by JD Smith
Bamdad held my gaze and grinned.
I must have been as wild-eyed as he in that moment. I grinned back. I had not expected to be here and held no spear. I gripped my sword and shield tight. The words, ‘Are you ready,’ went unsaid, as we both turned to face the enemy.
And both our line and the Persian line advanced.
My breathing came deep and urgent, knowing there would be no turning back, but simultaneously knowing I did not want to. I could no longer hear words or individual shouts. My ears were filled with the mingled noise of two armies waiting to face each other. Of drum beats, shouting, cursing, growling, sword and spear rapping on shield and foot-stamping on the dusty, piss-soaked earth.
The men in front of me crashed into the disordered enemy ranks, lapping them, the clatter of iron like the froth of waves, relentless water on rocks; the heat like the sun on the baking earth; the fear like nothing I had felt before.
My thirst for death was a familiar desire.
We became crushed, squashed up against the enemy. Either side of me soldiers thrust spears over the heads of those in front. But I had no spear, only a sword. Men before me fell, and the Persians scrambled over them and I thrust and cut and sliced and struck in desperation because I did not want to die, but most of all because I felt the urge to kill. My veins were lava-blood and I wanted to spill that of the enemy before me.
But the Persian scum must have known that same drive and desire. They pushed hard into us. I heard men shriek with pain as their limbs were sliced and their lives drained to the Otherworld. I found slaughter with a furious need to protect myself and those around me. I no longer thought. My whole being surged on of its own accord, not knowing, not planning, but acting on my years of training and the instinct warriors know.
Our lines separated once more, leaving the debris of battle screaming for death between us. I gasped for breath. There was no one in front of me now. I had become the front line. Behind me commanders urged us on. Meet the enemy running. And before I knew it we met again. I pushed up my shield, catching the helmet of a Persian and, with a grunt, I slid my sword under the rim and up into his skull. With a growl I pulled it free. I caught sight of blood leaking from beneath before I climbed over the fallen and moved on. I killed again and again, but around me more and more of our own fell. And with that knowledge my desire turned to desperation. I hacked and clawed and cut and killed.
I heard screaming, then realised it was my own as I sliced over and over at an already dead enemy. Someone shouted my name, and I knew it was Bamdad who pulled me from that place. The two lines broke apart and he gestured to our left. It was breaking; Persian bastards pushing beyond our line, punching a hole deep into our shallow ranks. Bamdad shouted again, but I could not hear. I howled a battle cry as the enemy scrambled over the dead toward me and we were engaged once more.
Blood, a tide of it, sprayed everywhere, with ribboned flesh and shards of armour falling to the already soaked earth. I was close enough to kiss the enemy, to feel their putrid breath on my face and taste their stench on my lips and tongue. I thought of every person they had killed, every family they had broken, every husband torn from his wife and father taken from his children. I thought of the country and my duty and that this was our last chance. Fall now and we would never rise again.
There was so much to pay for, and I would force a reckoning.
My arms tired. I knew they did because my mind told me so, but I did not feel it, did not succumb to the aftermath a soldier feels when the enemy are all dead, because they were not. They pushed and drove into us. They slaughtered us. They annihilated our flank and they tore out our very hearts. All the while I remained determined to kill; just kill. I growled. I bared my teeth. I learned that the enemy were the same; men, just like us, or flesh and blood and mortal bones. Yet still I took their lives with ease. Still I leant on my sword and watched men slip from this life.
And then I took a woman. She shrieked; louder and more chilling than any man. Her face wild and her hair untamed and her eyes, filled with mad-rage, looked at the shadow of me. She came at me with her hands, her claws, and a knife, too. Her bare arms were covered in dirt and grime. She screamed as she leapt at me, but she did not get close before I cut her down without remorse.
‘Keep together. Close up, close up.’
‘They are not to get through. Push hard, men.’
‘Advance!’
‘Kill them! Skewer the fatherless sons of whores and send them to a Christian hell.’
‘The gods are with us!’
‘You are Roman, you are the elite of warriors.’
‘The Persians are already dead.’
The commands and encouragement shouted by the Roman officers was heard despite the battle-noise. Either side of me soldiers butted their shields tight together and we stood fast. The Persian line, climbing over both their dead and ours, thudded into us, and the sound of iron and the shrieks of the dying filled my mind.
Over everything I heard Zenobia’s voice, piercing the growls of men. Or maybe I just imagined it. But it was followed by a roar from behind me, and I suspected more reserves came to add their weight.
‘Zabdas!’ Bamdad shouted.
I pushed my opponent back, but there were men behind him, pressing him onto me. We were so squashed neither one could kill the other, his acid breath licking my face. I chanced a glance right and saw our line crumple beneath the enemy’s weight.
‘Hold them. Fucking hold them! Gods damn them all, for we will win.’
‘Don’t let the damned filth get the better of you! Hold the fucking line!’
It was all I could hear, over and over again. Repeated and regurgitated.
‘Hold them.’
‘Hold the fucking line.’
I looked at Bamdad and saw his face contort with pain.
‘NOOO!’ I heard the word before I realised I had shouted.
Bamdad appeared to recover; his expression filled with rage and pain and bloodlust as he found his legs. There was no time to see what he did next. I felt our own men pressing behind me. In front, my shield trapped my arm to my chest, and with the other I lunged desperately. Suddenly, the weight seemed to disappear, and I fell forward, pushed by my countrymen. Falling onto the dead.
The two lines had broken apart again.
‘Their flank has fallen!’ a legate shouted from behind us.
‘Kill them! Slaughter them all!’
Then I heard a female voice, Zenobia’s voice.
‘This is our day. The gods are with us.’
I felt the smallest relief as I cheered with the rest of our men, but I could not hear my own shout amidst the din.
I heard Zenobia’s voice once more, urging us on, and made to engage again. Only this time the Persians appeared apprehensive. Howls rang from my right and our line moved forward. The enemy cried defiantly, but their advance was not as loud as before. They were losing heart, and I knew it.
Zenobia was right.
The gods were on our side.
‘Advance! Advance! Advance! They are not dead yet!’
‘Bastards!’ screamed a man to my left. ‘Fucking bastards!’
A spear struck my shield and the weight dragged it from my grasp. I held my sword with both hands and bludgeoned the enemy. We could win. I just needed to survive. I realised I was still striking the man as he lay on the ground, his helmet crushed into his skull, and the enemy line had broken from ours.
But they had not just broken.
The ring of swords lessened. They were moving back. We followed; chasing them, killing them, slaughtering them, letting their blood onto the sands of Syria. And then tiredness overcame me. I shook. My legs gave way and I fell to the dark, stinking ground; my breath ragged and quick. I looked for Bamdad first. He simply stared at the retreating enemy, his face blank and his entire body drenched crimson. Then his sword slipped from his hand and he collapsed.
I tried to move across to him, to see if he was hurt, to try to
help him if I could, but my legs would not carry me. Everywhere the injured moaned and cried and the living drew ragged breaths. I tried to comprehend all the lives I had taken, but every life taken blurred into the next, and I could not separate one death stroke from another. So many men. So many lives.
We had made a stand against the Persian tide.
And we had found victory.
CHAPTER 17
Zabdas – 260 AD
Zenobia sat on the ground next to Odenathus’ still form and watched him. We were in his low black tent, the light dim and the air sweet and medicinal herbs. I crouched beside him. Even now, despite his vulnerability, he was an impressive figure, his huge chest rising and falling and the scars of old battles shining like slug trails. Blood oozed through bandages smothering the wound where the arrow had found a weak gap in his armour.
‘What have the physicians said?’ I asked.
She shook her head, a gesture I did not understand, and smiled wanly.
‘They are optimistic. We are to pray a few weeks will see him back to full strength. Herodes and Pouja left a little while ago.’
After the battle, Zenobia and I had made a hasty return to camp. Our victory had come about because of Zenobia’s presence amongst the men. It had rallied their spirits, so I heard. She was their mascot, their queen and Selene’s chosen one in our world. My fellow soldiers had sensed the Persians’ fear at the sight of her.
I still trembled from the aftermath of battle. My senses were heightened and everything seemed so clear and raw.
‘There is much to do now we have gained the advantage,’ I said.
She nodded absently, her face full of sorrow, so different from the determination and strength she had shown as she supported the army and faced the enemy. She looked as tired as I felt and there was something in her eyes that I could not place. Then I saw a tear trace the contour of her cheek.
I had never considered that she loved Odenathus. I had always assumed her indifferent, that she had lain in his bed because she had to, because her marriage was desired by her father and by her, to breed the next ruler. Never had I thought that she truly wanted to be with the king for the man himself.
She did not wipe the tears away, but let them trickle down her face and onto Odenathus’ hand, which was gripped by her own.
He had been in the midst of the battle; faced the same enemy and risked his life just as I had, just as she had. It was Zenobia’s love for him, his having her, knowing her, that had caused my years of hatred. I had known her love for the king was there, right from the first, but I could never accept it. I had Aurelia now, and yet I still felt bitter and jealous of the tears she shed for him. He did not deserve a queen so strong. When she had lain close to death after the loss of their child, he had not stayed with her, watched over her, doted on her as I had; as she did for him now.
‘I am with child again,’ she said.
‘I know you are.’
My words escaped my lips without thinking, without pause. I had known. I had seen the paleness in her complexion, had witnessed her willingness to obey Odenathus when he had ordered her back behind the reserve before battle, even though she had gone on to disobey him. Noticed her protective hand on her stomach, the change in her black pupils and the shine of her hair.
She tore her eyes away from her husband and looked at me with curiosity.
‘I see it in your eyes. I recognise their appearance when you carry another life.’
Her expression softened and she smiled sadly.
‘It feels as if you have always known me, Zabdas, long before my father brought you home.’
‘I would like to think so.’
‘Then you know I will not pursue Shapur’s remaining force back to Persia with the army. I cannot risk it, nor can I bear the thought of the loss again. For the sake of the child, I will return to Palmyra and stay there until it is born. For once, I will do what Odenathus would want me to do. I will be safe enough so there will be no need for you to accompany me. I will speak to him when he wakes and ensure you can stay with the army. If the baby … when the baby is born, I will call on you and perhaps my father will visit us both, or we can go south see him.’
‘Gratitude, Zenobia, I would like that. You will be missed. I will miss you,’ I said, knowing that I spoke for not only myself, but for both the Syrian army and the Roman legions and so many commanders in each. She had earned the respect of all.
‘It is only for a short time, Zabdas.’
I had grown too used to her company. I wanted to stay with her, be close to her, but I also knew that I was her cousin and now I knew myself to be her half-brother, and I was a soldier and knew I could never have her for myself. I set my face with the same hard, cold look I had seen on hers so many times before.
‘It is for the best.’
She stared at me a moment. Tears for the king still ran down her cheeks, but there was something else behind them, a different kind of hurt.
And then it was gone.
CHAPTER 18
Zabdas – 260 AD
It took Odenathus four weeks to recover his strength. Even then I could see the weakness in his eyes, though he did not betray it physically. Our men recovered, too, both from the battle and the plague and sickness that had ravaged the army whilst in Edessa. More men came out of training and filled our ranks, and more tribes joined us too, knowing of our victory, determined not to lose out on any wealth that might be had, any reward from Rome or plunder retaken.
Zenobia returned to the sanctuary of Palmyra as her belly began to expand once more. To my relief, Aurelia went with her. Zenobia spoke with Odenathus as she had promised and I was permitted to stay with the army; as part of the king’s personal guard this time, and not hers.
Our army rode on the elation of victory. We were savouring these lands being ours once more. And we grew healthy on it.
The campaign was hard as we made our way across ravaged lands in pursuit of Shapur and his remaining forces. Strong and determined, Odenathus spoke of pressing the enemy back beyond their own capital, beyond Ctesiphon.
For the first time in years, it seemed possible.
Our army camped to the east of the Euphrates, close to Edessa. We had not seen the enemy in three days, though we witnessed deserters choosing to settle in Syria. Some had found women to be with, to be close to, not to bed as slaves but to take as wives. Others preferring our trade routes and the profit that went with them.
We killed most and spiked their heads by the roadsides as we pushed further into territories we had not trodden in years; a lesson to those who thought to take our lands.
One morning, as the sun began to peak and our army hooted and laughed and were merry on the road, we came across a Persian who deliberately sought our army. He was encased in Persian armour and riding a horse, but now slumped on his knees before Odenathus, Zabbai, three other stratego and me. Beside him, Pouja clenched and unclenched his fists as he spoke.
‘He had the nerve to ride into our camp. He must have known he would not live. Yet still he came.’
‘Why did he come?’ Odenathus asked.
The Persian looked up at us through bruised eyes.
‘He delivers a message from Shapur,’ Pouja replied.
‘Why send one of his own when he knows he will not live?’ I asked. ‘The Persians have enough of our own countrymen taken as slaves, he could have sent any one of them.’
‘He is demonstrating that he is not afraid,’ Odenathus said. ‘He wants to prove he has men enough to sacrifice; men with enough will to care nothing for death.’
I did not really understand, but I nodded nonetheless.
‘What is the message?’ Odenathus asked Pouja with a jerk of his head.
‘He says he has seen Valerian Caesar in the Persian camp, my Lord. I think it best if you hear what he has to say for yourself.’
Odenathus paused for a moment, taking deep breaths. My own curiosity rose, and with it a sense of dread. Could Shapur b
e willing to return Valerian for a sum? Would the Romans discover this and know then of Zenobia’s treason?
‘He speaks Syrian?’ Odenathus asked.
‘Not that we know of.’
‘Then get me a translator.’
An interpreter was fetched and Pouja said, ‘Ballista and the Roman generals know nothing of this man. I brought him to you discreetly.’
The king nodded. ‘That is probably wise. What is it he has to say?’
‘I do not know, my Lord. He refuses to speak with anyone but you.
The Persian began in his tongue, his face bruised and crusted in blood and dirt, he smiled as he spoke. And when he had finished, the translator began:
‘We had not thought your emperor would come. We did not think him stupid enough to walk into the trap set by your queen. A boy was given to us, a boy my king believed your queen cared for, to secure the bargain, but still my king did not believe she would bring Valerian Caesar, Emperor of Rome.’
‘I know this already,’ Odenathus growled, and I realised then the prisoner did not recognise me as that same boy, and neither did I recognise him. This man was a messenger only, one who had not witnessed the treachery which he relayed.
The interpreter, concentration on his face continued as the Persian’s message became more of a story, a narrative of the fate of an emperor:
‘My king, Shapur, the first of his name, King of the Persians, King of Kings, King of the Sassanian Empire, did not kill Valerian Caesar immediately. He confined him to a cage of piss and shit and filth for two weeks. When finally Caesar was dragged from the cage he shouted and screamed like a woman.
‘Our people gathered to watch. We took him to the tent of our great Shapur, and pushed him to the ground at the feet of our king, who sat, like a statue, unmoving; a greater man than any other.
‘My lord asked him why he would betray his own people. He wanted to know why a Roman emperor would be betrayed by the Warrior Queen. She had said it was for peace, but Shapur did not believe her.
