Her heart skipped. ‘Rab?’
‘Atia, are you well?’ He stood in the moon shadow cast by the palms, his body barely distinguishable from the rest of the night.
‘I am perfectly well,’ she replied. She felt a wave of relief, followed by a rippling of dread. Was it to be Rab, then? Was he to be her assassin?
‘What are you doing, Atia?’
‘Is it not obvious that I am digging for water?’ The moonlight poured over her shoulders, illuminating the small hole she had managed to excavate.
He appeared to shake his head. ‘What is obvious is that your head is tilted backwards, your mouth is pointed at the sky and you were just laughing in the way of a hyena.’
She could imagine the smirk on his face. ‘I was not laughing at the sky,’ she insisted. ‘I was laughing at...my imminent success.’
‘You were celebrating a success you have not yet enjoyed?’
‘I am in no mood for your teasing,’ Atia grumbled, though in truth there was something extremely comforting in it. ‘I know there is water here and I am quite certain that I am on the verge of finding it,’ she pronounced.
‘It must be a heady feeling to be that close to success,’ he observed, clearly enjoying himself.
‘It is quite gratifying,’ she said. ‘At least we can agree on that.’
Her statement seemed to give him pause. ‘Would you like some help?’
‘No, I do not need your—’ she began saying. In truth, she did need his help—most desperately. Why was it so hard to accept? ‘Yes,’ she finally admitted.
He extended his hand. ‘Come,’ he said.
He lead her to a dark area beneath one of the palms. The perfect location for a strangling, she thought morbidly. Yet she knew instinctively that if she was meant to die tonight, it would not be at his hand.
Perhaps they were meant to die together.
‘Here is your water,’ he pronounced. He bent to clear away a pile of leaves and she watched the milky moonlight spread its light across a sprawling black pool. She gasped. Water. Pure, clean, lovely water. It had been there all along—through all her desperate digging. She had been so convinced of the difficulty of the problem that she had not seen its solution right before her eyes. ‘You have my gratitude, Rab.’
How nice it was to say his name aloud. Perhaps it was to be her last word. She imagined a crocodile springing up out of the inky water and removing her head from her body. Or perhaps the pool itself would be her demise. Death by drowning. An ironic ending in this dry place.
Rab bent to the spring and cupped the water in his palms. ‘Did you not say you were thirsty?’ he asked.
The water inside his hands was like the sand had been inside hers: she could see it slowly slipping through his fingers. She peered at the ground. Why could she not bring herself to drink?
He did not push her. He only sat down at the edge of the pool and gazed up at her. ‘It is strange,’ he started saying. ‘We have travelled all these days across the desert and not once have I told you a travelling story.’
Atia cocked her head. ‘You told stories at the home of Yamlik’s family.’
‘They do not count.’
‘Why not?’
‘They were told beneath the shelter of a tent for the benefit of our hosts. To qualify as a true travelling story, it must be told beneath the stars for the benefit of the travellers.’
‘Like Yamlik’s epic?’ Atia said.
‘Like Yamlik’s epic, except exciting and interesting and finished well before sunrise,’ said Rab.
Atia laughed and Rab patted the ground. ‘Will you let me tell you a travelling story, Atia?’
Atia sat down before him, sensing a deeper agenda at work.
‘There was once a beautiful, wealthy kingdom that lay beyond the Middle Sea,’ he began. ‘Its rulers were peaceful and good, and they built a city full of sculptures and gardens and wonders to behold. The King and Queen lived in a splendid palace with their son and three daughters, all of whom they loved dearly. But the King had a special place in his heart for his son, for the two shared a passion for the world beyond.’
Atia recalled that Rab had three sisters. Her curiosity stirred.
‘Whenever the King journeyed to a faraway land he always brought back something for his Queen and something for his son. Horns from Britannia. Carpets from Persia. Masks from the land of Punt. Once the King travelled to a place called India and upon his return he gifted his wife and son each a beautiful wood-carved elephant, for they were the most noble, wondrous creatures the King had ever seen.
‘Soon after his trip to India, the King’s dear Queen died. He placed her mummy inside a grand tomb along with jewels and riches and bags of golden coins. To this great horde of wealth he added all the gifts he had given her throughout his life—the horns from Britannia, the carpets from Persia, the masks from the land of Punt. He put them all inside the magnificent tomb with the exception of one—the wooden elephant, which he gave to his son to remember his mother by.
‘One day an evil general marched into the kingdom and declared its citizens heathens. The King and his family retreated to the rooftop of the palace and watched from above as the soldiers invaded the city, burning and raping and looting. They watched in despair as the soldiers unsealed the door to the Queen’s tomb and poured inside, taking everything of value.
‘“Father, we must fight!” urged his son. “Call the army!”
‘But the King only sobbed. “The soldiers greatly outnumber our own,” he said. “We cannot win.”
ʻ“Let us fight and die, then,” said his son, “with honour.”
‘But the King would not listen. He pulled a small vial from his pocket and tipped it to his lips.’
Rab paused. He gazed at Atia across the darkness.
‘By all the unruly gods, Rab, continue! What happened next?’
‘The King tipped the bottle of poison to his lips,’ Rab repeated, ‘and began to drink. The son moved to stop his father, but he did not reach him in time. The King took a final swallow, then smashed the emptied vial upon the ground.
‘“Remember what this kingdom was once, dear boy,” the King said. “And never forget the elephants.” By the time the enemy soldiers arrived on the roof the King was dead.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Atia.
‘The son escaped,’ Rab continued, ‘and he vowed to avenge his father. Over the next dozen years the Prince built up a secret army comprised of every able member of that fine kingdom.’
‘Even the women?’
‘Of course the women—or are women not equal to men?’
Atia did not know what to say. She had never heard of such a thing in her entire life. Women were not equal to men in Rome. Was it different in Nabataea? She supposed that in fantastical stories like this one, they could be anything they liked. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
‘The great army of citizens marched on the occupied capital and freed it. In honour of his victory, the Prince adorned the top of each column of the palace with a stone elephant.’
Atia sighed. ‘A happy ending.’
‘But the story is not yet finished. The son, who was the new King, placed the two wooden elephants in his bedchamber before a large mirror. And every evening he would stare at his twin elephants and remember his mother and father, who taught him to love the world beyond. And then he would turn to the mirror and look at himself, who had decided not to be defeated by it.’
When she spoke, her voice was trembling. ‘I have often felt...defeated by the world,’ Atia said. She gazed at the dirt, then began to trace her finger in it.
‘I know,’ whispered Rab.
‘For many years, I sought to escape from it.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘About the tears?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’
‘But how?’
‘You are not the only one with a talent for observation.’
He gazed into her eyes and tried to convey what words could not: that he had been observing her since the day they met.
‘Do you find me weak, then?’ she asked.
‘You have battled a demon stronger than all the world’s armies and emerged triumphant. You are the opposite of weak,’ he said. ‘You are heroic.’
A shy smile traversed her face and she resumed her strange sketching in the dirt.
‘The hero of your story was very brave.’
‘I agree. The King’s son never gave up.’
‘I am not speaking of the King’s son. I am speaking of the King.’
‘But the King took his own life,’ Rab protested. ‘How could that ever be brave?’
‘He chose death over humiliation. That is brave.’ She paused, still sketching the ground. ‘My mother took her own life,’ she whispered.
Rab sighed. He had suspected as much. When she had spoken of her mother that evening beneath the stars, the pain in her voice had stung his own ears.
His father and her mother—both killed by their own hands. She continued to move her finger through the dirt.
‘I am very sorry,’ Rab said.
‘It was a long time ago. My father wanted a son,’ she said, ‘and my mother could only produce daughters.’
She was hard at work now. He could see her bent over her design, tracing long, swooping lines, scratching deep into the earth: two elephants. ‘After my mother delivered her fourth daughter, my father beat her very badly. He destroyed her beautiful face, do you understand?’
‘By the gods,’ gasped Rab.
‘Then he sent the baby to the dump.’
‘An orphan’s home, you mean?’
‘I mean where the people dump their trash. He did not wish to support another girl.’
Rab squeezed her hand.
She smiled tightly, blinking back her tears, failing in the effort. ‘But my mother got her revenge. That is all that matters.’
And left you all alone. He stayed silent.
‘She did get it,’ Atia repeated, as if having to convince herself.
‘Sometimes the easy thing to do is to die,’ Rab said.
She was shaking her head. ‘You say that, yet you support the Nabataean rebels. Are they not simply going to their deaths?’
‘The rebels seek justice,’ said Rab. He felt his jaw tense.
‘I understand that. So did my mother, yet you think her death a shame.’
Rab paused. He pictured the dead bodies on the beach.
‘How many rebels do you guess there are?’ asked Atia.
‘At least a thousand, maybe more.’
‘But there are five thousand soldiers in a Roman legion,’ said Atia. She appeared to do some calculation in her head. ‘And there are two legions stationed in Arabia Petraea alone, plus several more in the Judean and Syrian provinces. It is an unwinnable fight.’
‘You speak like a politician.’
‘I am a politician’s daughter.’
‘The rebel numbers are increasing by the day,’ said Rab. But that was a lie. The rebel numbers were not increasing, because many Nabataeans who should have been rebels were already in business with Romans. Or marrying them. Or worse—joining their cursed ranks.
‘Rab, what is it that you fear?’ Atia asked suddenly. She had ceased her sketching. She was gazing at him across the darkness.
‘I fear that the Nabataean people will be made into beggars in their own land. I fear that—’ He stopped himself. ‘What is the point of this?’ he asked. It only made his jaw ache and his heart beat too quickly. It only made him dig his fingernails into his palms so hard they left bruises. Why had his father let the Romans in? That was what he really wished to know. His biggest fear was that he would never find out.
She was waiting for his answer. He had the feeling that she would have waited a thousand years. ‘I fear that the Nabataean people are being lost,’ he said at last. ‘I fear that our splendid culture is being erased and that one day our greatness will be forgotten.’
He exhaled, though it was not simple breath that emerged from his chest. It was a great chaotic storm and it swirled all around them and blanketed them in angry dust.
He stared up at the sky. The stars had disappeared, swallowed up by the light of the moon. The moon is like Rome, he thought, fat, yet hungry.
He imagined himself falling towards it, as if to slay it. He unsheathed his sword and slashed it through the air, but found that there was nothing to slay. Only light. White and insubstantial. Meaningless and diffuse. The more he fought, the more exhausted he became. Nabataea was being erased, and he could do nothing to stop it. His heart filled with despair.
He felt her hand reach for his.