Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior. Greta Gilbert

hitting her now—a great rush of them. They cooled her limbs and flooded her mind with bliss. She began to laugh. How little any of it mattered, she thought. In forty days she would likely be dead.

      Her laughter bubbled over the couch and flowed out into the dining room, mixing with the chords of a lute and catching the attention of her father, whose raised couch gave him full view of the room. His arm was a blur of movement. It was almost as if he was motioning to Atia.

      Atia’s heart took a plunge. He was motioning to her. She ceased her laughter. Her head swirled. She could hardly stand upright in such a state, let alone face her father. Yet she knew she did not have a choice. She stood and steadied herself, then smoothed her stola and crossed the room.

      ‘Good evening, Father,’ she said, squatting at the side of his couch. She struggled to gather her wits.

      ‘May I ask what is so funny?’

      ‘I was just speaking with Lydia,’ Atia said. ‘About sleeping on the roof!’ Her father gripped her wrist and pulled her close.

      ‘You are cold.’ He searched her eyes. ‘You have indulged in tears of the poppy.’

      ‘Just a few drops. To relieve my headache.’

      His grip on her wrist grew tighter. ‘They cloud your judgement. They make you even weaker.’

      ‘Yes, Father.’

      He released her wrist. ‘The guards tell me that you asked for time alone with the camel man this afternoon. Why?’

      Here it was—the moment she had been dreading. ‘To gain his confidence,’ Atia stated. ‘For further interrogation.’

      ‘And what did you discover in your time alone with him?’

      Atia paused. She felt as if she were balancing on some invisible rope. ‘He claims his father was a pomegranate farmer.’

      ‘That is all?’

      ‘He was very tight-lipped.’

      Her father scowled. ‘Did you at least discover his name?’

      ‘Rabbel. He goes by Rab.’

      ‘Rab, son of...?’

      ‘Junon.’

      ‘Junon? What kind of a name is that?’ Her father paused. ‘Ah, it is as I suspected, then.’

      As he suspected? What exactly did he suspect? Atia could not think. A panic was rising inside her. It was mixing with the softness of the drug, making her dizzy and confused. Her mind seized on a vision of Rab cowering in his cell, his bright new toga stained with his own blood. ‘What will you do with him?’ she asked.

      Her father only shook his head. ‘You have grown too attached to the tears, Atia. But that will soon be remedied.’

      ‘Father?’

      But he motioned her away and Atia could do nothing but plaster a smile on her face and make her way back through the dining room to Lydia, her heart filling with dread.

      Remedied? Did he plan to take away her poppy tears? Gods, no, not that.

      ‘Make way for the prisoner,’ announced a herald.

      The crowd parted and there was Rab’s hunched figure standing at the entrance to the dining room. Behind him stood a host of guards.

      Atia’s father made a show of hoisting his injured leg on to a footrest. ‘You may approach, prisoner,’ he said.

      Rab reached the base of the dais in a few long strides. He bowed his head.

      ‘Tell me, prisoner, what category of audacity compels you to present yourself at this elite gathering?’ asked her father.

      Rab shook his head and studied the floor. ‘Forgive me, Honourable Governor. I am as a dog who prowls at a lion’s banquet. I embarrass myself.’

      There was a smattering of laughter and her father nodded gamely. ‘You are worse than a dog, Camel Man. By allowing your camel to injure me you have placed the well-being of this province at risk. You are a menace.’ He stomped his good leg on the floor and Rab wisely jumped.

      ‘That is why I have come to apologise,’ Rab continued, ‘for guilt consumes me and I fear the judgement of the gods. But mostly I fear your judgement, Good Governor, for despite the atrocity of my actions you have granted me mercy.’

      Her father was pressing his fingers together—a good sign. ‘Go on.’

      ‘I am but a witless, humble cameleer and I curse the day that, in my ignorance, I ordered my camel to deliver the kick that resulted in your injury. Had I known that I was in the presence of the Governor of this great Roman province, I would have rolled beneath the offending hoof myself.’

      He was doing well. He had heeded Atia’s advice. The audience was looking on with sympathetic interest and her father was nodding gravely. It seemed quite possible that Rab would emerge with his freedom.

      ‘And that is why I beg your forgiveness,’ Rab was concluding. He fell to his knees. ‘I do not deserve it, just as I do not deserve this fine toga, which in your generosity you have seen fit to provide. Please, Honourable Governor, forgive me, if only so that I may spend the rest of my days singing your praises.’

      Atia’s father paused dramatically. ‘You fail to mention my greatest mercy, Camel Man.’

      Atia saw Rab’s eyes search the floor. She held her breath. ‘My nephew,’ said Rab at last. ‘In your mercy you released my young nephew. And for that I thank you, Honourable Governor.’

      ‘It was a pleasure to release the youth,’ said Atia’s father. ‘My guards followed him all the way to your home east of Bostra, just to ensure his safety. It is a fine home for one such as yourself. Two floors, a big garden. Beautiful acacia trees.’

      Rab’s eyes flew open.

      ‘Oh, I know much about you, Rabbel, son of Junon,’ continued her father. ‘What I do not know is where your loyalties lie.’

      Rab swayed on his knees, as if he had just received a blow. ‘Ah, with you, Honourable Governor,’ he said, recovering himself. ‘With you and with Rome.’

      Atia’s stomach twisted into a knot. She had not prepared Rab for threats to his family. ‘Then you would not deny your Governor a request?’

      ‘I—’ Rab glanced at Atia. ‘I would do anything in my power to fulfil it.’

      ‘Tell me, have you heard of the Nabataean tax thieves?’

      ‘I have not.’

      Atia’s father gave a theatrical harrumph and his guests tittered. ‘I find that hard to believe, Camel Man,’ he continued, ‘but since you claim ignorance, I will enlighten you. Every month for the past year, the caravan that conveys the Roman tax payment from Rekem to Bostra has been robbed along New Trajan’s Way. We believe the thieves are using the riches to fund the Nabataean rebels.’

      ‘Fools!’ cried someone from the audience.

      ‘Fools indeed, but as a result the rebel army has grown bolder,’ said Atia’s father. ‘Two Roman tax collectors were killed just last week. And we all know about the attack on the Rekem contubernium.’

      There was a collective sigh. Just two months before, a squad of ten Roman soldiers had been killed on their way from Rekem to Bostra. ‘New Trajan’s Way is no longer secure,’ continued Atia’s father. ‘I assume you know the alternative routes, Camel Man? The locations of the water holes and such?’

      ‘I do,’ Rab said carefully.

      ‘Good. As a demonstration of your goodwill, I would like you to guide my daughter and a host of guards to Rekem. Departing tomorrow.’

      Atia caught her breath. A journey to Rekem? In the middle of August?

      ‘I