The Legate unsealed the letter and scanned it. Rab looked down to find Atia gripping the arms of her chair. The Legate gave Rab a long, scrutinising look and drew a breath. ‘I believe I shall read this aloud, since it relates to all three of you.’
In the days that followed, whenever Rab thought back on that moment, he cursed himself for not having seen the sign. It was in the Legate’s eyes when he looked at Rab: an unusual pity, as if he were looking at a dead man.
‘“Dear Commander Julianus”,’ Julianus began. ‘“If you are reading this scroll then my daughter stands before you, along with two escorts: a Nabataean man who calls himself Rab Junon and my own tribune, Plotius Gnaeus Longinus.”’
The Legate glanced at Rab, cleared his throat, then continued.
‘“The Nabataean man is not who he says he is. His true name is Tainu Obodas Rabbel the Third. He is the oldest living heir to the Nabataean throne and also the leader of the Nabataean resistance. I command you to execute him swiftly and discreetly at your earliest convenience.”’
Rab choked, then coughed. The world began to spin and his vision blurred.
Beside him, he heard Atia shout, ‘No!’ She moved to stand, but two soldiers stepped forward and held her down.
Then all Rab could see was Atia. She was no longer seated beside him, however. She was standing beside a blue pool, reaching out to him. She was getting smaller and smaller, fading away into a blur of dust. ‘No!’ she shouted, over and over again, but her voice was growing weak, replaced in Rab’s mind with Plotius’s mocking laughter.
When Rab’s wits finally returned, Plotius was laughing still and Atia was convulsing with sobs.
The Legate had resumed his reading. ‘“My daughter’s second companion is Plotius, my finest tribune. I have sent him to you so that you will make him your second in command. You will find no better ally in defeating the rebels than Plotius. His loyalty lies with Rome and Rome alone.”’
The Legate looked up again from the scroll. He turned to his translator, who closed her eyes for what seemed an unusual amount of time.
The Legate nodded, then returned his eyes to the papyrus. ‘“In addition, I command you to preside over the marriage of my daughter to Plotius.”’
‘What?’ said Atia. Plotius’s face split with a grin. Atia was shaking her head so vigorously that her hair fanned the air.
But Rab did not feel the wind, because he was sinking. Deep down into his chair, which opened into a fissure in the floor into which he travelled until he found himself in the realm of lost souls.
Atia. His wife. The only woman he had ever truly loved was to be given over to a man who would use and discard her as he would a stolen sheep. And Rab, in all his physical strength and skill, could do nothing to stop him.
For Rab himself had just been condemned to die.
He felt the squeeze of hands on his shoulders. They held him down, pinned him to his seat. He was breathing too hard. He feared his heart might explode. Swiftly and discreetly at your earliest convenience.
The Legate was speaking again. ‘“Plotius carries my daughter’s dowry with him and will provide you with the sum of five thousand denarii, representing his first year’s salary, along with a small gift to you as a token of my gratitude. A wedding feast is not necessary. My daughter, as you can see, would only be embarrassed by such a display.”’
Rab saw Atia’s eyes touch the floor, and in that instant he understood why it had been so difficult for her to believe in her beauty.
‘“One last command as relates to Atia,”’ continued the Legate, his eyes nearly at the bottom of the scroll. ‘“I am assuming you have received this scroll with its seal unbroken. If it was broken, however, I order you to flog my daughter for disloyalty. Ten lashes will suffice.”’
Atia’s expression was unflinching, as if she was threatened with such punishments all the time.
The Legate took a long breath. ‘“In sum, you will kill the Nabataean rebel leader, marry my daughter to Plotius and place Plotius beneath your command. Do all these things quietly and with haste. Consider them a test of loyalty. I will pay a visit to Rekem as soon as I am able.” Signed Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore Magnus Atius Severus.’
The Legate did not even look up as he issued his command. ‘Take the Nabataean to the holding cells.’
The arms that held Rab down yanked him up and dragged him towards the door. Rab heard a shriek, but it had not come from Atia. He turned to see Livius’s enraged figure lunging towards the guards. ‘Unhand him!’ Livius shouted. He was waving his dagger like a madman. ‘He is my friend!’
‘Take him, too!’ commanded the Legate. A guard kicked the dagger from Livius’s hand and seized him.
Now both Rab and Livius were being dragged out the door.
Rab strained to look behind him. Just let me see her one last time, he thought. A single kick to his backside told him he would not even be granted that one small wish.
* * *
In the past, Atia might have carefully swallowed her tears. She might have stared at her own toes and wondered why they were so crooked. She might have smiled and said she felt a little ill and could she please be excused so she might attend to her delicate constitution?
Not any more.
‘Legate, you are making a mistake,’ she told Julianus.
The Legate raised a brow. ‘Is that man not the rebel leader?’
‘He...he was the rebel leader. He has vowed to cease his activities.’
‘Cease his activities?’ said Plotius with a scoff. ‘He led four dozen rebels to our camp at the Bitumen Lake.’
‘Rab knew nothing about the rebels,’ protested Atia. ‘We all would have died that day had he not called them off us!’
Julianus frowned. ‘How many lost?’ he asked Plotius.
‘Of the Romans, eighteen men, Commander,’ said Plotius. ‘But we got our revenge. We tracked the little Arab bastards to their encampment. Slaughtered fifty of them in their sleep.’
The Legate glanced briefly at the Nabataean woman whom he had introduced as his translator. It was unusual for a Roman man to employ a woman in any official capacity and the woman’s disapproving expression gave Atia a reason to hope.
‘My father is mistaken in ordering Rab’s death,’ Atia said. ‘Rab saved our lives. He has also vowed to disband the rebel army.’ Once I convince him to do so, that is.
Plotius scowled at Atia. ‘Rab is a murderer and a traitor to Rome. As my future wife I command you not to speak of him again.’ Plotius turned to Julianus and the tone of his voice changed. ‘When I serve beneath you, Commander, you can be assured that I will work tirelessly to eliminate all of the remaining rebels. I will hunt them down and slaughter them in their sleep.’
The Nabataean woman sucked in a breath. The Legate was shaking his head.
‘I fear I cannot make you my second in command, Plotius,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I do not feel that you are qualified at this time to take on the position. As for the rebel leader, he will remain in my custody until I am able to discuss the matter with the Governor himself.’
Atia nearly burst into tears. ‘Bless you, Legate,’ she breathed. She buried her head in her hands and tried to calm herself. He will remain... She heard the phrase over and over again in her mind. She had just been granted the gift of time—time enough, she prayed, to get Rab and Livius free.
The fires of rage burned in Plotius’s eyes. ‘The Governor himself has ordered my promotion,’ he hissed. ‘You read it yourself!’
‘And yet as the Legate it is my right to choose whom I place in my confidence. I will take the matter up with the Governor when he arrives. In the meantime you may stay with the legion here in Rekem, or you may return to Bostra. It is your choice.’
‘You are making a mistake, Commander,’ Plotius growled.
>
‘Perhaps I am, but that is between me, the Governor and the Emperor.’
Plotius’s face had taken on the exact colour of the inside of a fig. ‘And my marriage to the Governor’s daughter?’
‘Because that appears to be contingent upon your position in the legion, I am afraid I cannot allow it. We must wait until I can confer with the Governor.’
Plotius stood. Something in his eyes had changed. They were no longer burning. On the contrary, they appeared frozen and black. Dead, almost. ‘But the dowry,’ he was saying. ‘The coin.’ He unclipped the box from his hip belt. ‘Do you not wish to receive the Governor’s gift?’
Plotius was rounding the corner of the Legate’s desk. He was unhinging the box. ‘No!’ shouted Atia. He was pulling something from the box. A dagger. Atia lunged across the desk.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Go to Hades,’ said Rab. He stared at the disgusting wad of spit that had just landed in his cell. He did not need to look up to know who had hurled it.
‘I am afraid I have already arrived in Hades, my friend,’ said an unmistakable voice. Rab peered through the bared opening in the door of his cell and saw guards pushing Plotius into the cell next door.
‘Then may you drown in the River of Woe,’ said Rab.
‘I would welcome any river at all,’ Plotius said. ‘It is too damned hot in here.’
‘When we are dead we will not know it,’ called Livius from the cell next to Plotius.
Rab returned to his small cot and lay back, trying to make sense of it all. Had Plotius’s execution been ordered, too? And how could Rab ever repay Livius for trying to help him as he had done?
‘I had my suspicions about your link to the rebels,’ called Plotius from next door. ‘But heir to the Nabataean throne? That was unexpected.’
‘You claim ignorance of the Governor’s order to execute me?’ asked Rab.
‘I admit that I did not know, though I suppose he kept it from me to prevent me from killing you directly.’
‘You are a monster,’ said Rab.
‘No more than you,’ said Plotius.
‘I am better than you.’
‘If you are so much better, then why do you command your rebels to attack Romans?’
‘The rebels do not attack, we defend,’ said Rab. ‘This is our land. It does not belong to Rome.’
‘You should have told that to your father,’ said Plotius. Rab stayed silent. He had told that to his father. His father simply had not listened.
Plotius yawned. ‘You know that if the Nabataeans had fought the invading Romans, they would have lost,’ he said.
‘That is not necessarily true,’ said Rab.
‘Go ahead and live out the rest of your days in a dream world,’ said Plotius. ‘You are the one who is doomed.’
‘And you are not?’
‘Of course not. When the Governor comes, he will set things right. Then it will be Atia inside this cell and not me.’
‘Atia?’
‘She will have to face the consequences of what she did.’
‘And what was that?’
‘She saved the Legate from the sting of my blade,’ said Plotius.
‘She what?’ called Livius from down the hall.
‘She jumped in front of the stupid man before I could put the dagger in its proper place.’
‘And where was that?’ asked Livius.
‘In his gut, Livius,’ growled Plotius. ‘Where the Governor ordered it to be thrust if the Legate did not do as he was told. I am a soldier just like you—only I follow my cursed orders.’
Rab imagined Atia jumping to the Legate’s aid while Plotius approached with his dagger drawn. By the gods, she was brave. ‘Is she injured?’ asked Rab.
‘How should I know?’
Please, Great Dushara, let her be uninjured.
‘When the Governor comes, everything will be put right,’ Plotius was repeating. ‘I followed his orders exactly and he will reward me for it.’
Rab closed his eyes. When the Governor comes, he thought. By that time, Rab would already be dead.
* * *
Atia opened her eyes and wondered if she was alive. The morbid puzzlement felt familiar, as if she had experienced it several times before. As if it was becoming something of a habit.
She did not dare attempt a breath, though her wits were returning rapidly. She had recovered enough of them to wonder if she had not misunderstood the day of her own death. Perhaps it was not yesterday, but today. Though she really had no way of knowing what day it was at all.
She spied a woman floating above her. Thank the gods—she was not alone. The woman’s long, curly tresses cascaded down her stately shoulders like vines, and an elegant white robe flowed all around her. Perhaps she was not a woman, but the goddess herself: ‘Juno?’
‘Not Juno,’ said the woman. ‘Shaquilath.’
‘Shaquilath,’ Atia said. Such a grand name, as if it could contain the hope of the world. ‘The Legate’s translator?’
‘The very same,’ Shaquilath said. ‘I have been caring for you for the past two days.’
‘Two days? Where is Rab?’
Shaquilath frowned and placed her hand on Atia’s head. ‘No fever so far. It is a good sign.’
‘Where is he?’ A lightning bolt of pain shot through Atia’s arm. ‘Where?’
‘He lives.’
At last Atia took a breath, then slumped on the mattress. Everything came back to her at once. How Rab had been condemned to die and been seized by the guards along with brave, foolish Livius. How Atia had lunged forward just as Plotius had thrust his knife towards the Legate’s belly. How the blade had sliced cleanly through the flesh of her upper arm, then penetrated into her very chest.
‘May I see him?’ Atia asked softly. She convulsed with a cough, then cringed.
‘You are in no shape to go anywhere, I am afraid,’ said Shaquilath. ‘My husband has forbidden it.’
‘Your husband?’
Shaquilath held up her hand and opened her fist, and Atia beheld a small diagonal cut in the middle of Shaquilath’s palm. It took Atia several moments to apprehend its meaning: Shaquilath was married to the Legate.
Shaquilath put her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh,’ she said.
‘I will not tell a soul.’
‘I know you will not,’ she said, ‘for I see you have had a similar injury.’ Atia gazed into her own palm. The gash had almost completely healed. She traced her fingers along the small scab that remained and wondered if somewhere Rab was doing the same.
‘The heart knows no borders,’ Atia mused.
Shaquilath smiled. ‘It gives me cause to hope. How long can Romans tax and rob and plunder the Nabataeans if they are also joining souls with them?’ She poured Atia a cup of water. ‘And yet it is that very joining that will ultimately destroy the memory of us.’
‘As long as your great tombs stand, you will be remembered,’ said Atia. She drained the glass.
‘It seems that is our only hope,’ said Shaquilath. She began to unwrap the cloth that had been tied around Atia’s arm. ‘Our beautiful memorials of death will be our eternal life.’
‘Tell me, is Rab is safe?’
‘Yes. He is safe and provided for in a large holding cell not far from here. As you know, my husband has vowed to take no action until your father arrives. After that I cannot say.’
‘Gratitude,’ said Atia, feeling bleak. She imagined the Legate trying to explain to her father why he had not followed orders. He would be fortunate to escape with his life. ‘I will pray for your husband, then,’ Atia said.
‘Gratitude,’ said Shaquilath. ‘I will pray for him, too. He has good intentions for this province...and all of its residents.’
Atia thought of her father and felt bleaker still. Empero
r Hadrian demanded money from the provinces and her father was committed to sending that money at all costs. How could the Nabataeans generate the taxes Rome required without continuing to impoverish regular Nabataeans?
If only they could strike gold somewhere in the desert. Shaquilath lifted Atia’s wrap and slowly removed the bandage around her chest. Atia gazed down at the wound. It was like a great hole in the earth.
An idea came to her. ‘Have you not heard of the copper mines in Wadi Phaeno?’ she asked Shaquilath.
‘I am sorry?’
‘Rab told me that they generated great wealth once.’
‘I have heard of them...’ said Shaquilath.
Atia could see Shaquilath’s mind turning. She applied an oily salve to Atia’s wound and gently pressed a dry cloth against it.
‘I see what you are thinking,’ Shaquilah said at last. ‘To reopen the copper mines and use the profits to pay our taxes to Rome.’
‘The traders would love you for it,’ said Atia. ‘And Rome would be none the wiser.’
‘It is a brilliant idea,’ said Shaquilath. She wrapped a second cloth around Atia’s arm and tied it off. ‘I will tell my husband. We owe you a debt.’
‘Not one that you have not already paid many times over,’ said Atia. ‘But if you wish to help me, I ask for only one thing.’
‘Anything that is in my power.’
Atia lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The key. He cannot do any good from a cell. And I promise you that he will do good.’
Shaquilath drew a breath, then nodded. ‘It will take time.’
Atia glanced at her newly bandaged wound. ‘Time, I have,’ she said.
Shaquilath refilled Atia’s cup of water and then retrieved a small bottle from a shelf. ‘What is that?’ Atia asked.
‘Tears of poppy. They will help with the pain.’
‘No, thank you,’ Atia said. ‘I would prefer to feel the pain.’
‘Are you certain? Your recovery is only just beginning. I can just leave it here if you like—’
Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior Page 21