Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior. Greta Gilbert

vile on his tongue. Whatever name she wished to call his homeland, to Rab it would always be the Kingdom of Nabataea, with its capital not of Bostra, but of Rekem, that great southern city of stone.

      ‘Why do you keep me here?’ he asked.

      ‘Do you not recall? Your camel injured the new Governor of Arabia—a man who happens to be my father.’

      ‘That man was the Governor?’

      Curses, he should have guessed it. The bejewelled hand, the purple-trimmed toga, the imperious demeanour. Of all the confounded ill fortune.

      ‘It broke his leg,’ she said with indifference, ‘though the break has been splinted and we are told it will heal normally.’

      ‘I did not intend—’

      ‘It does not matter what you did or did not intend,’ she said. ‘What matters is what my father believes.’

      ‘And what does your father believe?’

      ‘That you commanded the kick.’

      ‘That is impossible. Where is my nephew?’ Rab started to stand, but his legs seemed to be growing weaker by the moment.

      ‘Why is it impossible?’ she asked.

      ‘Where is my nephew, by the gods?’ Rab demanded.

      ‘He is in another cell not far from here. Why is it impossible that you commanded the kick?’

      ‘Is he injured? Has he eaten?’

      She pursed her lips together. ‘He has been treated in the exact same manner as you have. Now please answer my question. I am trying to help you.’

      ‘So you beat my nephew and hold him in a cell and tell me you are trying to help me? He is only eleven years old!’

      ‘I had nothing to do with your nephew’s beating or his captivity,’ she said. Then, in a whisper: ‘And I was able to sneak him a corner of bread.’

      Rab paused, feeling a strange gratitude, then reminded himself that there was no room in this conversation for such a sentiment. ‘I demand that you release us both,’ he said.

      She stiffened. ‘You are not in a position to make demands.’

      ‘And you are?’ Rab craned his neck to observe the empty hallway in which she stood. ‘You approach my cell all alone, a beautiful woman without any protection... On whose authority do you question me?’

      She appeared confused. She glanced around the prison as if she believed him to be referring to someone else. ‘On my father’s authority, of course,’ she said at last.

      He struggled once again to stand, but this time the effort made him dizzy. ‘Do you know who I am?’

      ‘No,’ she replied carefully. ‘Who are you?’

      He bit his tongue. By the gods, what was wrong with him? Had he really almost revealed his identity? ‘I am my nephew’s only protector.’

      ‘And I am your only friend,’ she added.

      ‘Why do I find that difficult to believe?’

      ‘Just answer the question,’ she pressed. ‘Why is it impossible that you commanded the kick?’

      ‘Because a camel is incapable of learning such a command.’

      ‘My father will investigate the veracity of that claim. If it is a lie, you will lose your life.’

      Savages, he thought. Every last one of them. He shook his head and studied the floor.

      ‘So it is a lie,’ she said.

      ‘Why does the Governor care whether the kick was commanded or not?’ he asked. Better she discover the second lie than the first.

      ‘It amuses my father to discover the truth,’ she replied. ‘And I can assure you that he always does.’

      ‘Does he not have more meaningful sources of amusement? Roads to build, riches to plunder, slaves to drive?’

      She would not take the bait. ‘Your story must match your nephew’s.’

      ‘And what does my nephew claim happened?’

      She looked away. ‘I cannot tell you that.’

      ‘I thought you said you were my friend.’

      She sighed. ‘Everything you tell me I am obligated to tell my father. Now please, answer the question.’

      Rab measured out his words. ‘Yes, it is possible for a camel to be trained to kick on command.’

      ‘And have you trained your camel in such a skill?’

      Rab paused. ‘I have.’

      He had not. He knew very little about training camels, in truth. Or racing them, for that matter. The camel races were simply a ruse—something to distract attention from Rab’s more important activities. Still, Zaidu loved the races and had been working with the camel for some months now on a variety of commands.

      ‘Did you order the kick?’ the woman demanded.

      No, he did not, but he feared that Zaidu had. He needed to protect the boy. ‘I did.’

      ‘Why did you do it?’

      ‘Because your father pushed me,’ Rab explained. ‘I was merely defending myself against him. I was unaware of his identity.’ At least it was mostly the truth.

      The woman nodded thoughtfully and seemed satisfied. ‘You may have just secured your nephew’s release. And saved your own life.’

      ‘Am I supposed to thank you?’ he slurred. His head had begun to spin. She did not answer him, though she was watching him like a shepherd observing a doomed sheep. All at once he understood why. ‘It was not just water you gave me, was it?’ His vision blurred.

      ‘No, it was not,’ she admitted.

      ‘And you are not my friend.’

      ‘No, I am not.’

       Chapter Two

      Atia stopped to smell the roses. They had been placed in a vase on the shelf outside her father’s tablinium by some well-meaning slave. She paused with her nose enveloped in petals. What a strange compulsion, she thought. She had stopped smelling flowers years ago—back when she had begun to count down the days until her own death.

      She breathed deeply now and was rewarded with a sweet, subtle scent. Even more rewarding was the rose’s lavish hue—like the ruddy burn of the sun through smoke. It reminded her of the colour of the tie the camel man used to hold his ghutrah.

      The ghutrah he had offered to keep her warm.

      She had been so shocked by the gesture that she had not even been able to properly decline it. What prisoner offered to aid his own interrogator? Even more startling had been their reaction to the gesture: they had laughed together like thieves.

      Laughter? It was another strangeness. She had hardly recognised her own voice. How many years had it been since she had laughed? Ten? Fifteen? Back before her mother had died and delight had still seemed possible.

      Now, at the advanced age of thirty, Atia had learned to view delight as suspect. Obviously the camel man had been trying to endear himself to her—to trick her into trusting him.

      Still, something in the way his dark, sun-flecked eyes had smiled down at her had made him seem sincere. Even now, as she thought back upon those eyes, it was as if they were warming her very thoughts.

      She