The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  He bore no obvious injury. His crested helmet sat proud upon his head. I could almost have felt sympathy for the man if it were not for the pride still clinging to his features, his stern brow and hard mouth.

  ‘We welcome you to our city, and to show we have no alliance with pretenders we give you this man.’

  ‘You saw our approach,’ Zenobia said, ‘and so to save yourself you forfeit this man’s life, a man who sought your protection, a man you openly supported before those who marched on Rome were defeated.’

  Zenobia was right. They had seen our approach and made the hasty decision to betray Ballista, disavowing any alliance they once had. A sadness washed over me as the wind reached beneath my clothes and sent a chill down my spine. Betrayal once more, only this time it was not Zenobia, but the city of Emesa. The notion was sour in my stomach. Could one man never trust, never put faith, in another? Must we always watch our back for the knife that may come from the darkness? I would die a tired man if that were true.

  ‘It seems those who once gave me their support show it no longer,’ Ballista said, with none of the bitterness I expected. For a man standing alone on the grassy scrub he looked more confident than I could have done. His chin raised, he waited for Odenathus to respond, and when the King hesitated, he sheathed his sword.

  ‘Kill me now and have done with it, Odenathus. I rose to the greatest challenge, to take imperium, and I have failed. There is nowhere left to retreat, no sanctuary to be had. My good friend here,’ Ballista said, glancing to Dentatus with a soft, sad smile, ‘has seen to that.’

  Odenathus dismounted and closed the gap between them. He put a hand on Ballista’s shoulder and I caught out of the corner of my eye Pouja move his position to better see should the kingmaker pull from his clothes a knife or other item that might cause our own King harm.

  ‘I do not blame you for what you attempted to do. I understand it, even. Rome is led by the man brave enough, ambitious enough, ruthless enough, and with power enough to take the throne. There is ambition in many men, and many women too,’ Odenathus said, and I knew he meant Zenobia.

  ‘I thought you would join me, after your wife’s betrayal of Valerian,’ Ballista replied, his voice low, a mere whisper that would not carry to the poet’s ears. ‘I thought you would stand beside me in what could have been the greatest achievement either of us would ever know. It is a pity you did not, for together we might have succeeded.’

  Odenathus glanced to Zenobia but her face gave no hint of the feeling beneath.

  ‘It was not what I wanted,’ Odenathus said.

  ‘Valerian dead or imperium in Rome?’

  Odenathus paused before answering, and I knew he thought the same as I did. Ballista was only too aware of Zenobia’s forthrightness and her will.

  ‘Neither. I am not that man.’

  ‘But your wife is,’ Ballista said, and gave her a gentle, almost respectful smile. ‘I think perhaps you would have joined me, Zenobia.’

  ‘I stand beside my husband, the King of Syria,’ she said. ‘Marching on Rome was not in our interests.’

  Ballista’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded. ‘You are a better man than you are a woman. But you know that already.’

  ‘And yet a woman I am.’

  ‘So they say.’

  The memory of Zenobia lifting her skirts to Jadhima crossed my mind; her legs, her most private parts, her lovely long hair, on display for the King of the Tanukh to see. I shook the image away.

  Odenathus drew his sword and Ballista gave a curt nod.

  The once praetorian prefect knelt, one knee in the wet grass, and removed his helmet. He placed it on the ground beside him and bowed his head.

  Odenathus raised his sword high in the air, metal shining bright, and in a heartbeat the blade cut through the air and Ballista’s neck in turn, severing head from body. The cut was clean. There was no scream, no grunt or knowledge of the blade slicing through cartilage and bone.

  Ballista’s head rolled toward me as his body slumped sideways, his eyes still open. I could almost envisage tears in them, and wondered what he regretted most; rising against Gallienus at all, backing the wrong man in Macrianus and his son, that Odenathus would not join with him, or the city he had thought of as a haven had turned its back.

  Palmyra would never have turned its back. Not on a promise. Not whilst it was under Odenathus’ control.

  Cheers erupted from the city.

  Dentatus grinned.

  ‘He was a particularly well-spoken man,’ the priest said. ‘And yet he was not as godly as he should have been. He would have done well to take note of the gods. Alas, this is what becomes of men who do not heed their will.’

  ‘The gods have no say in this,’ Pouja said.

  ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ Dentatus chimed. ‘Wrong. They are everything and they are everywhere. They know what you have been up to.’ He pointed a long, grimy finger toward Pouja and laughed.

  The sound of cheers from the city walls heightened before turning to screams and shouts.

  A moment later a bundle fell from the city walls, landing heavily on the ground below.

  ‘What was that?’ Odenathus asked.

  ‘What was that?’ Dentatus repeated. ‘Why, that was your second pretender. He was not so eager to meet with you.’

  Odenathus said nothing but I sensed his disapproval; a reflection of my own. He would have chosen Quietus’ death for himself, not have the citizens decide upon his fate, taking the laws of the sands into their own grip.

  ‘And what of Ballista’s soldiers? Have you killed them too?’

  ‘They swear their allegiance to you, Lord King. They have seen the path the gods have shown them. They know they were wrong to side with the pretenders. They are simply yours now to command as you wish.’

  ‘An army thrice the size of your own makes for easy persuasion,’ Zenobia said.

  She kicked her horse forward. Odenathus gave a wordless command with a nod of his head before following.

  I dismounted.

  ‘Help me,’ I said to Pouja as I bent down to Ballista’s body.

  ‘Leave him to rot,’ the general replied.

  ‘No.’

  I called to another soldier, who came readily enough.

  We dragged the pretender’s body over my horse and I led his bloody corpse back toward the city that had betrayed him.

  Zenobia stopped and inspected the bundle at the foot of the wall, blood seeping into the already wet ground.

  ‘His death would have been kinder had he the stomach to face me,’ Odenathus said.

  Zenobia dismounted as I had done and hunched down beside what remained of Quietus.

  ‘For your nerve, may you find a path to the hall of your gods.’

  She closed his eyes and remounted her horse.

  Followed by scores of our men we entered Emesa victorious with blood only on Odenathus’ blade.

  Once inside we wove a path through the crowds, our men carving the way, until we reached the stone steps of the temple of Elagabal. There Odenathus dismounted. His heavy frame encased in armour thumped to the ground. He walked up the steps, purposeful and without fear. I followed him, Zenobia and Pouja too, and at the top we turned.

  The city was vast, much larger than it appeared at first sight from beyond the walls. The citizens outnumbered the soldiers, and I realised why they had known so much command over them, why they had succeeded in overthrowing the military power. The soldiers stood with them, some with heads bowed and others cheering readily at the sight of the King; their new lord. Odenathus now held supreme command over the eastern forces. No one now stood before him, taking his power, using it as they wished. There was no one in Syria to command men but him. He held absolute control. Should he now seek imperium of the whole Empire? I shut the thought away as quickly as it came. For the first time I had witnessed both him and Zenobia work together in unison, and they succeeded in ridding the Empire of its pretenders. They had secured Gallienus’ t
hrone, and they had him in their debt. And he would not forget. He was a man of his word, an honest man, and he would see us rewarded for the defeat of Ballista and for refusing to march with the pretenders.

  ‘People of Emesa. Good citizens and soldiers,’ Odenathus began, arms spread wide encompassing all who stood before him. ‘I am not here as a victor. Nor am I your enemy. Long have Palmyra and Emesa been neighbours and I would see our friendship prosper with mutual advantage. I came to do just one thing, to see an end to the reign of Ballista and those he would raise to the seat of emperor. Within these walls are men of all standing, all walks of life. We are men of Syria and Rome and of many countries beyond and between. We must concentrate on the threats which face us all. We must lead men to our frontier and defend our borders from the true enemy and we must do so now and with haste. I would see us unified and strong. I would see us as one so that we might protect what is ours from those who would take it for their own.’

  He took breath and surveyed the people. I could not help but snatch a look at Zenobia’s face, and the expression it carried. She thought of Rome, of how much the Empire had taken from Syria, the taxes and levies and assumption of overall power. I saw it in the hardness of her eyes and set mouth. She would take it all back if she could.

  The crowd began to chant Odenathus’ name, but he held up an arm to silence them.

  ‘I ask the soldiers who followed Ballista to follow me now. I return to the frontier, to ensure the Persians take no more from us. Who will march with me?’

  The Roman and Syrian soldiers who had for a few months been diverted by Ballista’s reign made no hesitation. They cheered and yelped and cried out their allegiance to their new leader as readily as they had turned on Gallienus. Fickle and without loyalty. But with Odenathus siding with Gallienus, his eyes and his ears and his sword in the east, they had no choice but to follow his command.

  The evening drew in, the soldiers inside the walls and out celebrated what they saw as a victory, and yet it was not. Ballista himself had not been defeated, he had been betrayed by the sanctuary he had sought. Quietus too. The look upon Julius’ face if he could see Emesa this night, to hear the howl of the drink-fuelled men, was not something I would have wished to see. He would be disappointed that it had come to this; that we sided with Rome and were more at one with them than ever before.

  Zenobia seemed unconcerned. She sat beside me looking down on the city from the steps of the temple of Elagabal. We had come back to this spot after we had eaten and after Odenathus addressed the people. She smiled as if she were the puppeteer and not Ballista, and that she had set each player in his place upon the stage of life.

  ‘You smile as if it has all played out as it should have,’ I said.

  ‘Today we faced an army and not one of our men was sacrificed.’

  ‘Our men celebrate such fortune. Perhaps the gods favour us after all.’

  ‘They have always favoured us,’ she said, and leaned back on her elbows. ‘The gods are always with me, always present. I feel them and I hear them. Today we saw Ballista kneel and accept the fate that awaited him because this city spoke, and the voice was not that of the people but that of the gods. The true Black Stone of Elagabal may not reside here – indeed who knows where it might be – but its strength and that of the gods is within these walls nonetheless.’

  She spoke as if the gods were real. She believed in them. Sometimes I believed too, but never with the same conviction as Zenobia, never questioning whether they truly had a hand in the lives of men.

  ‘Odenathus will march east now,’ I said.

  ‘Our month has come to an end. If Shapur has not already begun to march into Syria then he no doubt will in the coming days or weeks. We must face him with the armies of both Syria and Rome.’

  ‘Have you told Odenathus what happened in Shapur’s tent?’

  I knew she did not wish to speak of it, but the thought still plagued me.

  ‘He can never know.’

  ‘If that is your wish,’ I replied.

  She smiled at me as if everything was as it should be and I felt my heart flutter and jump and I knew I would follow Zenobia anywhere. She was not just beloved of the gods, she was beloved of the people and above all by me.

  She placed her hand on mine.

  ‘You worry too much, Zabdas. Embrace today and stop thinking of the past. We must live for the future. Look at this city and what it achieved today.’

  ‘It saw betrayal and a bloody mess at the foot of its walls,’ I said, thinking of Quietus splattered in the dirt.

  ‘And I saw a city that aligned itself with the Kings of both Palmyra and Rome.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Zabdas – 290 AD (Present day)

  Bamdad sits, one hip perched on the railing beside the wheel as I hold the ship steady. Morning light hits the sea with a glare of blinding yellow, and the sound of birds shrieking overhead tell of a new morning.

  ‘What do you talk of with Samira?’ I ask him, attempting to keep my voice even. I have seen him speak with her as I have seen her speak with Rostram. Where I am concerned by her proximity and feeling for Rostram, I am jealous of her friendship with Bamdad and afraid of what he might reveal, what he might have already told her, before I am ready. I do not think he would, of course, for he has acknowledged that the tale belongs to me and nobody else, but still I cannot help but think their closeness might tempt him to disclose more than he should; more than I would want.

  Bamdad peels an apple, eats the skin, then cuts the juicy flesh beneath and chews as he weighs my question.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘All manner of things. Does it matter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why ask?’

  ‘I am curious to know what she finds so intriguing about you,’ I lie.

  ‘I am a man of mystery. Everything about me is both interesting and intriguing.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I do not hide the scorn from my voice. I always see the humour in his words, but this is a subject upon which his jokes and lightness do not sit well.

  ‘Of course it is. And I am fortunate to have such a companion on this ship. There are not many beautiful girls who would sit for so many hours listening to old warriors talk of their pasts. Pasts plural, you will note, my friend. We all have one, not just Zenobia.’

  My eyes narrow, in part against the sun and also because I disapprove of his view of Samira. I feel a great need to protect her. Her mother would never have approved of our leaving her to grow up without her family around her, but I can do little about that now. Urbana would understand, I tell myself.

  Urbana. I do not think of my beautiful daughter enough. So placid and innocent, she inhabited this world as if she were at one with it. I have seen so many men and women fight for their place, position and lands. I witness every day the unwillingness of men to settle for the crumbs that fall from the tables of the gods, and I am, for much of the time, one of those men. Urbana was different. She was a girl tempted only by the love of Vaballathus and the desire to bear his children. She succeeded in giving breath to one babe, and that was Samira. Then she died not on the edge of a blade as I have seen so many pass to the Otherworld, but from sickness and fever that consumed her after childbirth.

  The gods are cruel: to give one life and snatch back another.

  ‘You need cheering.’

  I study Bamdad’s carefree smirk hung from the creases of his ageing and weather-worn face. How few we are. Life has seen me lose more family and friends than I have gained. I desperately want to be free of the ship then. To make Rome. To breathe once more the bustle of a city and fill the emptiness I felt when passing through Palmyra and the barren sands, brushing the ruins of my former home.

  ‘Take a care with Samira. She’s young and does not know life as we do.’

  ‘She knows more than you think.’

  ‘What would you know of it?’

  ‘Ah, well, I know a little of everything, Zabdas. Come now, you know t
hat I have always been able to flatter girls into speaking openly with me.’

  ‘You think so?’ I half laugh.

  ‘You know so.’

  ‘I know a few you could not charm.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Zenobia for one.’

  ‘A queen, so she does not count.’

  ‘All right. Now tell me, what does Samira confide in you?’

  ‘She has fallen for Rostram.’

  It takes a moment for me to absorb Bamdad’s words, to hear them from another’s mouth, separate from my own thoughts. Gods, I think, why him?

  ‘She told you?’

  Bamdad laughs. ‘Of course not. I do not think she knows herself. I think we should draw straws to see who gets the lucky task of warning her.’

  I groan. He is right, one of us must warn her of Rostram’s past. His present. She will not look so favourably upon him when she knows.

  ‘At least he’s not a fisherman like the boy she knew in Tripolis.’

  Bamdad knows Samira better than I do. She speaks to him and in turn he understands her feelings. Sees what I do not. Anger takes hold of my dread, wrapping around it, tightening as I try to undo it with my rationale. I should have known her better, protected her, shielded her from men who are no good and who would hurt her.

  ‘What do you know of the man from Tripolis?’

  ‘A fisherman’s boy. Possibly the reason Samira did not object to following you across the world. A fisherman is no warrior. This is far more exciting.’

  ‘Sometimes I would give everything to have a trade. A fisherman’s wife could have been a good life for her.’

  ‘Too late now. Unless you plan on turning around? Give Rostram a row-boat and he can take her back to her loving fisherman and we can carry on to Rome. He might catch up eventually.’

  Bel knows how Bamdad keeps a straight face as he speaks.

  ‘I do not trust Rostram not to break her heart,’ I say.

  ‘He never was one to trust with women.’

  ‘I will cut off his balls if he touches her.’

  ‘Ha, quite right. And another point, where in the name of the gods are we?’