The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  He puts a hand through my wet hair. He is lost and lonely, I think to myself. He is as without the company of a girl as I am without the company of a boy, a man. I want him more in this moment than I have wanted to be close to anyone. I need to feel his touch and to press myself into his embrace. It is I who takes his hand from my hair and presses it to my cheek, my face … my lips. And it is he who pulls me to my feet and onto his lap.

  We do not kiss at first because my head is on his shoulder and his arms are wrapped around me and we simply hold one another. It is the most content I have ever been. I smell home, wherever that may be, in his hair and his clothes. I forget for a time the voyage we are on and the tale of my ancestors. I forget it all, caught in the moment I feel I have waited for my whole short life. To be here, on this boat, in the arms of this man.

  CHAPTER 18

  Zabdas – 261 AD

  We stopped in Palmyra a single night. Zenobia slept beside Vaballathus as I lay beside Aurelia. She was my constant in this ever-changing world, always here upon my return, sweet and innocent with a breath that bore no trace of blood or death or battle. She was far removed from fighting and politics. She was Roman and yet she could not have been less so; golden hair and strong cheekbones, and without tattle and talk and gossip.

  Her eyes opened and she peered at me from beneath her lashes and smiled.

  ‘You have returned to me.’

  ‘I was always going to return,’ I said, knowing as I spoke my lips held a lie, that there was always a fear of never coming back.

  I smiled back and kissed her and pulled her body toward mine, felt the slight swell of her stomach between us. I was reminded suddenly of Zenobia losing her child and her closeness to death before conceiving Vaballathus. My heart sickened. I overcame one fear and was now faced with another. How many more times I would feel these emotions I dared not consider. I pushed them down, out of reach and out of mind.

  ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, her lips breaking from mine, her hand on my face.

  ‘There is nothing wrong.’ I forced a light voice.

  Her eyes narrowed. I could not fool her as I could not fool myself. For a dreaded moment it was as though she could read my mind, see my fear of Zenobia lying in a blood-soaked bed and that the image of my Queen, my half-sister, flickered, replaced by Aurelia, deathly white and cold. And then the image changed, rushing and racing, halting at Zenobia bent before Jadhima, the look upon his face, his cock inside her. I began to sweat, my skin clammy and mouth watery.

  ‘Tell me,’ Aurelia urged. ‘What worries you?’

  I sat up and began to pull on my boots, unsure of myself, afraid I would share with her what I had seen. I wanted to tell Odenathus but without knowledge of what he would do I dared not. I was terrified of his rage. He allowed Zenobia many things, he could be displeased with her and he could be angry with her, but they were choices she made and actions she took. I could almost believe that he was certain she had lain with Gallienus to secure the Roman forces come to Syria with Valerian so long ago, but considered to let the matter lie, and pry no further for fear of the truth. But what he would do if he discovered Jadhima had forced himself upon her, humiliated her, defiled her against her will …

  ‘Wait,’ Aurelia said, holding onto my wrist.

  She sat up and threaded her arms around me.

  ‘Make love to me,’ she whispered.

  Awkwardly, I turned and kissed her. How could I refuse her this? I imagined Zenobia lying in bed with Odenathus as I lay beside Aurelia, of the words she uttered and the secrecy she maintained. Would Jadhima’s raping her change the intimacy between them when they were next together in the privacy of their own rooms or tent? Was I letting it change mine with Aurelia?

  She kissed me back, soft and loving and without restraint. She tasted of the morning and the smell of her skin warm and musky. She lay back down, pulling me with her, kissing me firmly, wrapping her legs about my waist.

  I stroked her breasts through linen, ran a hand the length of her arm and gripped her hand. I moved between her legs, feeling the pleasure of the act, knowing how aroused I became.

  Thought flickered back to Jadhima and the pleasure upon Shapur’s face and I was pulled back in time to the Persian camp, away from the bed I shared now with Aurelia.

  ‘Zabdas?’ she said, a little breathless.

  I had stopped moving, my eyes closed, the pleasure momentarily gone.

  ‘I am afraid of hurting the baby,’ I said, and rested beside her, placing my hand on her stomach and willing her not to speak but to simply lie beside me as I tried to shut away ill-thoughts.

  I joined Zenobia in her rooms as she kissed Vaballathus farewell.

  ‘You were right,’ I said, ‘he has grown.’

  ‘And I must leave once more.’

  ‘You were never going to stay here.’ I knew it was true. Palmyra was my home, her home, and yet there was something about remaining there for long periods which felt oddly strange. It had become a passing place, somewhere we frequented as we travelled from one frontier to another, a little like Aurelia, I thought with guilt.

  Zenobia shook her head, the black waves of her hair shimmering in the morning light pooling into the room.

  ‘Perhaps next time we can stay for longer than one night,’ she replied.

  I nodded in agreement. In truth I was glad to leave, to be away from Aurelia and the concern she showed, that she might discover the secrets I kept.

  ‘I see the worry in your face,’ Zenobia said. ‘Try not to concern yourself. All is well and we will join Odenathus and the army and see that he knows what was requested by Shapur. We have a month: a month in which to break the pretenders, and I would be there to see it done.’

  ‘What if a month is not long enough? What if Shapur hits Zabbai hard whilst Odenathus addresses the west?’

  Zenobia put a hand on my shoulder and looked up into my eyes, calm and sure.

  ‘It will have to be enough.’

  We rode out, saddle-weary from the day before, a hundred or more soldiers in our company as the warm air pulled on my cloak and the standards fluttered overhead. We rode hard, Zenobia determined to deliver news as soon as possible. It seemed we were always travelling at speed, always desperate to reach one destination or another. She had missed the urgency in the weeks spent in her mother’s house. Now she relished once more the wind in her hair and the thump of hooves on the desert plain. I relished it too. There was something about riding that made me feel alive in a way wielding a sword did not. Standing in battle facing the enemy made you know you were alive for the beat in your chest thumping so hard you think your ribs might bruise. But riding? It made you feel free.

  Two days and we reached our King and the Syrian army north of Aleppo, east of Antioch.

  Zenobia dismounted and Odenathus strode through the camp toward us.

  He held her shoulders and gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘Thank the gods you have returned unscathed.’

  He sighed again and pulled her to him and held her in a bear embrace. She looked so small, so fragile, in his huge, scarred arms.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, letting her go.

  Zenobia smiled, wry and with much amusement.

  ‘He asked me to sacrifice you in the same way I sacrificed Emperor Valerian.’

  Odenathus frowned, but it was with a sly half-smile. ‘Then I was wise to wed a woman who thinks more of me than she does Roman emperors.’

  ‘And he offered Zenobia Palmyra,’ I said, and grinned, the mood becoming light with the relief Odenathus felt at Zenobia’s safe return.

  ‘A city of your own,’ Odenathus mused. ‘I would like to say I could never see you wanting such a thing, but I would be lying. It could suit you very well.’

  His face was relaxed as he looked upon Zenobia with more affection than I had ever seen before, as if their closeness increased in their months apart. I had never witnessed it. Not truly. They always appeared a little estranged, Zenobia wanti
ng one thing, Odenathus another, and their struggle to conceive Vaballathus the cause of much anxiety. But then following Julius’ death Odenathus had given Zenobia everything she wanted; enough men to take south and the opportunity to seek revenge on her father’s killer. The death of the man I loved as a father had unified them somehow. Was it because of his respect for her and for her deceased father, or because he knew he could never control her?

  ‘I would never see Palmyra fall into Persian hands, no matter my position,’ Zenobia said. ‘But he has given me a month to decide; a month in which we have a truce of sorts. He claims he will not attack Syria in that time. Whether he does or not is another matter, but I believe he will keep his word this time. He needs it to solidify his own army. I wish we could hit him now, but we are in no position to do so.’

  ‘Then we have a month in which to deal with the pretenders,’ Odenathus said.

  ‘There is something else you should know. Jadhima is regrouping and joining forces with Shapur.’ Zenobia did not flinch nor did she show emotion of any kind. She said the words as if she were informing Odenathus of the weather or the price of grain.

  The King scratched his beard.

  ‘A strange move. But perhaps he had no choice given the ships you destroyed.’ He smiled, his words part truth, part jest.

  Zenobia shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  The look upon my face must have betrayed more, for Zenobia took her husband’s arm and turned from me, her gaze as she did so a warning not to utter a word.

  ‘What is the situation with Ballista and the Macriani?’ Zenobia asked. ‘I have heard nothing more than when we last spoke, but I know Shapur has heard of the rising of pretenders and uncertainty we face.’

  Odenathus said: ‘Your arrival is timely if you wish to know them better. The pretenders meet with us tomorrow. A last attempt, I suspect, to have us join their cause. They are fools indeed if they think we can march with them under their banner against Rome when I have Shapur breathing upon my sands.’

  My sands. I began to think Odenathus was becoming more like Zenobia, when as a man old enough to be her father it should have been the opposite, she should have been growing more like him. More reserved, mature and with greater consideration for consequence.

  We walked to the edge of the camp and looked across the desert and along the road that lay before us. These Roman roads still amazed me, the pathways from one city to another, veins in the desert built by the hands of men. By slaves. My own slave mark itched. Would it never fade? Would the memory of what it was to be owned by another never leave me?

  ‘We have pushed Shapur back and we can push him further,’ Zenobia said.

  ‘Indeed we must,’ Odenathus replied.

  ‘Have you word from Gallienus?’ I asked.

  ‘I have informed him of the situation but I have yet to receive reply. We cannot do this alone. We cannot stand against enemies on all sides. It is impossible. This is what your father always feared, Zenobia, and now I see why. We are caught between two warring empires; one pushing to rape our lands, and the other fighting amongst themselves.’

  At the mention of rape, bile rose in my throat. What good could be achieved if I breathed the truth now? I questioned myself constantly and wished as I did that I could be more like Zenobia, confident and of a single mind, to know what I wanted and never to waver. How simple that must be. I looked out instead at the caravans in the distance, travelling the miles of road transporting goods. Watching life move on the roads made with the blood and sweat and lives of slaves.

  The sun reached its zenith and an eagle cried overhead; a great squawking beast flying to and fro across the sun’s path casting an ever-moving shadow. I had never been a man to take note of omens and I took none now. Even so, I could not help suspect significance in the bird’s presence.

  ‘A good omen,’ Zenobia said.

  She rode with me, circling the camp, not straying too far from the King and the meet we waited for. She could not keep still even after our long ride the day before. She was a leader, always on her feet, always wanting to move and to be going forward to reach for some distant goal. I was a follower, I realised. I would not be riding if she had not asked me, and yet I was content to do as she pleased, to accompany her. How different would I have been had I grown up in Julius’ home instead of the dockside? The thought troubled me. I was Zenobia’s half-brother, Julius her father and not mine. She was her mother in looks with a long, strong nose and black eyes, but in spirit she was ever her father’s daughter.

  ‘The eagle may well be a good omen, but for what?’ I said.

  She was in front of me, hair whipping back, skirts trailing further still as she picked up speed.

  ‘Who knows?’ she shouted. ‘We will find out.’

  ‘Nothing good can come of our meet with Ballista,’ I called back. ‘He will not look lightly upon our refusal to join him in his quest for imperium.’

  ‘The meet is a farce. It is Odenathus’ way of showing diplomacy and making the Romans think he is open to discussion. He must always be seen as a good man. He thinks he is righteous.’

  Her words carried on the air back to me. Was Odenathus righteous? Everything seemed so complicated. True enough Odenathus always desired to be seen to be doing the right thing, protecting the realm granted to him by Rome. He never fought back. He never rebelled against his overlord. Did it make him good?

  I watched Zenobia closely, wondering if she was righteous, if she was good. She wore a cloak, loose and billowing as we picked up pace, testing the horses, running them proper. On her arms were leather bands, the same as those I wore to cover my slave mark. They would serve her well when she pulled back an arrow, protecting the skin of her wrists when hunting.

  The King loved to hunt, and Zenobia too, but there was no time this day as we waited for the man who sought imperium in Rome.

  I saw them first. Distant specks on the horizon, plodding a path along the road towards us. It seemed their pace was slow and I shouted to Zenobia, but my voice was drowned by the horns sounding from the camp heralding the sight of the Romans.

  Zenobia pulled on the reins of her horse until it came to a standstill and she looked out at the approaching men. I stopped beside her and watched too.

  ‘It is difficult to know whether to think of them as the enemy or not,’ I said.

  I thought on it much. They were pretenders, so I supposed they were, with their claim to the title of emperor. But then this was as it always was in Rome, one emperor succeeding another through military might and not by the succession of father and son. My mind skipped back to Zenobia’s words about being good and righteous. What was right and what was wrong? To gain power you must kill, to hold it you must also kill, no matter the good you do. To never want power is to watch the evil in others.

  ‘They are Roman,’ Zenobia replied. ‘They are neither friend nor foe. Come, this should be an interesting meet.’

  I prayed to the gods it would be less interesting than the last.

  In the royal tent Zenobia reclined on a couch atop a dais. I sat on a stool beside her. Two guards were positioned outside the entrance and the hunting dogs lay on the floor at our feet. Swathes of fabric hung from the ceiling, casting us all in a rich glow.

  Odenathus strolled in, a very Roman toga draping his shoulder, a reminder of his alignment with the Empire. Behind him followed two soldiers.

  He took a chair beside Zenobia and a moment later Ballista stooped into the tent. His eyes circled the room, absorbing the luxury of the tent in which the King of the east resided, before swiftly settling on Odenathus. He smiled in greeting.

  Ballista was as tall and wiry thin as I remembered him, his hair receding from a good-natured face. He wore full Roman armour, a scorpion etched into the breastplate, a crested helmet held tight beneath his arm.

  Behind him, another man stooped into the tent. This man’s face was clean-shaven and youthful, no mark to be seen on his beautiful features. He held his head high, chin j
utting forward, an underbite I suspected apparent.

  Ballista spoke first.

  ‘Greetings, Odenathus. It seems we meet again.’

  Odenathus rose from his chair and offered Ballista his hand, and the two men gripped one another’s forearm. He was no different to the last time I saw him. He was still cool and calm, his expression trusting. Valerian had trusted him once, and now he was dead.

  ‘It seems we do,’ Odenathus replied, his voice even, neither warm nor cold and without the slightest betrayal of feelings or thought. He was learning from Zenobia, I thought to myself, careful to keep my own face expressionless.

  ‘My companion,’ Ballista said, stepping aside and gesturing to the youth with him. ‘Quietus. Son of Macrianus. I do not believe you have had the pleasure of one another’s acquaintance.’

  ‘I do not believe we have.’ Odenathus extended his hand to the younger man. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  ‘Gratitude,’ Ballista said.

  Quietus nodded in acknowledgment and everyone sat.

  ‘You already know Zenobia and her brother, Zabdas,’ Odenathus said.

  ‘Indeed.’ Ballista replied with a curt nod in our direction.

  Ballista had been Valerian’s praetorian prefect in the years before he came east and during his time here. It was he who agreed with Zenobia to sacrifice Emperor Valerian to the Persians. He led the emperor into Shapur’s hands, knowing the fate that awaited him; betrayed by his own man, the one person who should have protected him, who was in his pay for that very purpose. At the time I thought Ballista saw the damage Valerian wreaked upon our army and Syria with his inability to lead as he needed to, as he should have. How wrong I was. How naive. Now we knew it was more than that. He conspired against Gallienus, to be kingmaker in Rome and seek imperium as a puppeteer, raising Quietus to the role of emperor.

  ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ Odenathus asked.

  Quietus shifted in his seat, an insolent expression twisting his face. Ballista, however, remained composed, smile friendly, an example of good manners and decency.