‘Go to Hades,’ said Rab. He stared at the disgusting wad of spit that had just landed in his cell. He did not need to look up to know who had hurled it.
‘I am afraid I have already arrived in Hades, my friend,’ said an unmistakable voice. Rab peered through the bared opening in the door of his cell and saw guards pushing Plotius into the cell next door.
‘Then may you drown in the River of Woe,’ said Rab.
‘I would welcome any river at all,’ Plotius said. ‘It is too damned hot in here.’
‘When we are dead we will not know it,’ called Livius from the cell next to Plotius.
Rab returned to his small cot and lay back, trying to make sense of it all. Had Plotius’s execution been ordered, too? And how could Rab ever repay Livius for trying to help him as he had done?
‘I had my suspicions about your link to the rebels,’ called Plotius from next door. ‘But heir to the Nabataean throne? That was unexpected.’
‘You claim ignorance of the Governor’s order to execute me?’ asked Rab.
‘I admit that I did not know, though I suppose he kept it from me to prevent me from killing you directly.’
‘You are a monster,’ said Rab.
‘No more than you,’ said Plotius.
‘I am better than you.’
‘If you are so much better, then why do you command your rebels to attack Romans?’
‘The rebels do not attack, we defend,’ said Rab. ‘This is our land. It does not belong to Rome.’
‘You should have told that to your father,’ said Plotius. Rab stayed silent. He had told that to his father. His father simply had not listened.
Plotius yawned. ‘You know that if the Nabataeans had fought the invading Romans, they would have lost,’ he said.
‘That is not necessarily true,’ said Rab.
‘Go ahead and live out the rest of your days in a dream world,’ said Plotius. ‘You are the one who is doomed.’
‘And you are not?’
‘Of course not. When the Governor comes, he will set things right. Then it will be Atia inside this cell and not me.’
‘Atia?’
‘She will have to face the consequences of what she did.’
‘And what was that?’
‘She saved the Legate from the sting of my blade,’ said Plotius.
‘She what?’ called Livius from down the hall.
‘She jumped in front of the stupid man before I could put the dagger in its proper place.’
‘And where was that?’ asked Livius.
‘In his gut, Livius,’ growled Plotius. ‘Where the Governor ordered it to be thrust if the Legate did not do as he was told. I am a soldier just like you—only I follow my cursed orders.’
Rab imagined Atia jumping to the Legate’s aid while Plotius approached with his dagger drawn. By the gods, she was brave. ‘Is she injured?’ asked Rab.
‘How should I know?’
Please, Great Dushara, let her be uninjured.
‘When the Governor comes, everything will be put right,’ Plotius was repeating. ‘I followed his orders exactly and he will reward me for it.’
Rab closed his eyes. When the Governor comes, he thought. By that time, Rab would already be dead.
Atia opened her eyes and wondered if she was alive. The morbid puzzlement felt familiar, as if she had experienced it several times before. As if it was becoming something of a habit.
She did not dare attempt a breath, though her wits were returning rapidly. She had recovered enough of them to wonder if she had not misunderstood the day of her own death. Perhaps it was not yesterday, but today. Though she really had no way of knowing what day it was at all.
She spied a woman floating above her. Thank the gods—she was not alone. The woman’s long, curly tresses cascaded down her stately shoulders like vines, and an elegant white robe flowed all around her. Perhaps she was not a woman, but the goddess herself: ‘Juno?’
‘Not Juno,’ said the woman. ‘Shaquilath.’
‘Shaquilath,’ Atia said. Such a grand name, as if it could contain the hope of the world. ‘The Legate’s translator?’
‘The very same,’ Shaquilath said. ‘I have been caring for you for the past two days.’
‘Two days? Where is Rab?’
Shaquilath frowned and placed her hand on Atia’s head. ‘No fever so far. It is a good sign.’
‘Where is he?’ A lightning bolt of pain shot through Atia’s arm. ‘Where?’
‘He lives.’
At last Atia took a breath, then slumped on the mattress. Everything came back to her at once. How Rab had been condemned to die and been seized by the guards along with brave, foolish Livius. How Atia had lunged forward just as Plotius had thrust his knife towards the Legate’s belly. How the blade had sliced cleanly through the flesh of her upper arm, then penetrated into her very chest.
‘May I see him?’ Atia asked softly. She convulsed with a cough, then cringed.
‘You are in no shape to go anywhere, I am afraid,’ said Shaquilath. ‘My husband has forbidden it.’
‘Your husband?’
Shaquilath held up her hand and opened her fist, and Atia beheld a small diagonal cut in the middle of Shaquilath’s palm. It took Atia several moments to apprehend its meaning: Shaquilath was married to the Legate.
Shaquilath put her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh,’ she said.
‘I will not tell a soul.’
‘I know you will not,’ she said, ‘for I see you have had a similar injury.’ Atia gazed into her own palm. The gash had almost completely healed. She traced her fingers along the small scab that remained and wondered if somewhere Rab was doing the same.
‘The heart knows no borders,’ Atia mused.
Shaquilath smiled. ‘It gives me cause to hope. How long can Romans tax and rob and plunder the Nabataeans if they are also joining souls with them?’ She poured Atia a cup of water. ‘And yet it is that very joining that will ultimately destroy the memory of us.’
‘As long as your great tombs stand, you will be remembered,’ said Atia. She drained the glass.
‘It seems that is our only hope,’ said Shaquilath. She began to unwrap the cloth that had been tied around Atia’s arm. ‘Our beautiful memorials of death will be our eternal life.’
‘Tell me, is Rab is safe?’
‘Yes. He is safe and provided for in a large holding cell not far from here. As you know, my husband has vowed to take no action until your father arrives. After that I cannot say.’
‘Gratitude,’ said Atia, feeling bleak. She imagined the Legate trying to explain to her father why he had not followed orders. He would be fortunate to escape with his life. ‘I will pray for your husband, then,’ Atia said.
‘Gratitude,’ said Shaquilath. ‘I will pray for him, too. He has good intentions for this province...and all of its residents.’
Atia thought of her father and felt bleaker still. Emperor Hadrian demanded money from the provinces and her father was committed to sending that money at all costs. How could the Nabataeans generate the taxes Rome required without continuing to impoverish regular Nabataeans?
If only they could strike gold somewhere in the desert. Shaquilath lifted Atia’s wrap and slowly removed the bandage around her chest. Atia gazed down at the wound. It was like a great hole in the earth.
An idea came to her. ‘Have you not heard of the copper mines in Wadi Phaeno?’ she asked Shaquilath.
‘I am sorry?’
‘Rab told me that they generated great wealth once.’
‘I have heard of them...’ said Shaquilath.
Atia could see Shaquilath’s mind turning. She applied an oily salve to Atia’s wound and gently pressed a dry cloth against it.
‘I see what you are thinking,’ Shaquilah said at last. ‘To reopen the copper mines and use the profits to pay our taxes to Rome.’
‘The traders would love you for it,’ said Atia. ‘And Rome would be none the wiser.’
‘It is a brilliant idea,’ said Shaquilath. She wrapped a second cloth around Atia’s arm and tied it off. ‘I will tell my husband. We owe you a debt.’
‘Not one that you have not already paid many times over,’ said Atia. ‘But if you wish to help me, I ask for only one thing.’
‘Anything that is in my power.’
Atia lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The key. He cannot do any good from a cell. And I promise you that he will do good.’
Shaquilath drew a breath, then nodded. ‘It will take time.’
Atia glanced at her newly bandaged wound. ‘Time, I have,’ she said.
Shaquilath refilled Atia’s cup of water and then retrieved a small bottle from a shelf. ‘What is that?’ Atia asked.
‘Tears of poppy. They will help with the pain.’
‘No, thank you,’ Atia said. ‘I would prefer to feel the pain.’
‘Are you certain? Your recovery is only just beginning. I can just leave it here if you like—’
‘No,’ said Atia. ‘No thank you, that is. Please take it with you. I am certain.’ Shaquilath nodded gravely, seeming to understand. Atia closed her eyes and thought of a key hanging on a hook somewhere—a key that would soon be in her hand. And then she thought of Rab. Alive. There was no better medicine.
Rab awoke to the smell of rain. Impossible, he thought. Rains did not begin to fall on Rekem until October. Was it October already? Of course it was, for he had arrived in Rekem at the end of September and many days had passed since then. He had been loathe to count them, however, for each day he woke wondering whether it would be his last.
Rab lay on his cot listening to Plotius’s soft whimpers, followed by his terrifying scream. Plotius was having another nightmare. He had them so often that Rab had begun to expect them, though it was Rab who should have been having them. Plotius would surely be set free soon, whereas Rab was a dead man.
After many moments, Rab heard the sounds of Plotius rising from his cot and making water in his bedpan. The commander gave a loud, anguished yawn. ‘What news, Livius of Gaul?’ he called from his cell.
‘I have a new pimple on my backside,’ called Livius, drawing Plotius’s laughter.
‘And what news from your side of prison, Rab, son of Junon?’ Plotius asked.
‘The air smells like rain,’ Rab stated.
‘Are you sure that is not my piss you are smelling?’ Over the past twenty days, Plotius had softened, and the three had become uneasy neighbours.
‘I smell it, too,’ said Livius. ‘Moisture in the air.’
‘Rain in Rekem?’ replied Plotius. ‘Does that happen often?’
‘Not often, but when it rains, it pours,’ said Rab. He looked around his cell and felt a growing alarm. The stone walls had been cemented together in a haphazard fashion and Rab could pick out at least a dozen holes large enough for daylight to enter. Or water.
But that was not what really worried him. The problem with their cells was that they were located entirely under the ground. The three men had been imprisoned in what was essentially a cistern—a place where water would naturally collect. Rab studied the sandstone floor, which had been sealed over the years by the footsteps of its residents. He felt a chill.
‘In the dream I had last night it was pouring rain,’ remarked Plotius.
‘And did that dream take place in Rekem?’
‘No, it was in Hispania, in my childhood home.’
‘I did not know you were from Hispania,’ said Livius from his cell.
‘The Baetica region. My father was a centurion for the legion based there. He was in the dream also—though in truth it was more like a memory. So was my mother and my older brother.’
‘What were they doing?’ asked Rab.
‘Just the usual. My father was beating my older brother and my mother was trying to protect him. In the dream I was standing in the doorway, trying to get their attention. Our donkey cart was in danger of being washed away by the rain.’
Rab paused. ‘Why was he beating your older brother?’
‘The same reason he always beat my older brother—because he was not a real man. He refused to join the legion and do his duty to Rome.’
‘I see,’ said Rab.
‘Anyway, in the dream the donkey cart got swept away and I was running after it, screaming.’
‘I was aware of the screaming part,’ said Rab. ‘So did your brother eventually join the legion?’
‘No, unfortunately. My father beat him a little too hard one day and he failed to wake from it. But he was not a real man. Real men fight,’ said Plotius.
Rab listened closely and thought he could hear a small quiver at the edges of Plotius’s voice. ‘Of course, I do not need to tell you that,’ Plotius said. ‘Rebel leader.’
Plotius had meant it as a kind of compliment, but Rab could not take it as such—not while entertaining visions of a father beating his son to death for refusing to be a killer. And yet in a sense that was what Rab was doing with his rebel army: raising up a generation of killers.
Rab heard the soft patter of rain upon the stone ceiling. Just as he looked up, a drop landed on his check. He moved to wipe it, as if it were a tear, but another quickly took its place, and then another. And even though they were just small drops, he felt as if he were already drowning.