Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior
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Rab struggled to his feet. ‘You drugged me.’ It seemed she was drugging him still—with that cursed, silken voice.
‘I helped you sleep,’ she said.
‘A sleep of the dead.’
‘I gave you the gift of peace.’
He gripped the bars of his cell. ‘A strange way to describe a poppy haze.’
She tilted her head at him in that careless, haughty way of Romans, but he noticed a throbbing pulse in the side of her neck. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Was it possible that she felt it, too? This strange pull between them?
‘I was ordered to give you the poppy tears,’ she said. ‘I had no choice.’
Pulse, pulse, pulse. Her neck was pale, as was the rest of her. He imagined she spent most of her life indoors. She probably wasted hours each morning anointing herself with expensive oils and perfumes just like all Roman women of her station.
He imagined her seated at her makeup table gazing into her copper mirror. The vision should have angered him: it was the picture of Roman decadence. But instead he thought of her lovely auburn hair hanging at her shoulders—free of its ties and buns. He wondered how long it took her to comb.
He released his grip on the bars and ran his hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? He had every reason to doubt this woman and no reason at all to be imagining her at her makeup table.
‘The poppy tears dulled your rage,’ she explained.
He shook his head—which only increased its pounding—and tried to revive his indignation. ‘Drugging a man is no way to dull his rage. When the rage returns it is stronger than before.’
She shook her head, having none of it. ‘The drugging of prisoners is a common practice. It softens their tongues.’
‘You speak like a damned politician,’ he said. Though she did not look like one. She looked like one of those lavish Roman goddesses sculpted from the sandstone.
‘I am a politician’s daughter.’
‘As if that is all there is to you.’
She cocked her head. ‘What do you mean by that?’
What did he mean by that? ‘I mean that you do not seem quite as heartless as a politician.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘I assure you that I am very heartless.’
‘You sneaked my nephew a corner of bread.’
She frowned, as if unsure of what to make of the comment, and seemed to decide to dismiss it entirely. ‘As soon as you agree to apologise to my father, your nephew and the camel will be released.’
Zaidu’s freedom in exchange for an apology? It sounded too good to be true. ‘How can I trust you?’ he asked.
‘You have no choice but to trust me,’ she said. ‘If you can perform your apology with enough conviction, my father may decide to release you as well.’
‘What do you mean, perform?’
‘You must take the knee before him and speak your apology with great humility,’ she said.
‘So your father wishes to humiliate me before his guests?’
‘He wishes to demonstrate his clemency as Governor.’
‘He wishes to flatter himself.’
‘What does it matter, as long as your nephew is released?’
Rab felt vaguely ill. The last thing he had ever imagined doing was asking forgiveness of a Roman governor. But Zaidu’s safety—nay, his very life—was at risk.
‘Fine. I will do it,’ he said.
‘You will?’
Was he mistaken, or was that a smile ghosting her lips?
She motioned to the three guards standing nearby. They took positions behind her as she produced a key from the belt of her tunic. She unlocked the barred door and stepped into Rab’s cell.
Her perfume swirled around him—some wicked mixture of honey and myrrh. He breathed it in, despite himself, and stole another glance at her neck. It was pulsing faster than ever. It seemed to be keeping time with his own beating heart.
‘Drink this,’ she said. She motioned to one of the guards, who held out a water bag.
Rab nearly exploded with laughter. ‘Do you think me that much of a fool?’
The woman’s expression was all innocence. ‘I vow that the water inside this bag is clean and unaltered.’
‘And I am the King of Babylon.’
Her eyes flashed and there it was again—that ghost of a smile. Why did it please him so much to see it?
‘I understand your hesitation,’ she said, recovering her stony façade.
‘My hesitation?’ He gazed at the poison-filled leather serpent dangling before him. ‘Have you always had such a gift for understatement?’
‘I am not proud that I drugged you,’ she said. ‘But I promise that I shall not drug you again. I would never compromise the moment this evening when you kiss my father’s signet ring.’
‘Kiss his ring?’ Rab echoed, feeling the room begin to spin. He pressed his arm against the wall.
‘Dizziness is a common side effect of poppy tears,’ she observed. She gazed wistfully at the floor. ‘And, of course, a craving for more poppy tears.’
‘I am afraid I feel no such craving,’ he shot back.
‘That is well, for this water contains no such medicine.’ She took the bag from the guard and thrust it beneath his nose. ‘Drink,’ she demanded and then, more gently, ‘and afterwards we shall witness your nephew freed.’
And thus the battle was over almost before it began. Witness Zaidu freed? Rab tipped the bag into his mouth and drank down every last drop.
Moments later, they were standing on the rampart of the fort, watching Zaidu’s small figure lead the white camel back to Bostra. Rab felt a weight slowly lifting from his chest.
He knew that in less than an hour, Zaidu would walk through the big cedar doors of their family’s home and be greeted by his three sisters, who would shower him with love and care. Zaidu would explain that Rab had been captured and the news would spread to those who needed to know. Rab was certain that a rescue party would come for him. But even if one did not, the work would go on. That was all that mattered.
‘Come, let us prepare you for the banquet,’ the woman said. She was standing beside him—not an arm’s length away—and he stole another glance at her neck. Pulse, pulse, pulse.
* * *
She walked ahead of Rab and the guards across the fort’s central courtyard. Soon they stood before an elegant, columned building gleaming pink in the late afternoon light. As he stepped inside the towering structure, Rab found himself surrounded by brightly painted frescoes and unnatural heat.
‘The guards will stay with you while you bathe,’ the woman explained. ‘I will leave your undertunic and toga in the dressing room and await you here in the entry hall. Go now.’
She was gone before Rab could protest and soon he was sitting naked inside a hot, luxurious, marble bath, sweating layers of dirt and blood from his skin.
All around him were signs of opulence. Fine glass pitchers. Thick, embroidered towels. Water ladles inlaid with precious stones. Rab scraped the fine bronze strigil along his oiled limbs and gazed up at the high, stained-glass windows. Their light poured down in pools of colour on to the new marble floor.
He might have been impressed. The Romans were excellent builders and baths like this one were among the most lavish in the world—true palaces of leisure. But Rab could not bring himself to relax, for he knew the source of all this gaudy wealth.
Taxes. Nabataean taxes, to be precise, stolen from every Nabataean trader and merchant from Bostra to Rekem.
Rab gazed at the gilded rail leading into the hot pool and envisioned the camel-loads of frankincense that had surely purchased it. Twenty per cent. That is what the Roman tax collectors took from every load, thus robbing the Nabataean incense traders of virtually all their profit. In the thirteen years since the Romans had come, the richest Nabataean traders had become paupers. Many were now so desperate that they had gone on to the Roman bread dole.
Twenty per cent. The Romans made it sound trifling—the price of acquisition, they called it. As if it had little impact on Nabataean lives. As if it had not slowly, systematically, fleeced the Nabataeans of their wealth and greatness. He scraped a bronze strigil along his bruised limbs a little too roughly. ‘Twenty per cent,’ he muttered. Reason enough for a fight.
The lamp flickered. It was too damned hot. He needed to get out of this cursed bath. He dropped his strigil and pushed past the guards. ‘Stop!’ called one, though Rab could hardly hear him as he strode down the hall to the dressing room, where he thrust aside a chair and crashed into something soft.
Or someone, rather.
‘Titans of Olympus!’ she gasped, stumbling backwards. He saw a blush creep up her neck and his stomach leapt with an unwelcome lust. Against his will, he stepped towards her.
‘You might have announced yourself,’ she protested, stepping backwardss.
‘In the men’s changing room?’ he asked.
She was sweating. Her lovely robe was clinging to her breasts, emphasising their shape. He felt his desire begin to rise.
‘I told you I would leave your clothing here,’ she said. Her voice was unusually thick. ‘You might have remembered that.’
‘I apologise for my poor memory,’ he said, sounding in no way apologetic. He saw her eyes range across his naked chest and then turn away. She took another step backwards.
‘Why did you leave the bath so soon?’ she asked.
‘The gleam of gold began to sting my eyes,’ he said, stepping forward.
‘Where are the guards?’
‘On their way, I’m sure.’
He was now only a few steps away from her, yet it was not close enough. He could feel the fullness of his desire and puzzled over how quickly he had lost command of himself. Here he was, standing before the enemy—captured, powerless, naked—yet all he wanted was to get closer to her.
‘Please, robe yourself!’ she commanded, keeping her eyes carefully locked with his. ‘Your toga is just there.’
‘Where?’ he asked and, when she turned to indicate the toga, he saw her eyes slide down the length of him and behold his naked form once again.
The entirety of it.
And for one unexpectedly satisfying moment he saw her heavy lids disappear and her eyes open wide.
Chapter Four
The guards burst into the dressing room and seized the camel man by his arms. ‘Robe him!’ Atia shouted as she pushed back through the doorway and out into the main hall.
She felt as if she had just escaped a burning building. She fanned herself with her hand and began to pace. Did the man have no shame? But the question was unfair. Once inside the baths, men were not required to remain clothed. Still, he had appeared almost triumphant as he watched her take in the vision of him.
And what a vision it was, in truth. So much glowing bronze flesh. So much taut, sinewy muscle. He had seemed taller without the trappings of cloth and there was a solidity to him that she had not perceived before. His arms bulged, his chest sprawled, his thighs were as thick as logs and between them...
She stopped pacing. Shook her head. It was not as if she had not seen a man’s desire before. After three marriages, she had long since learned to dread the sight, for it meant only one thing: submission to her wifely duties.
And yet now her mind wanted nothing but to consider that large, fascinating blur of flesh that she knew many men would call a blessing. Many women, too, she thought wryly.
By holy Minerva, why was she even thinking of such a thing? She was the Governor’s daughter. She was supposed to be a model of modesty and decorum. She gazed up at the hall’s high ceiling where an image of the goddess Juno floated in diaphanous robes. The goddess held two pomegranates in her hands, as if weighing them. Her cool expression seemed full of judgement.
‘It was not my doing,’ Atia explained to the placid goddess. What was not her doing? The toga? The bath? The unreasonable attraction she felt towards a man whom her father suspected to be a rebel? ‘It is not my fault,’ she muttered weakly to the goddess. ‘He trespassed the boundaries of propriety.’
Though to be fair, it was Atia who had trespassed on him.
She returned to pacing. It was not just his nudity that had unnerved her. In addition to his highly improper display of flesh, there had been that look in his eye—the same one he had flashed when they had first met and then again when he had called her beautiful.
Strange things had happened to her body all three times he had looked at her that way. Heat had pulsed through her, followed by a kind of melting feeling and a weakness in her legs. It was as if his very gaze had the power to cook her—to turn her limbs into noodles and her insides into bubbling polentum.
They bubbled even now, just remembering that look. And then there was that barely detectable smile that she saw traverse his lips just afterwards. It was as if he knew she admired him.
As if he believed that, in some small way, he had conquered her.
Ha! He had done no such thing. He was her father’s prisoner! How could he have any power over her at all? His life was not even his own. Nay, if she felt anything for him at all, it was pity.
In that instant, she heard the door to the men’s changing room swing open. She turned to discover him striding towards her, the flowing white toga virilis draped elegantly around his body. Her stomach turned over on itself. If she had believed that the trappings of clothing would erase his appeal, she had been woefully mistaken.
By the gods, he was well made. Even the draping toga could not conceal his finely sculpted strength. The flowing fabric hung from his broad left shoulder and swept beneath his right arm, revealing the contours of his chest through his snug-fitting undertunic. As he walked, the heavy woollen garments seemed to whisper across the floor.
Pity. Deep, abiding pity, she reminded herself as he planted himself before her and nearly slew her with his gaze.
‘You wish to make me into a Roman,’ he growled.
He did look rather Roman—with all his pursing lips and broad-shouldered arrogance. Closely trimmed beards such as his had become popular among the equestrian class recently and even his long black hair was of the latest Roman fashion. It brushed the tops of his shoulders, giving him a carelessly regal appearance—like a scholar fresh from the baths.
‘The toga suits you,’ Atia observed. She studied the creases of the garment’s folds, careful not to meet his gaze.
‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’
‘It is merely an observation.’
‘The toga is a mockery,’ he said, swatting the air.
‘It is not my doing,’ she said, though she had no idea why it seemed important to clarify. ‘My father wanted you to be presentable at the banquet. He has also asked me to learn your name.’
‘Ha!’ the man scoffed. ‘What else did he ask for? My domicile? My sandal size? The breed and lineage of my finest camel?’
The humour of the statement struck them both at once and they chuckled together.
What was this strange thing between them, this laughter? And when had his dark eyes acquired that glint of gold?
‘Rab,’ he said at length.
‘What?’
‘Your father wished for you to learn my name. It is Rab.’
‘As in Rabbel? The last Nabataean King?’
‘Half the men in Arabia are named Rabbel,’ he said absently.
‘Are they indeed?’ Atia said, though she was barely listening. She had become distracted by Sol, the Roman sun god. His long arms were stretching through the bathhouse doorway, staining Rab’s face with golden light.
‘Rabbel was a popular king,’ Rab added, ‘though not any more.’
‘And who is your father, Rab?’ she asked, for her own father had commanded her to find this out as well. ‘And what is your father’s profession?’
Say he is a farmer, or a herder. Let him be of no political interest. A nobody.
Rab paused and gazed at the ceiling. ‘My father was a man called Junon. Before his death he was...a pomegranate farmer.’
Atia exhaled. A nobody, then. A glorious, unassailable nobody. ‘Come then, Rab, son of Junon, farmer of pomegranates,’ she said. ‘We must prepare you for your performance.’
She glanced over his shoulder at the guards. ‘Please await us outside.’
The three men exchanged looks and Atia knew she had just made a grave error. The guards would certainly notify her father of the unusual command. Atia would have to devise some story to explain it. But not now. Now was about preparing Rab to preserve his own life. With Fortuna’s favour, he might even earn his freedom.
‘If my father senses insincerity in your apology tonight, he will punish you further,’ she said. ‘You must believe me in this, for I have seen it before. He demands a moving performance.’
‘He wants theatre?’
Atia sighed. ‘All banquets are political and all politics are theatrical,’ she said.
‘You speak in knots,’ he said.
‘Just give me your best apology and let us see if it will suffice.’
Rab cleared his throat. ‘Honourable Governor Magnus Atius Severus of Arabia Petraea, I, Rab, son of Junon, do beg your forgiveness for the harm done to your person by my camel and I pledge my loyalty to Rome. Good?’
‘Beyond terrible.’
Rab frowned.
‘Your words are too terse and your demeanour far too proud. Just look at how you hold yourself. In that toga, I might have mistaken you for Augustus himself.’
A sly smile spread across Rab’s face and he puffed out his chest comically.
‘It is not a compliment,’ Atia warned. ‘You must hunch your shoulders and hang your head low. Do not appear comfortable in that garment. Appear as if you feel unworthy of it.’
Rab gave a dismissive grunt.
‘I do not think you understand what is at stake,’ Atia said. ‘My father wishes to humiliate you and receive your submission. If he is not satisfied, he will pursue other means.’
‘What means?’
‘He will take a finger, Rab. Or a toe. He will have you disrobed, or thrust your arm into the snake charmer’s basket. I have seen all these things happen to slaves and prisoners who have come before my father at banquets. He likes to put on an entertaining show.’
The colour left his cheeks. He paced away from her, his silence betraying his fear. Good, Atia thought. He should be afraid. Only the gods knew what manner of humiliation her father planned for him.
‘And as for the nature of your apology,’ she continued, ‘you must make it as detailed and elaborate as possible. Sorry is not enough—you must fawn and you must beg.’
She watched him cringe. ‘You must bury your true feelings deep. Watch me now and listen closely.’
Atia dropped to her knees and assumed her most miserable expression. ‘Honourable Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore Magnus Atius Severus,’ she said. ‘I come to this banquet in the manner of a lowly dog. I am embarrassed, ashamed, contrite. I sit on your couches, I eat your oysters, I avail myself of your endless generosity, yet I deserve none of this.’ Atia sat back on her heels. ‘Do you see? Now continue where I left off.’
Rab gave his shoulders an exaggerated hunch. ‘Honourable Governor, I stand before you as a beggar, a sand-scratcher, a worm. A fly on the back of the world’s ugliest toad. The stinking excrement of the lowliest jackal in the foulest—’
‘Perhaps a bit less description,’ Atia interrupted, suppressing a grin.
Rab nodded gravely. ‘Only two days ago, my camel did the unthinkable. The mindless beast thrust out his wretched leg and crushed your own. It was a crime for which both beast and owner deserve the worst of punishments. And yet you, Honourable Governor, in your magnificent mercy, have allowed us to live.’
‘Better,’ said Atia. ‘Now drop to your knees.’
Rab dropped to his knees before her and she felt a wave of heat pulse through her body. Now they were kneeling before one another with half-an-arm’s length between them. The bubbling in her stomach returned with new force.
She gulped a breath and willed herself to focus. ‘You must speak your apology with great humility,’ she advised. ‘Ideally, you must begin to cry, but only if you can produce real tears.’
‘It will be difficult enough to hide my disgust.’
‘You must not simply hide your disgust, you must swallow it whole,’ said Atia, ‘and after your apology, you must declare your loyalty to Rome...with thunderous enthusiasm.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘You wish for me to raise a cheer, then? Summon the trumpets?’
She frowned. His arrogance was exasperating. He certainly did not comport himself like the son of a pomegranate farmer.
‘Senatus Populus Que Romanus,’ he was saying now. ‘I have come here to pronounce my loyalty to Rome. First I shall perform a Roman salute, followed by a prayer to Magna Mater. Then I shall recite a few lines from the Aeneid.’ He arched a brow and it was all she could do not to laugh.
‘You will say none of those things—lest my father throw you to the lions!’
‘Just the lions?’ He was making light of her advice, but his words had grown edges. Beneath all his bluster, she knew he was afraid.
‘After your apology, you should straighten your posture and lift your chin thusly.’ She tilted her head so that her face gazed up at his. ‘Then passionately declare your loyalty to Rome.’
‘I am beginning to understand the nature of this drama,’ he said.
‘And that is?’
‘A debased, uncivilised Nabataean man is transformed by his submission to Rome.’
She did not deny it.
‘And if I do not wish to be your father’s performer?’
‘You risk losing more than your dignity,’ she said.
Rab exhaled mightily, then rose to his feet. ‘I declare my complete and undying loyalty to Rome,’ he said, his rich, gravely voice resounding against the marble. ‘For Rome’s greatest Governor has lifted me from squalor and shown me mercy.’
‘Bravo,’ she said, feeling unreasonably happy. ‘You have learned the dance.’
He flashed a begrudging grin and extended his hand down to her and when she rose to her feet it was as if they were really dancing.
‘If Fortuna wills it, you will walk free tomorrow,’ she said. If Fortuna willed it, this would be the last time they would ever speak again.
‘You do me a kindness,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘I find it...tedious to watch other people suffer.’
‘I am grateful to you,’ he said. She noticed that he had not released her hand. She glanced at the floor, unsure of how to respond. ‘Truly,’ he said, willing her to look at him again. ‘I owe you a debt.’
Atia blinked. Obviously he was trying to win her favour again. What prisoner ever expressed gratitude to his captor?
‘Yes, that is it,’ she said. ‘That is the tone of sincerity you must strive to convey.’
He lowered his voice. ‘It is not a tone. I am sincere.’
What a strange thing for him to say. But of course you are not sincere, she wished to tell him. You are a prisoner. You will say anything to engineer your escape.
‘When you stand before my father tonight you must work hard to veil your thoughts,’ she said. Meanwhile, her own thoughts had begun to run riot.
‘You appear to know quite a lot about the veiling of thoughts,’ he observed. He squeezed her hand. There was very little distance between them now. She could smell his clean olive scent.
‘Yes, I believe I am something of an expert in that particular skill,’ she admitted.
She had been veiling her thoughts all her life, in truth—from a father who used her, from husbands who despised her, even from her own awareness. Thoughts were dangerous, because they always led to pain. ‘If my thoughts are concealed, they cannot be used against me,’ she said.
‘And yet perhaps you are not so very adept at concealment as you think,’ he whispered. She glanced at his lips, the bottom lip so much larger than the top, like a pillow upon which she might lay her secrets.