The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord Book 2)

by JD Smith

  I did not reply, but gripped my knees with my hands.

  ‘You’ve never killed a man?’ the Syrian said, gripping my elbow in support.

  He looked at me as though he knew me. I suppose he did. We had fought together, side by side. We were brothers now, comrades in battle.

  ‘No,’ I said, embarrassment stealing my strength.

  ‘You can tell. Scared of the need. Unsure how to finish it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’ll come to know it. Once you start, there is no changing what you have done, that you’ve taken another life. That you enjoyed it.’

  CHAPTER 1

  Zabdas – 258 AD

  Zabbai appeared beside me, caught my shoulder, looked down at the men I had killed.

  ‘A soldier now, boy.’

  I peered at the lifeless bodies, bloody and still, not quite knowing what to think as the city buzzed around me.

  ‘You do well, lad, you do well.’

  He patted my shoulder but he was looking about us, assessing the damage, surveying the scene of carnage before him.

  I looked behind me for sign of Zenobia and saw King Odenathus, his height offering him a good hand above many of the soldiers. Full armour hung from his solid frame. Confusion and anger lined his face.

  ‘Pouja, to me!’ he called over the crowds. ‘We must organise this defence. Zabbai, move more reinforcements behind this gate. Get archers on the damned wall up there and make sure the bastard scum are stuck with feathers if they come anywhere near us. We need to organise this fucking chaos.’

  Zenobia moved beside him and my gaze flickered to her. Her eyes raked the scene of blood and death and dying horses. Odenathus saw me and followed my line of sight. His face displeased, impatient, tired even, but I could see little anger in his features, only resignation. Odenathus turned back to face the walls. Zabbai was already securing a garrison behind the gate and archers were spreading out along the wall above.

  ‘Pouja?’ the king called again.

  ‘My lord?’ the general replied, pushing through the mass. Breathless and blood-streaked, sweat poured from his face.

  ‘It appears they are falling back. I want to get on the walls. We need to assess the situation more fully. I do not trust what is happening and we are on our own in this; the Romans concentrate their main force to the south of the city.’

  ‘You have spoken with Emperor Valerian?’ Zenobia said.

  Odenathus grunted confirmation.

  ‘Why can you not do as I ask, Zenobia? Why is it so difficult for you to simply obey?’ When she did not reply he said to me, ‘You should never have let her out of the damned house.’

  Even as he spoke I saw the regret on his face. He knew I had not been posted at their house that morning, and even if I had been I could not have stopped her.

  Shaking from the enemy encounter I stumbled through the crowds, brushing shoulders with soldiers, my mind reeling but at the same time clear as to our need to protect the city. Behind us, in the heart of the city, citizens cried and screamed. They would be running to the temples to give prayers to the gods, or burying what they could not carry from the city. It had not fallen yet, but the Persians had breached this gate, and I dreaded to think how many others.

  High up on the walls hundreds of archers now swarmed, their bows trained outwards. We climbed the steps, Odenathus, Zabbai, Zenobia and I. The din of the enemy beyond grew louder the higher we climbed.

  At the top, stood high on the city wall, we paused a few feet from the edge and I saw then the force we faced. On all sides we were swamped so deep in a sea of men that no land appeared beyond the crawling mass of Persian warriors. We were perhaps thirty feet up; high enough to see a hundred thousand men on foot and horse. Chariots glimmered in a hazy sun, and far beyond sat the palisade upon which King Shapur would watch his army wage war on our land. Never in my life had I seen so many men.

  ‘The emperor,’ Zabbai said.

  I looked behind me, down into the city where the soldiers parted as Emperor Valerian strode toward the wall, his purple robe dragging through the dust.

  ‘Odenathus,’ he called up, ‘you requested my presence?’

  ‘This wall was moments ago breached. It is secure enough now. Come up.’

  ‘You would see us put on display to the enemy, so that they can pick us from the walls with their arrows, Lord King?’ Sarcasm mingled with fear laced the title with which Valerian addressed Odenathus.

  ‘No, Caesar. I merely show you the enemy we face. There is nothing to fear, they have moved out of range of our bowmen, so we are not within range of theirs.’ Odenathus swept his arm, encompassing the army before us. His voice was cool as midday heat crept upon us. His words may have been humorous, but his aged eyes and stern face echoed the seriousness of our situation.

  Valerian climbed the steps, hesitated, then neared the edge of the wall for a view of the lands beyond our sanctuary. Colour drained from his cheeks as surely as a drunk would drain a cup of wine. At the sight of his purple cloak, the noise of the Persian kettle drums heightened, the noise itself enough to put fear into the gods themselves.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Zabbai said to me. ‘They intend to make you fear them, do not let them succeed.’

  But they did. I felt it penetrate me the same way the heat makes you sweat; you cannot stop.

  I fixed my expression, my cold face, for I was a soldier; a warrior of the east. I would not show fear just as Zabbai showed nothing, and Odenathus spoke without emotion to the emperor. We could not let ourselves be overcome. Warrior hearts must beat in our breasts. If we were to die, then it must be in battle: a soldiers’ death.

  ‘We must not attempt to face them again in head on combat,’ Odenathus said. ‘The Persians know they outnumber us. Our priority must be to keep the city safe, to guard the walls against penetration and alleviate the blockage of our supply ships on the river.’

  Valerian opened his mouth, as if to argue. He backed from the wall, as far as he could without retreating down the steps, back into the city.

  ‘We will be starved within the confines of the walls!’

  Odenathus shook his head.

  ‘There is enough food for ten, perhaps twelve weeks. In that time we must concentrate our efforts on re-establishing the supplies. This city is a fortress. The Persians will tire and when they move on to other lands, we will be ready to take them, ready to move.’

  ‘We will punish them for what they have done,’ Zenobia said.

  ‘You think I do not want to punish them?’ Valerian asked.

  Zenobia looked at him as if a child pulled at the edge of her gown.

  ‘I am in command here, Odenathus,’ Valerian said, turning. ‘Not you. You may have loyalty from your countrymen, but this is my army.’

  Odenathus’ eyes narrowed, and he paused.

  ‘Of course, Caesar. I did not question your authority.’

  Valerian lowered his voice. They talked, words only for one another’s ears. Then Odenathus nodded and Valerian turned and retreated back down and into the city.

  Beyond the wall, the enemy pounded on their shields and drums and roared obscenities, the absence of the emperor from the walls a victory in itself.

  Odenathus steadied his gaze on the amassing army. Zenobia moved to his side, their shoulders almost touching, her belly swollen and hard and the unity they had formed evident as they stood at ease with one another. Jealousy seared, the knowledge that they were now irrevocably tied to one another tightening my throat, foaming in my stomach. She was my half-sister, and I wondered daily if my love for her was just that of a sibling, having never known such love before now, but I could never shake my desire and my continual thoughts of her. She was even more beautiful with a child in her belly, the roundness of it, the glow in her cheeks, the warmth. Her eyes were slicked with kohl and I knew I would never be capable of looking deep enough into those windows to know her completely.

  ‘Odenathus,’ Zabbai said, shaking me from though
t.

  The king peered across at us; one man his friend, the other a boy of whom he knew so little and cared even less. I was a friend, half-brother and guard to Zenobia, our mother one and the same, her father as good as mine, but to Odenathus I was nothing more than the sum of my functions. Every time he looked at me, it was as if it were the first time, a new face in his company, a distant stranger whose name was not worth remembering. After all the time I had spent in his presence, even now he looked past me.

  ‘I doubt they will assault the walls again today. This was a warning, that they are here and in force,’ Odenathus mused.

  ‘They will starve us into surrender,’ Zabbai said.

  ‘They will not,’ Zenobia replied.

  Odenathus continued to look upon the enemy as if none of us had spoken.

  Clouds moved above. The gateway that had been a tangle of warriors killing and screaming was now quiet. The dead had been taken and tended, the surviving enemy inside our walls killed.

  As we stood there in silence, the enemies’ shouting and drum-beats ceased. Did they contemplate returning to camp? Perhaps. The afternoon wore on and the cold of night would soon be upon us. I thought of the Persians and of the first man I had killed, the wildness of his eyes. He was a man, but I could not think of him as being the same. They were inhuman to me, yet I knew they were people, just like us, with homes and farms and families waiting for their return. Waiting for the plunder they would bring. Was the plunder they would gain from raiding our country necessary for them to survive? I thought not.

  Syrians shouted abuse over the walls, that Shapur’s mother was impregnated by pigs when she conceived him. That his father, Ardashir, could father nothing.

  ‘If they do not attack, I will rest,’ Zenobia said.

  ‘Of course,’ Odenathus replied, and I thought perhaps he was relieved at that.

  I moved to escort her, but the king caught my arm and gestured below for another soldier to go with her.

  ‘My lord, what troubles you?’ I asked.

  Clouds descended over the hills to the north; a bad omen. We prized water, but this was no time for the gods’ wrath.

  Once Zenobia was out of sight, Odenathus said, ‘Does Zenobia speak to you of Rome?’

  ‘In what way?’

  He paused, as if unsure whether or not to trust me.

  ‘I am uneasy,’ he confessed. ‘Does she wish to sever Syria from Rome, as her father does, or will she seek the aid of the Romans in our efforts to purge Syria of our enemies?’

  ‘Both,’ Zabbai said.

  ‘I am certain, my Lord,’ I said, ‘that Zenobia is as true to you and Palmyra as she is to her father. It was Julius’ wish that Palmyra be free of invasion. She is close to him, and she endeavours to please him. But she is your wife, in the eyes of both Syria and Rome.’ I could have bitten my tongue as I spoke, the words feeling bitter in my mouth. To speak of their marriage. ‘She does only what is best,’ I finished, knowing that I had given no real answer, that I did not have one. Zenobia did as she wished.

  Odenathus let out a long, slow breath. He reminded me of someone tormented, his face so full of thought it pained him to attempt concentration on a single matter for longer than a moment.

  ‘You are her friend and her half-brother,’ he said, brushing my comment aside. ‘You have said what I expected you to say.’

  ‘My Lord, you know Julius well. You are friends. If you trust him, then you can trust her. Zenobia and her father are one. They strive to achieve the same goals. She does only what she feels will secure both your command in the east and the safety of your people. She knows that you cannot scourge these lands without more men. It is why she journeyed to Rome. You owe her much.’

  ‘Zabdas is right,’ Zabbai said. ‘She may share her father’s hopes, but she is not foolish. She does what is necessary for the safety of Syria. You can be sure of that.’

  Odenathus gave a curt nod.

  ‘Zabbai, organise the men,’ he said. ‘Set a night watch in place. Our soldiers are to be ready for battle at a moment’s notice.’

  Zabbai faltered.

  ‘Go.’

  Odenathus was tall; much taller than me. Bedouin leather stretched across his chest, bare arms glinted with sweat in a dying light.

  ‘I know that you do not like me,’ he said, and began to pace along the wall.

  ‘My Lord …’

  ‘No, Zabdas,’ he said, and raised a hand. ‘As your king, you are not required to like me. It was not my decision to keep you from the Euphrates.’ He spoke gravely.

  My heart lurched into my throat and my stomach churned. Did he know? Were my tormented feelings plain upon my face? I could not bring myself to like Odenathus. I had known that ever since he had sent Julius south, away from me, to wage war on the southern tribes. Ever since he had taken Zenobia as his wife because, gods damn it, despite my being her half-brother I could not banish my own affections. Feelings that were more than that of a brother.

  ‘Julius is my friend,’ Odenathus said. ‘He does not want harm to come to you.’

  His words carried a warning, that my involvement in Zenobia’s wellbeing was unwanted. What would he do if I kept my proximity? I waited, my mouth drier than the desert.

  ‘Go back to your woman,’ he said, ‘and get some rest. The coming weeks will be long.’

  I turned, relief sudden and welcome and warm. Then a thought came to mind.

  ‘When they attack, I wish to fight.’ I had trained as a soldier, yet until today I had not participated in full-on combat. I was young and reckless. I dreamt of becoming a warrior, and of the profits and glory that came with it. And despite Julius not wanting me to join him in the south, perhaps I might now be permitted to fight alongside my brothers.

  ‘Like you did today?’ Odenathus asked, looking down at my tunic and the Persian blood crusting upon my breast. Grazes, red and angry on my arms, stung. ‘It is not always as easy as it was today. War is no fun for those who die.’

  I nodded and took my leave, knowing I was dismissed.

  I pondered Odenathus’ last words as the sun disappeared and the city streets were cast in shadow. Soldiers lay restless in their beds or guarded the walls, citizens hid in their homes, knowing that they must feed and billet soldiers for months. All was quiet as I returned to the house where I hoped Aurelia waited, out of danger, more obedient than Zenobia could ever be.

  I walked in solitude. Not one Roman I had met appreciated the glory of the eastern cities, thinking their own mighty Rome superior. Intricate mosaics and polished marble were trodden on without a second thought, and all the while I looked on, embittered by their lack of respect, protective of that which I felt a part of.

  The guards outside our house nodded and let me pass. All was quiet, the modest rooms empty, everyone retired to their beds. I found Aurelia waiting for me, fully dressed in the silks so prized in the Italian markets. She greeted me with a smile that said we needed to talk. She poured wine, handed it to me and took one for herself, before beckoning me to sit with her.

  Only now did I realise, as I sipped the wine and sat down for the first time that day, how tired I was, in body and mind. Aurelia, her sweet young face unlined, unscarred, unhindered by age, stared at me.

  She touched a jewelled hand on mine, licked a finger of her other hand and wiped my cheek. My anger drained away. Life sifted, calm left behind.

  ‘You fought today, Zabdas,’ she said, indicating the blood she wiped from my face.

  ‘I did,’ I murmured, intoxicated by the perfumes enhancing her soft, pale skin, not paying attention to what she said, not really caring. My ears turned her words into sweet music, every breath a new song.

  ‘You killed men?’

  ‘A few.’

  She kissed me where the blood had been, as if it would cleanse the action of taking life. I had protected the city. She understood that, I was sure, but did she fear for my soul, for what the gods would do?

  ‘Do not turn into my fa
ther, Zabdas.’ She paused, looked into my eyes, focussing on one then the other. ‘He is a cruel man, without a heart and with a soul so fragmented by all the lives he has taken. To kill in defence is acceptable, and my father does, but they say he takes enjoyment, that he shares the sport of the gods. I beg you, do not be the same.’

  She kissed my lips.

  ‘Cor meum cum corde tuo usque in sempiternum.’

  My heart is yours forever.

  Her murmured words hung on the evening air, refusing to fade.

  I trembled as I held her, shoulders aching beneath the weight of day. She shared that weight by being with me, being close, not realising how much I needed her touch and the sound of her soft voice in my ear.

  Guilt pierced the calm. I had not thought of her as I faced the enemy, not as I killed nor as I worried for Zenobia. I cursed myself for a fool.

  Then I felt ashamed. I should not have felt guilt; guilt was for the weak. They say emotion makes you more of a man, more real, more alive, that you see life in fair perspective and you can overcome your inner demons with reason. But I should not have felt this emotion. I should only experience anger and controlled rage, for when I took the life of a Persian, I became more than just a man.

  I was a soldier; a warrior of the east.

  CHAPTER 2

  Samira – 290 AD (Present day)

  I cannot imagine my grandfather as a young man, taking the life of a Persian in all the heat and sweat and dread of battle. I am afraid, I think, to hear that he might fall to a sword or spear, even though he could not, for if he had I would not be looking at him this moment as he stares back upriver.

  His face is aging and I notice with each passing day the new lines upon his face and the marks cut into his flesh that were not there before. He is my only family, the single living person bound to me by blood, now my own father is gone.

  Vaballathus.

  I say his name over and again and it rides in my mind as I drift on this boat. I have not stopped thinking of him since his death, since the moment my grandfather told me of his being cut down by the king of the Tanukh, the man they called Jadhima.