The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  Zenobia walked into the room, crossed to Odenathus, and kissed his cheek. She smiled without humour and sat down. She arranged her green-gold gown over her knees, barely looking at me. As rare as snow on the desert plain, worry and guilt of what we were about to do pinched her face.

  The sun from a half-shuttered window bit the chill air. I waited for one or the other to speak. It was Zenobia who finally said, ‘When are we to leave?’

  Odenathus growled in frustration, clenched his fists, stood and threw the coin he still held across the room. A sharp ping as it hit the wall and a skitter as it came to rest on the floor.

  The King looked to where the coin lay. I had taken a step back, but Zenobia watched her husband impassively.

  She waited a few moments. ‘Odenathus?’ she urged.

  ‘You were not to put yourself in danger again, Zenobia. You were to stay here, safe, where I would not worry for you. And now you are once again to meet Shapur with no guarantees of your safety.’

  As Odenathus spoke, I half-hoped he would change his mind and that we would not have to face the Persian King, but I also knew we had no choice.

  ‘The meet is not in the Persian camp,’ Zenobia said, ‘but on neutral territory.’

  ‘There is no neutral territory,’ Odenathus snapped. ‘The land he stands on is rightfully ours.’

  ‘You know what I meant, my love.’

  Odenathus nodded. ‘Indeed, I know. Yet it makes it no better. Do you feel confident of success?’

  Zenobia paused a moment. ‘Shapur agreed to meet with me, therefore he must feel some agreement can be reached.’

  ‘What are we to offer him?’ I asked.

  It had occurred to me that we had nothing he would want, but Odenathus must have some idea of how to persuade Shapur to form peace.

  ‘Nothing. He has requested this meet, not us.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ I said.

  ‘He has not told us,’ Zenobia replied.

  A rush of despair. I could see no reason why Shapur would seek to talk with us, just as I could see no reason why he would agree to the peace Odenathus wanted so much.

  ‘When do we go?’ I asked, repeating Zenobia’s question.

  Odenathus turned away and went to look out of the window. He opened the shutter fully and drowned the room in light.

  ‘The day and time have yet to be arranged. However, you will leave Palmyra tomorrow and travel east to where Herodes and Zabbai are stationed at the frontier. They are in correspondence with Shapur over the meet and they will agree on a time and place. I would trust Zabbai with my own life, with Vaballathus’ life, and I trust him at this time with Herodes’, too. I am entrusting him now with yours. This is no small tribe on the Euphrates, but the army of the second most powerful empire in the world. You have seen them before and you know what to expect.’

  ‘You will not come with us?’ Zenobia asked.

  ‘I have much to do here and under Shapur’s terms I cannot attend the meet anyway. I need to look to the west whilst hoping you can secure the east. The Macriani want to discuss our position, and I think it better not to refuse at this stage. They may yet back down. I must alert Gallienus, too, as to their current position. I will send correspondence with you to Zabbai requesting he send troops back to Palmyra in readiness.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We will all share bread tonight,’ he said, as if it made our departure more bearable. ‘Zenobia, you know how dangerous Shapur is. You know as well as anyone else. Perhaps more so.’

  ‘I will be careful.’

  ‘Do not be fooled by your past immunity to his ruthlessness. Do not dance with him again, Zenobia. The fire is too hot.’

  Zenobia inclined her head and left the room. I turned to follow her.

  ‘Zabdas?’ Odenathus beckoned.

  I looked back to see his head hung in exhaustion. He stumbled across to the dais and sat down on the edge of it once more and groaned. Uncertain in his presence, I sat down beside him.

  ‘I worry for her,’ he said.

  ‘My Lord, might I speak freely?’

  ‘That depends on what you have to say.’

  ‘Zenobia is the last woman, the last person, who needs another’s worry. She is a capable woman. Have faith in her. She would not fail you.’

  ‘You are wrong. Zenobia is more determined and more reckless than any man or woman I have known.’

  He heaved himself up and left the room, a man constantly pushed by the expectations of his title and conscience.

  He was right. Zenobia was reckless. And I would stand beside her once more as she met with Shapur to agree on a peace I knew could never exist.

  CHAPTER 12

  Samira – 290 AD (Present day)

  It is cool the day we set sail from Antioch. The wind is strong and the skies a clear grey-blue. I am dressed in the same dull grey but I do not mind. I am not walking about the city any longer, seeing the women dressed in silks, their hair piled high, their kohl-dark eyes upon me. They cannot cause me to feel inferior any longer. I am not the poor girl being raised with a band of warriors any more. I am simply me, with wind in my loose, tangled hair and an eye on the horizon.

  But in truth I wish to have the fineries that other girls do. I dream of what it would be like to have lived in the Palmyrene court, dressed as Zenobia and Aurelia dressed, and to be looked upon as beautiful. I am not. I am dirty and tired from our travels and I am shy. I find I cannot hold my head up as other girls do. Mine is downturned, for I am afraid to speak aloud, forever hidden behind my grandfather and his men.

  A watery sun blocks my view of the city and I shield my eyes. I have enjoyed our time here, the buzz of city life and the late nights watching my grandfather’s men gamble. I watched Bamdad closely, saw his eagerness to play dice, to gamble and not know when to stop. He watched me too, aware that I know more of him than he has told me. He has read some of my grandfather’s words, but not all. And he knows nothing of those that have been spoken between my grandfather and me.

  Now the city begins to drift away as the boat moves slowly downriver. We are on the last leg of the Orontes, bound for open water. Antioch is a blur, a hazy imitation of what Palmyra once was, or so my grandfather says.

  Rostram leans on the balustrade beside me. I know it is him without looking for I can smell nutmeg in the oils on his skin.

  ‘Are you excited?’ he asks.

  I am nervous of his proximity, I think, but I do not say. He is too close for comfort and I feel myself leaning away from him.

  ‘Are we not all excited to see Rome?’ I say.

  ‘I have not been before, so I am. And Zabdas most certainly is.’

  ‘He must deliver news of Jadhima’s fate,’ I say. ‘I am not sure he is excited.’

  ‘He was keen not to delay our departure.’

  I shrug, for I do not know the answer to his unspoken question. It is as if he believes I hold more knowledge, but I do not.

  He laughs, not a manic chuckle as I have heard from Bamdad so many times, but a soft and gentle sound. The sort of laugh I could imagine Julius making and not a slave-trader.

  I look at him, and he looks back at me, and his face falls back into a serious expression. We hold one another’s eye a moment, before I look away and I see he, too, looks to the city of Antioch.

  ‘What cargo do you carry?’ I ask for something to say, for I already know what is in the hold below.

  ‘Silk, spice. What else? I cannot carry slaves now. Not with you aboard.’

  I think he is about to laugh again but he checks himself.

  ‘Do not look at me that way,’ he says. ‘Zabdas does not wish for me to trade in slavery either.’

  ‘When you freed the slaves after rescuing my grandfather and me and you said they had me to thank, what did you mean?’

  I wait for his answer. I am unsure what it is I want him to say and suddenly I am embarrassed to have asked, to admit I took note of those words and have thought on them since. I se
e amusement dancing in his face and smile and pale brown eyes.

  He shrugs, as if the answer is of no importance, then says, ‘Zabdas asked me to, for you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, disappointed. I almost wish the answer were longer, with more behind the words I have thought on so much.

  Rostram’s face turns hard, his mouth set grim and I sense there are words unsaid.

  We stand like that a while, side by side looking back at Antioch, watching it fade as we wind our way downriver. I am missing Syria already, the only home I have known, full of golden sands and people I know and am familiar with. What will Rome be like, I wonder, truly like? Will it be as my grandfather says, dirty and rotting with corruption?

  ‘Are you glad I came?’ Rostram says, his voice quiet.

  My stomach tumbles and turns and settles to a flutter as I reply.

  ‘Of course.’

  My voice is nervous and it is filled with pretence. In honesty I do not know. What does he mean? What does he care? I was, I am, I think, glad that he sold his ship, travelled with us to Antioch, set sail with us for Rome. I had thought he did it because of that, to sell cargo at a high price, to perhaps see the great city once in his life. Was that why?

  ‘Come with me,’ he says. ‘I have a gift for you.’

  I turn to follow him and as I do so I see Bamdad. His brows are narrowed with curiosity, his mouth downturned and his eyes so serious, so full of concentration upon me that I think to have done something wrong.

  I smile a little smile and follow Rostram.

  Down we go into the belly of the boat. He is before me, light hair darkening in the shadow of the boat, and he takes my hand as I almost trip down the steps and I feel his rough palm against my own.

  I grow hot. This man, this Rostram, this imprisoner of men, illegal slaver, changes something within me. When I am with him I am unsure and uncertain, not like when I am with my grandfather or Bamdad or the other men now aboard this ship. There is nothing about him that should cause this, no aggression or strangeness, no inappropriate closeness.

  We reach the bottom step and he lets go.

  I wipe my palm on my dress, though I do not know why. His touch both scares and excites me.

  He leads me to his cabin, a room he shares with my grandfather and Bamdad and Karaish.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he says and nods toward his cot.

  I sit down. It is strange to be sat on a man’s bed. I can smell his scent on the linen sheet as it breathes beneath my weight.

  He opens a chest and takes out a bundle wrapped in a grey sheet, tied with string.

  ‘What it is?’

  ‘Can you stitch?’ he says.

  ‘I have no needle and thread.’

  ‘I have that too,’ he says, and pulls the string tying the package together and folds back the grey sheet.

  Within is the most beautiful gold-green silk, so different to the wool or linen I have worn before, so delicate and so beautiful it shines in the light from the cabin windows.

  ‘What it is for?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘I had thought your grandfather would have bought you something new before we set sail, but perhaps he waits until we reach Rome.’

  I take the bundle he offers and simply stare. I am amazed by the fabric but I am surprised and beaming more at his thinking of me and my appearance, that he realises I have nothing but the single tunic I stand in. There is something womanly in the thought of a beautiful new stola.

  Grandfather enters the cabin before I can thank Rostram for my gift, Bamdad closely behind.

  ‘A little something I spotted in Antioch as we waited for the cargo,’ Rostram says. He walks past my grandfather and Bamdad and leaves without another word.

  CHAPTER 13

  Zabdas – 261 AD

  Zenobia and I spoke of new winds that pulled a warmer breeze across the plains. We discussed Zabbai and his command in the east, of his success in keeping the Persians at bay, and of the abilities of the other generals under Odenathus’ command. We talked endlessly of the pretenders rising against Gallienus and of his opinion on the rebellion, and earnestly of what would become of Syria should the rebels succeed. I wondered if it was of great concern to Gallienus, or whether he had more pressing, more important matters demanding his attention.

  Zenobia did not think him important.

  ‘Do you not worry for his emperorship, his imperium in Rome?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘But you care for Gallienus? You respect him?’

  Zenobia sighed as if the answer was obvious and now she would have to explain as if to a simpleton. She stopped her camel on the road and our escort paused too. She took a flask from the saddle, uncorked it, and poured a little water on her lips, then lifted her hair and poured more on the back of her neck.

  ‘I respect Gallienus a great deal. But he is two thousand miles away and has his own armies, his own senate, his own councillors, and his own mind. He can protect himself from men who would take his title. There are people all over the Empire who would see him fall. Assassins attempt to take his life daily. We need to concentrate our efforts on the Persian front. Right now that is our greatest threat, no matter what Odenathus might think.’

  Around us, the soldiers of our escort were impatient to continue. One moved his horse onward in a bid to urge the group forward. With the country in a constant state of conflict, no one wanted to linger between departure and destination.

  Zenobia smiled. ‘What do you think they are more nervous of? The Roman soldiers set on usurping Gallienus, or a swarm of Persian enemy?’

  ‘A Persian army heading toward you on horseback provides little amusement,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. And Macrianus and his son are not an immediate threat. We do well to stand against them. Odenathus knows this. But we must protect ourselves against Persian invasion. If we lose Palmyra we lose everything.’

  Confusion wandered through my mind like an old man looking for a flock of sheep sold years ago.

  ‘Why did you not push Odenathus to take control of the armies and stand himself against Rome and seize the title of emperor? If Ballista and his colleagues have a chance of obtaining their goal, then Odenathus could too. He is a king and a warlord; the natural successor in Valerian’s place.’

  Zenobia clicked her tongue and rode out ahead of our escort. They followed at a short distance as I caught up with her. She waved the escort away further still.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some things should not be spoken before others, Zabdas. Odenathus is not like other leaders and kings. You should know this already. He is not ambitious enough to want to rule an empire. He never has been. Odenathus wants but two things: peace and a son worthy of succession. He did not gain his position through battle; he inherited his seat from his father before him. Palmyra, the cities scattered in the bowl of the Syrian plain, they are his people and he wants only to protect them. Rome provides him with security, like a father to turn to when children from another village brandish their sticks. And so I do not think he has what it takes to grasp something he does not truly want.’

  The temperature dropped. Wind lifted sand to curl at the camels’ feet. To me Odenathus did not seem like a man protecting his people, but a warlord fighting for the safety of his country. I thought of Herodes, too, and how he stood at that moment on the frontier fighting for his father and for his own future kingdom. And I thought on Zenobia’s words: the King wanting a worthy son. Was Herodes that worthy son, or did she desire her own Vaballathus to succeed one day to the Palmyrene throne? The thought made me uneasy. Should Odenathus or any council member discover that the Queen might attempt to usurp the current heir to place her own son as king, their favour would no doubt cease.

  ‘But you want to break from Rome,’ I said.

  Zenobia held my eye as she swayed with the camel’s stride. Her hair streamed behind her, the desert wind brushing through it. She wore a cloak, though it fell from her neck down he
r back leaving bare arms exposed.

  ‘Do you remember my father, Zabdas? Do you truly remember him?’

  ‘I remember every moment of his company.’

  ‘He longed to break from Rome. He was a strong man, but he walked away from the politics of Syria.’ I noted the hardness in her words and the complete lack of emotion when she spoke of him. Like any other man who died a soldier, it was as if what happened was unavoidable and necessary.

  ‘When I was much younger, six or seven years old, my father returned from Palmyra to our home. The one we have now. He retired from the court, from war and politics, from his friendship to Odenathus. He had fought for so long that he finally turned his back. I recall, on the evenings when he was not away trading, he would sit in his library or the gardens and worry for our country. He aged ten years in the first season of his retirement. He had more anxieties than a man facing the enemy every day. It took years for the simple joys he craved from retirement to surpass his concerns and the satisfaction brought by actively supporting his country. He wanted to believe that Odenathus was right, that Rome provided safety. In time he even spoke as if he believed. But by then I knew all the arguments against aligning with the Empire.’

  ‘Rome has provided safety,’ I said, as if that balanced the matter.

  ‘It was more than that, Zabdas.’

  ‘I do not understand. Surely that is all you and your father ever wanted: a secure Syria, be it a free country or an independent one.’

  Zenobia’s black eyes questioned me.

  ‘It was not purely a matter of security. He also knew Syria could be more. A place far greater than a city on a Roman trade route.’

  In the days it took to reach the frontier I laughed nervously at the jokes made by our escort, forced a smile whenever Zenobia mentioned Vaballathus’ schooling, and nearly wept with fear whenever I found a moment alone. Those moments were rare. I rode with the company through the day, shared food with them in the evening, and lay awake at night listening to the gentle, slumberous sound of Zenobia breathing beside me. I guessed she slept, but I could not be sure. Next to her unbreakable cool I was a man of fear and weakness and anxiety. She could put the hardest of men to shame.