by JD Smith
‘No need to train today,’ he said. ‘Odenathus requested I fetch you.’ He jerked his head. ‘We should go.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He did not say,’ Zabbai replied, ‘but asked for us both.’
‘A little odd.’
Zabbai did not respond.
‘Where is he?’
‘With the emperor.’
Guards stood aside once more and we entered the cool, dim interior of the emperor’s residence. Both Odenathus and Valerian were in the same room as before. They stood facing one another. Zenobia sat in a chair. Her face, although always long and oval, appeared gaunt with the loss of her child. She propped her head with a fist beneath her right cheekbone, and studied the walls, her eyes hollow and a little lost.
Around them, Praetorian guards watched on.
‘You have some objection, Odenathus?’ Valerian was saying. ‘Am I not gracious? I bestowed upon you the title Illustrious Consul our Lord, did I not? You could want nothing more.’
‘You did, Caesar.’ Odenathus appeared to struggle between annoyance and respect for his superior. How much further until he broke, the gods may know, but I did not.
‘It is not enough to satisfy you?’ Valerian pursued.
‘I appreciate it well enough. I wished only to express my concern for your proposition,’ Odenathus replied.
The king’s face was pale, etched with more than worry; an inherent fear of that which he could not control. Although a larger, broader man, Odenathus’ frame was slumped, an indication of his willingness to submit.
‘You have pushed the boundaries of your leadership much, Odenathus. You were not given the title of king by Rome; you assumed it of your own accord. And yet we said nothing while you styled yourself. Now you dare to question me? If it were not for Rome, not for my allowing your rule, your family would be poorer than the peasants rotting in the gutters of this city.’
Valerian glanced toward us, a flicker in his eyes, words dying on his lips. He grew in height a hand’s-breadth, yet Odenathus was not as quick to mask their conversation.
‘Sit down,’ Valerian instructed.
Zenobia pulled herself upright in her chair. Odenathus took a seat opposite. Valerian took a dozen deep breaths and sat also, his imperial fineries pooling on the couch.
‘I have called you here for a specific reason,’ Valerian said. ‘We have suffered heavy losses both at Antioch and to the plague sweeping through our armies.’ He spoke as if it were not his fault; it had been the will of the gods. ‘I received reports from my generals last night. We have lost close to a third of the men we brought.’
Odenathus said nothing, looked down at his hands, betraying the fears we all fought, as I wondered what the emperor’s admittance finally meant. Zenobia was impassive, unworried, waiting absently for Valerian’s next words.
It was Valerian’s praetorian prefect, Ballista, who spoke.
‘The generals tell us that if we stand against the Persians now, one enemy line against another, we will be outnumbered and likely lose. Roman legions have been sent for, but Rome has many enemies, and much of our forces are engaged elsewhere. I, for one, have no wish to die in the east.’
He smiled. A genial, good-natured smile, as if his words were of little consequence. Our paths had crossed a few times. He was as tall as Odenathus, but wiry thin, black hair so short and fine I could see his scalp. He wore an off-white toga, brightly embroidered bands on long sleeves, and on the shoulder a small scorpion brooch was pinned. Under his toga, the faint hint of a sword showed beneath the linen.
‘That is correct,’ Valerian agreed. ‘There are many enemies, and we are spread too thin at present.’
‘What is it you propose?’ Zabbai asked.
Valerian’s eyes darted to each of us. Purple robes of authority draped his shoulders in a colourful reminder of his position. He clasped his hands in front of him and he cleared his throat.
‘There is only one way to proceed. We must seek terms with Shapur.’
‘It is the only choice we have,’ Ballista concurred.
‘I have long thought that we should seek a certain peace, for now,’ Odenathus said. But what terms is it you wish to seek?’
‘That is my concern,’ Valerian replied, ‘and not the purpose of this meeting.’
‘Then what is its purpose?’ I asked, perplexed.
‘Before peace can be sought, we must arrange a meeting, to discuss our terms, of course, assess if the Persians would be willing. We have attempted to approach Shapur before, and every time my men are sent back without a finger’s breadth of skin on them, each one flayed. I doubt Shapur even grants them an audience, let alone reads any correspondence we send, considering how it returns ...’ He paused for a moment, a nervousness creeping upon his face. ‘I can think of no one better to send than your wife, Odenathus. She proved to me she can speak as well as any man the day she walked into Rome with a handful of men and demanded I tend the east. She holds rank as your wife and favour as a woman, and so we will neither offend Shapur, nor would she come to harm. It is a last resort, but I hope it will suffice. I can allow two soldiers to go with her, so the envoy is not taken as a threat. They may well be more willing to grant you audience. The Persians send Roman messengers back in a worst state than the Syrians, and as Zabbai and Zabdas came to Rome, and my son appears to invest a certain amount of trust in you both, you shall go with her. I presume you would want two men you know loyal to you to accompany her?’
The last was directed at Odenathus. He did not once look at Zenobia as he spoke.
My ears must deceive me, I thought. Our journey to Rome, to request aid for the east, had been a friendly mission. In Rome, we had been in the capital of our own empire, not behind enemy lines.
Zabbai appeared as stunned as I, but Zenobia simply sat in silence, brow creased in thought.
Odenathus said, ‘You cannot expect them to go to the Persian camp. They would not return alive. Not with a thousand men to protect them.’
‘My guard will see them so far, but then they are alone.’
‘I will not allow any wife of mine to go on such a quest,’ Odenathus shouted. ‘You really think that a queen, a general and a soldier little more than a boy can secure you a meeting to discuss peace? They will be cut down before they even reach their camp. This is madness. Do your own generals, do the senate, know of you plan to negotiate?’
Odenathus’ face was red, hot and fiery and full of rage. I had not seen him stand against the emperor before, not bellow or shout or speak with such force. He had always spoken with reason, attempted to persuade, to try and make Valerian understand. Now it was as if a god had let thunder roll through the skies, and I knew then why he was a king.
‘It is not wise to question the emperor,’ Ballista began.
But Valerian was already on his feet.
‘You would defy your emperor?’
He stepped toward the king.
Odenathus looked as if about to retort, then seemed to change his mind and it was as if the life had been drained from him. He had done all that had been requested of him. Why then, send Zenobia? I could understand Valerian’s reasons, and yet I could not resist wondering if there was something more, if there was an enjoyment in now sending her and Zabbai and myself to danger, a hark back to our defiance in Rome. Because Zenobia had persuaded Valerian’s son, Gallienus, to give us the reinforcements we needed when Valerian would not. And now Valerian stood in the face of defeat, contemplating suing for peace as a last resort.
‘Be aware, Odenathus, that you are only king whilst I allow it. You have power through my authority alone.’ Valerian took a step closer to him, vehemence in his eyes. ‘I am your overlord, do not forget that.’
He spat each word; a last, desperate cling to the power his title gave him. His distrust of Odenathus, the reason he had clawed back the power the king had known, his hostility these long months in the east, now became apparent. He was not only threatened by Odena
thus and the power he held amongst the people of Syria, but jealous too. Jealous of Odenathus’ fearless skill in battle, the cities he had defended or reclaimed, of his wilful wife, his loyal subjects and, above all, and despite everything, his own loyalty to Rome and the empire.
Odenathus shrank back into his seat. He gave a curt nod.
Zenobia’s face betrayed the faint hint of a smile. She rose from the chair, crossed the room to her husband, touched his shoulder in reassurance and turned to the emperor.
‘I acknowledge your request. We will leave at first light tomorrow.’
This was the Zenobia I knew, the one who had journeyed to Rome, sought out the co-emperor, Gallienus, and had seventy-thousand men march east to our aid. I knew from the smile which had caressed her lips she always intended to do as Valerian commanded, and in a way that made it her choice, not his, not Odenathus’, not any man’s.
I glanced at Zabbai, suddenly nervous. We would travel with her. We would face the Persian army. Zabbai responded with a grim look, his features shadowed by the events in this house.
Valerian nodded, clumsy and ill-prepared, Zenobia’s compliance clearly surprising him.
‘Very good,’ Ballista said. ‘I will assist in drafting a message to present to Shapur, and will organise an escort.’
‘Gratitude,’ Valerian replied, and left the room. Ballista and the Praetorian Guard followed.
Odenathus rose. An argument formed, but he did not speak it. After a wordless moment, he followed Valerian. Only Zabbai, Zenobia and I remained.
‘Odenathus is all but beaten.’ Zenobia showed little concern as she spoke. Her robes were light and clean. She wore her hair piled high atop her head, held in place with a gold circlet.
‘We are all beaten men,’ Zabbai retorted. ‘How could Valerian seek terms with Shapur now? After all that he has done, after he has caused the failure, indeed the fall, of Syria? It would have been better had he not come to the east, to our homeland. Gods’ strength, I am losing my will.’
Zabbai unnerved me. He was always reasonable, level-headed, sure of himself and those he believed in. Yet now he spoke of his own loss of will, and I saw panic in him and it brought in me great fear.
‘Will Shapur agree to peace?’ I asked.
‘Do not be stupid, boy.’ Zabbai paused, rage simmering. ‘I pray the gods have seen this. If ever we needed their favour, it is now.’
‘Shapur will not agree to peace unless enough coin is exchanged,’ Zenobia said.
A jug of wine sat atop a marble table. She took it and filled a cup and drank deeply. Despite her sure tone, her hands shook. She offered both Zabbai and me a cup. We took them and resumed our seats.
Zenobia looked down at the wine shimmering in her cup. The trembling of her hands subsided a little, but it did not cease.
‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow we meet with Shapur, King of the Sassanid Empire. And then we will know where we stand. Whether we can buy the time we need.’
She smiled, genuine and with excitement. I could not help but sense the fear beneath, the shared knowledge of what had happened to every messenger sent before us to the Persian camp. Would we be treated so different? We could, I told myself. Of course we could. I would have Zenobia with me.
‘You think we will get to within five hundred paces of him before they kill us?’ Zabbai snapped.
‘We have to,’ she said.
‘How much would be enough to secure peace?’ I asked.
Zenobia shrugged and drank, deep and long and with a thirst I did not know.
‘Everything we have,’ Zabbai said. ‘Shapur knows we are beaten. We have lost Antioch and we have done nothing more than retreat these past two years. He will ask for nothing less than everything.’
‘Then why do you agree to seek terms, Zenobia?’
She took another sip of wine and pressed her lips together. She regarded me.
‘Because as the Emperor quite rightly said, we are the best hope of gaining an audience with Shapur and persuading him to meet. Neither Valerian nor Odenathus have sent a female envoy to the Persians. It should make no difference whether I be a woman or a man, but everything depends on whether or not it makes a difference to Shapur.’
‘The chances are slim,’ Zabbai said. ‘And have you not thought, we are to go with you? What is to say you return and we do not? I have no issue in accompanying you for the sake of Syria, if there is a chance you might be able to save our cause, but I am not blind to the outcome.’
‘Neither am I, Zabbai. And I owe you a good deal of gratitude for your willingness to put your trust in this,’ Zenobia said. ‘We are this land’s last hope. With us lies the future of Syria, Palmyra, and the whole of the east.’
She curled her legs beneath her on the couch. Her fear appeared to have dissipated and amusement played on her face. Beneath her elegant confidence, the fear, the excitement, her concerns, worries and hopes, there was something of a plan.
Aurelia did not wish me luck or good fortune. I spent the night holding her, fearful of letting her go, of never returning. Sick at the thought that I would never smell her, sleep beside her, see her pale and wondrous face again. And I thought on Julius, how I might now be in the south with him, and safer for it, than I would be the following day. I feared for Zenobia, whose pride and determination and confidence would see her fall, who could never charm another king the way she had charmed Odenathus and Gallienus in turn. Could not escape the guilt I felt at the thought of Zabbai coming with us, pulled into this as I had been, a man whose body would be flayed on the whim of an emperor.
I was young; I feared death.
If we were lucky, we might die; a sudden, clean death. But we would not simply die. We would be tortured for the amusement of others, and returned home indescribable.
When morning finally came, and Aurelia’s tears had dried, and I had come to accept what would become of us, that this night could be the last to feel her warmth, to know her and be with her, a real and tangible part of my life that I had not before now appreciated as I should have, only then did I leave our house and walk toward my fate.
Bamdad had looked upon me with such horror as I told him of what we set out to do. ‘You cannot,’ he had said. ‘It’s walking to fucking death.’
I heard those words over and over in his footsteps beside me. I had seen my own fear in his face, stark as the desert, not like Odenathus’, nor Zenobia’s or Zabbai’s fear. In them it had been controlled, but I felt harnessed to it. In Aurelia it had been desperate, almost a fear of fear itself. But in Bamdad I saw shock, and the truth. He did not expect to see me again.
Dawn approached fast. The first stirs of a waking city rustled in the streets. Bakers moving bread to market stalls and slaved washing villa steps.
Aurelia walked with me, Bamdad beside her.
We met at the outer city wall. Zenobia, Zabbai, the camels were already waiting. Three of the Praetorian Guard, fully armoured, red cloaks heavy on their shoulders, were mounted. They nodded acknowledgement as we approached.
I kissed Aurelia. ‘I will see you soon. I promise you.’ Empty words, but I had no better and nothing more would form. I exhaled, long and low and with sorrow.
Bamdad gave the whole party a look of mistrust. To me he nodded curtly. Then he and Aurelia walked away. I wanted to speak, to form the right words, but they did not come. Instead I turned to Zenobia.
‘Where is Odenathus?’
She ignored the question and I knew the tension between them remained.
‘Ready?’ she asked instead.
Zabbai and I nodded.
A man ran toward us, his tunic off-white, a tube clasped tight in his hand; the message Valerian would have us present to Shapur.
Zenobia gestured he give it to me.
I took the scroll. A seal depicting the emperor’s profile looked to the left. I tucked it neatly in the saddle bag of my camel and mounted.
Zenobia clicked her tongue as she glanced back at the city. I
suspected she thought to see Odenathus, but he was not there. I wished that Aurelia had stayed, but I knew that it would have made our departure all the harder, and so I followed Zenobia out from the shelter of the walls toward the Persian enemy.
Winter was upon us and the air moist and cold. A chill of the plague we were leaving behind, and the arrival of the early months. We wrapped ourselves in fleece cloaks. The plain was grey and flat, the sky equally lifeless and still. Zenobia rode beside me, her face as cold as the air around us, and beyond her, Zabbai. In front, our small escort provided by Valerian.
‘How long will it take to reach their camp?’ I asked, breaking our silence.
‘Keep moving in this direction and our scouts say we should reach it by nightfall tomorrow, maybe sooner,’ Zabbai replied.
We sank into uninhabited land. The closer we came to the enemy, the further we were from home; from retreat. I knew we could not turn back. Even if the desire overwhelmed me, I knew it would not Zenobia, and I knew too that Valerian would be waiting for our return. Take the scroll back, crossed the thought, and tell the emperor that Shapur had no desire to seek terms. He would never know.
We pitched our camp on the plain and our escort bade us farewell. We were alone. Three figures huddled around a meagre campfire. We did not speak. There was nothing to say. Eventually Zenobia got to her feet and stooped into her tent.
Stars grew bright in the darkening sky. Our camels’ breathing the only sound above the crackling fire.
‘How in the name of Bel did we end we end up here?’ I muttered.
‘Because the emperor commanded it,’ Zabbai said. He sat upright and surveyed the growing blackness. ‘We will probably die, Zabdas, but we will die with honour.’
I slept, fitful and with much thought. I could not escape the day ahead. Nor the prospect we faced. For too long I had wanted to be at the frontier, to witness battle, to know what it was to face the enemy. Yet I had wanted to be beside Julius. By morning I craved sleep, yet I could no more sleep than I could turn and run.
