by JD Smith
‘Valerian Caesar asks to meet. Writes of gifting to me your beloved city of Palmyra if I take nothing more. Does he not understand me? I care nothing for cities, I care only for what they contain. And I can take that with or without his consent. Does your emperor think to cow me, Palmyrene Queen? Does he really think it is enough? That I will grovel to accept his offer? That a city of marble will suffice?’
The translator breathed deeply in this pause, quivering, still kneeling upon the floor, tears streaming down his face.
My own face must have dropped. The revelation of Valerian’s proposal to sacrifice Palmyra, the wealthiest of Syrian cities; our home, shocked. I could not believe the words, that this is what the scroll contained, and that we ourselves had been demanded to deliver it. How ironic, I thought. How spiteful of Valerian. The coward, the liar, a weak man in a purple cloak. He did not deserve to wear the colour.
Shapur’s eyes bore into Zenobia’s, and I glanced to her. She did not flinch. She gave no indication of knowing Valerian’s intention, or surprise at the discovery.
Shapur went on: ‘I can take Palmyra, just as I have conquered Antioch and many of your cities. Odenathus has already attempted to sue for peace many times. He has sent one man after another, knowing that I would not agree. I sent his messengers back with my reply.’
‘You sent them back flayed,’ Zenobia replied, her tone matter of fact, her voice a little raised.
‘What makes you think I will not send you back the same? Red flesh of a queen, stripped bare of skin for all to see?’ the translator repeated, speaking to the carpet upon which he still knelt.
‘I have more to offer you than a mere half-million denars; more than the city of Palmyra.’ Zenobia took a step closer, her shoulders square, her mouth amused, her hands palm up, presenting her next words.
The two guards standing either side of Shapur moved forward, but Shapur stilled them with a hand.
‘You cannot offer me your body, Palmyrene Queen. Your cunt does not interest me. You are beautiful, more beautiful than most. And yet I have exquisite women in my harem to rival your looks. You might outmatch them, you might think yourself their superior. You might think quickly and be more knowledgeable that many men. Yes, you might be all of these things, but you cannot think I would exchange peace with Rome for your virtue, even if you are a queen? Is that why I was sent a woman, to tempt me? To soften me? The Roman Emperor thinks I am fool enough to be weakened by you?’ As he spoke, Shapur’s face barely moved, nothing except a small quiver of his mouth indicating it was from him the Persian words came.
‘You are wrong,’ Zenobia replied. ‘I was not sent to tempt you …’
Shapur stilled her talking with his hand. The conversation progressed so rapidly the translator could no longer keep pace with their exchange. Once he had caught up, Shapur rested his hand back upon the arm of his throne, his jewelled fingers caressing it. His face perhaps betraying mild amusement.
Even then, once the translator had finished, he said nothing and neither did Zenobia speak. Then he said: ‘Why have you come to my camp? What do you think you have that will secure peace? You have gold and riches, but I have taken much of those already, and I will take the rest. Your lands have been raped by my army. What have you that I cannot take for myself?’
‘The Emperor of Rome.’
She spoke with no trace of a smile, nor a hint of tone in her voice. She said the words as clearly as I heard Julius tell me that Meskenit was my mother. It was as if all sound had stopped, that no soldier moved beyond the tent in which we stood. The whole world stopped, and the gods watched without breath.
I met Zabbai’s eye, searching for clarification, eager to know of what had been said. But there was no explanation to be found, no reassurance, no betrayed understanding.
Zenobia said nothing more. After a long pause, Shapur muttered to his guards in his Persian tongue. In silence they moved behind us. They lifted chairs from the wall of the tent and placed them down, indicating we should sit.
Shapur leaned forward in his throne, his frame larger as his shoulders curled, and looked deep into Zenobia’s eyes. He rubbed his bearded chin, and sat back in his chair, taking in the three of us.
‘You wish to give me the Emperor of Rome?’ The interpreter remained kneeling as he continued to translate the king’s words. ‘Why?’
‘Why is not important. I will deliver him. You can do with him as you wish. His life is of no concern to me. In return, you leave Syria indefinitely. You do not return. You do not harry our borders. You leave us in peace. Never again shall you place foot on Syrian sand.’
‘The ransom of an emperor will not amount to the plunder I can gain in your lands.’
Zenobia shifted next to me until she too was leaning forward on her chair. ‘Perhaps not,’ she conceded. ‘But would you want an emperor’s ransom? I would not. I can think of a far greater pleasure to be had than coin. Never before has an emperor of Rome been taken captive by an enemy. You would write history; one of the Persian Empire’s greatest victories over the Roman Empire. Your name gracing the pages of our literature. You would be a fool not to agree to the arrangement.’
‘I have my own people, my own literature, and I have no need of proving anything to your people.’
Zenobia sat back in the chair. Shapur regarded us with interest.
‘Your companions, they knew nothing of this proposition?’
‘They did not, no. But then I think they did not foresee Emperor Valerian’s betrayal of our city.’
Zenobia looked at each of us in turn, the surety of her features putting aside any doubt I had that her plan was the right one. Zabbai gave a reluctant nod of consent as she turned back to Shapur. She did not need our approval. Nor did she need our support. She had not told us what she planned to say to the Persian king once there, this man before us, this round hulk of beast, a king of kings. Perhaps I should have felt betrayed that she had not confided in Zabbai and me, but there was a glimmer of hope in that moment, because there was a chance we could leave alive.
‘If you take prisoner Emperor Valerian, with or without my assistance, it will be the most humiliating moment in Roman history. You will be remembered as the man who captured a Caesar. Your enemies will fear you for it. Your people will love you.’
Shapur looked upon us differently as he took in her words. I could see him imagining taking the emperor back to Ctesiphon and parading him in the Persian capital for his people, dragging him through the dusty streets, humiliating him. He must have known it would unify his own troops, that his cause would be solidified and that more would be willing to join his ranks for the plunder it would bring. I watched as the idea took hold of him, until his eyes glazed, his sight wandered, and I knew he could no longer concentrate on conversing with Zenobia. Perhaps he thought of his achievements becoming greater than those of his father, Ardashir. Or perhaps he thought of his empire becoming the greatest in the world.
He muttered to the interpreter.
‘You must stay in the camp tonight. Tomorrow, I will give you my decision. Either way, you will be sent back to your King Odenathus with a message. If I decide you are attempting to fool me, your bodies will be returned.’
‘As you wish,’ Zenobia responded, dipping her head in acknowledgment.
Zabbai and I did the same.
He spoke again and gestured to the scroll still lying on the table.
‘If you had come to me with this pitiful offer written here alone, I would have killed you already.’
I had thought for a moment, a heartbeat, that our lives were assured. That the king of the Persians would consider Zenobia’s words, her idea plausible. But his last words did not leave me as the guards ushered us from the Shapur’s presence.
Outside the camp moved as before; the soldiers’ noise had not ceased, they had not heard the words exchanged between Shapur and Zenobia, what had passed between their leader and us.
‘Odenathus knows nothing of what you have offer
ed Shapur?’ I said, my energy drained, my heart weak and without hope. If Shapur agreed, who knew what it would mean when we returned home?
‘Do not speak of it now,’ Zenobia snapped.
We followed the guards back to the tent in which we had spent much of the day waiting. Zenobia settled on the cushions that had been scattered upon the floor during our absence. Zabbai and I remained standing.
‘Does he know?’ Zabbai demanded of her. I would have asked myself, but Zabbai was as eager to have explanation of what had occurred in Shapur’s tent.
‘It matters not whether Odenathus knows of any promise or agreement between myself and Shapur. It is done.’
‘It can be undone,’ Zabbai growled.
‘If it is undone, the east falls. We would not leave here alive, you heard as much with your own ears. Our people would perish. And our bodies would have been returned flayed,’ she said in a loud voice. Then more quietly: ‘Valerian Caesar cares nothing for your life, just as he cares nothing for Zabdas’ life or mine. He makes our people suffer. Odenathus has long held our frontier, rewarded by hostility and bitter, futile acts of petty revenge for his position and courage, for the simple fact that he is a threat to the imperium Valerian holds. And yes Odenathus is loyal to the emperor, no matter how much he is despised in return. No matter what that emperor forces our king to do. Do you think we would be here had Odenathus known what I endeavour to achieve?’
‘What exactly do you wish to achieve?’ Zabbai’s voice rose and I heard murmurs from outside. With a hushing motion from me, they both dipped their voices.
‘With the emperor of Rome gone, the highest rank will take control over the remaining legions. As king, Odenathus would have complete control over the east, and thus we could make a stand to cause Shapur to tremble with fear. With our persuasion, Odenathus would accept the position. He would have no choice. And Gallienus, I think, would be thankful for it.’
Zenobia was fuelled, and I could not help but be reminded of Julius, of his passion, and of his beliefs; that she had gone further than he had ever gone. That she was perhaps mad with her ambition.
She looked at us keenly, her eyes determined that we should understand, begging for our agreement to what she had done. She was afraid, I think. Not of being in the Persian camp, not of Valerian or Odenathus and what they might think, but of whether her aims were true, if they had Syria at their heart; whether her father would agree with her actions.
I could not answer for Julius. Nor could I answer for myself. I was struck with the enormity of what we were doing. Zabbai, however, gave a curt nod.
‘I do not agree with everything you have done,’ he said, ‘or how you have done it. You should never have lied to Odenathus. But if we can secure Syria, save our people, and leave here alive, then I am with you.’
‘Zabdas?’ The faintest hint of pleading in her cool, demanding voice.
‘Agreed,’ I murmured, my tone empty of emotion, my mind no longer able to ascertain my true thoughts. ‘I am with you also. We deliver the emperor as you have promised. But what makes you think Shapur believes you?’
‘Why would he think we attempt to trick him? No matter what I say, he knows our numbers have dropped through plague. He knows that we have been beaten over and over by his troops. We are losing; our only chance is to barter with the one thing unattainable to him. Not one emperor, in the history of the Roman Empire, has been taken captive by an enemy. Valerian would flee before that became a possibility. It is the one thing Shapur never thought he could have. He knows that to take an emperor of Rome captive would mean incalculable praise and support from his people, that he will become greater than his predecessors. If he passes on this chance, he will never see it again. He will never know that greatness.’
‘And you think Valerian will walk into a trap set by Shapur?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I think he will walk into a trap set by us. Valerian thinks that securing peace is the only way to still the east while he moves his forces back to the Goth invaders. He does not want to do it, and I know Shapur will never agree to a peace treaty from a Roman; he admitted he would not have accepted Palmyra in exchange, you heard that. Even if he did, he would still take the rest of Syria, then Rome, because there is nothing to stop him. Not if Palmyra is taken. We are the strongest city here. Give him that, and we give him everything.’
‘It is impossible to believe. That Valerian sent us with a message that gave up our own city!’ Zabbai said, and suddenly his voice erupted with anger.
Zenobia frowned. ‘I had my suspicions.’
‘What happens when the Persians have the emperor and we have our peace? What then?’ Zabbai’s voice dropped level again, his brow deep with concern as he waited for Zenobia’s response. ‘What is to stop him pressing further into Syria?’
Zenobia looked at us both. She was adorned with the jewels of a queen; every part of her sure and determined.
‘Nothing will stop him. Shapur will never keep to his word,’ She dared to smile. ‘They will think we retire to our homes in the wake of peace, when in fact we will strike. You forget. We will have the remainder of the Roman army at our disposal. Under the right command, we will have the troops needed to rid Syria of the Persian invaders once and for all.’
Slaves brought bread and ham to our tent and we ate. By morning, my head felt thick with sleeplessness and worry, compounded by the knowledge that we must soon face the Persian king once more, our fate decided by his whim and his greed. Zenobia’s features were haughty, eyes rimmed by more than kohl, with tiredness. Still she appeared eager to discover our fate.
I scratched my bearded chin as Zabbai fastened his sword-less belt; our weapons were taken upon entering the camp. None of us spoke. We had exhausted every angle, all possibilities, each outcome, until our mouths were dry and there was nothing left but repetition.
Not long after I heard the camp stir, a messenger came to our tent. He silently signalled for us to move out into the brilliant morning sun. I could see nothing but the blur of men crossing my path, the shadow of the man in front, the white of the sun. And then my eyes adjusted. Once again, we were being led to the great tent; Shapur’s tent. The King of Kings. More than a hundred guards, their armour bouncing blinding light, stood at the foot of the platform upon which the tent had been erected. We passed the guards, their swords and bows standing proud, the menace of their presence unmistakeable.
Zabbai shot me a brief look of concern, but still followed Zenobia, who strode confidently into the depths of Shapur’s abode.
The Persian king did not move as we entered, his eyes closed as if in sleep. The chairs we had been invited to sit upon the previous day had gone. To his side waited the slave who would translate as he had before.
Shapur opened his eyes and looked at us long and hard, his small, narrow eyes unreadable.
‘King Shapur,’ Zenobia said, dipping her head in greeting.
The king remained motionless, apart from his lips, which moved rapidly.
‘I have considered your proposal carefully,’ the translator began. ‘How would you ensure the emperor enters the trap? What will you say to convince him to meet?’
‘Valerian Caesar is a coward,’ Zenobia replied. ‘It is why he asked us to come and discuss the peace he wants, to have you back from Syria and his frontier, to persuade you to meet. He is willing to meet with you anyway, but I will make it so. I will ensure he comes with less men than you, I will tell him you are also wanting to make peace, because plague ravages your troops, that I have seen it myself. I will tell him you want Palmyra, and that you feel his proposition is the only way forward, and I will ensure the King Odenathus presses him. I will also advise the ground upon which it will be best to take him as your prisoner. I know these lands well. I will do everything I can to ensure you have him as your prisoner.’
Beneath the jewels hanging from the band on Shapur’s forehead, his eyes flickered.
‘I agree to your proposal, Palmyrene Que
en.’
My heart lifted. The weight of worry somewhat lighter than it had been a moment before. We would leave alive. We would not be flayed for the amusement of this Persian king.
‘But assurances are required,’ he continued, ‘so that you to keep your word. I would not have you leave here alive without them.’
Beside me, Zenobia stiffened in frustration. Clearly she had hoped there would be no terms, no guarantee, that her word would be enough to secure her desires.
‘What assurances do you require?’ she said.
Shapur lifted a finger slowly and spoke. He pointed directly to me. I knew then my fate.
‘No,’ Zenobia said flatly before the Shapur’s words had been translated. ‘Those terms are unacceptable.’
‘I will stay behind until Valerian Caesar is taken,’ Zabbai interjected.
I looked at him, startled by his gesture, but unable to let him offer himself in my place.
‘You cannot,’ I uttered.
‘Neither.’ Her voice quavering with anger, Zenobia met Shapur’s small eyes. ‘You will take neither. Their lives as assurance was not the offer I made to you.’
Shapur spoke again, his tone full of amusement.
‘You are afraid, queen of the east. To be a queen you must sacrifice, at whatever personal cost. You want to rule. You want to broker bargains between Rome and her enemies. I assume you led these men here, and yet you are unwilling to go as far as is necessary to secure the outcome you want so much.’ He looked at us for a moment, enjoyment dancing in his features as the interpreter relayed his words. ‘You have no choice. Either he stays, or you all die and I will ravage Palmyra just as I have ravaged Antioch and the other cities that you hold dear.’
‘Then I shall stay,’ Zenobia said, but I realised her worry as the words left her lips. She must be present to ensure that Valerian followed the path, fell into the trap, she could not stay. And I dared not think what would happen if we failed, if Valerian did not come and was not taken captive.
