Читать книгу Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior - Greta Gilbert - Страница 14

The guards burst into the dressing room and seized the camel man by his arms. ‘Robe him!’ Atia shouted as she pushed back through the doorway and out into the main hall.

She felt as if she had just escaped a burning building. She fanned herself with her hand and began to pace. Did the man have no shame? But the question was unfair. Once inside the baths, men were not required to remain clothed. Still, he had appeared almost triumphant as he watched her take in the vision of him.

And what a vision it was, in truth. So much glowing bronze flesh. So much taut, sinewy muscle. He had seemed taller without the trappings of cloth and there was a solidity to him that she had not perceived before. His arms bulged, his chest sprawled, his thighs were as thick as logs and between them...

She stopped pacing. Shook her head. It was not as if she had not seen a man’s desire before. After three marriages, she had long since learned to dread the sight, for it meant only one thing: submission to her wifely duties.

And yet now her mind wanted nothing but to consider that large, fascinating blur of flesh that she knew many men would call a blessing. Many women, too, she thought wryly.

By holy Minerva, why was she even thinking of such a thing? She was the Governor’s daughter. She was supposed to be a model of modesty and decorum. She gazed up at the hall’s high ceiling where an image of the goddess Juno floated in diaphanous robes. The goddess held two pomegranates in her hands, as if weighing them. Her cool expression seemed full of judgement.

‘It was not my doing,’ Atia explained to the placid goddess. What was not her doing? The toga? The bath? The unreasonable attraction she felt towards a man whom her father suspected to be a rebel? ‘It is not my fault,’ she muttered weakly to the goddess. ‘He trespassed the boundaries of propriety.’

Though to be fair, it was Atia who had trespassed on him.

She returned to pacing. It was not just his nudity that had unnerved her. In addition to his highly improper display of flesh, there had been that look in his eye—the same one he had flashed when they had first met and then again when he had called her beautiful.

Strange things had happened to her body all three times he had looked at her that way. Heat had pulsed through her, followed by a kind of melting feeling and a weakness in her legs. It was as if his very gaze had the power to cook her—to turn her limbs into noodles and her insides into bubbling polentum.

They bubbled even now, just remembering that look. And then there was that barely detectable smile that she saw traverse his lips just afterwards. It was as if he knew she admired him.

As if he believed that, in some small way, he had conquered her.

Ha! He had done no such thing. He was her father’s prisoner! How could he have any power over her at all? His life was not even his own. Nay, if she felt anything for him at all, it was pity.

In that instant, she heard the door to the men’s changing room swing open. She turned to discover him striding towards her, the flowing white toga virilis draped elegantly around his body. Her stomach turned over on itself. If she had believed that the trappings of clothing would erase his appeal, she had been woefully mistaken.

By the gods, he was well made. Even the draping toga could not conceal his finely sculpted strength. The flowing fabric hung from his broad left shoulder and swept beneath his right arm, revealing the contours of his chest through his snug-fitting undertunic. As he walked, the heavy woollen garments seemed to whisper across the floor.

Pity. Deep, abiding pity, she reminded herself as he planted himself before her and nearly slew her with his gaze.

‘You wish to make me into a Roman,’ he growled.

He did look rather Roman—with all his pursing lips and broad-shouldered arrogance. Closely trimmed beards such as his had become popular among the equestrian class recently and even his long black hair was of the latest Roman fashion. It brushed the tops of his shoulders, giving him a carelessly regal appearance—like a scholar fresh from the baths.

‘The toga suits you,’ Atia observed. She studied the creases of the garment’s folds, careful not to meet his gaze.

‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

‘It is merely an observation.’

‘The toga is a mockery,’ he said, swatting the air.

‘It is not my doing,’ she said, though she had no idea why it seemed important to clarify. ‘My father wanted you to be presentable at the banquet. He has also asked me to learn your name.’

‘Ha!’ the man scoffed. ‘What else did he ask for? My domicile? My sandal size? The breed and lineage of my finest camel?’

The humour of the statement struck them both at once and they chuckled together.

What was this strange thing between them, this laughter? And when had his dark eyes acquired that glint of gold?

‘Rab,’ he said at length.

‘What?’

‘Your father wished for you to learn my name. It is Rab.’

‘As in Rabbel? The last Nabataean King?’

‘Half the men in Arabia are named Rabbel,’ he said absently.

‘Are they indeed?’ Atia said, though she was barely listening. She had become distracted by Sol, the Roman sun god. His long arms were stretching through the bathhouse doorway, staining Rab’s face with golden light.

‘Rabbel was a popular king,’ Rab added, ‘though not any more.’

‘And who is your father, Rab?’ she asked, for her own father had commanded her to find this out as well. ‘And what is your father’s profession?’

Say he is a farmer, or a herder. Let him be of no political interest. A nobody.

Rab paused and gazed at the ceiling. ‘My father was a man called Junon. Before his death he was...a pomegranate farmer.’

Atia exhaled. A nobody, then. A glorious, unassailable nobody. ‘Come then, Rab, son of Junon, farmer of pomegranates,’ she said. ‘We must prepare you for your performance.’

She glanced over his shoulder at the guards. ‘Please await us outside.’

The three men exchanged looks and Atia knew she had just made a grave error. The guards would certainly notify her father of the unusual command. Atia would have to devise some story to explain it. But not now. Now was about preparing Rab to preserve his own life. With Fortuna’s favour, he might even earn his freedom.

‘If my father senses insincerity in your apology tonight, he will punish you further,’ she said. ‘You must believe me in this, for I have seen it before. He demands a moving performance.’

‘He wants theatre?’

Atia sighed. ‘All banquets are political and all politics are theatrical,’ she said.

‘You speak in knots,’ he said.

‘Just give me your best apology and let us see if it will suffice.’

Rab cleared his throat. ‘Honourable Governor Magnus Atius Severus of Arabia Petraea, I, Rab, son of Junon, do beg your forgiveness for the harm done to your person by my camel and I pledge my loyalty to Rome. Good?’

‘Beyond terrible.’

Rab frowned.

‘Your words are too terse and your demeanour far too proud. Just look at how you hold yourself. In that toga, I might have mistaken you for Augustus himself.’

A sly smile spread across Rab’s face and he puffed out his chest comically.

‘It is not a compliment,’ Atia warned. ‘You must hunch your shoulders and hang your head low. Do not appear comfortable in that garment. Appear as if you feel unworthy of it.’

Rab gave a dismissive grunt.

‘I do not think you understand what is at stake,’ Atia said. ‘My father wishes to humiliate you and receive your submission. If he is not satisfied, he will pursue other means.’

‘What means?’

‘He will take a finger, Rab. Or a toe. He will have you disrobed, or thrust your arm into the snake charmer’s basket. I have seen all these things happen to slaves and prisoners who have come before my father at banquets. He likes to put on an entertaining show.’

The colour left his cheeks. He paced away from her, his silence betraying his fear. Good, Atia thought. He should be afraid. Only the gods knew what manner of humiliation her father planned for him.

‘And as for the nature of your apology,’ she continued, ‘you must make it as detailed and elaborate as possible. Sorry is not enough—you must fawn and you must beg.’

She watched him cringe. ‘You must bury your true feelings deep. Watch me now and listen closely.’

Atia dropped to her knees and assumed her most miserable expression. ‘Honourable Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore Magnus Atius Severus,’ she said. ‘I come to this banquet in the manner of a lowly dog. I am embarrassed, ashamed, contrite. I sit on your couches, I eat your oysters, I avail myself of your endless generosity, yet I deserve none of this.’ Atia sat back on her heels. ‘Do you see? Now continue where I left off.’

Rab gave his shoulders an exaggerated hunch. ‘Honourable Governor, I stand before you as a beggar, a sand-scratcher, a worm. A fly on the back of the world’s ugliest toad. The stinking excrement of the lowliest jackal in the foulest—’

‘Perhaps a bit less description,’ Atia interrupted, suppressing a grin.

Rab nodded gravely. ‘Only two days ago, my camel did the unthinkable. The mindless beast thrust out his wretched leg and crushed your own. It was a crime for which both beast and owner deserve the worst of punishments. And yet you, Honourable Governor, in your magnificent mercy, have allowed us to live.’

‘Better,’ said Atia. ‘Now drop to your knees.’

Rab dropped to his knees before her and she felt a wave of heat pulse through her body. Now they were kneeling before one another with half-an-arm’s length between them. The bubbling in her stomach returned with new force.

She gulped a breath and willed herself to focus. ‘You must speak your apology with great humility,’ she advised. ‘Ideally, you must begin to cry, but only if you can produce real tears.’

‘It will be difficult enough to hide my disgust.’

‘You must not simply hide your disgust, you must swallow it whole,’ said Atia, ‘and after your apology, you must declare your loyalty to Rome...with thunderous enthusiasm.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘You wish for me to raise a cheer, then? Summon the trumpets?’

She frowned. His arrogance was exasperating. He certainly did not comport himself like the son of a pomegranate farmer.

‘Senatus Populus Que Romanus,’ he was saying now. ‘I have come here to pronounce my loyalty to Rome. First I shall perform a Roman salute, followed by a prayer to Magna Mater. Then I shall recite a few lines from the Aeneid.’ He arched a brow and it was all she could do not to laugh.

‘You will say none of those things—lest my father throw you to the lions!’

‘Just the lions?’ He was making light of her advice, but his words had grown edges. Beneath all his bluster, she knew he was afraid.

‘After your apology, you should straighten your posture and lift your chin thusly.’ She tilted her head so that her face gazed up at his. ‘Then passionately declare your loyalty to Rome.’

‘I am beginning to understand the nature of this drama,’ he said.

‘And that is?’

‘A debased, uncivilised Nabataean man is transformed by his submission to Rome.’

She did not deny it.

‘And if I do not wish to be your father’s performer?’

‘You risk losing more than your dignity,’ she said.

Rab exhaled mightily, then rose to his feet. ‘I declare my complete and undying loyalty to Rome,’ he said, his rich, gravely voice resounding against the marble. ‘For Rome’s greatest Governor has lifted me from squalor and shown me mercy.’

‘Bravo,’ she said, feeling unreasonably happy. ‘You have learned the dance.’

He flashed a begrudging grin and extended his hand down to her and when she rose to her feet it was as if they were really dancing.

‘If Fortuna wills it, you will walk free tomorrow,’ she said. If Fortuna willed it, this would be the last time they would ever speak again.

‘You do me a kindness,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘I find it...tedious to watch other people suffer.’

‘I am grateful to you,’ he said. She noticed that he had not released her hand. She glanced at the floor, unsure of how to respond. ‘Truly,’ he said, willing her to look at him again. ‘I owe you a debt.’

Atia blinked. Obviously he was trying to win her favour again. What prisoner ever expressed gratitude to his captor?

‘Yes, that is it,’ she said. ‘That is the tone of sincerity you must strive to convey.’

He lowered his voice. ‘It is not a tone. I am sincere.’

What a strange thing for him to say. But of course you are not sincere, she wished to tell him. You are a prisoner. You will say anything to engineer your escape.

‘When you stand before my father tonight you must work hard to veil your thoughts,’ she said. Meanwhile, her own thoughts had begun to run riot.

‘You appear to know quite a lot about the veiling of thoughts,’ he observed. He squeezed her hand. There was very little distance between them now. She could smell his clean olive scent.

‘Yes, I believe I am something of an expert in that particular skill,’ she admitted.

She had been veiling her thoughts all her life, in truth—from a father who used her, from husbands who despised her, even from her own awareness. Thoughts were dangerous, because they always led to pain. ‘If my thoughts are concealed, they cannot be used against me,’ she said.

‘And yet perhaps you are not so very adept at concealment as you think,’ he whispered. She glanced at his lips, the bottom lip so much larger than the top, like a pillow upon which she might lay her secrets.

‘I am extremely adept,’ she countered. She had meant the statement as a kind of jest, but the words came out thick and heavy.

‘Can you guess my thoughts in this moment?’ he asked.

‘No, I am afraid I cannot.’

His lips were so close. It was as if he wished to kiss her. ‘I am thinking that you are very beautiful.’

His breath washed over her, bathing her skin with sensation. It flooded down her limbs, making her feel relaxed and alert all at once. What had he said? That she was beautiful?

Beautiful?

She froze. She was many things, but beautiful she was not. Something was amiss.

She stepped backwards. He was watching her closely, his eyes smouldering with...with that look. That very well-crafted, remarkably believable approximation of desire. Something was very, very amiss.

He tilted his head back to take in the length of her body and his eyes fixed on the belt of her tunic—the place where she had stored the key to his cell.

And there it was—a glimpse of the truth. His mind was not on her—of course it was not. Had she forgotten how her terrible hooked nose made her completely undesirable? Nay, he was thinking of the key. He did not desire her. He desired escape.

She took another step backwards. And to think that she had tried to tutor him in the art of performance! What a fool she had been. She had almost been taken in by him, had waited for his kiss, had longed for it, even. How could she have forgotten herself in such a way?

‘Do you think me that naive?’ she asked.

‘Apologies, I do not underst—’

‘Guards!’ she called.