Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘It appears that way,’ said Plotius.

  ‘I am afraid we are,’ laughed Rab.

  ‘You have both gone mad,’ said Livius.

  ‘I would rather die mad than sane,’ roared Plotius.

  ‘I would rather not die at all!’ shouted Livius.

  Meanwhile, the water had risen to the level of Rab’s knees. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He took a deep breath and thought of Atia.

  And it was as if he conjured her from the very mist.

  ‘Rab, I am here,’ she said in her silken voice. ‘I have come to save you.’

  Rab’s heart ceased to beat. Could it be? In seconds, a face appeared at the small opening in his cell door. ‘This will only take a moment,’ she said.

  A key moved inside the lock and Rab pushed hard against the door, thrusting it open. She tumbled into his arms in a rush of water. ‘Atia!’ he shouted.

  And it was as if the flood was no longer flowing around him, but flowing within him—a flood of love.

  ‘Hello, Husband,’ she said. Her body was convulsing with sobs. Or was that his own body?

  ‘It seems that you have once again saved my life, Wife,’ said Rab.

  ‘You know I would never let a good man die.’

  And in that moment Rab vowed to do anything in his power to be that good man until the end of his days.

  They waded through the rising water and thrust Livius’s door open. ‘Thank all the gods in all the heavens!’ Livius shouted, his tears mixing with the water, which had risen to the level of their chests. ‘We must leave this place now!’

  ‘There is one more prisoner, is there not?’ asked Atia. She pointed at the last closed door. ‘Who lies within?’

  ‘Not a good man,’ said Rab, expecting Plotius to voice his protest. But the former commander stayed silent. Rab gazed into Atia’s eyes. ‘It is Plotius. And it is your choice.’

  Atia shook her head, then thrust the key into the lock.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They had been walking for three days when they finally saw the camel. Though walking was not quite accurate in Atia’s case. To escape Rekem, they had found the highest ground they could and made their way south, scaling cliffs and scrambling over boulders until the torrential rains ceased.

  But Atia could not sustain their pace as they made their way into the night and so the men had taken turns carrying her upon their backs. They hiked relentlessly through the darkness, desperate to put distance between themselves and the search parties who would surely be pursuing them.

  Of the three men, it had been Plotius who had carried Atia the longest. ‘Are you sure you are not tired, Plotius?’ she had asked as the sun rose on the third morning.

  ‘I would carry you to the end of the earth, domina,’ he had said.

  Now a barren plain stretched out before them. In the distance, unusual rock formations made strange shapes against the morning sky. ‘In that case you can put me down now, Plotius,’ said Atia, ‘for I believe that we have arrived at earth’s end.’

  Plotius gently set her on the ground, and she breathed in the rain-crisp air. She bent to the ground and scooped up a sample of earth. It was as orange as the dawn.

  ‘You are becoming Nabataean,’ said Rab, watching the sand slip through Atia’s fingers.

  ‘I should hope so, since we are presently marching into the very heart of Nabataean rebel territory.’

  Rab cringed. ‘That was a very Roman thing to say.’

  ‘Ah, no!’ she said. ‘May Venus—I mean Uzza—forgive me!’

  ‘Much better,’ he said, then tossed her a kiss through the air.

  She had missed this—their light-hearted banter. She had longed for it almost as much as she had longed to feel his arms around her. And yet she worried that they might soon part ways for ever.

  The night before, Rab had announced his plan to lead them to the largest of the rebel camps, which lay in a particularly desolate area by the name of Wadi Iram. ‘There is really no other choice if we wish to survive,’ Rab had explained. ‘The camp is well provisioned, though I need not tell you that its existence must remain a secret.’

  After almost two days without food, the thought of any provisions at all was welcome, and Atia and her Roman companions vowed on their lives never to reveal its location.

  ‘Will we not be killed on sight?’ asked Plotius.

  ‘Not if I say otherwise,’ said Rab with easy authority. ‘Besides, it is a violation of Nabataean honour to deny a person sanctuary in the desert—no matter who they are.’

  Atia sensed that Rab was looking for more than sanctuary, however. The deeper they travelled into Wadi Iram, the lighter his mood, as if he was looking forward to rejoining his brothers in arms.

  As if he could not wait to resume their bloody work.

  It was her greatest fear. If Rab meant to continue to lead the Nabataean rebellion, then Atia would have to let him go. She could never again be a part of the pursuit that had resulted in the slaughter that day on the beach.

  ‘Just a day and a half more of walking and we will be there,’ Rab was saying. He was pointing at an outcropping of stone so far in the distance that it seemed to blur in a layer of liquid heat.

  But there was movement inside the heat. Atia squinted her eyes. Yes, just there. A tall, loping figure was emerging from it, as if conjured from the desert itself. Atia blinked.

  ‘Rab?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘Can a mirage move? I mean, on four legs?’

  ‘What?’

  Saying nothing, Atia pointed at the figure, which was growing larger by the minute.

  Rab squinted at the rider emerging into view. ‘No, it couldn’t be,’ he muttered.

  By the time Atia recognised the boy, Rab was running towards him with his arms spread open.

  ‘Rab?’ said the youth, swinging down from his tall camel with catlike agility.

  ‘Zaidu!’ Rab shouted.

  The reunion was as exuberant as it was tearful, and soon Rab had mounted the camel behind Zaidu and vowed to return.

  * * *

  After only a few hours, Rab and Zaidu came loping back across the desert with a small herd of camels. ‘One for each of you,’ cried Zaidu. He grinned playfully. ‘So we can race.’

  And race they did—across a flat, lifeless plain dotted with haunting, massive stone formations that seemed to float like giant ships in a barren sea. They rounded one of the stony ships and made their way up a small canyon.

  They turned, then turned again, as if inside a maze. Finally, they emerged into a large flat area surrounded on all sides by cliffs. A natural fortress.

  At least a thousand men and an equal number of camels were camped within its protective rock walls, and Atia wondered how they could survive in such a stark place. The answer to her question lay just beyond the men at the base of the rocks. There, clusters of luxurious date palms basked around the unlikeliest of sights—a lake.

  There was water flowing into the lake from above. It was being conducted in vertical channels down the cliff face in one of the strangest, most beautiful sights Atia had ever seen.

  ‘You asked to see the secret water,’ said Rab. ‘Here is one such place.’

  Atia, Plotius and Livius laid out their bed mats at the outer edge of camp. ‘You will not be bothered,’ said Rab. ‘I have ordered my men to treat you as guests.’

  Atia marvelled as Rab walked among the rebel soldiers, shaking hands and slapping backs. The men treated him with the respect afforded an honoured leader, but the expressions on their faces as they greeted him betrayed something more: love.

  Atia’s spirit swelled, then collapsed. Her husband was a great leader, or so it seemed. The men appeared as though they might do anything for him. Including killing.

  ‘We must sleep apart
tonight,’ said Rab as they sat together around their small campfire that night.

  ‘Of course,’ said Atia.

  It was the perfect opportunity for a jest. She could have said that she expected it, but she did not have to like it. She could have gazed across the fire at her fellow Romans and said, ‘One of them will do just as well.’ She might have jested that she would try not to call out Rab’s name in her sleep.

  There were many ways she could have kept the conversation alive, but instead she let it die. Her humours were all out of balance. Dread was slowly eclipsing the love inside her heart.

  He was going to go back to his war against Rome.

  He was the heir to the Nabataean throne, by the gods. Why wouldn’t he? Did she think he would simply renounce his mission and travel off with her into the desert? She understood better than most the obligations that came with such high levels of leadership. And the sacrifices.

  The tiny flames sputtered and she dared to lean against him—one of the few expressions of love she had allowed herself since their reunion. Now she feared it might be one of the last.

  ‘Rab!’ she said suddenly. She lifted her head, sucked the air. How had she forgotten? ‘I never told you about the revelation I had.’

  ‘Revelation?’

  ‘About your father’s last words. About the elephants!’

  * * *

  The next morning, Atia awoke to the sound of men’s footsteps shuffling in the sand. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The rebels were gathering below a cliffy sandstone ledge above the camp. A tall, muscular man was stepping on to a naturally flat part of the rock above them. He wore a flowing white robe and matching ghutrah, and as he lifted his arms, he appeared as venerable and strong as a Roman Emperor.

  ‘Greetings, Brothers!’ he pronounced to a spate of cheers. ‘I stand before you today as a proud man, for I see the Nabataean spirit alive and well among you.’

  It was Rab—or Prince Rabbel, as he was known. Atia’s husband. The love of her life.

  The Prince of the Nabataeans.

  Atia marvelled at his poise as he stood before his men, who seemed to grow taller themselves as their leader praised them. ‘Together we are more than what we are alone,’ he was telling them, ‘and I am fortified by the certainty that we will accomplish much in the coming months.’

  The men erupted in another round of cheers and Atia moved quietly across the camp to join them.

  ‘But it is the nature of our endeavour I wish to speak to you about now,’ continued Rab, ‘for I have recently understood it in a different way.’ Rab paused and gazed at the cloudless sky, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘As you know, I have long burned with anger towards my father, the late King Rabbel. I have never been able to understand why he gave up our precious kingdom without a fight.’

  Grunts of anger and assent rippled through the crowd.

  ‘I am speaking to you now because I believe I have my answer.’

  Rab paused significantly and the men quieted. ‘In order to convey this answer, I shall relate a story that I only very recently learned.’ Rab scanned the crowd and somehow found Atia. He gave her a slow, reverent nod. ‘It is the true story of a Greek seaman named Hippalus. Now, this seaman was restless and also very curious. He traded successfully along the shores of Arabia, but always wondered if it would be possible to cross to India.

  ‘Hippalus noticed that in summer the wind blew east across the Indian Sea, while in winter it blew west. So one summer day, he risked his life and set out across the open sea, faithful that the east wind would carry him. A month later he found himself very much alive and arriving in the port of Barygaza, India. He returned to Arabia the following winter with a caravan’s worth of Indian frankincense and spices, which he ferried all the way to Pelusium for half the cost of the overland caravan route.’

  Rab paused while his men absorbed the statement. They were exchanging quiet looks of horror.

  ‘I do not need to tell you what those convenient winds stand to do to our lucrative frankincense trade. It is just a matter of time, Brothers.’

  There was a long silence. Several of the men glanced wistfully at their camels.

  ‘When I learned of Hippalus’s discovery,’ Rab continued, ‘I finally understood my father’s last words. As he lay dying, he told me not to forget the elephants. For many years I believed him to be mad, but now I understand what he was trying to say. You see, my father visited India several times during his reign, and what he loved most were its elephants. To my father, elephants were not just from the land of India, they represented the land of India itself.

  ‘Brothers, what my father was trying to tell me was that the golden age of Nabataea is over. The overland trade routes to southern Arabia that once sustained us are being overtaken by routes to India from the sea. My father did not wish to give up Nabataean lives to protect a kingdom that was already doomed.’

  The men whispered among themselves and shifted on their feet. ‘This cannot be,’ someone said.

  ‘But it is,’ said another. ‘My cousin works on one of the ships that Prince Rabbel describes. They are not subject to Roman taxes. They are making a fortune.’

  ‘It does not change the past,’ said someone. ‘The Romans stole our kingdom. We must take it back.’

  ‘But we can never take it back. For every one of us there are thirty of them.’

  ‘We must make trouble for the Romans, then!’ shouted another. ‘Endless, debilitating trouble!’

  The loudest voices in the crowd seemed to be growing angrier with Rab. But Atia heard several men whispering together about the late King Rabbel. ‘Perhaps he was not such a coward after all.’

  Rab was rubbing the inside of his palm. Atia could see him tracing the length of his wedding scar. He took a breath and continued.

  ‘So far I have told you what our great King wished to be known,’ said Rab. ‘Now I will tell you what I wish to be known. Over the past months, I have come to know Roman soldiers.’ He glanced at the figure of Plotius, still slumbering at the edge of camp. ‘I can say that there is an emptiness in their hearts that we can scarcely understand. Killing is their profession, you see. It is like trading for us. They are raised to do it. It is all they know.’

  Rab scanned the crowd. ‘If we fight the Romans, our souls will grow as empty as theirs.’ Rab paused, letting the men consider his words.

  ‘I know this because in my thirteen years of hating Romans, my soul grew empty and I did not even know it. I was fortunate, though, for the gods sent me someone who filled it back up again.’ Rab caught Atia’s gaze once again. And it was not desire or lust she saw burning inside his eyes this time. It was love.

  ‘Brothers,’ he continued, ‘we must not let the injustices of the past fuel our anger. We must continue to work for change, but we must do it from the inside out. If we continue to kill, we are no better than killers. We must be better than our oppressors. We are all equal beneath this vast sky are we not? Well?’

  About half of the men shouted in unison, ‘Yes!’

  ‘I stand before you today to propose that we disband,’ said Rab. ‘Let us distribute the wealth we have accumulated among ourselves and let it fund works that will improve Nabataean lives. Let us cease our work of violence and approach the challenge before us in the true spirit of Nabataea—that of peace and equality. It is only by passing on the values we cherish that our greatness will live on.’ Rab bowed his head and raised his hands. ‘I leave the matter with you,’ he said.

  Rab stepped backwards on his ledge and bowed his head while the men clustered into groups and began to talk. Atia listened closely as the men exchanged views and tried to persuade one another of their positions. Each man was given plenty of time to speak and she recognised many of the rhetorical techniques used by Roman Senators. Pure democracy, thought Atia. In the wilds of Arabia.

  The groups appear
ed to take votes, then gradually grew quiet. A man from one of the groups dropped to his knees. ‘We elect to follow your will, Prince Rabbel,’ he said and bowed his head. Another man followed, then another. Soon all the men were on their knees bowing in agreement to Rab. Only Atia was left standing.

  Then, slowly, Rab, too, bent to his knees and bowed. To Atia.

  * * *

  The camp had been abuzz for the rest of the day as the riches of the war chest were distributed and the men packed their provisions and made their plans. Many had set off that very afternoon. The rest waited for the light of the following morning to ride off on their camels, though there were some who lingered well into mid-morning.

  ‘Let me guess where you are going, Livius,’ said Atia. She closed her eyes and pretended to think. ‘Perhaps to a certain tent in the hills east of the Bitumen Lake?’

  ‘How on earth did you guess?’

  ‘I have a nose for these things,’ Atia said with a wink.

  ‘I suppose that we did find me a way back to her,’ mused Livius, ‘though I never guessed it would involve becoming a renegade.’ She could see Livius’s sense of duty at war with his pulsing heart.

  ‘It is quite possible that Rab will be pardoned,’ said Atia, ‘and in that case you will be, too.’

  ‘And what on earth would make you think that?’ Livius asked.

  ‘I have a feeling that this province will be getting a new governor soon,’ said Atia.

  Livius’s expression changed. ‘I will await that happy day. And in the meantime I will count myself fortunate that I will not be the only renegade in my party.’

  ‘Or even the highest-ranking renegade,’ said Plotius. He was tightening the straps of his camel.

  Livius gave Plotius a mock salute. ‘The Commander speaks truth.’

  Atia grinned. ‘I see that the Commander has also learned to appreciate the merits of a camel,’ she said.

  ‘I have learned to appreciate more than just that,’ Plotius said. He gave Atia a low bow. ‘I only hope that one day you will be able to forgive me,’ he said.