The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  ‘Blood feuds must be settled,’ Zenobia replied as she returned to her seat. ‘Tell your King I agree to match my best man against his nephew. He has until the sun has almost set before the three days I granted come to a close.’

  Without further instruction the guards escorted the man from the room. Bamdad approached and perched on the edge of the table.

  My mind reeled with the discovery of the man’s identity. It had never occurred to me it would be someone of importance, a blood relation to the King of the Tanukh himself. Blood was everything to him, as it was to us. Our bonds bound us to the dirt on the plain as they did the blood in our veins.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked Zenobia.

  ‘Jadhima was unwilling to hand over the man we wanted. But also because those who survived the fight alongside my father say he wore four warrior rings here,’ she gestured to her upper arm, ‘and another four here.’ She patted her opposite arm. ‘I noticed Jadhima wore the same. His other men did not.’

  The sky drew a grey cloak upon the sun as the hours wore on and the wind picked up. I was unsure whether Zenobia wanted company or not, but I felt comfortable in her presence as we climbed to the highest rampart.

  We faced the opposite direction from which a Tanukh messenger would come. Zenobia ran her hands down the silk covering her body, as if brushing away remnants of the day, cleansing herself from thought and worry and the promises we had both made. She sat down on a bench. A dip in the wall allowed a good view over the land.

  I sat down beside her, the creak of my leather tunic disturbing her thoughts. She smiled without turning.

  ‘This is a beautiful view,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  The heat of day dropped and Jadhima’s deadline crept nearer. My stomach knotted and twisted even as I forced myself to remain calm and controlled. The olive flesh of Zenobia’s arm was prominent against her ivory silks. I wanted to take her hand in mine and reassure her all would be well. I wanted to reassure myself. But her hand was the hand of a queen, my superior, my lord’s wife, a half-sister I felt I had only just discovered. It was possible that she wanted me to put my hand on hers, that such a small, innocent act would bring her comfort. Yet I knew it would not. She needed no comfort. She housed a warrior heart and she was the strongest person I had ever known.

  Inwardly I laughed at myself for my own folly.

  ‘It is peaceful, sitting here,’ she mused.

  My gaze followed hers out across the plain. We faced north-west, and with a flutter in my chest, I realised we were looking in the direction of Palmyra.

  ‘This bench …’ She paused, and I sensed her apprehension at revealing private thoughts even to me.

  ‘What of it?’

  She scanned the landscape before saying, ‘I had it placed here deliberately.’

  ‘So that you could look toward home?’

  She paused again. ‘Vaballathus will have grown by the time we return.’

  The sharp pang of her guilt was almost audible. I was used to her not revealing emotion and it took me by surprise. She loved her son, that much was always obvious, but she rarely showed this kind of sadness. With Aurelia, my sweet Roman girl back in Palmyra, I would have clutched her in a firm embrace, let her cry onto my chest and shed tears until there were none left. But with Zenobia I did not know what to say as her thoughts spilled over. I saw tears in her eyes just once and they were for Odenathus, not her father.

  Her skin breathed rose oil once more and for a moment it lingered on my senses. I inhaled deeply, as if the scent compensated for lack of palms pressing against each other, and the reassurance that would perhaps give. Her hand was so close to mine, clutching the edge of the bench as if it were her son.

  ‘He has the best possible nurses watching over him,’ I said, ‘just as he will have the best possible tutors teaching him, and seasoned warriors training him when the time comes. You have no need to worry.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, her tone permeated with scorn. ‘I have spoken with Odenathus and we will have tutors brought from Alexandria, even Greece, in order that he has the best. My prince will want for nothing. He needs to learn, and do so fast. This world, Zabdas,’ she flicked her hand in a circular motion, ‘is a hostile place, and the young are not protected by their innocence. Herodes might well be Odenathus’ eldest son and heir to the throne, but Vaballathus is also heir and could inherit kingship in time. I must prepare for that.’

  It was gone. The brief moment of vulnerability shut away as quickly as it had shown itself.

  I nodded, thinking upon my next words. It was the first time I heard her speak of her son becoming king. Odenathus’ son from his previous marriage, the man older than Zenobia herself, would inherit. To speak of his death, his usurpation, unnerved me.

  ‘It does not matter. What needs to be done will be done,’ she said. ‘Tell me, what do you intend to do with the wealth my father left you?’

  Heat crept up my neck as it always did when she mentioned the inheritance he had left me.

  ‘I have not decided. Not yet.’

  ‘There are men who can advise you well, Zabdas. I can arrange for you to speak to someone when we are back in Palmyra, if you wish. My father was ever careful with his money. It is why there was enough in his estate to fund my mother’s house for the rest of her life, and a little more to give to you. Invested wisely, you could see a great return, and one day buy a house of your own for Aurelia and your children. You would not need one gifted as a favour from the King, but because you were clever with a little money. What do you say?’

  I had never had money of my own and I had no idea what to do with the sum Julius had bestowed. I saw the coins and wished I could buy him back, trade for them what had been taken. The inheritance seemed so cold, so empty, that I had no desire to invest or spend it.

  ‘Perhaps that would be wise,’ I agreed.

  ‘My Queen,’ a soldier shouted from below. ‘The Tanukh have sent another messenger.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Zabdas – 261 AD

  Eager to hurry down the steps of the rampart to where the messenger waited, I burned with frustration as the soldier set a slow pace to match Zenobia’s. The sun had all but disappeared beyond the fort walls as we entered the inner courtyard.

  Waiting to speak with us was the same warrior as before. Zenobia paused a few feet from him but said nothing. Around us soldiers gathered. I caught sight of Teymour and his woman on the opposite side of the enclosed space, their children playing, oblivious to what was happening. Bamdad came and stood beside me. Was he still angry at my offer? I wondered. His temper could flare and fade in equal measure.

  The Tanukh warrior stood motionless. ‘My King has the man you seek: his nephew who led the attack on your father and his men. He offers still to match him against your greatest warrior.’

  ‘I accept,’ Zenobia replied. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He waits for you on the riverbank.’

  ‘Tell him to come to me.’

  ‘My instructions were to tell you he waits on the riverbank.’

  Zenobia moved two paces nearer the man. ‘Has Jadhima so great a hold of your tongue that you are unable to return with a message? Have I to send one of my men with you, to repeat what you cannot?’

  The warrior hawked and spat on the stone beneath his feet. ‘I will do it.’ He paused a moment, then left.

  Zenobia turned to Bamdad. ‘You are ready?’

  Bamdad gave a sharp nod and waved an arm overhead to men lining the walls and walked away.

  Zenobia nudged my arm. ‘Zabdas, come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To speak with Teymour.’

  I glanced to where he had stood just moments before, but he had gone, leaving his woman shouting at her children to get back to their chores. I knew what Zenobia wanted with him. And I knew why she had kept him alive.

  We arrived at Teymour’s quarters and Zenobia called through the curtained part
ition.

  ‘What is it?’ he shouted.

  Zenobia pulled the curtain aside and we entered.

  Teymour sat at a small wooden table, a jug upon it and a cup in his hand. He raised the cup to his lips, watching us.

  Zenobia walked up and took it from him, lifted it to her own lips and drank.

  ‘Cheap but good,’ she said.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Teymour asked, his polite tone forced.

  ‘We are invited to take the life of Jadhima’s nephew. You are the best fighter in this fort; I can think of no one more suitable.’

  Teymour looked at Zenobia as I had seen him look at her in her father’s house so many years ago. His face full of wanting, only now he wanted forgiveness and not her body. For a heartbeat I thought Zenobia would give it, or perhaps for a moment I hoped. I could not be sure. I longed for one thing but had it not been for Zenobia’s resolve, I would have succumbed to the inevitable guilt.

  ‘If I kill him, will it end the ill feelings between us?’ he asked her.

  Zenobia moved around the table and took Teymour’s face in her hands and kissed first one cheek and then the other.

  ‘If you kill Amr, then you will have taken the life of my father’s killer and I will be satisfied. My father would not have wanted this feud to continue. We must make amends. All of us.’

  Would you be satisfied? I thought. Knowing what we knew, thinking of the letter written by Julius’ own hand, I could scarce believe that.

  Teymour pulled back from Zenobia’s hands, knelt on the floor, and kissed the back of her hand. ‘I never wanted this. I did not cut your father off. We tried …’

  ‘Kill Amr,’ Zenobia said.

  Teymour bowed his head.

  Zenobia turned to me. ‘Assist Teymour in readying himself and come to the main training yard where Amr will meet his fate.’

  She drew the curtain aside once more and left. I followed her into the dark.

  ‘How can you forgive him?’

  Zenobia shivered. I moved to unfasten my cloak, to put it around her shoulders, but she shook her head.

  ‘I do not forgive him. You know this already.’

  ‘Your actions say different.’ I felt myself grow uncontrollably angry. Lowering my voice I said, ‘You know what was written in your father’s hand. Your father gave him employment and friendship and trust. He gave him wealth but that was not enough. Teymour puts his desire for wealth before the kingdom and before his loyalty even to his friends. He can never be trusted. Not now.’

  ‘I know this, Zabdas.’

  She beckoned me closer and I breathed her scent, sweet and strong and clear.

  ‘Then why have you given him the chance for forgiveness?’ I whispered.

  ‘You never assume, never think to tell me that I am wrong. And yet you always question.’ She put a hand on my face.

  I could tell she was losing patience with me, that I was pushing her beyond the bounds of our friendship and into the place everyone else inhabited, but I could not stop myself.

  ‘I need to know.’

  Zenobia’s face relaxed into a comforting smile. ‘Teymour is a strong warrior, but he cannot kill Amr.’

  ‘So he will die in an attempt to make amends?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And what of Amr?’

  Zenobia closed her eyes briefly. ‘Enough, Zabdas. Go and help Teymour ready himself.’

  I stooped back through the curtained doorway. Teymour stood, greaves strapped to his legs, coating his throat with another cup of wine. His breastplate lay on the table. I went over and picked it up and lifted it over his head, securing it in place. I could taste his sweat and the stench of stale wine seeping through his skin, and sensed his arrogance as I tightened each strap.

  ‘Zenobia does not believe I can beat Amr?’

  Teymour’s assumption, that he was right, surprised me.

  ‘I know nothing of what Zenobia thinks. No one does.’

  ‘You know better than anyone.’

  I pulled on the last strap of his armour.

  ‘Is that tight enough?’

  ‘It is secure,’ he grunted. ‘I heard of your quarrel with Bamdad.’

  He was taunting me, attempting to provoke a reaction, to unsettle me in order to satisfy himself. I grew hot, both angry and embarrassed.

  ‘It matters not who I have quarrelled with. I know what you have been doing here in the south. Did you think Julius blind? That he would not know that you attempted to open trade routes and plot behind his back?’

  ‘You know nothing, boy.’

  ‘I know more than you. I know where loyalties should lie.’

  ‘Ha! Fine words, Zabdas. Did you learn them from Julius?’

  He betrayed it then, in his eyes and his words, the bitterness he felt toward my stepfather.

  He sighed, took another slug of wine, and patted my shoulder as if no words had been exchanged.

  ‘Have you met Amr before?’ I said, curious of the man he was about to face, knowing that Zenobia believed he could not match him.

  Teymour shook his head. ‘Whenever Julius and I spoke with Jadhima he only ever had his general with him, the man you met on the shore yesterday. His name is Qasir.’

  ‘Another relation of Jadhima’s?’

  Teymour shrugged. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Do you know anything of Amr?’

  ‘He leads men as if politics mean nothing, and only killing matters. He fights with rage in him.’ He drank again. ‘You saw Jadhima. There is nothing of Roman etiquette in a man like that. They all fight like dogs.’

  ‘Do you think you can kill him?’

  He drained the last of the cup’s contents and refilled it.

  ‘The gods might know.’ He looked down at the table and rubbed his bearded chin. ‘Julius could handle himself well enough, but not so well in a dirty fight. That is why he is dead.’

  Was he simply musing, or in some subtle way trying to turn my opinion? Did he think that I would change my mind, relive the events over a jug of ale, and then we would slap one another’s backs as we all laughed like brothers? I resolved not to succumb.

  ‘And you? Can you handle yourself in a dirty fight?’ I said.

  Teymour paused then spluttered a laugh. ‘Is that all you can do, slave boy from Yemen? Prance about asking whether I can kill a man? I have killed many men. You want me to lose, Zabdas, to satisfy you? You and Zenobia act as if you were the only two people who suffered loss when Julius fell to a Tanukh blade. You were not the only people to mourn Julius, nor were you the only people close to him. He was beloved of many.’

  Rage bubbled inside me at his words, knowing they were true.

  ‘Do not tell me how I feel,’ I spat.

  ‘He left me the same inheritance he left you, Zabdas.’ I must have looked surprised, for he laughed. ‘Zenobia never told you? A manipulative wench. Her mother’s daughter after all.’

  I took a step back, shocked, not knowing what to say or how to respond.

  ‘And yet you loved her yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Everyone loves her, you fool. But not many are blind enough to think she returns their affection. She is single-minded and does what she wants. She cares for no one but herself. Does it not make you sick? Knowing that you are not Zenobia’s most beloved? Nor were you Julius’. You are just a bastard he found in Yemen, whose mother did not want him.’

  His words bit deep and all I could do was stand there.

  ‘Drink the rest of the wine, Teymour. You will feel less when Amr slices open your belly.’

  The exchange brought us both back to the present and I saw it on Teymour’s face, that for a moment he had forgotten he was about to fight.

  He moved past me to the doorway, looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘Forgiveness is but a sword stroke away.’

  Zenobia stood with Bamdad and ten of our warriors in the training yard. More people lined the walls, waiting in anticipation of the man who had killed
the famous Stratego and Zenobia’s father, the general Julius Zabdilas.

  The sun disappeared beyond the fort and a howl sounded the Tanukh’s arrival at the gate. Even with our warriors inside the walls and the protection they could provide, I felt the dread of enemy presence. When the long echo of the Tanukh cry stopped, I looked at Teymour. For a heartbeat I wished he did not have to fight, to face the man howling his presence. Then I put that thought aside and shamefully told myself that it was Zenobia’s choice, not mine, and I could do nothing.

  ‘Palmyrene Queen!’ a man bellowed as he and twelve other warriors came into our presence. ‘Palmyrene Whore! The gods’ temptress on earth with such lovely long hair …’

  I saw the man Jadhima had called Qasir and his brace of warriors, faces cast hard, the eyes of enemies glowing white in the dim light. Only one carried a sword: a man similar in age to myself. He looked at us from beneath thick brows, and with a lick of starving wolf-lips, his crazed eyes fixed upon Zenobia.

  Qasir began to laugh, and the wolf laughed too. He reminded me of Bamdad, the madness in his face, the uncertainty of what he might do or say, but I would never think Bamdad so wild again after seeing this man; this untamed man.

  ‘This is Amr?’ Zenobia asked Qasir.

  Qasir beckoned the wolf forward and laid a hand on the back of his neck.

  ‘Jadhima’s nephew: Amr.’

  Zenobia looked to one of our warriors who had fought beside Julius for confirmation. He gave a single, solemn nod.

  ‘Are you ready to fight?’ she asked.

  Amr grinned the manic grin of a man who would draw his sword with enjoyment and no restraint, and my heart fluttered again for Teymour’s fate. The mixture of emotion unsettled me.

  ‘I will drive my sword under the ribcage of your most prized warrior,’ Amr said slowly. ‘And watch his innards slither down my blade.’

  ‘I would cook your flesh over a fire when I have killed you,’ Teymour replied, ‘if it were not for your rotting flesh and bones.’

  Zenobia stepped forward and both men fell silent. She addressed Qasir again.