The men were right, of course. It was beyond foolish to set out alone into the mountainous desert. It had only been a handful of hours and already Atia was lost. She had tried to draw a mental picture of the canyon lands she traversed, but once she had descended into them, she found herself inside a maze.
A maze that was also an oven.
An oven that could very well be her tomb.
She gazed up at the angry white sun. Sol. The Greek Helios, the bright, handsome servant of Zeus. How could he be the same god who now threatened to melt Atia’s bones?
She seemed to recall that Heracles had once shot an arrow at Helios while crossing a desert of similar menace. His arrow pierced the sun god right in the heart. Incredibly, instead of punishing Heracles, Helios rewarded him for his boldness.
Why would the sun god not reward Atia right now? She was in a similar fix, was she not? In a fit of frustration, Atia lifted a rock and hurled it at Helios. ‘Where is my reward?’ she shouted, but received no reply.
It was impossibly hot. Heat like the heaviest of burdens or the strongest of winds. It beat her down, made her stumble and grope for balance. It made her care not whether she walked in this direction or that. It made her see things that were not there.
Like sheep, for example.
Sheep?
A single sheep actually, or was it more of a lamb? It was standing at the end of the ravine just ahead—its puffy white coat unmistakable against the dusty cliffs.
She felt the whisper of hope tickle her skin. She descended the side of the small gorge slowly, half-expecting the lamb to evaporate before her eyes. Soon she was standing inside the ravine facing the cutest, cuddliest creature she had ever seen.
‘What news, little lamb?’ she asked. It gave a small bleat. It was staring up at a steep, rocky slope. ‘Is that where your flock went? Would you like some help to find them?’ Another bleat.
Atia took it as a yes. She undid her belt and tied it around the sheep’s neck, then led the creature up the slope. As they crested the hill, the lamb tugged free of its leash and bounded across the flats of a small plateau.
Atia followed after it, though she felt rather more like a turtle than a lamb. When she finally arrived at the plateau she was no longer looking for her escaped captive, but instead searching desperately for shade. It was many moments before she noticed movement in the boulder-strewn valley below her.
It was a great flock of sheep. They covered the valley bottom like a great white cloak.
Atia’s heart thumped. Where there were sheep, there were shepherds. She unwrapped her scarf and waved it wildly in the air. ‘Hello!’ she shouted and there amid the tumble of rocks she saw a ghutrah waving back.
Atia nearly tumbled down the slope. Arriving in the ravine, she stood before the tall, robed figure of an old man and bowed. ‘I am Atia,’ she said. Why had she never bothered to learn more Nabataean? She began to gesture towards the hills. She flailed her body about, trying to mimic Livius’s damaged knee.
The old man stared at her curiously. She placed her hand atop her forehead and pretended to swoon, trying to depict Rab’s fever. Still he stared. She needed to convey their hunger, so she pointed to her stomach, then collapsed before him upon the ground.
‘You appear to be hungry and lost, lady,’ he said in slow, careful Greek. ‘I am Adelze. May I help you?’
The shepherd led Atia up the canyon towards a sprawling camel-hide tent tucked among the cliffs. A small column of smoke was snaking its way out of an opening at the apex of the structure. She could almost smell the polentum cooking on the fire inside. He gestured to it. ‘My daughters are there,’ he said. ‘They will help you.’
‘I am in your debt,’ she said to the man, but when she turned to bow he was already gone.
Two children were playing outside the large enclosure and, when Atia stepped towards them, they scattered like leaves. Atia pulled back the door flap.
At the far end of the room, a young woman adorned with clanking bracelets was busy milking a goat. Several paces away, a handsome woman with long, raven-coloured hair sat picking through a pot of beans. Closest to the door sat a stout woman with kohl-painted eyes. She shot a look at Atia that froze her in place.
‘Identify yourself,’ she demanded in Greek.
‘I am Atia, daughter of Atius, citizen of Bostra. I come to your doorstep in need. Can you please help me?’
The three women exchanged a series of looks that seemed to substitute for conversation.
‘How did you find us?’ asked the kohl-eyed woman.
‘An old shepherd pointed me here. He said you were his daughters.’
The raven-haired woman gasped. ‘That is impossible. Our father has been gone for nearly twenty years now, may the Goddess Mannat watch over him.’
Atia was confused. ‘He told me his name was Adelze,’ she said.
The three women exchanged another series of looks—this time tinged with alarm—then appeared to come to some decision.
The raven-haired woman rose to her feet. ‘I am Shudat,’ she said. ‘You are welcome here.’
‘Gratitude,’ said Atia, feeling a tear work its way down her cheek.
‘Breath of the Goddess, you are thin,’ said Shudat. ‘When did you eat last?’
‘Ahh...’
‘And how long have you been walking in the sun?’ asked the kohl-eyed woman.
Before Atia could answer, the young woman who had been milking the goat was offering Atia a cup of milk. ‘I am Gamilath,’ she said, her bracelets clanging. Atia stared at the creamy liquid she offered, wondering if it was real. ‘Go on, drink.’
Atia tipped the cup to her lips, and suddenly the only thing that existed in the world was the warm, life-giving liquid that poured into her like the gods’ own nectar. She drained the cup, then realised that she was weeping.
‘Hasten slowly, my dear,’ said the kohl-eyed woman. ‘I am Hageru. Welcome to our home.’
Atia gave a deep bow. When she returned to standing, Gamilath was placing another cup of goat’s milk into her hand.
Atia raised her cup to the three women in a salute of gratitude. She drained it once more, and Gamilath quickly fetched her another. So went their interchange until it became clear that Atia would not refuse a drop. Gamilath gently ushered Atia to the milking bench. ‘Let us put you in touch with the source,’ she jested and all four women laughed. Atia had the unusual sensation of being home.
By the time they reached Rab and Livius the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. The men lay motionless in the shade, their eyes closed, and did not even respond when one of the donkeys announced the women’s arrival with a bray.
The men’s conditions had worsened. Livius’s knee had swollen and a swarm of flies buzzed over Rab’s wound.
Atia crouched beside Rab and shooed the flies away. He opened his eyes and reached for her wrist. ‘You again?’ he said.
‘I am afraid that you are not rid of me yet,’ Atia said. She could feel the heat of fever radiating from his skin.
‘I am afraid that I missed you,’ he said.
‘Then the fever has clearly attacked your wits.’
‘You found the settlement?’
‘Of course.’
‘But how?’
‘I listened to the story that the desert wished to tell me,’ said Atia. She pressed her hand to his brow. He was so hot that he might have been the sun god himself.
‘You are frowning. You think it might be too late for me,’ he said, reading her thoughts.
‘Do not fear. I do not let good men die.’
‘And what if I am not a good man?’
‘You are a good man.’
‘Then perhaps the fever has attacked both our wits,’ he jested, but she could see the sheen of tears veiling his eyes.
They arrived at the tent in time for the evening meal, though Rab was in no condition to eat. He collapsed on to a bed mat at the corner of the tent. ‘Stay with me, Atia,’ he breathed, then plunged into a fevered oblivion.
He remained senseless as Atia cleaned his wound and packed it with salt, then pulled his hair into a loose bun and patted his face and neck with water. Hours later, he continued to sleep as she dressed the wound with honey and wrapped it in cloth.
‘Fight it, Rab,’ she whispered as darkness began to fall. Atia knew he was in grave danger. They all knew. They brought her water for washing and supplies for changing the wound. A girl who looked like Hageru laid a flower at Rab’s feet.
Atia gazed at Rab’s face and tried to imagine the world without him. No, it simply could not be. He could not die. She would not let him.
She lay beside him all night, listening to the rhythm of his breaths.
‘S-savages,’ he slurred, thrashing and kicking his legs. He was breathing as if he had just run a hundred miles.
‘Keep fighting, Rab,’ she said. She soaked a piece of cloth in water and dribbled it into his mouth. His breaths slowed.
‘Atia,’ he muttered. ‘Forgive me.’ He turned away.
Early the next morning, she woke to discover his arm wrapped around her waist. She was facing towards him, and could see the slow dance of his eyes beneath his lids.
‘It is a powerful demon you face,’ she whispered to him, ‘and you are defeating it.’ She wiggled closer and, ignoring the cries of the roosters, she closed her eyes and returned to slumber.
When she awoke once again, Rab had turned away from her and for a long while she watched the rise and fall of his breaths. The sun god’s long arms lingered on his broad shoulders, as if consoling him, and she watched the light travel slowly down his back.
That was strange. The light should not have been travelling down his back at all, but up it. And what had happened to the cries of the roosters? Unless... She heard the clanking of plates. She sat up to discover the family seated on a carpet around a low table strewn with food.
‘Greetings, Atia,’ exclaimed Livius. ‘You are just in time for dinner.’