by JD Smith
‘If there is one thing you should learn, it is how to lie well. A skill, learned like any other, with practice.’
‘Or you are simply born with it,’ I said, thinking of Teymour. Again, that sickly swill in my stomach.
‘Do not listen to rude mouths.’
‘You are right. You are rude to tell me I should practice.’
Zenobia laughed, and I laughed too, more at seeing her pleasure than anything else.
The two men returned to report a cart had broken its axle, so we moved off the road, trudged round over the uneven ground, hearing groans and quarrels as we passed.
‘Do you ever think of me as a slave?’ I asked Zenobia.
‘Of course.’
‘What?’
Zenobia laughed again, but this time I did not.
‘Zabdas, why do you ask?’
‘Mina …’
‘Ah, I see now. I thought you would have learned not to credit her words. She has a poisonous tongue.’
Zenobia was right. The King’s mother had had influence over Odenathus and in turn the kingdom before he turned his ear to Zenobia. Even then Mina had been a spiteful, selfish woman.
We rode in silence a while. The crowds of traders on the road thinned as we headed to the town where Zenobia’s childhood home lay; a small oasis in the desert, far from the major roads. Eventually the town appeared, first as a blemish on the blanket of sand, before growing into the idyllic place where my own childhood had truly begun.
It was difficult to see what inspired the construction of the small town. I thought perhaps Julius had built the settlement, surrounding his modest but beautiful house with a simple life, a place that could bring the peace he sought, away from the bustle of the city and demands of senators and army life; a Palmyra in miniature, without a king or a court, without soldiers and armies and the threat of enemies. Purely a cluster of delicacies, lost amongst the desert hills.
Our arrival was at first greeted with deep bows from the gatekeepers and courteous acknowledgement of plebeians as they knelt to the Queen who had once been daughter to their respected resident general, Julius Zabdilas. Women pushed their children forward for the blessed hand of the half-Egyptian beauty. Men bowed to the girl rumoured to have stood before Shapur himself, and demand he lead his Persian armies out of Syria. None, I knew, would know of her treason to the Roman Empire, but as the months passed since we had watched Emperor Valerian in his purple kneel as a footstool before the Persian King, I had grown to suspect that few would disapprove. Syrians were a proud people.
We filed through the town and to the house of tranquillity where my woman waited with a boy I barely knew. Our first step into the home and a wave of familiarity and yet the unease of change wrapped around me and drew me further in. Zenobia seemed unmoved by the rooms in which we walked, the tapestries adorning the walls, the mosaics cascading across the floors – all more a part of her father than any rooms in any building in any country.
Zenobia excused herself, wanting only to find and hold her son once more, and I went in search of Aurelia.
I was drawn to the gardens, knowing they were the place Julius most prized, away from the house, from slaves, from everything. A sweet tranquillity secreted away in the shadow of his own.
Aurelia looked startled when she first brushed her golden honeysuckle hair over her shoulder and saw me. Then she smiled, and it felt as if she held my cold heart in her warm hands. It always felt like that. And every time I saw her and she held onto me I wanted to cry for how little I had thought of her and how forgetful a man I was.
I took hold of her and the past months seemed to shimmer and vanish for a few moments of uncomplicated peace.
‘Te desidero,’ she whispered.
I held her tighter.
‘I missed you also.’
CHAPTER 8
Zabdas – 261 AD
The days that followed our arrival in the Zabdilas family home were days of rest and reflection. The absence of soldiers and the removal of the burdensome mission to the Euphrates gave me a sense of onward movement, of lightness, despite the dull ache of Julius’ loss. I enjoyed the company of Zenobia’s sterner sister, Hebony, who was content with her lot and the choices she made; her beautiful children and husband. I suspected Hebony had the life Meskenit had once craved with Julius, but Julius had striven to provide Meskenit with more, pushing to give her the house and wealth her Egyptian descent deserved. And yet I hazard she never wanted that. She would have been content simply with him and this house they had built.
Hebony’s youngest child screamed relentlessly during our time there. Hebony lodged once more with her mother whilst the babe was nursed and her husband worked afar. The eldest, however, a girl far more mischievous than I would have expected from a daughter of Hebony, had me chasing her around the garden as she hid amongst the plants.
At night I stood in the same garden amid perfumed air, aware of the still wakeful town beyond the walls. I noticed the garden changed. In Julius’ time it had been well-tended, perfect in every aspect, alive and yet ordered. Now the busts were black with grime, the plants grown wild, the fountain dry and the empty stone troughs staring at the sky.
On the third morning I sat on the edge of the fountain. The mosaic tiles at the bottom of the bowl were dusted with leaves and dirt. I climbed in and tried to twist and pull the nozzle from which the water used to fire upwards, but it was jammed tight. After a few moments of struggling I asked a servant where I might find tools.
By midday Aurelia sought me out.
‘Why do you not join us in the house? There is food on the table.’
‘The fountain,’ I said, by way of explanation.
‘Can I help?’
My frustration with the fountain and being back in Julius’ house began to push tears to my eyes and I dared not look at her.
‘It is all right, I can manage on my own.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Of course.’ Then as an afterthought: ‘How is Meskenit?’
‘She plays with the children, but her mind always seems to be elsewhere.’
‘With Julius?’
‘I think so. She has not been out here in the garden since the children and I arrived.’
‘I do not blame her. It was Julius’ favourite place. Look at the neglect. Someone could have tended it. Surely servants or slaves tended it before Julius died?’
Aurelia did not reply and when I looked at her she wore a worried expression. And I realised my obsession with Julius was all too clear.
‘He loved this garden,’ I explained.
Dusk descended. I had successfully removed the nozzle and discovered nothing wrong with it. The water in the house still ran freely, so I knew the blockage must be a local one, somewhere along the smaller bore pipes within the garden.
By the time I gave up and went indoors it was so dark I could barely see my feet. The children were asleep as the women of the house reclined on couches, sipping wine, deep in conversation. They did not notice my presence.
I realised Zenobia was not with them and I went in search.
I found her in the library, maps of the world spread out on the floor.
‘What have you found?’ I asked.
‘Nothing of importance. I am not sure the tattle of women suits me this evening.’
‘Ah.’
Zenobia glanced at me from beneath long black lashes, disapproval raising her eyebrows.
‘I can play dice and cards, drink with soldiers, secure bargains with kings, but it is all an act. With my mother and my sister, though, I cannot act. Not tonight.’
I sat beside her. I knew what she meant. She was tired and the effort too great to pretend. And they would not miss her, tucked away in her father’s library as they sat talking about the children and the price of silk.
‘Hebony thinks I have neglected my duties as a mother and a wife. Perhaps she is right.’
‘You do not believe that.’
‘I feel I m
ay have lost my argument. I claimed I was not just a wife, but a queen, too, and that it was not the same; that I was tied to a set of duties different from hers.’
‘And you are,’ I said, thinking how like her father she was beginning to sound.
‘But I am not, Zabdas. Which part of going to the Euphrates and avenging my father’s death is required in the role of a queen?’
‘What are you trying to say, that you should not have gone?’
‘I was right to go. But if I am not a queen, and not a mother or a wife …’
She sat cross-legged on a rug of worlds wearing plain robes tied with a frayed piece of thin rope. A length of string held her hair back and her eyes were free of kohl. It was as if, in this house, her childhood home, she allowed herself to slip from the presentation demanded of her public figure to being simply a girl once more.
‘Does it matter what you are?’
Zenobia gave me an easy smile. ‘No.’
‘Jadhima suspected you were a man.’
Zenobia laughed. ‘Indeed he did. Tell me something, Zabdas, do I look like a man?’
Heat rose in me as the image of her revealing her most intimate parts to a man she did not know, our enemy, seared across my vision.
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Even now, sat on the floor like a boy from the market?’
She laughed again.
How I had missed her huge smile and the sigh as she tried to regain control of her laughter. Revenge had brought her relief where I had found none. But hers was infectious.
‘A boy? No. You look like a girl from the market.’
I found Sohrab in the gardens the next day. The boy was playing with Hebony’s eldest daughter Labibah under Aurelia’s guardianship. They pushed their wooden toys along the paths, debating the best route to race. Sohrab’s animated talk and energy seemed very different from the first time I met him. The conversation the night before with Zenobia, of being a mother, came back to me and I felt that sharp thrust of guilt at how I resented the boy; something I buried whenever I could. His mother had been a slave who claimed him mine, and yet I had never lain with her. I suspected she had seen the nephew of Julius, similar in age, come to the house of Zabdilas when she was already caught with child. She had died in childbirth and could never correct her words, but nor could she spread more lies. Aurelia had taken him beneath her wing, mothering him in the absence of any children of our own.
Sohrab caught me watching and, with a whisper to Labibah, disappeared off to another part of the garden.
I spent the morning trying to locate a long iron rod. Finally I sent a servant to borrow something suitable from the town’s blacksmith. The more I looked at the garden, the more I knew Julius would be disappointed at how unkempt it had become. I could no more understand Meskenit’s avoidance of it than I understood Zenobia much of the time. For me it was a place to sit and feel Julius all around me; to be reminded of him. Perhaps that was why Meskenit had let it go to ruin.
When the servant returned, I set about feeding the rod down the narrow bore pipe which should supply the fountain with water. When I had fed the whole length and found no obstacle, it was clear the blockage was further back than the four feet I had at my disposal.
Defeated, I began to clear the garden. It was a huge task; the garden was not the smallest, but by mid-afternoon I discovered I was not alone. Behind me, their voices a whisper of curious excitement, my two small helpers had taken to weeding the paths. I dared not look directly at them, half worried I would scare them away. An hour or two later I realised I enjoyed their silent company. And as the sun started to dip in the late afternoon, I put down my spade and called a servant for refreshments.
‘You two deserve a reward,’ I said. ‘What will it be?’
Labibah looked delighted, but Sohrab answered first.
‘We do not want anything.’ And he ran back into the house.
I turned back to my work, despairing of the boy, unsure how to proceed or what I could say to win him. It was as if he had wedged himself between Aurelia and myself.
Two weeks passed and Zenobia talked of returning to Palmyra. Waiting to hear word from Odenathus was crucifying us both.
‘If we hear nothing by the week’s end, I say we return,’ she said.
‘Are you worried?’ I asked.
We sat admiring the garden; the tidy beds, scrubbed statues and repairs I had made to the walls and colonnades. I had yet to get the fountain working again, but promised myself I would before we left.
‘Worried? Not worried as such, but I am anxious to know what our situation is with the Persians.’
Having pushed Shapur and his forces back the previous year, it was everyone’s concern that they did not regain ground.
‘You and I both.’
‘I feel as if we are so far from everything here.’
‘We are. That is why your father built his home here.’
‘True enough.’
‘Have you enjoyed it here, with Vaballathus?’ I asked. ‘You seem content.’ In truth I saw half her mind filled with joy and the other half anxious to be back at the frontier, in the midst of it all.
‘It has been wonderful,’ she replied, her eyes glowing with genuine happiness. ‘He has grown so much in such a short space of time. I have taken one short trip away and he is crawling already. We should look at finding tutors for him. Herodes’ old tutors are long gone now, and it will take time to find ones suitable.’
‘He will be fighting in the training yard with the other boys before long.’
‘No doubt of that. He smiles all the time.’
‘He has his mother’s smile. He could charm an emperor with it.’
‘Which one?’ She laughed at her own joke. Valerian and Gallienus, father and son, had been co-emperors before Zenobia turned Valerian over to the Persians.
‘The one you charmed, most likely.’
‘Gallienus.’ She nodded slowly. ‘He is sole emperor now. Reports claim he has secured an alliance with the Marcomannic King.’
‘I believe so. I also heard he accepted the King’s daughter as his concubine.’
‘Gossip, Zabdas. Tittle-tattle amongst the soldiers.’ The reprimand was accompanied by a light smile. ‘Gallienus is a good man; very different from his father. The talk amongst the senators is that he has given the Christians freedom to worship, and given back some of the property his father stole in compensation for the people massacred.’ Zenobia looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘In the time Valerian was held captive, before we discovered his fate, there is no knowledge that Gallienus sought his father’s release.’
‘You think he wanted exclusive imperium?’
‘I think he was ashamed. Gallienus is known as The Hero of War. Valerian is known as the emperor who massacred a religion and was flayed alive by the Persians.’
‘He was captured because of you … us.’
‘Because he would have had Syria overrun by greedy Persians,’ she retorted. ‘We would have lost everything.’
‘Is Gallienus still west, or is he in Rome?’
Zenobia shrugged. ‘That is what we are waiting to hear. In my last correspondence with Odenathus he told me he had not heard.’
I continued work on the garden, the days disappearing into one another as I buried myself in the task. I was unsure what some of the flowering plants were, but I recognised the herbs readily enough. I cleared the boxed beds, stripped back the lines of plants along the paths, the scent of mint, celery seed, thyme, basil and bay my companions.
Occasionally Meskenit would stand at the doorway and watch. We had rarely spoken in the years since Julius first brought me to her home. She was my mother, he had told me. Raped by a Roman legionary, and her mind disturbed by it, they had chosen to leave me with her sister in Egypt a babe in a crib.
I had half worried at being here, staying in her home, my proximity too close to bear. She knew now of my own knowledge that I was her son, half-sister to Zenobia, an
d yet we never spoke of it. I recalled the last time I had seen her, joining Odenathus’ and Zenobia’s hands in marriage in Antioch. She looked no different, her oval, smooth face, almond eyes and the stern expression that Zenobia had adopted.
I glanced at her as I worked. She watched the garden rather than me, so I said nothing. She would retreat into the house, then every so often reappear, as if checking on my progress, each time staying a little longer.
Aurelia and the children came to help me whilst Hebony nursed her baby and Zenobia spent most of her days in her father’s library. I encouraged Sohrab as much as I could, as much as I felt able, knowing this was a rare chance to secure a bond with the child Aurelia had become so fond of, and eventually we built a semi-trust of gardener and assistant – not as much as I wanted, but a start.
‘Now I know what it was like before,’ Aurelia called from the other side of the garden as after days of work we saw progress. ‘It is like a refuge from life.’
‘It will take a while to re-establish itself, I think.’
‘Was it more beautiful?’
I could not in all honesty remember, but the picture in my memory was warmer, more colourful, despite our efforts.
‘I need to get the fountain working,’ I said. ‘Then it will be right. Here, do you know what this is?’
I indicated a huge splay of white and pink flowers in delicate clusters. The sweet scent, I realised, reminded me of Aurelia’s fair hair.
‘Nerium oleander.’ She came across and put her arms around my waist. ‘They are lovely, would you say?’
‘I like the roses, but these are my favourite.’
‘They were Julius’ favourite too.’
I looked up to see Meskenit standing on the porch. She smiled, a faint and broken expression, before returning inside.
We continued until sundown, then packed away our tools and retreated into the house. The first hint of company was the sound of a male voice. Aurelia and I glanced at one another, my own puzzlement reflected upon her face.
‘A servant?’ Aurelia said, although I knew she did not believe that.
