And tomorrow he would march into Rekem with the assurance that his duty had been fulfilled.
Atia’s own duty, in contrast, was just beginning.
She rolled over again and stared into the darkness. She knew Rab was lying there somewhere just out of view.
Since they had set out on this last leg of their journey, he had been more distant than ever. He had said only a handful of words to her over the past several days and, whenever she looked at him, he always seemed to be gazing off into the distance, as if he were already riding away from her into the desert.
Atia rose from her mat and slipped into her sandals.
She felt better the instant she began to move her legs. The sky was cloudy with stars and against their milky backdrop she was able to make out the snaking path of the small wadi in which they had camped. She stepped forward in that stream of sand and began to follow its wide bed.
It felt so good to move. Her feet pressed into the sand as she walked, making a soft, whispering noise against the desert’s perfect silence.
She glanced at the western horizon and caught sight of a small speck of light. It was growing rapidly, swelling into a large yellowish sphere that began to climb into the sky.
How long had it been since she had watched a full moon rise? As it made its way higher it grew whiter, as if shedding its own skin. Eerie shadows appeared. Soon she perceived the profile of a distant cluster of palms. Palms!
Now she had a goal, for she knew that palms signalled the presence of water, and she was already becoming quite thirsty. She was certain if she could just reach that small cluster of palms, she would be rewarded with a much-needed drink.
She walked and walked, but it did not seem as if she was getting any closer to the palms. Rab had warned her once about the phenomenon of mirage. ‘The sun can play with your mind,’ he had explained. ‘It can make you see things that are not there.’
Atia wondered if the same was not true of the moon. Had it somehow altered her perception, causing her to conjure those spiky palms?
I should just go back, she thought, though now the very existence of the palms had become a puzzle she wished to solve. She continued to walk.
By the time she reached the palms, she was breathless, exhausted and very thirsty. She stalked around the cluster, searching for a man-made spring. Where there are plants, there is water, she reassured herself.
No spring appeared, so she wiped her brow and quietly began to dig. She scooped up armfuls of sand, but the tiny grains were like water. For every handful she lifted from the hole, another handful seemed to spill back in.
She dug for what must have been an hour. Now she was very, very thirsty. She needed to make a decision—take the long walk back to camp or throw her energy into finding the water she knew lay just below her feet.
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She continued to dig. She had to find the water—if only to prove to herself that she could. She heaved up armfuls of sand, certain she would find it soon. But when she stopped to assess her progress she saw that she had made very little.
If only she were a camel. Then she would not be thirsty at all. Earlier that day, Rab had noted that if they had ridden camels directly from Bostra, their journey would have lasted twenty days instead of the thirty-nine it had taken so far.
Thirty-nine days. It was hard to believe they had departed Bostra just thirty-nine days ago. It felt like a lifetime.
It was then she realised: today was the day she was supposed to die.
On the twentieth day of the ninth month of your thirtieth year, the old woman had said. Atia had tucked the information away in the deepest part of her mind—never to be forgotten.
And yet, she had forgotten. Somewhere between Bostra and Rekem, that ominous date had slipped her mind. She had been so consumed with trying to forget—forget the tears, forget the battle, forget the camel trainer with the eyes flecked with gold—that it seemed she had also forgotten the date of her own demise.
A creeping panic was overtaking her. Were these her last moments on earth?
She had never expected to cheat her own death. In the past she had sometimes even yearned for it. But now that her time had come, she felt her breaths quickening in rebellion and her heart beating out its protest.
She did not wish to die. Not any more. Not when she had just learned what it meant to live.
She looked all around the oasis, searching for possible sources of her demise. She closed her eyes and listened for the sound of her doom. What would it be? A chorus of hyenas’ laughter? The soft crunching of pebbles beneath a lion’s paws?
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ she laughed, daring them to come. She felt herself on the verge of tears.
A voice called from the shadows. ‘Atia?’
Chapter Eighteen
Her heart skipped. ‘Rab?’
‘Atia, are you well?’ He stood in the moon shadow cast by the palms, his body barely distinguishable from the rest of the night.
‘I am perfectly well,’ she replied. She felt a wave of relief, followed by a rippling of dread. Was it to be Rab, then? Was he to be her assassin?
‘What are you doing, Atia?’
‘Is it not obvious that I am digging for water?’ The moonlight poured over her shoulders, illuminating the small hole she had managed to excavate.
He appeared to shake his head. ‘What is obvious is that your head is tilted backwards, your mouth is pointed at the sky and you were just laughing in the way of a hyena.’
She could imagine the smirk on his face. ‘I was not laughing at the sky,’ she insisted. ‘I was laughing at...my imminent success.’
‘You were celebrating a success you have not yet enjoyed?’
‘I am in no mood for your teasing,’ Atia grumbled, though in truth there was something extremely comforting in it. ‘I know there is water here and I am quite certain that I am on the verge of finding it,’ she pronounced.
‘It must be a heady feeling to be that close to success,’ he observed, clearly enjoying himself.
‘It is quite gratifying,’ she said. ‘At least we can agree on that.’
Her statement seemed to give him pause. ‘Would you like some help?’
‘No, I do not need your—’ she began saying. In truth, she did need his help—most desperately. Why was it so hard to accept? ‘Yes,’ she finally admitted.
He extended his hand. ‘Come,’ he said.
He lead her to a dark area beneath one of the palms. The perfect location for a strangling, she thought morbidly. Yet she knew instinctively that if she was meant to die tonight, it would not be at his hand.
Perhaps they were meant to die together.
‘Here is your water,’ he pronounced. He bent to clear away a pile of leaves and she watched the milky moonlight spread its light across a sprawling black pool. She gasped. Water. Pure, clean, lovely water. It had been there all along—through all her desperate digging. She had been so convinced of the difficulty of the problem that she had not seen its solution right before her eyes. ‘You have my gratitude, Rab.’
How nice it was to say his name aloud. Perhaps it was to be her last word. She imagined a crocodile springing up out of the inky water and removing her head from her body. Or perhaps the pool itself would be her demise. Death by drowning. An ironic ending in this dry place.
Rab bent to the spring and cupped the water in his palms. ‘Did you not say you were thirsty?’ he asked.
The water inside his hands was like the sand had been inside hers: she could see it slowly slipping through his fingers. She peered at the ground. Why could she not bring herself to drink?
He did not push her. He only sat down at the edge of the pool and gazed up at her. ‘It is strange,’ he started saying. ‘We have travelled all these days across the desert and not once have I told you a travelling story.’
Atia cocked her head. ‘You told stories at the home of Yamlik’s family.’
‘They do not count.’
‘Why not?’
‘They were told beneath the shelter of a tent for the benefit of our hosts. To qualify as a true travelling story, it must be told beneath the stars for the benefit of the travellers.’
‘Like Yamlik’s epic?’ Atia said.
‘Like Yamlik’s epic, except exciting and interesting and finished well before sunrise,’ said Rab.
Atia laughed and Rab patted the ground. ‘Will you let me tell you a travelling story, Atia?’
Atia sat down before him, sensing a deeper agenda at work.
‘There was once a beautiful, wealthy kingdom that lay beyond the Middle Sea,’ he began. ‘Its rulers were peaceful and good, and they built a city full of sculptures and gardens and wonders to behold. The King and Queen lived in a splendid palace with their son and three daughters, all of whom they loved dearly. But the King had a special place in his heart for his son, for the two shared a passion for the world beyond.’
Atia recalled that Rab had three sisters. Her curiosity stirred.
‘Whenever the King journeyed to a faraway land he always brought back something for his Queen and something for his son. Horns from Britannia. Carpets from Persia. Masks from the land of Punt. Once the King travelled to a place called India and upon his return he gifted his wife and son each a beautiful wood-carved elephant, for they were the most noble, wondrous creatures the King had ever seen.
‘Soon after his trip to India, the King’s dear Queen died. He placed her mummy inside a grand tomb along with jewels and riches and bags of golden coins. To this great horde of wealth he added all the gifts he had given her throughout his life—the horns from Britannia, the carpets from Persia, the masks from the land of Punt. He put them all inside the magnificent tomb with the exception of one—the wooden elephant, which he gave to his son to remember his mother by.
‘One day an evil general marched into the kingdom and declared its citizens heathens. The King and his family retreated to the rooftop of the palace and watched from above as the soldiers invaded the city, burning and raping and looting. They watched in despair as the soldiers unsealed the door to the Queen’s tomb and poured inside, taking everything of value.
‘“Father, we must fight!” urged his son. “Call the army!”
‘But the King only sobbed. “The soldiers greatly outnumber our own,” he said. “We cannot win.”
ʻ“Let us fight and die, then,” said his son, “with honour.”
‘But the King would not listen. He pulled a small vial from his pocket and tipped it to his lips.’
Rab paused. He gazed at Atia across the darkness.
‘By all the unruly gods, Rab, continue! What happened next?’
‘The King tipped the bo
ttle of poison to his lips,’ Rab repeated, ‘and began to drink. The son moved to stop his father, but he did not reach him in time. The King took a final swallow, then smashed the emptied vial upon the ground.
‘“Remember what this kingdom was once, dear boy,” the King said. “And never forget the elephants.” By the time the enemy soldiers arrived on the roof the King was dead.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Atia.
‘The son escaped,’ Rab continued, ‘and he vowed to avenge his father. Over the next dozen years the Prince built up a secret army comprised of every able member of that fine kingdom.’
‘Even the women?’
‘Of course the women—or are women not equal to men?’
Atia did not know what to say. She had never heard of such a thing in her entire life. Women were not equal to men in Rome. Was it different in Nabataea? She supposed that in fantastical stories like this one, they could be anything they liked. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
‘The great army of citizens marched on the occupied capital and freed it. In honour of his victory, the Prince adorned the top of each column of the palace with a stone elephant.’
Atia sighed. ‘A happy ending.’
‘But the story is not yet finished. The son, who was the new King, placed the two wooden elephants in his bedchamber before a large mirror. And every evening he would stare at his twin elephants and remember his mother and father, who taught him to love the world beyond. And then he would turn to the mirror and look at himself, who had decided not to be defeated by it.’
When she spoke, her voice was trembling. ‘I have often felt...defeated by the world,’ Atia said. She gazed at the dirt, then began to trace her finger in it.
‘I know,’ whispered Rab.
‘For many years, I sought to escape from it.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘About the tears?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’
Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior Page 17