by JD Smith
‘Perhaps I do,’ I say, but I am unsure. Do I admit a lot? I had thought to recount a tale, and one of someone other than myself.
‘And Mareades,’ she says. ‘I cannot believe his betrayal, nor that Zenobia could forgive him. Thousands died because of him.’
I see then the hardness in Samira. A young girl who would judge; a girl sure enough of her own mind to draw conclusions.
‘She never forgave him. She simply understood the path he chose, that is all. She was right, I realised later. She knew that the worst thing he could lose was his pride. I believe she understood him better than anyone. She understood us all.’
‘You said she had bruising, to her face. Was it the king? Was it Odenathus?’
‘I admit, that was my first thought. But it was not Odenathus. Valerian struck her, for her charity toward Mareades and for the subsequent fall of Antioch. Once Bamdad and I left, Odenathus and Valerian argued, Zenobia too, and in his anger and frustration he hit her. He was a coward, lashing his anger to the only person in the room he reasonably could. He ought to have blamed himself for the predicament in which he found himself; the loss of the great eastern cities and the plague depleting his troops, but he did not. Instead he blamed everyone else. It was easy, for he was an emperor, and none dared to stand against him. Even his own men, those sworn to his service, began to murmur their discontent.’
‘What happened? What did Odenathus do?’
‘He did nothing. He ignored it as if it had not happened. You must remember that his position was a delicate one. He held only a small amount of authority whilst Valerian remained in the east, and that could be taken away at any moment.’
Bamdad joins the men watching Rostram and Kairash. I see him exchange coins, betting on the outcome. Fool, I think. Nothing has changed. He bets now as has always done; recklessly and without regard.
‘What of Bamdad?’ Samira asks. ‘Did he ever find his wife, his children? Did he come to know of their fate?’
I looked across at Bamdad, his grin cheeky, of our history that has changed him. He will not show it, not on the surface, but beneath I know him to be a different man.
‘He never found them. Presumed them taken as slaves to the Persian capital, to Ctesiphon. He found another wife not long after.’ Not long, I say again, this time to myself. It was not immediate, not a day or a week or a month after, but a short while. This was his way of moving on, forgetting the pain of their loss which must have haunted him.
‘Did not Haddudan, the priest king, pay for the lies he told? The lies which saw Mareades branded a slave and the justice the senator of Antioch felt he was owed; the reason for his betrayal?’
‘Haddudan fled to the mountains with as much gold as he and his camel could carry. His lies were not punished for a long time.’
Rostram parries a hefty blow from Kairash. Both men are sweating, neither willing to give up, despite heavy limbs and small scratches beading with blood which must sting. They continue to dance around one other; Rostram light on his feet, his hair slick with oil and composed concentration on his face. Kairash circles with lumbering steps, bringing his sword down and across in heavy arcs. I would not wish to know the bludgeoning his blade can deliver, the force with which he defeats opponents.
Rostram grins to his friend, side-steps a blow, drives the butt of his sword into Kairash’s gut. Onlookers cheer and coin begins to change hands. But Kairash recovers and returns the blow, this time catching Rostram off-guard. Rostram drops his sword and clutches his stomach, keels in pain, face glowing red with embarrassment.
Kairash offers his hand. Rostram takes it and laughs. And I see Bamdad grin for the wager he has won.
‘Rostram is not angry,’ Samira says, almost to herself.
‘He is good-humoured,’ I reply. ‘And they have been friends for a long time. It is not often Kairash can beat him. They know one another too well, you see. They know one another’s tricks and steps, how the other moves and holds their sword. Fighting a man you have never faced before is much different.’
I stretch and stand up, my limbs not as supple as they once were, my muscles tight, still suffering from the encounter on the slave ship. Men whom I had never faced before, whose blades were new to me and whose lives I had taken.
‘I have written more of the tale of Zenobia. I may write a little more today. You can read it if you wish.’
‘Of course!’
I look at the waters, bright and reflective and calm. It is as if they are calling to me, their depth and the darkness below the surface bringing warning.
I kiss Samira’s forehead and put an arm about her shoulders, pulling her toward me, as we move below deck to where I write.
‘You walked into the Persian camp?’ Samira’s face is slack with astonishment. She sits beside me as I write, turning parchment, eager to know what will become of our mission to gain audience with Shapur.
‘We did,’ I say.
‘And Zenobia was not afraid?’
‘She must have felt fear, but she did not show it. She could not risk revealing weakness to our enemy.’
‘I cannot understand. Why did the emperor attempt to sue for peace? Why did he send you and Zenobia and Zabbai to certain danger?’ she asks.
I look at the words I scrawled on the parchment a moment before. Fate is inexorable.
‘Because we were meant to go. Valerian was a desperate man. Plague hitting the troops a final blow. Our defences were depleted, and from what I saw within the Persian camp, they were not suffering as we did. Plague had yet to poison their ranks, whereas the morale of our soldiers had plummeted.
‘You must remember that Emperor Valerian only secured his position through the usurpation of his predecessor. It had happened so many times during the reign of Gallienus that those making claim, or assumed to be attempting to make claim, became known as the Thirty Tyrants. Valerian must have worried that attempts would be made for his throne, a likely candidate then being Odenathus. He was a great leader, having held the Persians at bay for many years, and he knew the love of his people. It was why Valerian kept Odenathus’ control in the east to a minimum. And perhaps Valerian was right; our only chance of survival would be to agree a peace of sorts.
‘Years before, even before I had come to Syria, Odenathus made attempt to contact Shapur, because he wanted peace and he knew that peace with Shapur would mean better trade and safer roads. Every messenger had been returned dead. Valerian’s intentions were confused, even in his own mind, I suspect. He saw peace as his only choice, but he also wanted to punish Odenathus whilst ridding him of Zenobia’s influence. Perhaps he did believe Zenobia stood a better chance at gaining an audience with Shapur than anyone else. She was a woman, after all, high-born and with status. He might genuinely have believed the Persians would not harm a queen and a woman, because in Rome they would not. But I did not believe it for a heartbeat.’
I scratch my bearded chin and look back at the words on the parchment. They are blurred. My eyes are not what they used to be and they are tired.
‘The emperor was a fool,’ Samira says.
‘And a coward.’
‘An insufferable man who could not …’ She laughs. ‘This is what Bamdad would say.’
I laugh too. ‘He would. And Valerian was all of those things. But he was our emperor, and so we did as we were ordered. We went into the very heart of the enemy camp ...’
‘Did Zenobia have a plan? Did she know what would happen?’ Samira is intrigued, I think, by the woman who willingly walked into the Persian lair. Who proclaimed to be descended from the gods. And who can blame her?
‘Ah, you ask an interesting question, Samira. Zenobia always had ideas forming in her mind. She appeared willing to meet with Shapur, when in reality we had no choice. Odenathus could not have stopped Valerian sending us. We could have deserted, of course, but to where? Zenobia could not come back a queen if she ran. And it is not something she would ever have contemplated. We cared too much for Syria not
to take the chance to save it. Zenobia was so driven she would stop at nothing.’
‘And yet Odenathus did not even see Zenobia leave. He was not there at the gates as you rode to meet with Shapur. What if she did not return?’
‘The relationship between Odenathus and Zenobia was always strained, right from the first, when Julius bargained his services for his daughter’s voice on the Palmyrene council. And then Zenobia lost Odenathus’ child. I believe at that moment he was overcome with grief. He could not bear to watch her go. Could not speak to her or find words as she parted. Or it could have been she asked him not to bid farewell. It could have been her who did not want him there. In addition, his position amongst the Roman generals controlling his troops in Syria hampered him. Valerian would not allow Odenathus to make decisions alone, so for all the threats Valerian made of stripping him of the title ‘king’, it would have made no difference if he had. It struck Odenathus, I think, to feel the power he held snatched from him by the very people he loyally served, knowing all the while it was not for the greater good. And of course Zenobia had saved Mareades for me and in the king’s name, and it became the catastrophe that lost Antioch, making Odenathus’ position worse still.’
I put my reed pen to papyrus once more. I have had many years to ponder the actions of men, to understand their decisions and what may or may not have been the right course on any given day, in a situation that few could ever understand. Perhaps I have always been too close to see the reality of the people in my past.
CHAPTER 9
Zabdas – 260 AD
We followed the guard into the tent. A great bath made of gold sat on golden feet, partly hidden behind swathes of patterned fabric of reds and greens and deep, rich yellow. Around us, more cloth hung from ceiling and the walls, tied back and draping like a river of water, the finest of the orient, rich in colour and delicate of weave. Almost everything was made of gold: before us a low table of yellow presented cups of gold and of silver. Fine carpets adorned the floor, golden threads shimmering in pale afternoon light. Jewels lay everywhere; on the table, the floor, hanging from the roof, hanging from walls and sewn into the curtains. This tent was designed to impress those granted audience, to show the wealth and power of Persia, and I wondered if the only reason we had not yet been slaughtered was to witness and marvel it.
But I also knew that every item had once belonged to men of Syria, and suddenly the bright reflections dulled somewhat, and the whole room sank into a dimness I could not suppress. The muscles in my face set firm in my disgust.
Upon the low table our scroll had been placed. Waiting. The reason we had come. I looked past the table to a throne behind. A figure sat, camouflaged amidst those fabrics and riches all about. More jewels hung upon the man: woven into his hair, sewn upon his clothes, lacing his hands and I wondered how he might move his fingers. His face twitched at the sight of us, a thin, dark beard and moustache hiding what remained of a face already layered with yet more jewels. From a band across his forehead and from his ears and his nose hung red, green, amber, purple and misty grey stones.
Either side of the man stood two guards, muscular forms proud, the wall behind us holding their gaze. Another, younger man, stood to the right of the throne. He swallowed hard, wrung his hands continuously, his expression one of fear and of terror. His dirty old clothes were out of place amongst the wealth of the tent.
No one spoke. I stared at the man upon the throne, and he looked back at us through narrow eyes. His wiry beard twitched; the only sign of life in a rigid form. Eventually, following a long, uncomfortable silence, Zenobia spoke.
‘Shapur?’ she demanded, her voice unwavering, her expression hard.
The great figure narrowed his eyes further, irritation flickering. He turned his head only slightly and addressed the young man beside him. He spoke in the Persian tongue and the young man, his eyes downturned, nodded rapidly before looking directly at Zabbai.
‘Shapur I the Great, King of Kings, Son of a King, Son of Ardashir, Ruler of the Sassanian Empire, wishes to know who dares to enter his camp.’ The titles were mighty, and yet the man’s voice trembled, his whole being visibly shaking as he spoke in Syrian, his dialect that of the north; Antioch or Apamea.
Before Zabbai could respond, Zenobia, her gaze fixed and her voice calm, said: ‘Tell your king that he addresses Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, wife of King Odenathus and Illustrious Consul our Lord, Consul of Rome.’
Shapur spoke again to his translator.
‘My king asks who accompanies you.’
‘It is irrelevant,’ she replied. ‘I am here to speak with King Shapur, nothing more.’
The translator’s eyes were once again diverted to the floor. I looked to each person in the room in turn, waiting for someone to speak, for Zenobia to continue or for Shapur to respond, for his translator to say something more.
Finally, Shapur murmured once more.
‘The King of Persia wishes to know why the King of Palmyra sends his wife with messages on his behalf. He wonders why King Odenathus does not value the life of his queen. Why he sends only two soldiers to accompany you into enemy territory. Why he does not send a man?’
‘My life is my own,’ Zenobia replied. ‘I do with it as I wish. Tell your king I appreciate his concern for my wellbeing.’
She smiled a little, and Shapur’s expression seemed to shift with puzzlement, his darting eyes beckoning his interpreter to tell him what had been said. He recognised some of our words, it seemed, but not all.
When the translator had finished, his expression grew harder, his eyes narrower, before he barked out a gruff, humourless laugh.
I looked to Zabbai to find him as worried as I. His face was cold and set, but a shift of weight from one foot to another betrayed him. Zenobia remained smiling, as if sharing Shapur’s amusement.
Shapur murmured again, the jewels upon his face chinking slightly, his eyes never leaving us, the gold surrounding him reflecting every movement.
‘My King of Kings says you amuse him with your forthrightness. He says that if a wife of his spoke in such a way, he would show her to whom her life belonged. He would ensure that she did not forget.’ The translator finished speaking, but Shapur seemed to know he had not repeated everything, and flicked his hand aggressively for the young man to continue. The translator stammered and looked to the floor. ‘He says he would cut her hands from her arms, he would cut her feet from her legs. He would carve out her eyes and slice from her body her breasts. He would cut open her stomach and pull from it every organ required to live. And with these parts he would feed his dogs. That way the dogs would have her life, and he would have given it to them.’
My stomach turned and swam. I felt hot with sweat and the incense in the room, which I had not noticed before now, suddenly overwhelmed. I begged wordlessly for Zenobia not to antagonise the Persian king, but she smiled back at him, apparently unconcerned.
‘Is that why you have so many wives?’ Zenobia asked.
Shapur did not smile. He did not laugh. He showed no sign of displeasure or otherwise as the interpreter relayed her words. When the young man had finished, he muttered a rapid response.
‘My King of Kings, Ruler of the Sasanian Empire, has many wives because he likes women. He says he would like you, if you were untouched, if you had not been taken by a Syrian, a Roman, because he knows no woman that dares to stand in front of him as you do now, without fear. He asks if King Odenathus has only one wife.’
‘He has only one. Only I am welcome in Odenathus’ bed,’ Zenobia replied.
‘There was one before you?’
‘Only one, and she is dead.’
‘My king assumes she was submissive, as a wife. That you are nothing like her. That she obeyed her king, did not assume equal rank, that he bedded many women when with her. That he had a harem.’
‘I never met King Odenathus’ first wife,’ Zenobia replied. ‘And I know of no harem. Odenathus does not follow your example. And as mu
ch as I would gladly discuss the position of wives and the expectation of them, I am not here for that. I am to give you a message.’ She gestured to the scroll on the golden table. ‘I bring word from Valerian Caesar, Emperor of the Roman Empire.’
Again Zenobia’s words were passed between the king and his interpreter. Shapur made several motions toward the scroll. When they had finished, Shapur turned back to us and the interpreter looked up once more.
‘My king has read the scroll in the emperor’s Latin words, and he asks why he should agree to peace when he has already defeated you?’
‘We are not defeated. Our army is equal in number to yours,’ Zenobia lied. ‘You face the armies of both Syria and Rome. We have men from Germania, Thrace, Pamphylia, Lycaonia, Galatia, Lycia, Cilicia, Cappodocia, Mauritania, Judea, Rhodes, Mesopotamia, Rome and Syria. The might of the Empire is behind us. Continue if you wish, but you will perish at the hands of our armies. We come now to secure peace. We do not wish more men to die. We do not desire death for your people. Peace is your only option if you wish to return to Persia with the riches you have.’
The translator struggled to keep up with Zenobia. When she finished speaking, when the echo of her words died on the fabric of the tent, when the translator uttered the last of her words in Persian, Shapur’s retort deafened. The interpreter dropped to his knees, cowering, the guards flinched and seemed to recoil from the King of Kings, the might that was Shapur.
‘I have faced your emperors before,’ he bellowed. ‘On the border of Babylonia and Misikhe, there was a great battle; greater than any of this.’ He swung his arm as if to encompass our two forces, of the men we had and his own, and of the country he ravaged. ‘And there I killed Gordian Caesar. Then Marcus Julius Philippus Augustus came to me for terms, just as you do now, but he ransomed his life and that of his men for 500,000 denars; a better man than your emperor. But Caesar lied again and wronged me, and so I attacked the Roman Empire and annihilated 60,000 strong Roman and Syrian forces. We burned, pillaged and ruined Syria, just as we do now. We conquered Sura, Barbalissos, Zeugma, Urima, Gindaros, Armenaza, Seleucia, Antioch, Cyrrhe and many, many more.
