The elephant heads mocked him from above—proud and strange. He had not been inside the palace since that terrible night thirteen years before and had almost forgotten about his father’s stone elephants, constructed early in his reign.
Rab paused beneath one of the columns, fighting his emotion.
‘Rab, I must tell you something about the elephants,’ said Atia. ‘I have had a revelation. I—’
Plotius stepped between them. ‘What must you tell him about the elephants?’ he asked.
Atia tensed. Rab could see her mind working. ‘That they are...they are Indian elephants and not African,’ said Atia.
‘And how do you know this?’ asked Plotius.
‘Their skin is wrinkled,’ replied Atia. ‘And just look at the size of their ears.’
Plotius was distracted long enough for Rab to toss his quick-witted wife a wink.
‘Why does it matter what kind of elephants they are?’ asked Plotius. ‘You are trying to delay. Come.’
Plotius motioned to the soldiers and they climbed another set of stairs and set out across the threshold that had once been Rab’s father’s throne room. On the dais where his father’s throne used to be, a giant bust of the Emperor Hadrian loomed.
They passed the small Greek theatre where his father used to meet with the popular assembly and stepped past the temple where his father used to make offerings to Dushara. Rab spied a statue of Jupiter where the stone block for Dushara used to be and felt a pang in his heart.
Behind the temple lay a series of rooms in which his family used to dwell. Now they were occupied by Romans and Nabataeans sitting in client chairs fanning the hot air.
‘Wait here,’ said their escort and he entered Rab’s old bedroom. When he re-emerged, he motioned to Plotius. ‘Legate Julianus will see you now.’
Their entourage filed into the room as their escort announced them. ‘Honourable Commander, these travellers have been sent by Governor Severus himself. They bear an urgent message for you.’
A stocky, sharp-eyed man a little older than Rab stood up from behind a large desk and bowed to the visitors. Seeing Plotius’s face, he quirked a brow. ‘Well met, Plotius,’ he said. ‘It has been a while.’
‘Indeed it has,’ said Plotius, moving around to grip the Legate’s arm. The two men exchanged a meaningful look, though Rab could not discern if they were friends or foes.
‘Please, sit,’ said the Legate, gesturing to a group of client chairs in front of his desk. As Plotius, Atia and Rab took their seats, Rab noticed a beautiful sober-faced Nabataean woman standing behind the Legate. She slid Rab a glance.
‘This is my translator, Shaquilath,’ said the Legate, motioning to the woman. ‘And behind you are my guards, Rufus and Gaius.’ Rab glanced at two large scowling guards standing against the adjacent wall. They hovered just behind Plotius’s own guards, who had formed a kind of phalanx behind the chairs. The Legate sat back, apparently at his ease. ‘Now tell me, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’
As Plotius opened his mouth to speak, Atia was already introducing herself. ‘I am Atia Severus, daughter of Governor Severus, and this is Rabbel, son of Junon, our guide. We come to you with a letter from my father.’ Wasting no time, she reached into her rucksack and passed the sealed letter across the desk.
The Legate unsealed the letter and scanned it. Rab looked down to find Atia gripping the arms of her chair. The Legate gave Rab a long, scrutinising look and drew a breath. ‘I believe I shall read this aloud, since it relates to all three of you.’
In the days that followed, whenever Rab thought back on that moment, he cursed himself for not having seen the sign. It was in the Legate’s eyes when he looked at Rab: an unusual pity, as if he were looking at a dead man.
‘“Dear Commander Julianus”,’ Julianus began. ‘“If you are reading this scroll then my daughter stands before you, along with two escorts: a Nabataean man who calls himself Rab Junon and my own tribune, Plotius Gnaeus Longinus.”’
The Legate glanced at Rab, cleared his throat, then continued.
‘“The Nabataean man is not who he says he is. His true name is Tainu Obodas Rabbel the Third. He is the oldest living heir to the Nabataean throne and also the leader of the Nabataean resistance. I command you to execute him swiftly and discreetly at your earliest convenience.”’
Rab choked, then coughed. The world began to spin and his vision blurred.
Beside him, he heard Atia shout, ‘No!’ She moved to stand, but two soldiers stepped forward and held her down.
Then all Rab could see was Atia. She was no longer seated beside him, however. She was standing beside a blue pool, reaching out to him. She was getting smaller and smaller, fading away into a blur of dust. ‘No!’ she shouted, over and over again, but her voice was growing weak, replaced in Rab’s mind with Plotius’s mocking laughter.
When Rab’s wits finally returned, Plotius was laughing still and Atia was convulsing with sobs.
The Legate had resumed his reading. ‘“My daughter’s second companion is Plotius, my finest tribune. I have sent him to you so that you will make him your second in command. You will find no better ally in defeating the rebels than Plotius. His loyalty lies with Rome and Rome alone.”’
The Legate looked up again from the scroll. He turned to his translator, who closed her eyes for what seemed an unusual amount of time.
The Legate nodded, then returned his eyes to the papyrus. ‘“In addition, I command you to preside over the marriage of my daughter to Plotius.”’
‘What?’ said Atia. Plotius’s face split with a grin. Atia was shaking her head so vigorously that her hair fanned the air.
But Rab did not feel the wind, because he was sinking. Deep down into his chair, which opened into a fissure in the floor into which he travelled until he found himself in the realm of lost souls.
Atia. His wife. The only woman he had ever truly loved was to be given over to a man who would use and discard her as he would a stolen sheep. And Rab, in all his physical strength and skill, could do nothing to stop him.
For Rab himself had just been condemned to die.
He felt the squeeze of hands on his shoulders. They held him down, pinned him to his seat. He was breathing too hard. He feared his heart might explode. Swiftly and discreetly at your earliest convenience.
The Legate was speaking again. ‘“Plotius carries my daughter’s dowry with him and will provide you with the sum of five thousand denarii, representing his first year’s salary, along with a small gift to you as a token of my gratitude. A wedding feast is not necessary. My daughter, as you can see, would only be embarrassed by such a display.”’
Rab saw Atia’s eyes touch the floor, and in that instant he understood why it had been so difficult for her to believe in her beauty.
‘“One last command as relates to Atia,”’ continued the Legate, his eyes nearly at the bottom of the scroll. ‘“I am assuming you have received this scroll with its seal unbroken. If it was broken, however, I order you to flog my daughter for disloyalty. Ten lashes will suffice.”’
Atia’s expression was unflinching, as if she was threatened with such punishments all the time.
The Legate took a long breath. ‘“In sum, you will kill the Nabataean rebel leader, marry my daughter to Plotius and place Plotius beneath your command. Do all these things quietly and with haste. Consider them a test of loyalty. I will pay a visit to Rekem as soon as I am able.” Signed Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore Magnus Atius Severus.’
The Legate did not even look up as he issued his command. ‘Take the Nabataean to the holding cells.’
The arms that held Rab down yanked him up and dragged him towards the door. Rab heard a shriek, but it had not come from Atia. He turned to see Livius’s enraged figure lunging towards the guards. ‘Unhand him!’ Livius shouted. He was waving his dagger like a madman. ‘He is my friend!’
‘Take him, too!’ commanded the Legate. A guard kicked the dagger from Livius’s hand and seized him.
Now both Rab and Livius were being dragged out the door.
Rab strained to look behind him. Just let me see her one last time, he thought. A single kick to his backside told him he would not even be granted that one small wish.
In the past, Atia might have carefully swallowed her tears. She might have stared at her own toes and wondered why they were so crooked. She might have smiled and said she felt a little ill and could she please be excused so she might attend to her delicate constitution?
Not any more.
‘Legate, you are making a mistake,’ she told Julianus.
The Legate raised a brow. ‘Is that man not the rebel leader?’
‘He...he was the rebel leader. He has vowed to cease his activities.’
‘Cease his activities?’ said Plotius with a scoff. ‘He led four dozen rebels to our camp at the Bitumen Lake.’
‘Rab knew nothing about the rebels,’ protested Atia. ‘We all would have died that day had he not called them off us!’
Julianus frowned. ‘How many lost?’ he asked Plotius.
‘Of the Romans, eighteen men, Commander,’ said Plotius. ‘But we got our revenge. We tracked the little Arab bastards to their encampment. Slaughtered fifty of them in their sleep.’
The Legate glanced briefly at the Nabataean woman whom he had introduced as his translator. It was unusual for a Roman man to employ a woman in any official capacity and the woman’s disapproving expression gave Atia a reason to hope.
‘My father is mistaken in ordering Rab’s death,’ Atia said. ‘Rab saved our lives. He has also vowed to disband the rebel army.’ Once I convince him to do so, that is.
Plotius scowled at Atia. ‘Rab is a murderer and a traitor to Rome. As my future wife I command you not to speak of him again.’ Plotius turned to Julianus and the tone of his voice changed. ‘When I serve beneath you, Commander, you can be assured that I will work tirelessly to eliminate all of the remaining rebels. I will hunt them down and slaughter them in their sleep.’
The Nabataean woman sucked in a breath. The Legate was shaking his head.
‘I fear I cannot make you my second in command, Plotius,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I do not feel that you are qualified at this time to take on the position. As for the rebel leader, he will remain in my custody until I am able to discuss the matter with the Governor himself.’
Atia nearly burst into tears. ‘Bless you, Legate,’ she breathed. She buried her head in her hands and tried to calm herself. He will remain... She heard the phrase over and over again in her mind. She had just been granted the gift of time—time enough, she prayed, to get Rab and Livius free.
The fires of rage burned in Plotius’s eyes. ‘The Governor himself has ordered my promotion,’ he hissed. ‘You read it yourself!’
‘And yet as the Legate it is my right to choose whom I place in my confidence. I will take the matter up with the Governor when he arrives. In the meantime you may stay with the legion here in Rekem, or you may return to Bostra. It is your choice.’
‘You are making a mistake, Commander,’ Plotius growled.
‘Perhaps I am, but that is between me, the Governor and the Emperor.’
Plotius’s face had taken on the exact colour of the inside of a fig. ‘And my marriage to the Governor’s daughter?’
‘Because that appears to be contingent upon your position in the legion, I am afraid I cannot allow it. We must wait until I can confer with the Governor.’
Plotius stood. Something in his eyes had changed. They were no longer burning. On the contrary, they appeared frozen and black. Dead, almost. ‘But the dowry,’ he was saying. ‘The coin.’ He unclipped the box from his hip belt. ‘Do you not wish to receive the Governor’s gift?’
Plotius was rounding the corner of the Legate’s desk. He was unhinging the box. ‘No!’ shouted Atia. He was pulling something from the box. A dagger. Atia lunged across the desk.