The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord Book 2)

by JD Smith

  ‘A shipload of cargo will make a tidy sum in Rome,’ he says. ‘And someone has to watch over you. Zabdas has done a poor job of that so far.’

  He glances up at me and I think perhaps there is a smile on his lips but it is faint and I know that he is taking pleasure from his words, and that he wishes to taunt me.

  ‘And yet you came to our rescue,’ I reply, ‘because you are a slave-trader.’

  ‘All men must work. Only Zabdas believes that defending a city long since dead, martyring oneself to a useless cause, and slaughtering ancient enemies is work.’

  ‘He did not slaughter him,’ I reply, my head high and my words choking in defence. ‘He took revenge.’

  Am I understanding now I wonder, what it is to take revenge? Or am I simply offended that this man, this Rostram, a slave-trader, would call my grandfather a slaughterer of men?

  ‘Bamdad tells me you look like your grandmother,’ he says.

  ‘I did not know either of them.’

  For moment I wish I had, that they had not died a long time ago, that they were here and that I might see them and know where I came from, that there might be a woman in a life so full of men and sweat and leather and steel.

  Rostram shrugs as if matters little. I am resentful of that gesture, of his brushing away the mention of someone I have never known, that I might never want to know them nor wonder at the people they were.

  I know my eyes are narrow as I look out at the fertile land beyond our boat; at farms and fields and irrigated crops.

  EPILOGUE

  Zabdas – 260 AD

  How I had craved Palmyra. I smiled at the familiar sights and smells as we entered the city. By the gods, but it was just how I remembered it. I wanted to go to the temple and pray to Bel, thank him for our victory. My muscles relaxed with the thought of the bathhouse, I chuckled as I thought of the players at the amphitheatre and the productions I had seen, and I surged with happiness at the familiar sights.

  As we walked through the streets, the people bowed to their king. He stopped frequently to bid his people thanks for their loyalty, and to report the good fortune of the army. When we reached the palace, Odenathus’ escort and I followed him up the marble steps where he was met by Commander Worod, who nodded in greeting.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘it is good to see you return from the frontier. Palmyra has missed your presence, and your son awaits you.’

  Odenathus smiled and I knew by the way the muscles around his face pulled that he could not help himself. He had been overjoyed at the news of another healthy boy. He had two now, he could ask for no more. I reflected how Julius would be pleased to hear he had a grandson, a male of his own bloodline, and felt a smile creep upon my own face.

  ‘It is good to see you also, Worod,’ Odenathus replied. ‘It has been some time since our frontier held this well. We should all be celebrating this time of peace in a land that has known too much war.’

  We reached the top of the steps and Odenathus gripped Worod’s hand and embraced him.

  ‘Times are good, my friend.’

  ‘They are good indeed,’ the commander replied as we stepped out of the sun and into the shade of the palace. ‘However there are pressing matters we must discuss. I have reports of usurpers rising now that Emperor Valerian is captive; men who could rally the Roman armies. And …’

  ‘To be expected,’ Odenathus replied as we strolled through the vast halls of the palace. ‘And Valerian is captive no longer. He is dead.’

  Worod looked surprised and stopped walking, but Odenathus continued.

  ‘We can talk of it later. Right now, I wish to see my son.’ The king flicked a hand to the escort and they fell away.

  From deep in the palace I heard footfalls. A moment later Zenobia rounded a corner. She ran the length of the hall and my heart raced as I trembled at the sight of her. She stopped short of us. Her face shone and her eyes were bright with happiness. She walked up to her husband and her king and kissed his cheek and said, ‘We have a boy, Odenathus.’

  Behind her, a wet nurse carried a bundle in her arms. Zenobia parted the swaddling and took the baby from within. She cuddled him to her chest for a moment, then stooped down and placed him on the floor at the husband’s feet, before straightening and bowing her head.

  ‘He looks just like you, Odenathus,’ she murmured.

  There was a pause as we all waited for the king to accept the child as his own.

  He stooped down, gripped the babe in his large hands and stood up. He kissed the boy’s forehead and as he did so Zenobia’s smile took on a youthful and infectious quality, her face full of energy. She was a girl again in that moment, fresh and innocent and with a mind for children.

  She looked at Odenathus.

  ‘He is strong.’ The king offered his son a finger to grip and the baby took it.

  ‘Just as his father is strong,’ she replied.

  ‘Just like his mother,’ Odenathus said without taking his eyes from his son.

  I could not help it, the surge of warmth, the happiness I felt that the boy had survived being delivered into the world, that I could see such joy in Zenobia once more.

  ‘I have not really thanked you for everything you have done,’ Odenathus went on. He took Zenobia’s arm and led her to one side, the baby in his arms. The wet nurse, Worod and I turned away. Still I heard his hushed words.

  ‘I confess there were times when my frustration with you was so great, I could not think of a way forward.’ I thought of Rome as he spoke, and Zabbai’s confession that the king had sent her there to be rid of her from the council. ‘You are a woman, so I did not speak to you of military matters, and yet you have proven you understand much more than I ever thought you could. You have shown a great deal of courage. It would seem you were right to barter the emperor’s life; we have victory because of it. Palmyra is safe. The Syrian and Roman armies are working together in a way I never imagined possible. You deserve credit for that.’

  ‘It does not matter now,’ Zenobia said. ‘I have done as you asked of me; what is expected of me. I have given you a son.’

  ‘You have, but you must understand something. My disappointment at not producing another child immediately was never with you, but with myself. I did not tell you how hard my previous wife tried to conceive a boy and the anxiety we both felt before Herodes was born. I never spoke with you or comforted you. I never appreciated how hard it must have been for you to bear that grief alone. I am glad that Zabdas was able to share some of it with you, but I cannot apologise enough for my absence.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Zenobia she whispered. ‘We have a son now. We must show the people.’

  He half-laughed as if with relief that she pursued his apology no further.

  ‘We must! Commander, let the people know that I will name my boy to the city within the hour.’

  Odenathus handed the infant back to the wet nurse, kissed Zenobia’s forehead, and strolled away with Worod talking beside him.

  Zenobia moved closer to me, and I to her. I realised nothing had changed in the time I had been at the frontier and she here in Palmyra in confinement. We were both the same people yet another life was being added to the family I had come to know.

  ‘I hoped you would come with Odenathus,’ she said.

  ‘Of course I did. Why would I not?’

  ‘I wanted you to see my son, and I know you will want to speak of my father,’ she said, ignoring my question, but I did not care, I was here at last.

  ‘He will be proud. As much as I consider him my father, I can never be of his blood. But I am of yours and your mother’s and you have a boy now and he is of Julius’ blood and I am more pleased than I can say. Have you sent word to your father?’

  My excitement at the thought that he might be on his way back to Palmyra as we spoke, that perhaps he was already there, heightened.

  ‘Zabdas?’ She looked at me quizzically, then her mouth dropped slightly and her brows sank at the corners. Her
eyes widened in horror.

  I felt my stomach lurch and rise into my throat. I tried to swallow, but I could not. I feared what would come next. I willed the words not to leave her mouth, but they did.

  ‘You do not know what has happened?’ she said with little more than a whispered breath. ‘I sent a messenger to Odenathus. Your paths must have crossed as you travelled here. Oh, Zabdas!’

  She held out her arms to me and like a child I collapsed into them. And we embraced one another, her hand taking my head and pulling me close, my own calloused hands at her back, holding onto her. I could smell Julius’ garden in her hair. I closed my eyes and the tears fell.

  ‘Tell me he is not dead,’ I said, barely capable of uttering the words.

  ‘He is dead and in the Otherworld,’ she whispered.

  ‘How?’ A single word but barely audible.

  ‘Cut down by the Tanukh.’

  We both sank to the floor – or perhaps I dragged her with me – and my throat ached with pain as I tried not to let emotion overcome me. I looked into Zenobia’s eyes, hoping to see doubt in them, but there was only resignation. They did not fill with tears. They were hard, cold even. She should have wept. He was her father, after all, but she shed nothing. She had known before me.

  My heart plunged deep into my stomach and I shook.

  When I could feel nothing but emptiness, Zenobia pulled away, took my face in her hands, and said, ‘Will you bind yourself to me, Zabdas, as my brother, as my whole brother, as Julius’ son?’

  My head dropped in acceptance. ‘I will be whatever you need me to be.’

  She kissed my lips firmly. They were soft and full and determined. They were lips tinged with anger.

  ‘I rid Syria of its overlord. I found Odenathus victory over the Persians. I secured him Roman legions. I have borne him a son. I will ask one thing of him in return: that he let me take soldiers south, to stand beside Teymour, so that one of us can avenge my father’s death.’

  I nodded again, cuffed my face dry and swallowed.

  ‘No matter how long it takes,’ I promised, ‘I will seek revenge on the man who did this.’

  Golden hair trembled down her back as she shook dice and tossed them across the marble floor where they skittered before coming to a stop. A boy of perhaps five or six years laughed as he fetched them. I hung back, not deliberately, just savouring the sight of my sweet Aurelia.

  I had worried I no longer cared for her in the same way, because we had been apart for so many months, and in that time it had been Zenobia’s face in my thoughts, her voice in my dreams; her presence I missed. But after seeing Zenobia with Odenathus, after seeing the son she had given him and the happiness I saw in them both, I knew it was time for me to put my feelings for Zenobia aside and move on. She was my half-sister. I could never have her to myself, could not keep her with me always, nor protect her from what I considered danger.

  For long moments I simply stared at Aurelia, thinking of Julius and Zenobia’s son and everything that had happened. I thought of the lives coming into this world, and all the men I had despatched to the other.

  The boy looked up, his dark eyes guarded, and Aurelia turned and faced me.

  ‘Zabdas!’ she cried.

  I walked and she ran and we embraced. I buried my face in the silk on her shoulder and breathed her scent deeply; clung to her desperately. I remembered all the things I loved about her. Her embrace was warm and caring and loving. Her voice was soft and understanding. She understood me and knew how to be there and to speak the words I sorely needed. Aurelia was there for me, and always would be.

  She must have felt my grip tighten.

  ‘You know about Julius?’

  I squeezed her harder. For a moment I felt the same despair I had when I collapsed into Zenobia’s arms, only this time I caught myself and mastered the sea of emotion that tried to take me. I felt anger and frustration and desperation. I wanted the man who had cut Julius down dead and I wanted him delivered to me in that moment.

  I saw the boy squinting at me, his bottom lip protruding in sullen dislike. He threw the dice to the floor without breaking eye contact. I concentrated for a moment to drain the emotion from my features, and pulled away from Aurelia.

  She took my face in her hands, just like Zenobia had.

  ‘I am so sorry, Zabdas. I know how much you loved him.’

  I made no reply. I had nothing to say; no words that would make anything better.

  ‘I am pleased you came back with the king,’ she went on, her hands moving to my chest, ‘and that you are unharmed.’

  There was a moment, brief and clear, where I realised it was probably Aurelia who had expressed a desire for me to return to Palmyra, and Zenobia had merely obliged.

  I bunched her fingers in my hands and kissed their tips.

  ‘I am glad that Odenathus gave me the opportunity, that I am looking at you right now. The gods know how much I have wanted to touch and hold you these long months.’

  She smiled and pressed herself closer to me.

  ‘It has been too long since I last held you.’

  ‘I know. But I am afraid I will be leaving again soon. Zenobia and I will go south to avenge Julius’ death. I want you to stay here, in the safety of these walls.’

  She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together and nodded.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I understand,’ she murmured, and I knew the love of that girl again.

  I kissed her forehead then glanced at the boy who hummed to himself as he tumbled the dice on the floor over and over.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

  Aurelia glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Sohrab. Whilst Zenobia was with child, Meskenit moved into the palace. She brought him with her.’

  ‘Meskenit brought him?’

  ‘That is right. He came with her.’

  Something stirred inside me.

  ‘Where are his parents?’

  ‘His mother is dead,’ she said, though her voice hid many unsaid words.

  I let go of Aurelia and took a step toward him.

  ‘Who was your mother, boy?’ I asked.

  His eyes flicked up at me.

  ‘What was her name?’ I persisted when no reply came.

  ‘My mother was a slave,’ the boy mumbled.

  Aurelia put her hand on my arm, but I ignored the silent plea.

  ‘Her name?’ I demanded of the boy.

  Aurelia’s grip tightened and she spoke for him. ‘Farva. His mother’s name was Farva.’

  I stared at him, not knowing what to think. Not really thinking anything. This was Farva’s child, the slave-girl who had claimed to have fallen with child by me when I had never lain with her.

  ‘Meskenit told me that he may be your son.’ Aurelia’s voice was not accusatory. It was not enquiring. It simply stated the fact.

  ‘He is not and he could never be. I had never been with a woman before you, Aurelia. His mother is a liar.’

  My words were heated and angry. That the lies Farva had told had come around to pass before me once more. That she had sullied my name for her own reasons.

  Sohrab came across, clung to Aurelia and looked up at me, pouting.

  ‘I told Meskenit I would care for him a while,’ she said. ‘We have no children of our own yet. And I can teach him everything I learned from Regulus. I can teach him about Rome!’

  Aurelia was the woman who doted on me as I had consumed myself with everything but her. I had cared for Syria and I had cared for Julius and his daughter, but I did not think enough of Aurelia. She cared for me and loved me when I was not even there, and now she cared for a boy she believed might have been mine even when he was not.

  I looked down at the little boy and saw myself; fatherless and alone. Suddenly I saw something in me that I hated: a selfish young man who could not give the very same thing he had taken so greedily when he had found a family. Julius had loved me, and I him, even though I was not of his blood. Could I love t
his boy as Julius had cared for me? Could I give him that which I had known?

  I knelt on the cold floor in front of him and took his hands in mine. They were bruised and swollen.

  ‘You fight with your friends?’ I asked him, seeing the marks left by sticks from my own days of training.

  His face softened a little and he nodded.

  ‘Perhaps I can show you a few things that will help you beat your friends, hmm?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Good,’ I said, feeling a strange, simple pleasure. It had been easy to say those words and see the glimmer of excitement in the boy’s face.

  I got to my feet.

  ‘The king is about to name his son to the people. We are expected to be there.’

  The shadows on the palace steps faded as the sun hit them and the crowd was shrill and noisy. The citizens already knew of the birth of the king’s second son, but they had been waiting in anticipation of Odenathus’ return. It was strange, that the day should be one of celebration when I felt such heavy loss. I stood in the hallway of the palace with Zenobia and Odenathus.

  ‘Your father was a brave man,’ Odenathus said. ‘I will miss my great and wise friend. I only wish that we had not quarrelled so often over the years. He will be honoured in the feasting halls of the gods. There is no doubt of that.’

  Even with all that had happened, all the hatred and resentment I had felt toward Odenathus in the past, the blame I found for him, I felt only sympathy as I saw the hurt and despair on his face when he discovered the fate of his friend.

  ‘Of course he will be honoured,’ Zenobia replied.

  ‘He will save you a seat beside him, my Lord,’ I said.

  ‘He will save us all a seat at his table,’ Odenathus replied, putting an arm about both mine and Zenobia’s shoulders. ‘You will want his death avenged?’

  Zenobia looked up at him, as if wondering whether he could read her mind. But then anyone would have known we would desire revenge.

  ‘I will give you whatever you require to achieve that. I will give you anything you need. I would have the head of the man who did this.’

  ‘We would all like that,’ I replied.