‘This is the story of a trader,’ Rab began. He shot a look at Yamlik. ‘A rich, handsome sea trader.’ Rab gazed at the floor for an unusually long time, as if he were contriving the story just then.
‘This particular sea trader had a problem, however. He loved himself too much. He loved the sound of his own voice and the brilliant things it said. He loved his bronze skin and muscular limbs and every single hair of his closely trimmed beard. But mostly he loved his face, for it seemed to him to be astoundingly handsome. His favourite thing to do was to stare into his copper mirror and admire himself as he floated across the sea.’
Rab glanced out at his audience, his gaze lingering on Yamlik.
‘One day, the sea trader was staring into his mirror and failed to see a large reef lurking in the water beneath his boat. The boat crashed into the reef and the trader was hurled overboard.’
The children gasped, but Rab’s eyes flickered with a savage glee. ‘Then the poor trader was ripped apart by a troupe of passing sharks. Every inch of him was consumed—including every single hair of his closely trimmed beard.’
The children stared at Rab in wide-eyed horror.
Atia glanced at Yamlik, who was petting his own beard in alarm.
There was a long, confused silence. ‘Apologies,’ Rab said, glancing at the children. ‘I had forgotten how very cruel that particular story was.’
It was Yamlik who salvaged the moment. ‘Well, as a sea trader myself I can say with certainty that I will never again gaze into a copper mirror.’ Everyone laughed.
Everyone except Rab, of course. He was smiling so tightly now that Atia feared his teeth might begin popping from his mouth one by one.
Livius lifted a honey cake from the tray. ‘How do you say I love honey cakes in Nabataean?’ he asked Gamilath and normal conversation resumed.
Atia watched Rab retreat to his bed mat. He appeared to be busying himself inspecting his water bag.
Meanwhile, Yamlik was saying something to Atia about his travels in India. ‘Do you know of the Buddhists?’ he asked. He had apparently met a number of them and found them to be fascinating.
Atia wished that she could find Yamlik fascinating. In truth, all she could think of was Rab and how oddly he had been acting since he had recovered from his fever.
First there had been the story about the camel. She had never heard any tale like it in all her life. A creature believed to be an ugly embodiment of one thing, finally found to be a beautiful embodiment of another. Rab had given Atia a significant look after he had finished, as if he had shaped the story to send her a message.
As if she, somehow, was the camel he had described.
The idea of it might have offended her. What woman wished to be compared to a camel? Yet the thought had sent a flutter of joy through her heart. The camel in his story had not only been beautiful, she had been strong and enduring and had ultimately saved the little boy’s life. I am sorry that I called your camel ugly, said the mother in the story. She is the most beautiful creature in all the world.
But perhaps Atia was ascribing a meaning to the story that simply was not there? It would not have been the first time that her own wishful thinking had got in the way of reality. And the reality, she reminded herself, was that Rab had rejected her. He believed her to be ugly on the inside—just like all the other Romans he loathed, though for perhaps different reasons.
She decided to forget about the camel story and was glad she did, because the next day he seemed almost hostile to her. First there had been the strange, confrontational manner in which he had responded to Yamlik and when she had tried to comfort him he had yanked his arm away from her and stormed off.
And now this bizarre tale of the sea trader.
‘Ana oheb kaykat aleasl,’ Gamilath was saying in Nabatean.
‘Ana ahubby al kayak lazy,’ repeated Livius.
‘A noble effort,’ Gamilath said. She slid Atia a look. ‘Again.’
The two continued to practise the sentence until it was rolling off Livius’s tongue. Then Livius stood and fixed his gaze on Gamilath. He cleared his voice and knelt before her, taking her hand in his. ‘Ana oheb Gamilath,’ he said gently. I love Gamilath.
Gamilath’s eyes quietly filled with tears. She took one of her bracelets and slid it on to his arm. ‘Ana oheb Livius,’ she said. The silence was so very sweet that it seemed unholy to break it.
The voice that finally did was full of irritation. ‘Excuse me, but why have we not yet departed for Rekem?’ Rab asked. ‘We have been here for three days now. We are due in Rekem in five.’
Hageru and Gamilath exchanged a look. ‘Livius’s knee is not yet fit to sustain a march,’ said Hageru. ‘Nor have you fully recovered from your infection and fever.’ She glanced at Rab’s bandaged arm.
Rab shook his head. ‘Livius can stay here and I am fit enough to travel. We must arrive in Rekem in no more than five days,’ he repeated. ‘There are consequences if we do not.’
‘Rab is right,’ Atia said. ‘We must leave as soon as we can. Tomorrow, if possible.’
Rab caught Atia’s gaze. His expression was full of gratitude.
‘But Livius’s knee is not yet healed,’ Gamilath protested. ‘It cannot withstand a long march.’
‘We must leave him here to recover,’ said Rab. ‘Atia and I will go on our own.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Yamlik suddenly. ‘We will simply take the camels.’
‘You have camels?’ asked Atia.
‘Of course we have camels,’ said Yamlik with a grin. ‘Are we not Nabataean?’
Rab’s plan could not have failed more miserably. In the moment, he had thought it brilliant. A revelation, of sorts. It had come to him just after Livius had pronounced his love to Gamilath. Lovestruck fool! Rab had thought. Livius should just stay here.
It was then that he had recognised the genius of the idea. Why should Livius not just stay? There was no real reason for him to continue on to Rekem other than his own sense of duty—something that had obviously been obliterated by a pretty young woman with jingling bracelets. Why should Livius not just stay with Gamilath and allow his knee to fully heal before returning to duty? And in that case Rab and Atia could simply continue on to Rekem together.
Together and finally alone.
It was the manner in which he had spoken his revelation that he feared had ruined it. He had not left enough time after Livius had made his grand pronouncement. Worse, the tone of Rab’s voice had been wrong. It had been full of impatience and disdain. He feared that he had sounded almost jealous of Livius.
He had not been jealous, of course. If anything, he had been exasperated. How on earth could a man presume to fall in love in only three days? And how could the object of his affection somehow do the same? And how, by all the gods in all the heavens, could there be no opposition to the matter? The whole thing was so idyllic as to be ridiculous.
Thank the gods Atia had affirmed their need to depart. She had saved him once again—this time from being labelled a malcontent. Unfortunately, Atia’s urgency caused Yamlik to leap into action, obviously eager to prove his usefulness to her.
And Livius had insisted on accompanying them, not only because he was obligated to fulfil his mission, but also because a Roman military escort would be necessary to get them past any military checkpoints.
Following Yamlik’s offer of camels and Livius’s declaration of duty, Gamilath had pronounced that she would also join the group, for she could not allow her brother to return unaccompanied from Rekem with three camels in tow.
And thus now, instead of two lone travellers, they were a caravan of five: Yamlik, Atia, Gamilath, Livius, and Rab.
They set off early the next morning and Rab consoled himself that he would find a chance to speak with Atia soon. Five days was a long time and travelling on camels meant they would have plenty of energy for discussion.
But Yamlik insisted that the caravan travel in the traditional formation of a single line, with Yamlik in front, then Atia, then Gamilath, then Livius and finally Rab. The women were to remain in the middle of the caravan, Yamlik insisted. It was Nabataean tradition.
And so Rab decided that he loathed Nabataean tradition, along with Yamlik himself. He also loathed the sun, for its movements marked the passage of time. The hours were ticking by. If he did not speak to Atia soon, he feared he never would.
He imagined himself shouting at her from behind. Atia, I wish to thank you for saving my life. Also, I have considered your proposition and the answer is yes. I will accept your gold coins. Anything to be close to you one last time. Also, I love you.
They had travelled across a high plateau those next two days, with no shade in sight. By the time they made their camp each evening they were too exhausted to do anything but fall upon their bed mats.
They started early the third morning, plunging into a small, beautiful wadi by the name of Phaeno where an unlikely stand of oaks gave them shade enough to pitch an early camp.
‘What are those?’ Atia asked as they unloaded the camels. She pointed at the cave-like openings along the cliffs. ‘They look as if they have been made by men.’
Rab seized the moment. ‘They are copper mines,’ he said. ‘During my fa—during King Rabbel’s rule, they were used to produce funds for the water system that serves Rekem.’
Atia gazed up at the mines. ‘Strange that such a powerful source of revenue is not in use now,’ she remarked.
Rab wanted to seat himself beside her and describe the mines’ long history—how they had been worked continuously by the people of the wadi—a clan that could name their ancestors back for a thousand years. He wanted to tell her how ancient arrowheads had been found in in one of the mines and strange drawings upon its walls. But once again he found himself at the mercy of another man in charge.
‘Come now, let us eat,’ said Yamlik. ‘And then we shall have a story.’
That night they stared up at the stars while Yamlik told the first part of a two-part Nabataean epic. Rab paid no attention at all to Yamlik. He focused instead on the constellation Libra, wondering if Atia saw it, too, and if she was thinking of him at all. By the time Yamlik was done, Rab could barely keep his eyes open.
The next day, the route grew stonier and starker. Small bushes and tufts of dry grass gave way to no vegetation at all.
They crested a high pass, pausing to appreciate one of Nabataea’s most remarkable sights: a wadi so wide and long that it could barely be perceived save from above. ‘That is Wadi Arabah,’ said Rab. ‘Its sands flow—’
‘All the way to the Red Sea,’ interrupted Yamlik.
Atia gazed in wonder at the sight. ‘Does it ever fill with water?’ she asked.
‘Once every few years,’ said Yamlik. ‘Nabataeans believe that when it does, it carries all their troubles away.’
‘Let us hope it fills soon, then,’ Atia said. She gave Rab a meaningful look, as if she wished the same for their own troubles. But with only one night left, what hope could there be?
‘Let us hope it fills this very night,’ said Rab.