by JD Smith
We reached Zabbai’s camp at midday. It teemed with soldiers.
It seemed every warrior stationed at the frontier was in camp apart from the scouts and messengers riding in and out. Soldiers said the enemy were quiet; more so than a field full of dead, and that they had been for days. They looked surprised to see Zenobia present, dropping to their knees in haste and uncertainty. Murmurs of the Queen’s arrival spread between campfires. I asked where Zabbai resided and we eased our way through the rows of low black tents and groups of soldiers in order to find the ageing general.
I had not seen Zabbai since late the previous year. We had stood almost in the same place the camp now sprawled forming the current boundary between Persia and Syria, listening to the tale of Emperor Valerian’s demise. Zabbai had been first to recognise the opportunity created by one co-emperor’s death and asked Odenathus what he might do. The King extinguished the idea as readily as he might defend his own mother, and I found myself nodding absently at the recollection. Zenobia, I conceded, was right about her husband’s character. Emperorship was not something he desired. And yet Zabbai was a man I could well see craving the progression of power; loyal to the King and his country, but also competent and ambitious, inspiring equal loyalty from those he commanded.
Outside his tent Zabbai handed the reins of his horse to a servant and pulled off his gloves. He threw them down on a stool next to a dead fire as another servant unbuckled his leather breastplate, then he bent down to unstrap his greaves. I thought he had not seen our approach. We stood behind him on the opposite side of the campfire and waited as he finished removing his armour.
I was wrong. Still looking down, he said: ‘Is Odenathus not with you?’
Zabbai did not sound surprised, nor was his tone approving. He straightened and skirted the campfire to stand before his Queen.
‘He is still in Palmyra,’ Zenobia replied. She did not explain Odenathus’ lack of presence further as Zabbai knelt and touched his lips to her fingers. He straightened once more and Zenobia, as familiar as she was with so many, kissed his cheek in return.
‘Odenathus should have come with you.’
‘Zabdas is with me,’ she said.
Zabbai looked at me and nodded. ‘That is something.’ He turned and with a bent back stooped into the tent. Zenobia lifted the front of her robe and went in after him. I followed.
Inside skins and furs covered the floor, and in the centre of the tent another dead campfire waited for the cold evening and touch of flame. Zabbai gestured us for us both to sit down.
‘Your son grows strong?’ he asked.
‘Every day. Vaballathus’ hands and feet are large,’ she continued, smiling. ‘He will be as tall and broad as his father before he is a man.’
‘I am glad to hear it. And you, Zabdas, how does Aurelia fare?’
‘With child,’ I said, without thinking.
I glanced at Zenobia and she smiled at me.
‘You did not say, Zabdas. I am pleased for you both.’
Zabbai did not look pleased. ‘Between you the palace will be overrun with children in a couple of years. I confess, though, I thought Aurelia would have been summoned back to Rome by now? No word from her father?’
‘She is no less a bastard than when we left Rome,’ I said.
Zabbai glanced to Zenobia but she did not respond.
‘What does Odenathus say to your union?’ he asked.
‘Aurelia is the daughter of a general who did not acknowledge her as his daughter. She would have been summoned home before now if she was of importance,’ Zenobia replied.
To my relief, Zabbai did not press further and instead reached behind him for a platter draped with linen. He lifted the pale cloth and placed a selection of breads and meats between us. I helped myself without need of invitation, but Zenobia only took the cup Zabbai offered and drank.
‘Have you heard anything more from Shapur?’ Zenobia asked once she had quenched her thirst.
‘I am to send word of your agreement to meet. Apart from that, nothing. The frontier is quiet too. No reports of raiding, no enemy harassment. I thought Shapur might have slipped past us and pushed his men deep into Syria at our rear, but no matter how many scouts I send, the men find nothing.’
Zenobia looked down into her cup, purposefully avoiding my eye.
‘Does he hold his army until you have met with him?’ I ask her.
‘I would assume so,’ Zabbai replied. ‘There has been little or no movement of late.’
Zenobia placed her cup on the floor and leaned back on her hands. ‘Do you have any idea what Shapur wants?’
Zabbai took a slice of wild boar from the platter and chewed thoughtfully.
‘I have wondered the same myself. Perhaps he thinks you can give him another emperor, Zenobia?’ His words were dry and his expression humourless.
Zabbai had been with us when we met Shapur the previous year. He had witnessed Zenobia’s betrayal of Emperor Valerian; had stood momentarily against her when discovering she defied not only her emperor but also Odenathus.
Zenobia watched him, calm and patient. Zabbai held her gaze for a moment before shaking his head. ‘All I know is that he wished to meet with you.’
‘When will you send word to him of our arrival?’ I asked.
‘Today.’
Zenobia and I left the tent. We had talked of everything: the pretenders rising against the Empire, reminiscing on our journey to Rome three years ago. There had been a battle since then. We had stood on the plain against one hundred thousand Persian warriors and claimed victory. The last time Shapur had granted audience we had been tolerated because of what Zenobia offered him. How welcome we would be after his humiliating defeat I dared not imagine.
I sat with Zenobia that evening, a small fire separating us. Neither of us spoke. The image of Valerian’s flayed body had floated into my mind with tiresome regularity in the last few months; the raw, livid flesh oozing before drying in the desert sun. But by now it was there constantly. The fire was warm and still my skin shrank tight and cold. I saw the screaming man in the flame-strangled logs, and the very notion of what became of him drew acid into my throat. It was not the man I felt for. Valerian intended to bargain the city of Palmyra, sacrificing the most lucrative and important city on the eastern trade route on the condition Shapur move no further west. But I knew that we would have suffered the same fate as Valerian without Zenobia’s offer of betrayal.
‘I was naive enough to think we had seen our last frontier after months spent on the Euphrates,’ I said.
‘There is never a last,’ Zenobia replied.
Silence again. I watched men walk past, inclining their heads to their Queen. I recognised faces from the blood and sweat and dirt-ingrained warriors brushing shoulders on the battlefield some months before. They had been here since then, continuing to push back the remaining Persian forces, had witnessed them retreat after the impact of the Syrian army on their ranks. Then they had watched as behind them Syria grew weaker, the Roman legionaries breaking apart, loyalty confused, choosing which leader to follow, whilst in front the Persians scented Roman blood and grew in determination as their numbers swelled once more.
A warrior approached us, bowed to Zenobia and said: ‘The men play cards and enjoy drink if you would care to join us.’
‘An invitation from Zabbai?’ Zenobia asked.
The man shook his head.
‘From Herodes.’
Zenobia inclined her head and got to her feet. She brushed the dust from her robes. We followed the warrior through the camp in silence, clinging to the line of tents and burning torches until we reached a small congregation of men who sat talking, gambling, cursing as they lost and banging their fists on the wooden table tops as they won. Jugs of wine and ale were abundant. To the right of the group a bright fire gave warmth. We were furthest away from it and yet the heat stung my face. The soldiers seemed not to feel it.
With only the light of the torches and fi
re illuminating the camp, I did not see Herodes at first. Then from one of the tables a huge bear paw lifted above the heads of men, beckoning us. The men stood and bowed before Zenobia. Everyone but Herodes, who grinned broadly. Two of the men sitting with him moved and Zenobia and I took their places. On the table coins and cards were scattered in spilled drinks. Herodes called for more cups to be brought and filled each one with wine.
‘Has my baby brother a sword in his hand yet?’ he asked Zenobia.
I watched Odenathus’ eldest son, wondering at his motive for inviting us to drink. He had once lost a major Syrian city, and hundreds of men had died because of his decision. It had fallen to Zabbai to inform Odenathus of what had happened, tell him how his son turned his back instead of standing fast, and how the Persians annihilated the army. But that was six years ago, and I knew how much I had matured in those years. Perhaps he had too. He certainly looked older. His crooked nose sat on a face now covered in scratches and scars, his eyes a little more sunken and his mouth hardened by war rather than petulance.
‘He was born with a sword in his hand and a shield on his arm.’ Zenobia smiled, then added, ‘As I know you were.’
I admired that careful flattery. Herodes never approved of his father’s match with Zenobia; he was one of few men who did not admire or love her. I suspected he sensed her ambition and accumulating strength, the undercurrent of threat another boy brought to his future throne. Zenobia already held more power than any senator on the council, and over Odenathus her influence had grown tenfold since leading the men to victory over the Persians after the King fell.
I was surprised to see Zenobia and Herodes exchange pleasantries, but then Zenobia was clever enough to know that keeping every man of power on her side would eventually prove useful.
The laughter and enjoyment of a quiet evening in the camp continued around us as Herodes said, ‘Drink, both of you. The soldiers tell me you enjoy drinking with the men, stepmother.’
I drank a little and put my cup back on the table. Zenobia, seemingly ever immune to the effects strong drink had on men, drained the cup and pushed it back across the table for Herodes to refill.
‘I enjoy the banter of men,’ Zenobia replied.
‘Men are wittier in their conversation.’
‘Less so when they are drunk.’
Irritation played on Herodes’ face.
‘I heard you took back the city of Carrhae,’ Zenobia said.
‘I took it back, and more.’
‘You did. Your father is proud.’
‘I doubt that. My father has never once shown his pride in me, or little else for that matter.’
‘Your first season at the frontier and you lost a city and thousands of men. His pride was damaged. You know this.’
I cringed as she spoke, expecting Herodes’ fury and hot temper to flare at the provocation. Herodes duly banged his fist on the table, but no one appeared concerned by his outburst.
‘Have I not spent years proving myself since then? Zabbai was there too. He was of equal blame.’
Zenobia did not argue but nodded. ‘You have proved yourself. And as I have told you, your father made his pride known.’
He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘So you say, but with what? He has muttered his pride in your ear, expressed his happiness at our recovery of Carrhae, but has he entrusted more troops to my own command, or wrote Rome with our victory? Has he bestowed upon me a fucking title?’
‘What do you want?’ I said. ‘A triumph?’
‘Which gods asked your opinion, slave of Yemen?’
I heard his grandmother’s spite in those words. Mina’s favourite name for the boy who could never escape the title of slave. I always knew I should ignore it, that I had reached much further than any slave could and that I knew a freedom so few would ever experience, and yet my resentment would never allow it.
‘You recovered a city you lost years ago. You need to conquer to earn a triumph.’
Herodes lashed out and the jug of wine crashed to the floor.
‘You know nothing of battle, you whore-born shit.’ He reached across, grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me half across the table until my face was a hand’s-breadth from his, the thick stench of ale rolling with his words. ‘You follow my stepmother around like a fucking puppy waiting for a treat, you live in the palace at my father’s good grace, and you think you can speak to me of triumphs?’ He let go and roughly shoved me back onto the bench. ‘Fuck the gods. What does a man need to do to move up in this forsaken country?’
‘You need to show patience with your father, Herodes,’ Zenobia said. She sat on the bench as calm and serene as if she were a ghostly presence, watching, untouchable, unable to physically intervene. ‘The country is unstable and he is pressured from all sides. He is proud, I assure you.’
Herodes sat back down. He gestured one of his men to pass another jug.
‘We all know how you move up in the world.’ He stared at Zenobia, his drunken eyes attempting to focus, his head nodding a little.
Zenobia rose and turned to leave.
‘The men know only too well!’ he shouted after her.
The group surrounding us was quieter now. Many were listening. A few grunted encouragement at Herodes’ words. He was an intimidating man, but beside Zenobia I felt confident.
‘It is time for rest,’ she said.
‘The title of queen does not suit you as well as it did my mother.’
Zenobia continued to walk away. I followed.
‘Which king’s bed will you warm next?’
We kept walking.
‘My father knows what you are. Where he told you of his pride for me, he told me of his disappointment in you.’
Zenobia did not turn and I did not dare look back.
‘Who else will you fuck, power-hungry whore?’
A hundred, perhaps two hundred paces away, it was safe to speak.
‘I do not think he likes you.’
I half-grinned to myself. Herodes’ outburst was a little surprising, but he would regret his words in the morning, knowing Zenobia could relay his spite to Odenathus. Yet if he knew her as I did he could be confident of her silence. She had no need to gossip, to relay each detail of words spat.
‘He is bitter,’ Zenobia said. ‘He was born to power yet fails to claim it.’
‘And you were born a merchant’s daughter and have a great hold on the country’s politics.’
‘You have risen from a slave to a confidant of the palace, a leap of success he will never have.’
‘But he will, when he is king,’ I said, fearing a little the day Odenathus would no longer be with us and Herodes took his crown.
‘Princedom to kingship is not a great achievement, it is a natural succession.’
‘You mean he desires to earn honour and glory.’
‘Most men do.’
‘I do not!’
In the dark, Zenobia’s face relaxed into an easy smile.
We reached her tent and she ducked inside. I followed after. She would sleep in the main part of the tent whilst I slept near the entrance, a partition separating us.
I heard her undressing. I did the same. The night felt late but it was perhaps only an hour or two after dusk. We had ridden much in the months and weeks beside the Euphrates, and where once I had peeled my armour and clothes from a bruised and saddle-weary body, not even a faint ache plagued me now.
‘Zabdas?’
I pulled aside the partition cloth separating our sleeping quarters. A light shawl draped Zenobia’s shoulders and beneath I noticed she had exchanged her usual robes for plain, unadorned cloths. She wore no jewellery and her braided hair hung over her shoulders. An oil lamp burned bright, illuminating the otherwise dim interior.
‘Sit down,’ she instructed.
I did as she bid. I wore my tunic, the same one I had worn all day, and was suddenly aware I had not bathed. Somehow it did not seem to matter a great deal; I was comfortable in Zenobi
a’s company.
‘Herodes’ anger is more than an evening’s ale,’ she said. ‘It is playing on my mind.’
‘How so?’
‘Herodes is threatened by his brother.’
‘Vaballathus?’
‘He too is heir. Odenathus could name either son successor should he wish. It does not have to fall to Herodes.’
I concentrated on those black eyes. In the tent they were blacker still. But I never could decipher her thoughts in them.
‘And you would see your son on the throne of Palmyra?’
‘Odenathus swore to Herodes that if he could not prove his worth, he would pass his power to a worthier man.’
I thought on that for a moment.
‘Zabbai? Pouja? And now you think he would grant that power to a different son? Do you think or do you hope?’
‘At the time he spoke of it, Vaballathus had not been conceived.’ She held my gaze with sincerity. ‘He had my father in mind.’
‘Julius?’ I could scarcely believe that the power held by Odenathus, a client king in a forgotten land and a man whose family held imperium in Syria for generations, might have been passed to Julius. But then it made sense. Julius had been a reputed general. A trusted Stratego. A great friend – at least he had once been a close friend, before their differences divided them. It was obvious, I supposed, but it simply never occurred to me as Julius was no longer alive.
‘But your father and Odenathus did not have the same ideals, the same goals; the same vision for the country.’
‘No man has the same vision, Zabdas, and every opinion is open to change. My father might have wanted a free Syria, but Odenathus knew that he would always keep her safe.’
I nodded. Julius was one of the most sensible, level-headed men I had known. And he would have respected Odenathus’ rule and his wishes for the country he had nurtured.
