by JD Smith
I ramble, Zenobia. Please forgive me. I hope your mother is well, and your sister and her daughters are in good health. Give my sincerest regards to my friend and your husband, Odenathus; though I have written to him, too. Tell Zabdas I hope he is still learning everything he can; absorbing all the wonders Syria holds. Reassure him of my deep regret that I left so soon after telling him of his true parentage. Tell him that I love him as if he were my own, that I am proud to call him son, and that his mother, I think, is finally coming around to the idea that what happened to her all those years ago does not need to taint her affections toward him. She loves him as she loves you and Hebony, of that I am ever sure and ever conscious.
Lastly, it appears you have made an old man very proud with everything you have accomplished. You expressed a belief that the child growing inside you is a boy. It would make me happy, Zenobia; happy beyond belief to know the Zabdilas line will continue. But as long as the baby is in good health, and you are well, nothing else matters – nothing.
I must say farewell for now. I will write again soon. And may the gods be with you.
Your ever loving father,
Julius ~
I opened my eyes, feeling renewed hatred toward Teymour as tears threatened. I took a deep breath. Zenobia had received the letter a few weeks before she gave birth to Vaballathus. She had shown it only to me, betraying Julius’ suspicions of Teymour, and I had known then that the rumours were true. Teymour was no longer a friend. He was more a merchant than a soldier, lapsing back into trade, hiding his actions from Julius, creating a divide within the very walls behind which we stood.
Julius never laid his eyes upon his grandson, never held him, picked him up when he fell or gave him his first practice sword. Did not even know he had been born. Years a merchant and more a soldier, a warrior, a commander of the east, general to Odenathus, and yet he had been killed by the enemy because of his own men, his friend, the man he had spent these past long years beside.
Three days, I surmised, until Zenobia and I had Julius’ killer.
Or three days until we burned every Tanukh ship still afloat.
CHAPTER 3
Samira – 290 AD (Present day)
Thirty years since the events of my grandfather’s tale had unfolded, and we have been walking, trudging across the plain of Antioch. I see here the hills draped in blankets of deepest green, and I can sense we are nearing the sea, creeping closer, destined for the Mediterranean and what lies beyond its blue waters. We have travelled more than three hundred miles from Palmyra, from the ruins of the desert city, whose walls can scarce defend those within; the people my grandfather has long since tried to protect.
He sits beside me now, his hair flecked with grey and his beard too, and his hands rest gently in his lap as if they are made of rock, heavy and worn and eroded with age. I could cry for the contentment he should know but does not. The life he has lived that has led him to nothing but war.
When he told me we were travelling to Rome, to the greatest city known to man, I was awed and excited and longing to see this city that he had once seen. I wanted to experience the delights and visit all of the places talked of by travellers and merchants and legionaries and my grandfather’s men. As we walk across Antioch, I am eager to see the splendour, just as I am eager for him to continue his tale. Eager to discover my own ancestry, of the woman I now know to be not only a great woman, a queen of the east and a conqueror of desert lands, but my own grandmother. I have thought of little else since I read in my grandfather’s hand that the son of Zenobia and Odenathus was my own father.
Vaballathus.
How I miss him. The sun rises and it falls and there is not a day that can disappear into the night when I do not recall my reckless father, son to a king of kings and to Syria.
‘You sought revenge on the Tanukh tribe? On Jadhima?’ My voice is tight with emotion, but I cannot make it even, as if I comment on the wind or rain or sun. Matted hair clings to my cheeks, stuck down by wind-watery eyes. ‘The very man who killed my father?’
‘Come to me,’ Grandfather says, and he lifts his large hands and he puts them about my shoulders and there is awkwardness but there is not. He is not uncomfortable because of the gesture, of the proximity which caused him unease before, but rather because he was with my father when he died.
I think this tale strangled with slaughter.
‘Do you miss my father too?’ I ask.
‘All the time,’ he says. ‘I miss his wide white smile, his humour, his presence at my side. He was a warrior, a friend and a companion. And he was Zenobia’s son and second heir to the Palmyrene throne.’
I hold onto my grandfather, tighter and without restraint, and he holds me in return.
‘I wish I had known before.’
‘Known that you are Zenobia’s granddaughter? Your father had his reasons for keeping his silence and I agreed with him. He wanted to shield you from harm, Samira, and in turn your father created many enemies, people who would hunt down those close to them, those related by blood, just as Vaballathus and I hunted down Jadhima so many years after we set fire to his ships. Your father needed to protect you, as well as himself.’
He takes a deep breath and loosens his grip, brushes my wet face with his palms and looks at me.
‘Your eyes are just like hers,’ he says, ‘blacker than the stone of Elagabal. On the day I discovered Julius’ fate, as I stood on the palace steps in Palmyra at the naming of the second heir to the throne, and King Odenathus shouted his name for all to hear, I knew then I would give my life to protecting that boy. And I protected him as a boy; it was when he became a man I failed him. Failed Zenobia …’
‘I am angry with you, with him, for never telling me. For not trusting I should know; that I had a right to know.’ My voice becomes louder but I cannot help myself. ‘How can I have not known?’
‘You have every right to be angry, Samira, but know it was not to hurt you, but to protect you, to shield you. Because of the danger you faced, we changed your father’s name. On the palace steps Odenathus did not shout Vaballathus, but Wahballath.’
I am angrier still as he tells me this, even though I know it does not matter what name my father was given. To me he was Father. A warrior, a warlord, a man who came home every once in a while and tried to convince himself that a hut by the sea in Tripolis was enough when we all knew it was not. And now I know why. He was born a ruler and a ruler he yearned to be.
‘I never really knew him,’ I say.
There is quiet a moment. I am confused. There is so much to listen to and understand.
‘My grandmother betrayed Emperor Valerian to the Persians,’ I add, yet I already know the truth.
My grandfather closes his eyes and I know he is thinking back to the day he walked into the Persian camp with Zenobia to barter the life of an emperor of Rome in a bid to rid their army of his hindering presence.
He shakes his head a little. ‘Gods, it was thirty years ago and yet it seems like thirty sunsets! Zenobia was a queen, a warrior, a mother and a traitor. I am telling you this story so you know where you came from. I owe you that much. I owe it to myself. Too long have I spent with a sword in my hand, concerning myself with politics and war, doing as Zenobia wished and never following my own path.’
‘Then you will tell me everything?’
‘By the end you will know all there is to know.’
We walk a Roman road, wide and paved with great slabs of stone, and I see in the distance the city of Antioch, shadowed by mountains and trees, walls high. I sense this city is not like Palmyra and did not suffer the same fate.
My sandals scuff lightly on the stones. I see the unease in my grandfather and the furrow of his brow, back in this city that saw the first Persian fall to his sword. Yet I sense more the discomfort in Bamdad. He lingers at the rear of our company and I drop back and fall in step beside him, the man who is my grandfather’s oldest friend, his company these many years and like a second grandfath
er to me. He is tall and dark and good humoured, but I see no grin upon his face, no charm in his eyes as we walk.
He does not acknowledge my presence beside him, but looks to the mountain rising up beside the city. He thinks of Mareades, I am sure, the senator who betrayed this city he once called home.
‘Did you ever find your family?’ I ask him.
‘No,’ he says. He does not look at me as he speaks the word. I see his eyes distant and glassy as they rove the landscape before us, as if they hold tears he has never shed, and I know great compassion for this warrior whose heart was once broken and never remade.
I loop my arm with his and follow my grandfather and his men in silence. But I do not mind that silence; it gives me time to ponder on everything that has been said, everything I now know.
CHAPTER 4
Zabdas – 261 AD
I sat on a bench watching two children play. A boy perhaps four years old with a sheet of silk-black hair ran around the courtyard in circles, a rag doll clutched in his hand. His tunic, cut too short, revealed skinny brown legs and young, stringy muscle. A girl with identical hair bounded after him, reaching out, shouting for him to give the doll back. He ignored her, his larger stature giving him confidence and authority over the smaller child. But still she persisted.
I rubbed oil into my thigh, pressing deep into the knotted muscle, trying to force it out of spasm. I had pushed my body too far the previous day during training, and stretching the leg had done nothing to relieve the tightness.
Someone clapped their hands behind me and I half-turned to see a woman bustle across to where the children played and argued.
‘Stop that now. Both of you.’
Teymour’s woman. A slave who worked in the fort.
Teymour must have had her with child as soon as he had arrived with Julius given the age of the boy. It was odd to think of. He had wanted Zenobia for a time, loved her I thought, asked for her hand in marriage. This slave woman was much older than Zenobia, gone thirty years already perhaps, though I could not be certain. There was no telling with those born into slavery; every year appeared as three on their tired faces and worn hands.
The boy began to run rings around his mother. She caught him by his tunic, almost lifting him off the ground, and slapped his legs. He squealed, dropped the doll, and the girl picked it up and hurried off. The boy’s mother set him onto his feet again, and he laughed and chased after his sister as if there had been no reprimand.
The woman put her hands on her hips and sighed. For a slave she displayed an unusual amount of dignity. Her attention flitted to me for a heartbeat, and for a moment she looked uncomfortable, as if she had not known of my presence.
I did not wish to speak to her, and there was no requirement for me to do so, but we were the only two people in the vicinity.
‘All children are the same,’ I said, rubbing the muscle in my leg. ‘They cry murder one moment, and laugh and tumble the next. Nuisances all.’
Her lips formed a tight smile and she nodded, paused briefly, and walked away.
I watched her go, resentment building. That resentment was ever-present now. I wished Teymour dead and I could not stop the thought. Yet here was his woman and his children, fuelling my guilt at the very thought of him lying in his own blood.
I strapped on my greaves, flexing my leg to ensure the movement, stood up and tested my cramping thigh. It had eased somewhat and yet the blemish in my fitness needled at the confidence in my own ability.
‘Sir!’ a boy called. He hurried toward me, struggling for breath. He was young; a message carrier.
‘What is it?’
His eyes were wide and his breathing erratic and I feared there had been an attack on our own ships.
‘The Queen requests your presence.’
‘What has happened?’
‘Tanukh.’
The boy led me into the main fort and the large hall therein. There were no windows, the darkness lifted by torches on the walls and held in brackets on the floor. My gaze swept the room, anxious to know what had caused Zenobia to press such haste on the boy.
Zenobia sat on a chair behind a long wooden table. Bamdad sat to her right, leaning back, his feet on the wooden top, a smile of anticipation tickling his face. To Zenobia’s left Teymour wore a surly expression; no trace of amusement, eyes narrowed.
Zenobia stared directly ahead. I followed her line of sight and I saw a warrior, stripped of weapons and as filthy as the gutter urchins of Rome, standing between two armed Bedouin soldiers.
Without looking at me, Zenobia beckoned with a wave of her hand for me to sit at the table.
‘I am not here to play games,’ she said to the Tanukh warrior as I pulled back a chair. ‘Tell me why you are here.’
‘Are you Zenobia, wife of Odenathus, King of Palmyra?’
She gave no answer, no sign of acknowledging his question.
The warrior’s face adopted a look of irritation, eyes narrow and lips taut, and he straightened his posture further. ‘I have been sent by Jadhima, King of the Tanukh.’
‘I can see that,’ Zenobia replied.
‘I can smell it,’ Bamdad interjected, and though I am sure many in the room wanted to snigger, everyone remained impassive.
‘My King wishes to meet with you,’ the warrior said.
‘We have met already,’ Zenobia replied. ‘Why would I meet him again? He has my terms. Either he wishes to accept them or he does not. And he knows what will happen if he refuses.’
‘He is willing to give you the man you desire,’ the warrior cut across her.
Silence.
Zenobia sat back in her chair, hands resting on the table in front of her.
‘He wants something in return?’ Teymour said.
‘The man you want is one of our best fighters. My King is willing to match his best fighter against yours to determine who will live and who will die.’
Zenobia leaned forward. She tilted her head to one side, as though judging the man before her.
‘If your man loses, I have what I want; he will be dead. If he wins, I lose a warrior and your man goes free.’
The warrior nodded.
‘We know who the man was.’ Bamdad jumped to his feet suddenly, walked around the table, and towered over the warrior. ‘There’s more than one man who saw what happened, who will recognise the person who killed Julius Zabdilas.’
The warrior appeared suddenly nervous, his chest sinking slightly and his gaze uncertain, but he held firm.
Bamdad laughed, slapped him on the back and turned to us. ‘Jadhima would put another forward. A substitute! And let us believe it was your father’s killer, Zenobia. He doesn’t realise we know the man’s face, does he?’ He turned back to the Tanukh messenger, who replied with measured eyes.
‘That is a little unfortunate,’ Zenobia said. ‘For I thought your King would be reasonable. The idea was not wholly disagreeable.’
‘I am simply a messenger.’
Zenobia tilted her head to one side. ‘Perhaps.’
I caught her scent as she did so; rose oil, sweet and intoxicating. So feminine in this room of stinking leather and burning oil.
‘What should we do with him?’ Bamdad asked.
‘Kill him,’ I said idly.
Part of me hoped for some form of reaction, but the warrior gave nothing away. A practiced expression.
Zenobia stood up. A slave scurried from the shadows to pull her chair away. The ghost of a smile passed across her lips, a small, almost imperceptible indication of gratitude. She walked around the table and sat on its wooden surface.
‘I know the face of the man I want,’ she said finally. ‘What I do not have is a name.’
‘I am merely a messenger,’ the Tanukh warrior repeated.
Zenobia nodded, as though agreeing with him, and yet I knew she did not, just as I did not, just as Bamdad did not. This was her fort, her garrison. It was all beneath her command now and no man here could deny that.
She traced her lips with a finger.
‘What puzzles me is why your King will not simply hand him over. It is only one life, after all. Why prolong the river situation, when trade with Rome through Palmyra could be so beneficial to your people? Our kingdom is rich; the Tanukh tribe could share in the profits, making as little or as much as they want through respectable trade. Unless …’
She slid down off the table. I craned my neck to see past her to the warrior she approached. Her robe swayed as she walked, barefoot, anklets chiming. Guards moved, wary, nervous of her proximity to the enemy, as she continued to walk as if past him. But she stopped, their shoulders level, and she turned her head to his profile.
‘I think,’ she said, and as she breathed the words the same thought came to me, ‘that the man who killed my father, who killed many soldiers already rendered weaponless, is someone of importance to your people, to your King. Someone he is unwilling to sacrifice.’ She paused, as if waiting for sign of truth in the man’s features, but he remained motionless.
‘Amr.’ The name barely left her lips, and yet from fifteen feet away it rang in my ears more clearly than the clang of a bell or the sound of a horn.
The warrior glanced sideways at her, before averting his eyes.
‘He is Jadhima’s nephew; his sister’s son?’ she demanded.
Nothing. No reply, no indication or confirmation.
‘You may keep your silence, for I know who he is.’
She looked at him with interest; the same interest with which she looked upon new texts or philosophers at court.
‘Amr is of royal descent,’ he conceded with an uncertain nod.
Beside him, Bamdad started to laugh. ‘That is why Jadhima is reluctant to give him to us?’
‘A royal life only serves to make revenge more satisfying,’ I said from my position at the table. I could taste it. I was eager for it. All I could think of was how close we were coming to having Julius’ killer before us.
