by JD Smith
‘And now Odenathus would choose Vaballathus over his first born?’
Zenobia appeared to choose her words carefully. ‘Odenathus may not have shared my father’s beliefs, but he will always stand by his country. Herodes, however, I am less sure of. He is too greedy, too thirsty for power.’
‘I understand.’
She put her hand to my face. Her warm fingers lingered a moment. ‘You are a brother to me. I trust you to always understand I do only what is best.’
I heard Zabbai call Zenobia’s name from outside the tent. Zenobia bade him enter and he appeared from behind the partition.
‘A dispatch arrived from Shapur not long ago. He would meet you at noon tomorrow not far from our camp.’
‘The terms?’
‘Nothing has changed. You and Zabdas go alone. I will not risk sending an escort. You are unlikely to run into trouble before reaching neutral ground.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘The area is occupied by us and the Persians. They want to meet, so they will not bother you. What happens once you are in Shapur’s presence, though, I cannot foresee.’
‘Tomorrow, then,’ Zenobia said.
‘Tomorrow,’ Zabbai replied.
Tomorrow, I thought, we would look into the cruel eyes of the Persian King once more, and plead with Bel to save us.
CHAPTER 14
Zabdas – 290 AD (Present day)
Lying in my cot I think of Aurelia, conjuring images of her sweet red lips and the tenderness of her kisses. I think of the many times we lay together side by side and how when I was with her I never felt alone. The memory of conversations and loving words she whispered warmed me at night. I struggle these days to recall those memories with clarity, but every now and then I seek their comfort nonetheless, sure if I bring them to the forefront of my mind they would never completely disappear.
Zenobia stirs my thoughts. The hardness of her decisions, her inability to talk openly; her lack of fear; the avid determination to protect an entire country.
Aurelia was by far the kinder of the two: the more delicate and caring. She was tender where Zenobia could be cruel. Aurelia never knew of Zenobia’s part in Valerian’s demise, and I could never bring myself to tell her. I thought I would eventually, to unburden myself from the events in which I had been security for Zenobia’s bargain with the Persian King, but despite my trust in her the time never came. It took me years to realise why I had been unable to confess those events: for fear of her disapproval. How ashamed I would have felt at her disappointment in me for my part.
I think that is why I am telling Samira now. I want to confess the absolute truth of what occurred during the years of Zenobia’s reign in the east. Palmyra is finished. Thirty years after the beginning of my tale it has become a dusting of crumbled remains denoting a history I can never forget. The truth is I am reluctant to part with the memories and people. All the lives lived and the futures cut short, every man who died with a sword in his grasp, and each child who wailed for a mother’s return. I cannot forgive all the injustices, nor quell my resentment for those who cared so much less for my countrymen than Zenobia and Odenathus.
Since embarking on this journey to Rome I realise how little my life has moved on since Palmyra’s fall. I spent twenty years chasing shadows in the sand, trying to keep hold of that which I once loved; trying somehow to get it back.
I hear Samira and Bamdad laughing beyond the door of my cabin. I am not blind to the fact they grow closer, nor surprised. Bamdad is as lonely as she is, and despite his reluctance to show loss, he is a soul who misses his family long lost in the fall of Antioch to the Persians. Perhaps he somehow fills the space in Samira left by her father.
What of Rostram?
I confess to not seeing the closeness between him and Samira. Rostram is a man who … he is a man. One with more flaws than can be easily dismissed. What do I do? Warn Samira and risk pushing them closer together, or make clear my opinion to Rostram and see my granddaughter at best unhappy or at worst discovering the truth of my interference?
The laughter fades and the cabin grows dim as the candle beside me fights to remain alight before finally going out. I lie here a while watching the dark. I am tired and the hour late but my mind is alive and my eyes restless.
Tomorrow I will speak with Rostram or Samira.
The journey to Rome will take weeks. I sit on the prow of the ship watching Bamdad bawl at the men going about their duties, giving orders with the sole intent to antagonise Rostram, who watches from the wheel with a playful smirk. Samira lies on the deck nearby, shading her eyes with an arm over her face.
Bamdad turns and winks at me.
‘We’ll be there before the gods can scratch their balls!’ he shouts.
‘And moving slower than a crippled Persian,’ I shout back.
He makes no reply and turns his attention back to the men.
‘Gods, but we should not have lingered,’ I say to myself. ‘We should be almost in Rome by now.’
‘You know taking cargo makes sense, Grandfather. We will begin to run low of coin and food soon enough,’ Samira says from beneath her arm.
I had not thought her listening. She is right of course. It is safer travelling in the larger company of Rostram and his men, not putting faith in a captain we do not know or risking once more travelling alone. But although I ensured funds enough to get Samira and myself to Rome with ease, I did not count on the rest of the men. Rostram spent his last coin on the ship and cargo to see us to the capital, but as for provision along the way …
‘I am an old man, Samira, and I fear time is beginning to drift by much faster than it used to. I am impatient to reach Italia and complete my duties. I am eager to enjoy my last few years without oaths or promises to fulfil. I want, for the first time in my life, to feel what it is like to be truly free and at peace.’
‘You are not so old.’
Her words echo Zenobia’s reassurance to Odenathus. Zenobia, with a child already in her arms and a whole nation supporting her, was still so very young.
‘I am an ancient man,’ I say, and chuckle. ‘Almost a fossil!’
Disagreement with Rostram’s making us wait to depart, and subsequently packing the ship to the deck with cargo, is not the only reason I sat back watching the younger men load the crates and barrels before we left. My limbs ache and my back creaks. Only one exercise seems to ease their groans: cutting the air with my sword. I grow old and know that all old men suffer the same complaints: their bodies fail them faster than their wits.
‘Why have you never felt at peace? Surely you had a choice when you made each promise and swore your oaths. And can they be broken? Not all promises are meant to be kept.’
‘Samira!’ I shake my head, shocked at the notion of breaking the promises I have made in my life. ‘A man should never break an oath. Oaths bind us. They are unwritten law which saves our civilisation from a Christian Hell. Laws would not hold if men did not swear to abide by them. And I … well, I suppose I am a man who has never been able to rest when more duties need fulfilling. I am compelled to complete all tasks and to never let down those I love. I will be at peace soon. I will know what it is like to live my last few years in the quiet of a Roman villa.’
‘You will never return to Palmyra?’ Her mouth falls slack and her eyes widen. She sits up. ‘I do not understand.’
In truth I assumed she knew. The voyage we make is a long one, and I have no need now to return home.
‘There is nothing left in Palmyra. Nothing but a crumbling city. You did not see it all those years ago, it was so much greater than it is now. It is my home no longer, not truly. Syria is sinking into the sands.’
‘And what about me?’
‘Rome is full of opportunity. A place to start your life, my little Samira. You will love it, I am sure of that.’
Samira seems to think on this for a moment before squinting at me.
‘I am almost the same age as Zenobia
was when she married.’
‘A little younger.’
‘Will I marry, once we are in Rome?’
Samira is growing faster than I thought, though in truth not as fast as Zenobia when she was her age. Does she crave a husband? Does she want one? Or is she afraid of what is expected of her? Is Rostram on her mind? I think back, skipping through the events of the past weeks and our time with him. Has their closeness been obvious, and I did I miss it? Has there been more between them than I have witnessed? I think back to the look on her face as she held the silks he bought. Innocent. Embarrassed. Unknowing.
‘Have no fear, there is no requirement of you,’ I say.
She appears to brighten a little at my words.
‘Did Aurelia have a boy or a girl?’
‘You are skipping ahead of the tale again,’ I chide.
Samira rolls her eyes.
‘A girl, then.’
I study her delicate yet strong face. She is becoming more determined, more wilful, every day. She is becoming cheekier, too.
‘Was there ever anything between Zenobia and Gallienus? Did Zenobia betray the King?’
‘Ah, the young are always intrigued by such things. You are forgetting that Zenobia continually betrayed Odenathus in various ways. Did she lie with Gallienus? No, I think not. But there was a friendship and respect between the two despite a dozen or more countries separating them.’
‘But Odenathus sensed it?’
‘Odenathus knew Zenobia would increase her proximity to any man, or woman, if she thought it would be to her advantage. I think he mentioned it only in his frustration with her.’
‘But she still had her way in the end? The King would stand against the usurpers?’
‘Indeed. Although Odenathus would have done so eventually anyway. They both understood the delicate balance. Zenobia was awaiting her time, the chance to seize maximum power, when the country was stable enough to do so.’
A dull ache in my stomach niggles. I long for our destination. I glance over the side of the ship at the water rushing by. We are upon the Mediterranean now. Onward. I look back for one last glance of the country I know as home, the place I spent my life. I smile, for I love it, for everything that happened and everything that could have been different, I love those sands.
CHAPTER 15
Zabdas – 261 AD
Our small escort lingered until Zenobia and I had ridden so far we could no longer make out their faces. Then they turned, disappearing back along the road behind a curtain of dirt and dust. The horses lumbered along, seemingly as nervous as I, the rhythm of their stride matching the rumbling in my belly. Two Syroperdix, their beaks red and feathers black, pecked stones on the edge of the sandy road. They half flew, half scrambled from our path, as if we were the enemy and not a cohabitant of these lands.
Zenobia had risen early that morning, waking me from a dream of Aurelia returning to Rome at her father’s request, an old and world-weary Regulus condemned for allowing the daughter of a general to fall from sight. The thought disturbed me but I did not utter word of it to Zenobia. We had the Persian King at the forefront of our minds.
I had offered Zenobia a cup of wine. She shook her head.
‘Not today.’
I poured water into two cups, my hand unsteady and my head light.
‘Do you wish Odenathus were coming with us?’ I asked her, knowing that I asked because I wished for his presence myself. No matter my feelings for the man, I had come to crave his authority and protection.
Zenobia sipped from her cup and watched me. When she lowered it she said: ‘It matters not whether he is here. It makes no difference to our situation. He could not have come with us to meet Shapur. And if he offered I would have declined. At this moment he is better positioned in the west, meeting with Ballista.’
‘Of course,’ I said. And I believed her. She did not wish him there, she was content to face our fate without her husband beside her.
‘Go and make sure Zabbai has readied the horses.’
I left the tent and sought the general. By gods, if not Odenathus, then I longed for that fearless, competent general to stand with us in Shapur’s tent as he had done before. His very nature calmed and settled the most fearful man on a battlefield, and I wanted that sense of calm then.
He greeted me with a solemn expression. We grasped each other’s wrists and embraced.
‘Sometimes I think Odenathus trusts you above all men,’ he said, clapping my back. ‘If I were him I would not let Zenobia out of my sight.’
‘Not true, Zabbai. You are the man he relies on most. He told me so himself. That is why he has put Herodes under your command.’
I laughed and we pulled away from one another.
‘I heard Herodes and Zenobia had words.’ Zabbai’s voice was grave, his eyes more so. ‘I wonder sometimes what would happen should Odenathus meet his end. Who would claim the throne of Palmyra?’
‘It is treacherous to speak of Odenathus so,’ I said, my tone lightly mocking, hiding my nervousness.
Zabbai shook his head and we began walking through the camp.
‘It is not treason to wonder what will happen to the armies and leadership of the country should our King fall. He is an old friend and a great man, and his passing would be the last death I would see Syria suffer, but one day, either through age or battle, he will die, and I worry what will happen if Herodes should succeed to the throne when his father is gone.’
Concerned, I dropped my voice. ‘What would you have instead?’
Zabbai shrugged. ‘I would see Odenathus live forever and Vaballathus grow into a man with the same ideals as his father. Herodes … he is liked in the army, but only by a select few. By those with little respect and more a notion of clinging to the prince’s cloak. The rest fear him because he is a prince and one day he will be their king. I have spent enough time with that boy – that man – to know he would bring disaster upon this country with any more power than he already has. Zenobia, I think, knows it too.’
Reluctant to be discussing Zenobia’s thoughts, I gave a single nod of agreement.
‘Hmm, as I thought.’
Zabbai and I met with the escort and led the horses back to Zenobia’s tent. We waited in the mild morning heat, my heart somewhat steady and my mind peaceful for the faintest moment before Zenobia appeared.
She emerged dressed for war.
Coils of braided hair piled high on her head, fixed in place with bands of tarnished gold. Kohl masked most of her face, eyes painted large on olive skin, gold paint slicked across her forehead and down her cheeks. Olive-green silk draped her body, clasped in place with a dull breastplate painted in gold with the symbol of a sun denoting the goddess, Selene. On her wrists and ankles sheaths of the same dull metal ran the length of her shins and forearms, and at her waist hung her father’s sword with its rubied pommel.
I sensed the stillness of the camp as the men held their breath. A lighter beard and a death or two earlier I would have proved myself a fool in her presence as they did now. But I did not. I smiled at her; a smile full of the satisfaction and amusement of being composed enough in her presence to witness the effects she had on others.
A servant hurried forward and knelt beside Zenobia’s horse. She stepped, barefoot, on his back and mounted as I did mine. Zabbai moved to take her hand and kissed her fingers. Her hands were painted in the same gold as her face, with black suns on the back of each, the rays extending down her fingers.
‘My men will take you as far as the Dead Water. Then you and Zabdas go alone.’
Zabbai referred to a small stream which ran through the sands a few hours east. Our men had come to know the area as the divide between the two armies: stagnant and uninhabited.
Alone, Zenobia and I did not speak. We had passed the Dead Water some time ago and I could see the presence of men and horses in the distance. Zenobia’s expression revealed defiance, or perhaps the kohl thick on her face hardened her appearance.
Sweat soaked my back and the horse’s reins felt slippery in my hands. The sands were silent. I could hear nothing more than our breath and the dull plod of hooves as we approached the Persian camp.
‘Is this not foolish?’ I said. ‘Are we not simply offering ourselves – yourself – as hostage?’
‘Or will he kill us for annihilating his army last year? No, I do not think so. He wants to strike some form of bargain.’
‘But what bargain?’
‘That I do not know.’
The figures in the distance came into focus, the reds of their standards clearly seen, and behind them great elephants towered amidst Persian soldiers. The enemy were perhaps two hundred strong; the main force, I guessed, not far away. Maybe fifty warriors mounted their horses as we approached and began to circle us as we moved closer to where a large tent, a dozen blood-red banners fluttering above it, stood atop a giant cart. It was five times the size of the elephants which pulled the luxurious tent from one location to another. To me it was a huge looming monster bearing a Persian King in whose presence I did not wish to be.
At twenty feet away, the circling horsemen stopped and dropped silent. We dismounted and our new escort quickly formed two lines providing Zenobia and I with a path to the entrance of the great tent.
Zenobia lifted her head a little, her stride that of a man. Her father’s sword hung at her waist. I walked beside her, dread heavy in my legs. Two guards, their heads covered entirely by helmets, framed the doorway leading into the tent. They parted the curtains. A carpet of grey incense rolled toward us. We climbed the steps and I tried not to inhale, but the air grew thin and the smoke thicker as we entered. My eyes stung. The temperature became hot. And as the curtains behind us swung shut, the light dimmed.
My eyes grew accustomed to the smoke and the dark. Warriors in jewel-encrusted helmets lined the walls, their arms bare and their chests decorated in fine bronze. In their hands, spears tied with red silks stood tall. Nothing I did not expect after our previous visit. I could not see the warriors’ faces, but sensed their eyes upon me.
