Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior. Greta Gilbert

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