The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  My name is Zabdas: husband, warrior, conscience and confidant. I am a son of Syria. I write the history of this country in my own hand and tell the tale of my Zenobia: loyal subject, wilful woman, Queen of the Sands, Protector of People and wife to the King of Kings …

  Zenobia has won the respect of her people, she has provided King Odenathus with a second son, while he controls Rome’s eastern legions. With Emperor Valerian gone, it is the perfect opportunity for Odenathus to seize the title “Emperor of Rome”.

  But the war is not yet won. Zenobia and Zabdas have a revenge to exact, the Persians must be pushed back beyond Ctesiphon, and there are other pretenders rising in the east. Odenathus’ loyalties are called upon once more as he struggles to maintain control and quell the uprising.

  And his accumulation of power has not gone unnoticed ...

  THE BETTER OF TWO MEN

  Overlord III

  JD Smith

  CHAPTER 1

  Zabdas – 261 AD

  Six enemy warriors strode along the riverbank, faces hidden behind dirty, matted beards, their pace confident, their eyes never leaving us. A light breeze dragged sand across my feet and rushing water filled the silence as we waited.

  How I hated the waiting.

  The man in the centre of the group stopped and held out an arm, bringing his companions to a halt fifty paces away. He patted the sword at his waist, grinned at us and shrugged.

  ‘I told you we should ignore the condition,’ Teymour muttered. ‘They had no intention of coming unarmed.’

  He stood to my left; lean, with muscle cording his arms and legs. He wore a neat leather breastplate. His black hair was oiled back and his eyes were hard. I had always been a little afraid of this tall, unsmiling man.

  Zenobia stood at my other side.

  ‘We did ignore the condition.’

  Teymour touched the hilt of his sword and grunted, ‘You cannot trust them. Their word means nothing.’

  ‘So you have told me,’ Zenobia replied.

  Silence once more as we looked at the men before us. I felt the familiar prickle of apprehension at what would come next. I was a man of training and strength, yet still a sensation of the unknown clawed at my stomach.

  ‘They want us to go to them,’ Teymour said.

  ‘Then they can wait,’ Zenobia replied.

  ‘They are stubborn. We could wait for days.’

  She licked her bottom lip and half smirked, but did not break eye contact with the six warriors.

  ‘It makes no difference to me. They requested this meet. If they can come this far, they can manage a few paces more.’

  ‘Not without damaging their pride,’ I said.

  Zenobia gave a small nod. ‘You are right, Zabdas.’

  The sun’s heat was oppressive. I should have felt afraid, but I had too much hatred inside me. We had spent four months harrying the Tanukh tribe on the river as they tried to gain control of both banks of the Euphrates and the trade that went with it. But we had blocked the river further up, letting through only shipments to the great city of Palmyra. The day before, the Tanukh leader had sent one of his men to our camp demanding to discuss the situation: a meeting Zenobia and I had sought more than anything else.

  ‘We should never have agreed to this,’ Teymour said. ‘It is dangerous and he has nothing to offer; nothing we need. We have control of the river. This is a waste of time.’

  ‘It is a waste of nothing,’ I snapped.

  Zenobia did not speak, nor make any motion.

  ‘The King would have me executed, Zenobia, and your father would never have forgiven me if harm came to you,’ Teymour pressed. ‘Let me see to the Tanukh King. There is no need for you to be here.’

  Zenobia leaned forward slowly, looking around me to Teymour, her brow creased and her eyes flickering dangerous and dark.

  ‘My father is gone. You know that. He can forgive no one. But as for me,’ she hissed, ‘I might one day find the strength to forgive your part in his death.’

  Teymour fell silent. I knew by his heavy, deliberate breathing that he was trying to maintain control of his temper. I once had a grudging admiration and respect – perhaps even some form of fondness – for this man who had been at Julius’ side for so long, but that disintegrated and I had no wish to rebuild it. I had wanted to stand on the banks of the Euphrates, fighting beside Zenobia’s father, my own stepfather, for more than four years. But here I was, and he was dead.

  ‘As you wish,’ Teymour muttered.

  Zenobia returned her gaze to the enemy.

  I had grown used to Zenobia’s bitter coldness. Since leaving the oasis of Palmyra and her baby boy behind to travel south on this mission, she had become increasingly determined. I realised she finally felt the loss of her father; letting grief seep through the mask of self-control. I had experienced that loss immediately when I heard her words, the news of what had become of her father, and my knees had hit the marble of the Palmyrene palace. For weeks after I could not eat or sleep, my mind dwelling ceaselessly on the knowledge that I would never see him again. He was the man who, even from afar, in death, I knew watched over me and extended his power to protect us all. But it was too late to speak with him, to thank him for his love, for understanding what it was to be a boy without a father. And he would never see his grandson: the only male of his bloodline. That sense of being consumed by grief had passed, we had come south with soldiers promised by the King, and though I sought revenge on the Tanukh with a heavy heart, my mind was clear.

  The sun had moved considerably by the time the Tanukh leader yielded and began walking toward us. He moved with confidence, each step solid and heavy. He was the same height as me, with neat, square shoulders. On his left arm crude stitches pulled together the skin of a recent wound. His five warriors followed closely. They wore heavy plate armour but without helmets. Their swords were not drawn.

  Zenobia took three paces forward, sure-footed yet elegant, with silks bound to her slender curves by strips of pale gold cloth. Black hair, tied in ribbons, tumbled down her back. Bracelets clinked on her wrists and rings adorned her fingers. Her eyes were dark and unreadable, blackened further with kohl, and pearl-white teeth shone from a dark complexion. I wore boiled leather armour, a sword and dagger at my hip, a shield on my arm; I wished Zenobia wore the same, but as always, she did as she pleased.

  The Tanukh leader stopped short of Zenobia. One of his men stood beside him, the other behind, and Teymour and I flanked Zenobia. I could taste their stench, rotting meat and sticky heat. Closer, I saw the Tanukh leader had many scars upon his arms and face. He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and his beard twitched as he grinned. I imagined slicing the smirk from his face.

  ‘I have waited many months to meet the woman my Persian kin are so afraid of,’ he slurred in Syrian.

  ‘They are afraid of the gods, not a woman.’

  The Tanukh’s grin faltered.

  ‘You are wife to the King of Palmyra? Zenobia?’ He rolled her name in his mouth as a well-born man might taste a delicious wine. ‘The one the King of the Persians calls a Warrior Queen?’

  ‘Shapur has called me that.’

  The leader jerked his head. ‘My men talk of you much. Day and night they whisper of your ambition and your fearlessness. We have heard a great deal about your people’s victory over the Persian King. I am told you rode into battle with Roman soldiers. They say the gods are with you; that you have the Egyptian filth, Selene, watching over you.’ He paused and glanced to the sky. ‘The people of our nations never like to displease the gods. They are watching us, you see. They take offence. If you do not sacrifice to them, they no longer favour you. You, the gods – it matters not; the Persians are afraid. Know one thin
g, Zenobia: I am not afraid.’

  Without raising her voice or giving any indication of annoyance, Zenobia said, ‘You know nothing of me, Tanukh.’

  The Tanukh leader frowned. I felt myself grin.

  ‘I know you Palmyrenes and the precious empire to which you cling, hiding beneath the skirts of Romans. I know you are a whore to your King, and that he would rather send his woman to face his enemies than face them himself.’ He spat on the dusty ground.

  ‘Then you underestimate me. You would do well not to assume.’

  ‘I am Jadhima, King of the Tanukh!’ he bellowed. ‘You owe me respect, Palmyrene Queen.’

  His words died on the air and I secured the grip on my sword. His warriors mirrored me.

  Zenobia remained calm as she said, ‘And you owe me the life of my father’s killer, Tanukh King.’

  Jadhima stared at her a while. It was obvious he had not bargained on her desire for revenge, perhaps believing we fought solely for control of the river. But that was not a part of Zenobia’s and my being here. Teymour could have held the river himself. He had men and he had taken command following Julius’ death. Gods knew I cared nothing for the river.

  Eventually Jadhima said, ‘And who is your father, Whore of Palmyra?’

  The man beside the King muttered to his leader before Zenobia could answer. My jaw began to ache as I ground my teeth. We had waited so long, and every second felt like another lifetime.

  ‘Zabdilas?’ Jadhima said when the man had finished. ‘Ha! Then this is more than amusing, more than a jest by the gods. You are the daughter of Julius Aurelius Zabdilas? The man who dared to take my ships? The man who harried my people? The man who stole from me? Who stood in my way?’ He spat on the ground again. ‘The gods forsook him. He was a coward, the same as his friend standing beside you is a coward.’ He gestured at Teymour. ‘I am told your father cried like a child as he died. A child pleading for his mother to save him, for his previous gods to show him mercy.’

  Rage simmered within me, threatening to boil over and rip this enemy apart. The sensation of drawing a sword across their necks and feeling the warm blood running down my arm led me to an unworldly moment. Julius had been a Stratego, a general of the Palmyrene army, famous for his leadership and for his kindness. Respected by all. He had fought in Egypt and Syria, had been sought out by King Odenathus himself to come out of retirement and hold the Euphrates. He had been no coward. This Jadhima, this King of Scum, had no right to utter the name of Julius Zabdilas. Yet I knew he chose only to taunt us. And I knew that I should not let him. I was a soldier, a man trained by the Bedouin, expected to rise above the infantile words of others. I adopted a cold face.

  ‘Who took his life?’ Zenobia asked.

  ‘What does it matter? Why do you care who took the life of a weak man? Cowards are better off dead, even your own kin; especially your own kin. You have been blessed with the gods’ favour. It is a pity his sword was not in his hand when he passed into the Otherworld.’

  I growled in anger and began to unsheathe my blade, blood pulsing in my ears.

  Zenobia closed a hand on my arm.

  ‘I want his name,’ she said to Jadhima. ‘When I have killed him, I will come for you.’

  Jadhima barked a laugh.

  ‘You think yourself superior with your title of Queen, sitting in a palace of splendour and wealth because of your connection to an empire which calls itself the greatest in the world?’ He laughed a sick, dog-like bark. ‘To me you are a woman, a plaything to the gods, a filthy slut of the cess-pit cities you pride so much. Do not dare to threaten me.’

  ‘Would you like me to retain control of the Euphrates?’ Zenobia asked, tilting her head slightly to one side and eyeing him with indifference. ‘Or would you like to give me my father’s killer? You wanted to meet because my people have taken the river and blocked your ships raiding north.’ She flicked a hand toward the rushing water. ‘There is a price to pay for everything.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Zabdas – 261 AD

  The blue-green river and the pale banks of dust and shingle reflected the sun as Jadhima’s laughter rang out. ‘You want to bargain one man’s life for control of this river?’ he said, and looked out over the flowing water. ‘I never expected you to be clever, but no one told me you were foolish; a slave to sentimentality.’

  ‘My sentiments are no concern of yours. I want the man who killed Julius Aurelius Zabdilas. I want his life,’ Zenobia replied, her tone level.

  ‘And what of the riverbank you hold?’

  ‘The Euphrates will never be yours, but give me my father’s killer and I will permit you to trade with the north under Palmyrene supervision.’

  The man beside Jadhima spat on the ground. ‘They play with us.’

  ‘Quiet, Qasir,’ Jadhima said. He studied Zenobia a moment. ‘I have a proposal for you, Palmyrene whore. Come back to my camp in Baqqa and lift your skirts for me and my men. When I have finished, I will give you the man you want.’

  Fury rose at the seriousness of his expression. Sweat, hot and livid, broke on my back. Every word that poured from Jadhima’s mouth was as if he had drunk from the gutters of Rome. I could not bear him, could not stay in his company for longer, I knew, without losing what control I had been able to master.

  Zenobia, however, bent down and took hold of the hem of her pale ivory skirts. She straightened, lifting them high above her waist. I looked. I could not help myself. I sensed all eyes were upon her. At the top of pale olive legs nestled her long pubic hair, and above, a stomach softer than I would have imagined and yet so perfectly familiar. It felt so intimate, seeing her modesty. But when I looked to her face I saw nothing more than boredom, as if she expected nothing more of the man before us.

  Remembering we were not alone, I glanced to Jadhima. He appeared confused and taken aback. At first he seemed stunned by her behaviour, his jaw slack and his eyes focussed upon her. Then he tipped back his head and addressed the gods.

  ‘Ha! You see this?’ Then he looked back to Zenobia. ‘Many claimed you were a man in women’s garb, but I see you are not.’

  ‘I will not play your games,’ she said. ‘You of all the kings I have faced should know that I am not to be taken for a fool.’ She let her robes drop. ‘I have burned half your ships already. I will burn the other half if you refuse to give me what I want.’

  Jadhima took a step toward Zenobia. Teymour and I both drew our swords and held them aloft. The Tanukh warriors did the same. Jadhima held up his hands to imply that he meant nothing. Not one man sheathed his blade.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he murmured, voice low and reeking of lust, ‘you will come to me when your Palmyrene King shrivels with disease from his many whores.’ He leaned closer still, but the breeze pulled his words to my ear. ‘And a whore you are, but a beautiful one; one with lovely long hair.’ He reached forward and through the silk of her robe took hold of those parts she had moments before shown him.

  Zenobia’s expression did not change. Her eyes betrayed nothing. Her stance showed no weakness. But I lost control. Incredulity raged in the place of discipline and I raised my sword to his throat thinking only of the dishonour of his actions. Qasir growled and came at me, but Jadhima laughed and backed away.

  ‘I am the strongest leader the Tanukh have ever known. I think perhaps you are a strong woman yourself. As the Queen of such a powerful city, you share an unprecedented amount of power. Mine will not be the first offer you will know. There will be others, in time. Never forget there is great strength to be found in unity.’

  ‘In some matches,’ Zenobia agreed. ‘But I have never deemed a unity between my people and yours worth consideration.’

  He paused a moment, as if searching for a witty remark with which to retaliate. I felt a smile pull at my lips, but I kept my expression unreadable.

  ‘In time,’ he said eventually, ‘you will regret your dismissal of my power.’

  ‘You have three days, Jadhima. Sunset on the third
day you will pay the price of your refusal.’

  Zenobia turned and began walking back to our fort. Teymour and I eyed the warriors facing us. They, too, turned with their leader and headed back to a small boat waiting on the shore to take them to the opposite bank.

  Our shadows cast long, the hills turning orange and golden in the afternoon sun. Boots crunched on shingle. Zenobia managed the uneven ascent from the riverbank with ease, up the grass and rocky slope to where we were stationed. The fort was set a little further back, behind the protection of stone walls on the highest ground the area could afford.

  ‘She has changed from the girl I knew,’ Teymour said as we followed Zenobia. ‘She was her father’s favourite, the light that could never be extinguished in him, all joy and warmth. He talked endlessly of her when we were here. She was everything to him. Look at her now; the frozen maiden known as a warrior by our enemies. A whore.’ He spoke with bitterness, his words a harsh reminder that she was no longer the twelve-year-old girl I had first known when coming to Syria. He was right; in this desert heat she was an icy maiden. She knew the affections of many men, manipulated them even, but Zenobia was no whore.

  I stared ahead, mesmerised by her robes floating across the rocky path and her hair lifting in the breeze. I was entranced, as I always was, by this girl, this half-sister that I had held so dearly, secretly, protectively, in my heart. She bent down and picked up a stone, then continued on, tossing it idly from one hand to the other, pondering no doubt on our meeting with Jadhima.

  I nodded at Teymour’s description despite my resentment at his choice of words and the anger I heard in them. He was right, she had changed. I had grown from a slave-boy working the docks in Yemen to a warrior of Palmyra, and yet the change in me seemed little compared to the change in her. A girl in her father’s house, knowing the fineries a merchant could provide, she had married King Odenathus and thus become Queen of Palmyra. And now she walked the banks of the Euphrates a warrior queen.