by JD Smith
I am unsure of him, and I do not agree with his trade. Of the enslaving. Grandfather and I had been taken as we journeyed north on the river, taken because the captain of that ship knew my grandfather, knew of the ransom upon his head for killing Jadhima, King of the Tanukh. And the slaves who had been on that ship when Rostram freed us had in turn been freed, and his words ring in my ears, they have you to thank for that. He would not have given them their freedom. He would have kept them in chains, sold them on, made a profit from their lives. And yet because of me he let them go, and I cannot fathom why that would be.
Later, I sit with my grandfather. We play dice, pebbles our coin, as the boat moves steadily downriver. I am not winning, despite my grandfather trying to let me, but this is no game of skill or intention, simply one of chance and luck.
‘I have read your recent pages,’ I say, meaning the papyrus he had scrawled upon this afternoon.
‘And what did you make of it?’ he asks.
‘Zenobia’s child did not survive?’
‘No.’
Grandfather’s face is shadowed by the dying sun and by the memory of the day he sat beside Zenobia, watching her close to death. I have known of many women in Tripolis die in childbirth, and the fear of it haunts us all, but I am not with a man, and I have no child inside me, so for me that fear can wait for another day or month or year.
‘She had professed that her son would be the ruler of Syria and Egypt, but it would not be that child.’
‘Then it would be another?’
‘Perhaps.’
I roll my eyes as him as I roll the dice. Everything must be told in order, nothing out of place, no hint or whisper of what might have happened on another day, in another year.
‘Was she really descended from Cleopatra the Great?’
‘Ah; her royal lineage. The claim that she was descended from Dido, Queen of Carthage, Sampsiceramus, King of Emesa, and Cleopatra VII, the last Pharaoh of Egypt. She could have been. I certainly believe so. She was convinced of it, without any doubt.’
What it would be like, I think, to have the blood of the greatest figures of history running through you, the royalty of ancient Egypt, the blood of kings and of queens. It is no wonder that she married a king, become queen herself, found a power that her ancestors had known.
My grandfather smiles as he studies me.
‘Roll the dice,’ I say with a playful frown.
‘All right.’ He shakes the cup and spills the dice on the table.
‘Did Valerian ever make a stand against Shapur?’ I ask. ‘Or did he just keep backing away?’
‘There was very little direct conflict at that point. The Persians were content to raid where they could without having to engage our full army, and Valerian was too inexperienced and too scared to put a stop to it. Our generals and Odenathus tried to advise him that it was essential we push the Persians back, but Valerian waited, forcing us to retreat all the while. There were small skirmishes, but nothing large scale.’
I am nodding, slow and careful, thinking what it would mean, wondering if they would ever defeat their enemies, ever rid the lands of Persians and find peace.
‘Did the Persians win?’
He shakes his head and I know he is considering his answer, that it is not straightforward and that he does not wish to tell too much, out of order and out of time.
‘It is complicated to explain. Palmyra and indeed Syria faced many threats from the Persians during the years following Valerian’s arrival in the east. We had our defeats, and we had our victories. Many from the Persians, some from the Tanukh, a few from other tribes and warlords staking claim, and of course there were those from the Romans themselves. We were not beloved of Rome,’ he says bitterly. ‘We were an outpost. Nothing more.’
The boat moves north as grandfather continues the tale of Zenobia; his last duty to a land gone forever, now a land that I know, a land in which I have grown older. A land I have never known to be any different, and yet it must have been, for he remembers, he holds images of another Syria, of great palaces of marble and of kings and queens ruling a desert oasis surrounded by blood and sand.
A picture I can only conjure in my imagination.
CHAPTER 6
Zabdas – 258 AD
Two days passed. More people came, visiting the girl whose face grew paler with the rising and setting of each sun. Her ladies muttered in fear. Aurelia flitted in and out, casting glances at me, worried or angry I did not know. I was never sure, not now, not ever I conceded.
Aurelia helped the physician tend Zenobia. I noted her caring touch, hands that cleaned and cared and nurtured the life left within. But it did not stop my worry and with each day I grew more conscious of Zenobia’s deterioration.
Aurelia brought food with every visit, but I could eat nothing, and began to feel my strength drain and muscles waste as I languished day after day in despair. It was not until that moment, sat beside her bed, the world moving on without her participation, that I realised how much she truly meant. I always thought of her as being a queen of the people, and she was, but their world would continue without her presence, Odenathus at the helm, the Empire ever there, lingering to the west. But my world could not move without her. I was trying and failing to be useful, to bring her back from the brink upon which she lay balanced, too far from us, from me, from any helping hand. I did not love her like I loved Aurelia, I did not desire her in the same way and nor did I know the same ease and conversation and warmth with Zenobia, but she belonged in my life more than any beloved sister. She was my family, and I felt as though I failed Julius – myself – with every moment she lay close to death.
Odenathus failed to return. Zabbai told me he was caught in matters of war, but I could scarce believe him so short of time that he could not sit beside his wife.
‘You are still here,’ Aurelia said as she placed a bowl of water on the table beside Zenobia’s sleeping form. She wrung out a cloth and began to bathe her arms.
‘There is little for me to do other than be here,’ I said.
‘I know. I spoke with Zabbai. He says that you have been relieved of any other duties to be here to watch over Zenobia. But please listen, you need to return to your own bed and sleep. You are tired and worn and I am worried for you. I realise you are close, and you feel as though you have failed her, but this has to stop. Come back, Zabdas. Come back to me.’
Her pale face, as tired perhaps as my own, looked down at me and guilt bit. I had immersed myself in my own pain, my own self-pity. Is this what Zenobia would have wanted? I thought not.
‘I worry about you, Zabdas,’ she continued. ‘Both you and the king need to sleep, to rest, or I fear you will be of no use to anyone.’
‘Odenathus? He has not even been here,’ I spat. ‘How can he lose sleep?’
Aurelia studied me, her blue eyes soft and understanding.
‘I hear that he has worries for both Zenobia and the army. I have seen his tired eyes and the worry upon his face. He cannot bear what has happened, but he can do nothing, just as you can do nothing. And he is powerless over what is happening to his army. He loves Zenobia, no matter how much you may persuade yourself he does not. His responsibilities are great, and he has much to contend with. Do you not think he would rather sit here, beside his wife?’
‘His responsibility is to his wife. It is she who needs him. Let the emperor defeat the enemy as he ought to.’ I held my head in my hands and took a long breath. ‘Not once has he been to see her.’
‘Perhaps not, but he knows of her condition each hour.’
I sensed my inner fight, unsure whether I believed, unwilling to accept her words.
‘I am sorry,’ I said at last, and fell silent, not caring to exchange more bitter words with my lover. I buried my head in my arms, hoping she would leave, that I might control once more my emotion.
When I thought her gone, I lifted my head and looked over at Zenobia, the light dim and mistrusting. I moved to Zenobia’
s bedside and stared at her a while. I felt embarrassment and shame at my actions. I worried not just for Zenobia, but for myself. I felt frightened and alone as the world around me changed, shifting into a new order.
I took her hand and gripped, hoping to gain comfort, but her skin was cold.
The following day, Zenobia’s condition became public.
The whole city appeared to know, and I could not help but eye the servants and slaves of the commander’s house with contempt. Someone had let slip the cause of her absence, told of the fate of her child, delighted in gossiping to the mob.
Odenathus must have spoken of it, told his generals and they their wives. But I was irrational with grief and foolish in my control, unable to think clearly or to see the world turning around me, moving forward, pressing on as Zenobia and I were shut away. And in my confusion my sense of loss heightened as I began to believe she would never wake. Days passed by in a blur and I knew nothing of the world beyond the walls of Zenobia’s room.
A week later and I sat beside the small window, looking out into the garden, absorbed in the silence and the private glimpse of tranquillity, unburdened by soldiers, unspoiled by the enemy. The Persians were believed to be on the move again, having stripped Antioch bare, but we had yet to see their army on the horizon.
‘They are fat on Antioch gold,’ Zabbai said. ‘They are in no hurry.’
‘But they will come.’ Somehow, I did not care whether or not they came. I could not muster the energy to feel or to think.
‘They will,’ he conceded. ‘Here, I have this for you.’ He handed me a roll of papyrus. ‘It arrived with some other correspondence for Odenathus.’
I peered down at my name, scrawled finely upon the curved papyrus, and all the worry and anxiety I had known lifted for a heartbeat.
‘It is from Julius,’ I murmured.
Zabbai said nothing, but looked down at Zenobia’s still form.
‘You should be training with the other men,’ he said.
Forgetting the letter I replied, ‘Does Odenathus command me to?’
I could sense by the way he spoke, the unease with which he parted the words, that Aurelia had prompted this conversation.
He shook his head. ‘Odenathus would not command that, no, but you have energy born of grief. You would do well to release it. It is advice, Zabdas, nothing more. I do not tell you, only encourage you.’
I wiped my face with my hands, waking a little from my solitude. Zenobia moved, fingers twitching, and my heart thumped quickly in the hope that she had come back to us, but she did not move again.
‘Aurelia tells me that soldiers have been dying,’ I said.
‘Some.’
We both looked at our queen, both, I think, willing the movement to recur, our breath almost held, but not quite.
‘Hundreds,’ I corrected him absently.
‘Perhaps.’
I looked across at him. The teller of truths, yet of late he struggled to tell the whole truth, to avoid awkwardness and simply say what he knew. He wore armour, his chest shining bronze and his face gleaming from the training yard or arguing with the other commanders, I knew not which. But he had changed. There was a respect and a sorrow in him that were known only in this room.
‘She is improving?’ he asked.
I ignored his question.
Zenobia wore a light shift, clinging to her skin with feverish sweat as her body ran hot and cold. The physician suspected some of her pregnancy might still linger within, prolonging her condition, stalling her recovery. The midwife had come, not long after the physician had packed to stem the flow of blood. She had removed all the wadding and muttered of her uterus and contraction. After a while she refreshed the wadding and told us to pray to the gods. And Aurelia kept telling us that Zenobia just needed a little time, a short rest, and she would be herself once more.
‘I hear our men die of plague,’ I said, ‘and our gods have left us and they have left Zenobia. That we are forsaken.’
My stomach churned with hunger and my head felt light as I stood up.
‘A few are dead,’ Zabbai replied.
‘When we next meet the Persians, our army will not be large enough to defeat them, will it?’
‘If the sickness continues, then no, probably not.’
‘Why can you not tell the truth?’ My voice was bitter.
‘You want the truth, Zabdas, open your damned eyes and cease revelling in self-pity. We have spent the last week quarantining the ill in attempt to stop the spread of infection, but plague has taken hold. Who knows how many will die before the Persians come? Half our army? Two thirds? We will no doubt be outnumbered by more than you know, and we will perish. We will die on these sands as Zenobia is dying in this bed. If she was not perishing of childbirth, then she would be suffering like the rest. Our morale is at its lowest. Roman soldiers have been caught deserting. The emperor and Odenathus argue constantly over what is best, and I, quite frankly, am glad of the respite I find when I walk the gardens of this house, despite knowing that as soon as I step into this room I will see a boy pining after his queen and that there is no hope.’ He stood before me with clenched fists, spittle on his chin. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’
I stared at him, at the anger in his face, at his lack of control.
‘I cannot think,’ I said, and I felt much smaller than I had felt for a long time. It was as if I faced the slave master Firouz once more.
Zabbai placed a hand on my shoulder, shook his head and sighed.
‘You feel great loss, Zabdas, because you have known little in this life. You should have something to eat, boy. You are beginning to look paler than your queen.’ He gave a short chuckle, intentional, as if trying to lighten the mood.
He turned to leave and Zenobia stirred once more.
Zenobia woke to a land filled with greater fear than I had ever known. Her pale complexion and clammy skin betrayed fever. Her eyes struggled to open, but I saw the glistening blackness beneath her lashes and her hands reached out. I took them, and sat beside her on the bed. I felt tears come, wiped them angrily aside and tried to fix an expression of cheerfulness on my face, to smile and warmly welcome her back from her slumber.
Her eyes opened more fully.
‘Zenobia? Can you hear me?’ Zabbai said.
She blinked and looked between the two of us, moving her fingers, arms and feet.
‘I hear you,’ she said, her voice cracking and fragile.
She tried to sit up.
‘Lie down,’ I said, and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘I am well enough. A little tired,’ she said. ‘That is all.’
‘We thought you would die.’ It was my voice which cracked as I spoke.
‘I have lost the child?’ she said, matter of fact, no preamble or pause, no tears or emotion.
I nodded.
She put a hand to her soft belly. ‘Was it a boy or a girl?’
I could not speak, my throat tight and my mouth unmoving.
Zabbai said, ‘A boy. A little too young for this world. And far too young for the next.’
She nodded, accepting his words and the will of the gods.
‘I will have another, strong and true. The gods tell me so.’
Her faith in the gods was far greater than mine, far more certain than most. She turned her head toward the window,
‘I dreamt of you, Zabdas, many times. I dreamed of Aurelia too. The skies were green-blue and filled with storm clouds. But we were there, alone on the desert plain. I cannot recall the direction we looked, only our being there. And the knowledge came that there would be a new ruler of Syria.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘They were faceless.’ Her brow creased with the memory. ‘And plague took our people, but they were saved by this person, this strong ruler. Where is Odenathus?’
‘He is with the men, Zenobia,’ Zabbai said. ‘It is true. A plague has descended upon the armies of Rome and Syria. Our numbers are much smalle
r than before. Your husband speaks with the emperor to rectify our situation. We had hoped to strike the Persians as they left Antioch, but hear reports that have left already and we are weakening by the hour.’
‘I must see my husband.’
Aurelia rushed into the room, her sandals slapping heavily on the floor, basket of linen in her arms.
‘Fetch the physician,’ Zabbai said to her.
‘Of course.’
‘Send someone for Odenathus,’ Zenobia said.
‘Odenathus has not been here since you lost the child.’ I surprised myself at how much satisfaction the words gave me.
Zenobia closed her eyes. ‘It matters not, send for him.’
With Zenobia awake, eating and sipping water, I was persuaded to my own bed to rest a while. I had forgotten the letter Zabdas had given me from Julius, Zenobia’s own father and husband to my birth mother, Meskenit, but I picked it up before leaving Zenobia’s room, the prospect of reading it the reason I had not been so reluctant for time alone.
I felt warm as I touched the same papyrus he had touched, the familiarity and comfort it brought, that the man who had saved me from slavery had written to me once more. It had been only a few months since I had seen him last, the year now drawing to a close, and yet I missed him greatly. I unrolled the message and read the words written in his beautiful hand:
Zabdas,
I hope this letter finds you well. I confess after my brief return home (to Antioch, alas, not Palmyra or my own villa) I have longed to return and never again to leave.
When Odenathus first asked me to travel south to fight the Tanukh, I had expected to return long before now, to fulfil my promise not to leave you in Palmyra. I have been in the south a long time: too long. I am eager to spend time with you, to show you the family life I have before now shared with my daughters. To see you and Meskenit united, and for her to warm to you. I am sorry, that I could not stay longer after giving you the news that she is your mother and not your aunt. It was, I believe, quite cruel of me, and yet unavoidable. Alas, I can do nothing about that now.
