Greta Gilbert - Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior

‘You will learn,’ said the woman.

‘Who are you?’ asked Atia.

‘Who I am matters little. Step closer.’ Atia took one step through the archway, though it felt more as though she was being pulled.

‘Now tell me what has upset you.’ The woman’s eyes were on Atia, but her hands were busy knitting. A fine-threaded white shawl stretched up from a basket on the floor beside her. Inside the basket, Atia caught the glint of a pair of shears.

‘The women speak in circles,’ said Atia, gesturing towards the others. ‘They make me confused.’

‘I understand. If I were twelve years old, I would be confused, too.’

‘How do you know my age?’ asked Atia.

‘I know many things.’

‘Do you know if I will ever be beautiful?’

‘You will and you will not,’ said the woman. ‘What else do you wish to know?’

Atia shook her head. ‘You are just like the other two. You speak in circles.’

‘I assure you that I am nothing like my sisters,’ creaked the woman.

‘Then tell me one true thing about myself,’ said Atia. ‘No more circles.’

‘Ah, one true thing...’ The old woman lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘For that you must come closer, lest the goddess overhear us.’

Before she even knew that she had moved, Atia found herself bending her ear to the old woman’s wrinkled lips.

‘I can tell you the time and the day of your own death,’ she whispered.

A chill tickled Atia’s skin. ‘That is impossible. How could you know something like that?’

‘It is written in the stars, my dear,’ she said. ‘It is the one true thing in your life.’

In a single motion, the old woman lifted the shears from the basket and sliced through a strand of yarn. She offered the shawl to Atia. ‘Well? Do you wish to know it or not?’

The trouble started with dates—sweet, cloying dates from the plantations of Palmyra. The camels were wild for them and Rab fed the beasts handfuls before they raced.

It was the sweetness of dates that had spurred his white camel to victory that day, or so Rab believed, and what had made her so skittish in the winners’ circle. The agitated giant danced about the enclosure like a harem girl, her large hooves calling up clouds of dust.

‘Calm her, Zaidu!’ Rab urged his nephew, who was perched high in the saddle.

‘I am trying!’ the boy shouted. His arms flailed uselessly as the white beast lurched towards a group of admirers. Rab seized the camel’s bridle and attempted to tug her backwards, but she resisted, apparently wishing to be admired.

‘Shush her to her knees,’ Rab told his nephew. ‘Now!’

Zaidu nodded, filling his small chest with air and hissing out a fearsome down command that would have sent a normal camel to the dust. But not the white. She reared up, then wheeled around, tugging Rab with her and sending him stumbling into the person of a woman.

A Roman woman.

‘By Jupiter...’ The woman cursed in Latin and for a fleeting moment Rab felt the softness of her body against his.

She was clad all in white—just like the camel—and had covered her hair with a shawl so ethereal and white it seemed to be made from the sheen of a cloud.

‘Apologies,’ Rab said, righting himself, then heard the sound of tearing thread. No , he thought, cringing. Not the shawl.

The woman gasped. Her flowing headpiece had somehow become attached to the belt of his robe and had torn slightly.

‘Untether it quickly,’ she commanded, glancing behind her. ‘Lest my father see us.’

‘By the gods!’ Rab muttered, and in his efforts he somehow yanked the shawl from atop the woman’s head to reveal a cap of shiny auburn hair gathered into a tight, oiled bun. It was a practical coiffure—not meant to be seen—and Rab could not conceal his blush at having glimpsed it.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, freeing the damaged shawl from his belt and thrusting it at her. Their eyes locked and desire rollicked through his body. ‘I will pay you for it.’

‘There is no need to pay for the damage,’ she said. ‘It is an old shawl.’

As she rearranged the garment on her head, Rab rearranged his wits, which seemed to have gone the way of the camel.

The camel! Curses, he had forgotten about the camel. He spun around, fully expecting to see its humped silhouette bounding towards the horizon. But the beast stood calmly behind him, his little nephew perched high in the saddle. Both boy and camel wore the same placid grin.

Rab smiled back. ‘Well done, Zaidu,’ he told his nephew. ‘You brought her to heel.’

‘It was not my doing,’ said Zaidu, glancing at the woman.

The woman frowned and her strange beauty hit Rab like a hot wind. Mystic eyes, hooded and sad, perched above a nose so large and regal it might have belonged to Cleopatra herself. So much stern dignity—and almost totally undone by her lips, whose rosy extravagance brought to mind an abundance of cherries.

‘It appears that you have calmed my camel,’ he said.

‘Do you really think I could have any effect whatsoever on such a beast?’

‘Yes, yes, I do,’ Rab replied stupidly.

‘But how?’

‘Perhaps she was drawn to your white clothing? As you can see, she also wears white.’ It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever said and he was shocked to discover a smile traverse her lips.

‘May I touch her?’ she asked.

‘You are welcome to do so,’ said Rab—with far too much enthusiasm. What in the name of the Great God Dushara was the matter with him? The woman was Roman. Rab did not converse with Romans and he certainly did not allow them to touch his camels.

But there she went, stroking the white beast’s nose, and he did nothing at all to stop her. Nor did he say anything when she began to coo softly in Latin. He only closed his eyes, as if she were whispering the sweet words to Rab himself.

An angry voice split his reverie. ‘Daughter, why do you engage with these dirty Arabs?’

A man in a purple-trimmed toga stepped forward. He pointed a bejewelled finger at Rab. ‘Can you not control your own camel?’

Rab opened his mouth to respond, but no words came.

‘I am speaking to you!’ shouted the Roman. He gave Rab a mighty shove, sending Rab crashing against the camel’s middle. Zaidu shouted something from his perch in the saddle and the agitated camel thrust out her long leg.

Rab could almost hear the Roman man’s bones splintering as the camel’s heavy foot pounded against his shin. He collapsed to the ground, his toga tumbling into the dust. ‘Father!’ the woman shrieked. She glanced up at Rab. ‘Please get help!’

Rab staggered to his feet only to find two sets of hands seizing him by the shoulders. A fist crashed into his jaw, followed by a foot into his stomach. A throng of Roman guards was pouring into the circle and Rab watched in horror as several other guards wrenched his nephew from atop the white camel. ‘Zaidu!’ he cried, then felt a heavy blow against his side.

‘Take them to the fort!’ he heard a man shout. Rab could not find his breath. ‘And somebody call a litter! The Governor has been injured!’

* * *

At first, there was nothing but pain—sharp, mind-splitting pain and the memory of blows. Then there was the taste of blood inside his mouth and the hardness of stone beneath his head. A silken voice split the silence. ‘Awaken.’

Rab opened his eyes to find himself surrounded on three sides by walls. Before him stretched the thick iron bars of a prison cell. Beyond the bars stood a figure bathed in torchlight—a vision of curves and white linen. A woman.