The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord Book 2)

by JD Smith

  The laughter I hear from my grandfather’s men, the men whose boat this is, reminds me of my father, of the way he always laughed and joked and made light of the world, of a country in the wake of war.

  My grandfather will not speak of his death and I know that my father brought it upon himself, that he would not listen, took his own path, brought danger upon himself and others. It was always his way. I see him clearly, thinking himself right, stubborn and younger than his years. I am unsure who the child is, my grandfather would say.

  We anchor at Arethusa and go ashore, the ground unsteady beneath my feet. We are to buy provisions to last until Hama, and from there I do not know. Rostram owns the boat upon which we travel, a slave trader and a pirate, a man my grandfather knows from long ago, the man who saved us from ransom, who took the lives of a boat’s crew. And I do not think the man would see us much further, indeed he will not have to. Soon this river will peter out, a stream only, not fit to see a boat much further north.

  ‘You look tired, grandfather,’ I say, as we walk the streets of Arethusa.

  He draws in a deep breath, and winces as if it pains him.

  ‘Not as tired as I was. The death of Jadhima has lifted a heavy weight I have born for many years. I feel much lighter now.’

  He lies, I think, for I know he feels no lightness, not with Jadhima’s death weighted by my father’s. I see grandfather’s face begin to sag and his shoulders droop a little as if indeed he no longer has a weight to bear.

  ‘You killed for the first time at the gates of Antioch,’ I say. The death of the slavers on the river by my grandfather’s hand comes to mind, the bloody decks and screams that I cannot forget. They haunt me at night, the first cries of death I have known. I cannot help but think of Palmyra and the death of Jadhima, parted from this world by my grandfather’s sword.

  ‘I did,’ he replies, mouth curving into a smile at the memory. ‘I became a soldier that day. My youth left me. I was responsible for my actions and I did not regret them.’

  ‘You are proud?’ I ask, and I can hear my own scorn.

  ‘I protected the city, my people and my friends. I am proud of that.’

  ‘But you killed?’ I understand the necessity but not the joy. ‘You said you felt incredible guilt, but you do not feel it now?’

  ‘Not now. In time I discovered there is only one way to stand against an enemy. You cannot be cowed into silence. Roar the battle cry of the people or stand and liberate with words.’

  ‘Why did Valerian lead the Roman army east, instead of his son Gallienus?’ I ask. ‘It was Gallienus who agreed that the east required aid.’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps Valerian wanted to keep Gallienus from Zenobia; it was obvious to many that he was attracted to her, that he spoke against his father and co-emperor because of her. It was also true that the pair had long agreed to split the Empire: Gallienus taking the west; Valerian the east.’

  I think of Valerian, the emperor who retreated from the Persians, who backed his army to Antioch and hid behind its walls, a coward.

  ‘I do not understand why Odenathus did not take command over his men.’

  ‘Odenathus was a proud man who fought his conscience over many things, but none so much as his choice to follow the Roman line. Loyalty was his one weakness. That much I learned. He had long been faithful to Rome, but always in his mind were Julius’ words. He did not know whether it would be better for his people if Syria declared itself independent, set itself aside, became an empire in its own right and thus give him imperium, or stay with Rome and never know.’

  ‘Would it have been, at that time?’

  Grandfather pauses. ‘It is hard to say. I knew and respected Julius and his wishes for the east, but did not think until much later whether what he wanted would have been achievable. We needed Rome and its army, but under another general.’

  I smile at the stall-holders, the merchants and boys running back and forth on errands. The slaves. Back home in Tripolis there were many, but not in our household, and I look at my grandfather’s arm and the leather binding it and I think of the slave-mark which hides beneath, the past he has told me of and the years he spent in slavery. And I know too that he looks at these children in the market, and he tries not to supress the desire to buy them all and take them away, for he knows he cannot. Many are not for sale, and those who might be he cannot protect.

  We exchange coin for figs and dates and peaches, for loaves of bread and barrels of beer. My grandfather’s men help carry them back to the dock, to the boat, to load them aboard so we might continue upon our journey, to a place I have long wished to visit, to deliver the news of Jadhima’s fate. We travel now to Rome. An excitement stirs inside me and I know a smile is creeping across my face, wide and without restraint. Grandfather does not notice. He is in his own world, one of the past, not the present, thinking no doubt upon the next portion of his tale, and what happened to Antioch.

  CHAPTER 3

  Zabdas – 258 AD

  I woke to Aurelia’s intoxicating presence. Her scent hung in the fresh morning hours, musty and tempting, as she stroked my arm, fingers passing across a sword scratch from the day before. I pulled her closer and she kissed my chest, her moist breath warming my skin. I slid my fingers through her soft hair.

  Shouts from the household disturbed us, our billeting unwelcome despite my insistence that we took the smallest room, dark and cramped.

  I groaned and rolled onto my back.

  ‘I must go to Zenobia,’ I said, not wanting to leave my bed and the press of Aurelia’s pale nakedness on my own, darker flesh. I had not slept well in months, our low black tents unkind and unyielding in the open, but now, in a cot with Aurelia, I could sleep on through the mornings and into the afternoon if the gods would allow.

  In silence she slid from the straw mattress. She pulled on silk robes, her hair tousled and long down her back, the fresh morning tightening the skin of her legs. She looked over her shoulder and smiled, sad and sweet and thoughtful.

  The guard and I accompanied Zenobia through the streets. The Romans had already begun to train and I watched with curiosity as they lined in formations, each man deep in concentration, as if in their own private battle, toned muscle dark with the sun.

  The Palmyrene army gathered to the east of the city, near the walls. It was there Zenobia joined Odenathus.

  ‘You will accompany me today, Zenobia,’ he said.

  She nodded. I suspected the king simply wished her to stay where he could watch her, but she appeared content.

  To us he said: ‘Go to Pouja. He will give you orders for the day.’

  We strolled further along the wall, past drying puddles of blood from the day before, to where Pouja relieved the night watch and designated a new one. He gave us orders to join the new watch.

  I climbed up onto the city wall and with apprehension at what I might see, looked first left then right, down the length of wall. From there I could see the guard change around the perimeter of the city, men from different countries spread out, surrounding all we had fought to protect, facing the same foe. I looking directly out, afraid I would find the enemy a hand’s breadth from my face, but it was not. The Persian force seemed much larger than it had the previous day, though they were still beyond the range of our archers. Their silks tunics might allow them to pull arrows clean from a wound, but they were unwilling to risk the whistle of death.

  Mid-morning came and the enemy began to shift. Pouja shouted for the king to be fetched, and Odenathus arrived within moments, up and onto the wall with us. Beside him, Zabbai shielded his gaze. Both men’s eyes were dark and sunken, both men lost in the need to hold the city, knowing that if we did not, that if we let Antioch fall … They spoke for a few moments more, then Odenathus disappeared back down the ladder, back to the ground to speak with the Roman generals.

  Zabbai said to me: ‘They are going to attack again.’

  ‘Are we not starving anyway? I thought they intended to
wait for us to hand over the city?’

  ‘So we thought.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Something stirs in their camp.’

  Zabbai worried me, the uncertainty in his voice. I had come to know him since we had returned together from Rome. My closeness to Zenobia, leading her personal guard, and his friendship with the king, we saw much more of one another.

  ‘Odenathus has gone to warn the emperor and alert the Roman army. We have managed to gain a little more control over our own men, and with Odenathus a leader again, we will be ready for them this time.’

  Zabbai’s admiration for Odenathus’ leadership qualities bit, but I could not deny even to myself that I felt safer, more assured, facing the enemy with the king in command.

  The armies of Rome and Syria assembled behind the walls, the streets below the heavily defended parapets heaving with iron. I braced myself for the attack, the Persians edging nearer, my desperation at the need to stay alive growing stronger, to ensure that Zenobia’s child made safe passage into the word. My grip on my sword tightened.

  The soldiers backed away from the walls and archers took their place. I could no longer see the Persians. All along the perimeter legionaries banked deep in defence. We had the advantage. And we would keep it if no ill decisions were made. Even with the river blocked, we had weeks, months even, of supplies within the city. The enemy must have known. They were not prepared to wait. Their men were tireless for plunder, and Antioch could provide greater wealth than any city they had taken thus far.

  Shouts and screams sounded from outside the city. Around me, grim-faced soldiers readied themselves for the assault, praying to the gods, tightening the straps of their armour, muttering unheard words to wives. I wished I had said more to Aurelia. I realised suddenly how little I had said to her, how many times she told me she loved me, and how little I had returned those words. I will change that, I swore, if I live.

  ‘It is a good day to die.’

  To my right, the wild-eyed Syrian grinned. He looked to the sky. An eagle flew overhead, wings blocking the sun for a heartbeat.

  With little joy I smiled back. A good day. Was it? To me it was a day like any other of late, of death and fighting and the never ending prospect that this would continue until my last day. That it would never be done. Julius had wanted to free himself from Rome, and Zenobia wanted the same, but I could not see it. It would make no difference. I would still know blood and death, victory and defeat. Death crossed my mind, as it had before, but I could not accept it as the Syrian did now. His eyes bore into me as if he knew I harboured fear. He was older than me, but not by much. An understanding expression crossed his face and he looked back beyond walls where drums beat their fearful noise and roused dread in our people.

  With no orders to the contrary, we waited.

  ‘Let them come,’ the Syrian shouted. ‘Let them come so we can rip their rotting bowels from them to feed our dogs.’ A cheer from our men deafened me.

  ‘We will rip the heads from your shoulders and shit down your necks!’

  Filled with excited fear, I too shouted the obscenities I heard others cry, releasing the tension I felt within.

  Eventually, our throats dry and our spirits waning, we fell silent. Not a single archer had released an arrow as the enemy hung back, out of range.

  And we waited.

  Drums beat a rhythmic sound.

  Valerian came within sight of the troops, Odenathus with him. They talked, mouths moving rapidly, the king pulling a hand through his beard as he spoke. Their horses stepped impatiently and as they parted I glimpsed Zenobia. Mounted beside her husband, amidst the dirty soldiers, the sweating horses, the stench of leather and men, she shone as a goddess would. Thick hair hung in a heavy braid, circlets of gold upon her forehead, around her throat, crossing over her breasts, with a light white gown skimming the unborn. Her love for the east was known by many, and beneath the expression of stone, she would be desperate to dictate what should be done.

  Odenathus spoke urgently. Valerian bridled, lips curling, arms raised, face flushed with annoyance.

  Eventually they turned their mounts and the generals of Rome and Stratego of the east moved through the army to take command. Odenathus nodded to Zenobia. Whatever thoughts stirred in her mind had been put to Valerian. It was for him to decide our fate.

  Soon we would know it.

  Impatient, I said, ‘The Persians are waiting.’

  ‘They’ll come,’ the Syrian replied. ‘You know you’re alive when you fight.’

  We were of similar height, his expression like the mountain winds, with no real purpose except enjoyment. In one hand he held a spear, the point sharp and the shaft long. On his other arm he bore a shield, round and neat, and his wrists were bound with leather. Above the leather scars of more than just battle, of a scrape of stone, of a slipped chisel, marked his skin. He was a worker; a master of labours.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Zabdas.’

  I swayed in the heat. We waited for an enemy that would not come, an enemy who wanted to plunder and retreat, leaving the land desolate. I had nothing to say. If I spoke of the enemy I felt the fear rise, so I swallowed it, forcing myself to think other thoughts, of days hunting, riding, reed-lined waters, not daring to contemplate what would become of us.

  ‘Where are you from, Zabdas?’ he asked.

  ‘Yemen,’ I said, my anticipation fading with distraction and the images I had begun to conjure with it. ‘And you?’

  ‘My home is Antioch.’

  ‘Then do you fight for the king and for Syria, or for your home and your family?’

  The question did not need asking. It matter not what this Syrian fought for, but I was intrigued by him, his easy grin, his carefree expression, that the other soldiers did not have.

  Beyond the walls, the cry of battle filled the sky.

  ‘I fight for myself.’ He shrugged. ‘And you, my little friend, what do you fight for? A dream? A vision you cannot rid yourself of? Your own family?’

  I thought of the mother and father I had been ripped from, of Julius in the south, the man who had found me, saved me, taken me into his home, and of Meskenit, Julius’ wife and my true mother. Gods, I must bridge the years we had been parted, no matter the hurt she felt and the memories I knew she harboured, of a Roman penetrating her against her will, and me, the boy born of that act.

  ‘I fight for my family and Syria,’ I said. ‘And I fight for my king.’ The last words left me as easily as I felt fear in the face of the enemy. I fought for Zenobia, for her will and what she wanted to achieve, knowing that everything she did was to protect Palmyra. And if I fought for the safety of Palmyra then I fought for the king, despite my hatred of the man who had sent Julius to fight the Tanukh. And I fought for Aurelia; my lover and my friend.

  ‘And you, friend of Antioch, what is your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Bamdad,’ he replied with a grin.

  Orders relayed back and forth. We waited for the archers to fire the first round of volleys. We would know then that the enemy were closing in. But the release of iron-tipped death never came. The archers’ arms relaxed.

  We waited all day, the sun’s heat rippling the air, and my thoughts turned to the Persians and how they must be baking in the iron armour encasing their bodies. My lips were dry and I was thankful when water-skins were passed between the crush of soldiers. Even Bamdad, who had been maniacally gleeful at the thought of battle, became more subdued, his face falling into a frown and his eyes thoughtful.

  Eventually, our watch released and a new one in place, we headed for bed.

  ‘You enjoy dice?’ Bamdad asked me.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I know a few places in the city where the stakes are not so high, the drink cheap, and the women cheaper,’ he said.

  I thought of Aurelia alone, worried, waiting for my return.

  ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘Your loss, my friend. I
f you change your mind I’ll be in the northern quarter.’ He winked and left.

  I strolled back to the house where Aurelia would be. The city seemed quiet once more. I began unbuckling my armour and entered the house.

  Zenobia stood before me, pale face stern with worry.

  ‘What is wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘The city’s water supply has been poisoned.’

  ‘What, all of it?’

  ‘Almost every source. The wells outside the city and those inside too.’

  ‘Then the Persians have men inside the walls?’

  ‘Perhaps. They may well be inside the city, or they have the sympathies of men of Antioch.’

  ‘What does the emperor or Odenathus do?’

  ‘They have cut off all supplies to stop sickness. Odenathus has sent men to look for whoever might have been responsible, but I do not hold much hope, they are likely too discreet or long gone.

  I thought for a moment. ‘I met a man of Antioch today. Perhaps he has heard murmurs of discontent. He might know something.’

  In the dark and noisy northern quarter we found Bamdad. He sat in a tavern, a whore on the bench next to him, her arm wrapped lazily around his shoulder, her lips pursed in promise.

  He caught my eyes and laughed.

  ‘You join me then?’

  I shook my head as Zenobia lifted back her hood. Bamdad looked curiously between the two of us, a smile still on his face.

  ‘My cousin,’ I said.

  ‘The queen?’ Bamdad replied.

  ‘And her personal guard.’

  He nodded. ‘Then I take it you’re not here for the women and the dice?’ he said.

  ‘No, my friend.’

  Bamdad sighed and lifted the whore’s arm from his neck. She stood up and left, a curt glance at us for our intrusion.

  Zenobia sat down beside Bamdad and I sat opposite.

  ‘The water supplies in the city have been poisoned. Zabdas tells me you are a local, and therefore you might have information. Knowledge of someone within the city who could side with the Persians?’