The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  Shapur half turned. He did not look but bowed his head in acceptance, knowing the slaughter that occurred behind him. His guard seemed lost, their mouths open, watching the battle ensue.

  I looked to Odenathus and he turned to Zabbai.

  ‘Herodes,’ Zabbai said.

  ‘He knew not to attack?’ Odenathus asked.

  ‘He knew,’ Zabbai confirmed.

  And as his general spoke, Odenathus pulled his horse round and shouted to his men: ‘CHARGE!’

  And they did. They coursed either side of us, as if they did not see Shapur sat upon his horse, a broken king in a foreign land; a country no longer under his control, not one piece of Syria beneath him now.

  Our men charged. And as the last of them brushed beside me, galloping with fever and fury to where Herodes and his men slaughtered the tired and already defeated Persians, Odenathus and Zenobia, Zabbai and I looked at Shapur.

  He stared back at us, his features hard and without pleading as we murdered his men and cheated him of Syria. This was our land, our right, our home. Yet I could not help but feel as if we did indeed cheat him, for we knew nothing of Herodes’ movement, his actions against the wishes of his father and unbeknown to Zabbai. He took it upon himself to prove his worth as son of the King of the east and I was ashamed that even as Shapur crossed the gap between us with a white flag raised above his head, the other half of our army charged his men.

  ‘Leave now,’ Zenobia shouted to him, her breath ringing clear above the sound of battle and thundering hooves. ‘Ride for Ctesiphon and we will not follow.’

  Odenathus nodded and Zabbai too. We hung back as the rest of our company, those who had been with us at Nisibis and with Zabbai in Singara, ran toward the Persian King’s men and killed them; killed them because Odenathus was afraid of his son’s well-being, despite his presumption to do as he wished. Because no matter what the King’s son chose to do nor the guilt Odenathus might feel at the unnecessary loss of life on both sides, he would not allow Shapur victory whilst blood ran warm in his royal veins.

  Shapur looked at Zenobia hard and long, his eyes small and careful.

  ‘Run,’ she said softly and yet loud enough for our small company, stranded in time as iron clashed against iron nearby, to hear.

  ‘You are a Warrior Queen,’ Shapur said. ‘You are the better of two men.’

  Shapur spurred his horse away to our left, dust billowing in the air in the wake of his flight.

  ‘Gods see him to safety,’ Zenobia whispered, ‘for we are killing a surrendered army and we will pay for it.’

  Strange, I thought, visions of her past misdeeds racing across my mind, tripping and whirling, bringing back the emotions that came with them. I saw myself, caged and broken, left in the Persian camp. I saw the demise of Valerian, Shapur’s boot upon his back as he mounted his horse and rode as he rode now, out of sight. I saw our race for Palmyra ahead of the Persians, defeating them in battle and subsequently pushing them back further still. But all of it had been because we needed to and had no other choice. No one had raised the flag of surrender, already beaten and bloody.

  ‘Come,’ Odenathus shouted.

  He unsheathed his sword and rode at the enemy before us and Zabbai, Zenobia and myself followed. We shouted our battle cry, forcing ourselves on with the rage of war, trying with all of my heart to want this slaughter on our sands.

  And I killed.

  Again and again I hacked and sliced and shed red upon the dry earth, seeping into the grassy scrub. My arm ached as I thrust again and again, the Persians screaming beneath a crimson sky. Clouds darkening overhead. Death ringing in my ears. The noise of the living and the dying deafening me until there was nothing left but silence.

  CHAPTER 23

  Zabdas – 262 AD

  A pale sun hovered overhead, the heat of day shimmering and shifting above green fields that stretched for miles. Boats sailed up and down the river before me, the sound of crewmen shouting orders much louder than the gentle flow of the Orontes. A dog lapped at the water’s edge, unaware of our presence, unconcerned by the birds landing and taking flight nearby.

  Aurelia placed a hand in mine and rested her head on my shoulder. I was glad of her proximity, of the surety she provided, knowing that, no matter what, she would love me for as long as we both lived. She was so different to Zenobia; less fire and yet I loved her because of the simplicity. I could count on her predictability, her ambition that of any woman who held power over just one man’s heart. I thought of Odenathus and that the baby Zenobia carried might not be his and was grateful for having no such doubt of my own.

  I looked down into the little pink face of my child, a girl wrapped protectively in her mother’s arms, grateful for her sliding easily into this world. Her eyes were closed, her tiny nose taking in deep, rhythmic breaths, her perfect mouth suckling every now and then on her own lips.

  I put my hand on her head. I was a giant, calloused and old, rough and without grace, touching the warm, soft flesh and stroking her fine down hair.

  She was pale. As white perhaps as Aurelia, but I could not be sure, not yet. We must wait to discover whether she looked more like me with my olive skin and black hair, or like her mother, fair and beautiful and serene. I hoped her more like her mother, for I was attracted to Aurelia in an unworldly way.

  My daughter’s eyes opened. She looked up at me, blinking against the sun. I moved my hand to shield the deep blue pools of her eyes. They would change, I knew, turning dark like mine or as bright as Aurelia’s. She seemed to inspect me as I did her, assessing one another, taking in features and expressions. Mine I knew was full of wonder and love and a feeling that I could scarce find words for. I was afraid, I realised. Frightened for this little person coming into a world of war, a place where I had known so many to die on a sword edge or of disease. I consoled myself that my half-sister, Hebony, had two children of her own and that both were well. That Vaballathus too thrived. But it was not enough. Still I could not shake the dread, the thoughts of a life stripped of this little being I barely knew and yet was already so much a part of our lives it was as if she had always been there.

  ‘She is intrigued by you,’ Aurelia said.

  ‘She has every right to be,’ I replied.

  ‘We must choose a name for her.’

  ‘Soon.’

  Part of me liked that she had no name. Being nameless made her somehow secret, belonging just to Aurelia and me, hidden from the world and everything that might cause her harm.

  ‘Here,’ Aurelia said, and handed the small bundle to me.

  I wore my armour, polished and with a clean cloak, ready for the celebrations about to take place. I pulled the blanket around my daughter, protecting her face from the hot leather of my breastplate, the studs and scratches upon it. I gave her my smallest finger to hold, and she gripped tight as if we would never be parted and was determined in that matter.

  ‘I have no words for how much she means to me,’ I said.

  ‘She is our family.’

  ‘She is another Zabdilas. Julius would have loved to have met her.’

  Aurelia did not answer and when I glanced across I saw the discomfort on her face, as if Julius held no place in our child’s life.

  ‘You would not think so?’

  ‘I think he would have loved her as he would have loved Vaballathus,’ she said carefully. ‘But this is our family, not his. I worry for you. You must one day move on. I hoped bringing our own child into this world would help you to do that. You dwell so much on Julius.’

  ‘He was a great man,’ I said, defensive.

  ‘I never said otherwise.’ She smiled as if the expression could cause agreement to anything.

  I looked down again at our baby. Her brow was furrowed and she looked about to scream and I could not help but laugh.

  ‘She agrees with you,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it is time that I made more effort to move on and to set aside my anger.’

  I thought of Zenobia as I
spoke, of what Jadhima had done and that she might now be carrying his child, and I knew the words were as empty as Bamdad’s purse. I could never set aside my anger and I could no more forget Julius than I could forgive Jadhima. We might have secured victory over Shapur, pushed him back into his own lands, beyond the gates of Ctesiphon, his own capital, but I could never forget and I would not forgive.

  In the distance Sohrab played in the water, paddling and splashing. Playful. I watched as he kicked stones at the dog still lapping at the water’s edge. Still I resented him. In my arms I held the child of my own blood, as Zenobia and Hebony had been to Julius, and still I could not connect with this boy and father him as Julius had me.

  I frowned, watching as he kicked stones again. The dog yelped and moved away, further along the bank, out of Sohrab’s range.

  ‘Come here, boy,’ I said, voice raised and a little angry.

  ‘Please,’ Aurelia said. ‘He meant no harm. He is just a boy, not even ten years old. He does not realise.’

  ‘He is a boy who should know better and you should have told him so.’ Immediately I regretted my words. Aurelia was so kind and gentle, often too kind, but I should not have snapped.

  Sohrab walked up the incline toward us, head bowed, mouth surly and without shame.

  ‘You would kick stones at a dog?’

  He did not reply.

  ‘Would you like me to kick them at you?’

  Aurelia placed a hand on my shoulder, the baby still cradled in my arms. She did not take her from me and I suspected she feared what I might do if I no longer held the tiny child. But she should not have feared. I knew too well the humiliation and pain of a beating, one that perhaps this boy might learn from, thinking him too used to Aurelia’s soft touch.

  Sohrab did not reply, so I said instead: ‘Do not let me catch you again—’ I thought to add a threat, but could not think of one, and my words died in my mouth.

  ‘Come,’ Aurelia said, ‘let us join the others. They will begin soon.’

  I let myself be led by her, the baby still in my arms, Sohrab trailing behind.

  We came to the rear of the crowds standing on the shore and the people parted to let me through. Twenty thousand soldiers were amongst them, perhaps more, all stood wearing their armour, clean and gleaming. Many clapped me on the back, both in honour of my first born and because of our victory. I was well thought of, a leader of men and a valuable confidant of both the King and his wife. I had risen from slave to son to warrior. And now I had my own family, a true family, a child dependent upon me.

  I handed my daughter to Aurelia and I led them both to the forefront of the crowds all come to attend the ceremony. It was a celebration of our victory over the Persians, a triumph of our own of sorts, for we had pushed Shapur further than ever before. Now we knew lands that our ancestors spoke of, those we had until now only dreamed of taking back. Even I, who had not been born a Syrian, was excited by this notion, enthused by the sheer joy of the citizens of our country.

  Zabbai stood on a pier leading out to deeper water. He had his back to me but he smiled as I joined his side, Aurelia waiting on the shoreline.

  ‘A fine day,’ he said, although the words were spoken with disapproval.

  ‘You have never sounded so excited,’ I mocked.

  ‘I feel that with every celebration, every waving of arms and cheers of success, we tempt fate. The gods love to watch us amuse them. If they see us now they will be laughing, knowing what comes next.’

  ‘Zenobia does not think so. She is convinced they laugh with us, that it is the Persians who cause them amusement.’

  He glanced to me then looked back at the murky waters, sunlight reflecting on the dirty ripples.

  ‘Tell me, Zabdas, is the child in the Queen’s belly yours?’

  The question struck me, as a slap might jolt one’s head. The words were sure and yet I could not believe them. I looked behind me to see if anyone could hear our exchange but we were far enough away for the words not to have reached the ears of the crowd.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Why do you not answer? I ask because of your expression every time you are with her and the child-bearing is mentioned. You squirm, as if you know something the rest of us do not. I know you are close, but I never believed either of you would have gone so far as to bed one another, even if she does believe herself descended from Cleopatra. Odenathus might not suspect something amiss, but others will.’

  ‘It is not mine,’ I said. ‘I assure you.’

  Panic began to overwhelm me. My silence in keeping secret what happened brought me into question, when I had done nothing but protect Zenobia, to ensure that the events of her meeting with Shapur and Jadhima remained unknown.

  Zabbai sniffed, a sign that he thought as much despite asking the question.

  ‘Then whose?’

  ‘I swore to Zenobia that I would not say. Indeed it may well be Odenathus’ child. The odds are in his favour.’

  ‘This is no game of odds. No gamble. She gave herself freely to another man and you know of it?’ he said, turning. ‘Why would she tell you?’

  ‘She was raped.’

  Zabbai looked me in the eye. Surprise glistened, but it was hard and grim. Whatever he had believed the truth to be, this was not it.

  ‘By Jadhima,’ I added, and let out a heavy breath.

  ‘Gods give me strength, I did not foresee that. I knew that something was amiss, that things were not right. I thought perhaps she had used her body to secure an alliance. I have always thought her ambitious enough to aim higher still than her current position. Indeed suspected you had knowledge of it. But I did not expect to hear she was forced.’

  ‘She was, and I bore witness. She asked me never to breathe word of it.’

  ‘That I can understand. I doubt even the gods know how Odenathus would react if he knew.’

  ‘I dare not imagine,’ I said. ‘Although I confess I have been tempted to disclose the truth many times.’

  ‘Hmm, I think you do right.’

  Relief sank warm and quickly through me. Zabbai would not betray the secret, and sharing the truth with him my guilt began to subside.

  Horns sounded all along the riverbank, a sweet sound, dulling the rumble of voices. Spears were rapped on shields and cheers sounded from women and children and the men who were not soldiers – farmers, merchants, the old and the sick. This was a day for all folk to come together as one.

  Oars pulled the boat gently toward us. The sails were down, a great canopy in their place shading the King and Queen, yet they were illuminated by the light reflected on the water.

  The boat drifted nearer and the servants beside me were thrown ropes by oarsmen and tied off the boat.

  Odenathus stepped out and onto the pier. He wore full dress armour, richer and more polished than any he had worn before. And he wore it with a pride never before witnessed. This was armour passed down from generation to generation, given to him by his father and his father before him. Cared for and treasured through the years. There were no marks upon it, no scratches betraying battle. This was armour for celebrations alone.

  Zenobia took the King’s proffered hand and stepped out of the boat and onto the pier beside him. The crowd’s cheers were deafening. Her belly was swollen and her back arched as she stood to counter the weight of the baby she carried. I sensed Zabbai’s scrutiny, his anger and confusion at Jadhima’s actions, perhaps because his feelings reflected my own. A beast grew in her belly, a creature so vile and evil I averted my gaze. How could I think that way? A child was a child and a baby little more than a lamb at its mother’s teat.

  Vaballathus clambered from the boat beside his mother, his hand in hers, two years old with a lick of black hair. He frowned as he fell and Zenobia hauled him back to his feet. He smiled as quickly as he had frowned, his fortune changing, first one thing then another, the innocence of not knowing there was a longer game to play, the gods changing the lie of the land, the will of th
e people, the events of our lives on a whim, plain upon his face.

  He did not need to be here. He could have stayed with his nurse in Palmyra, but Zenobia would not have it. She would show him to the people this day. He would stand as a son of the King.

  Herodes, first son of Odenathus, prince of Palmyra, heir to the throne, stepped out of the boat behind Zenobia. He smiled at the cheering crowds, absorbing the adulation as if it were for him and not his stepmother. I thought he would be petulant – the last to leave the boat – but it seemed he was not. He opened his arms to the beckoning crowd, receiving them.

  Six girls, seven or eight years old, hair loose but combed and dressed with flowers, threw down palm leaves to walk on and kissed the hem of Zenobia’s robes as our group made its way along the pier and onto the riverbank.

  We reached the shingle of the shore and stopped. The sun at our backs cast the people of Syria in a bright white glow. They were all along the river, as far as I could see in either direction, swarming the grassy banks, hands reaching up to the gods. Cheering and clapping, whistling and shouting.

  ‘People of Syria, my friends and fellow countrymen,’ Odenathus bellowed. ‘Tribes of the sands and kings of the east. Priests and merchants, soldiers Roman and Syrian, mothers, fathers, daughters and sons, the old and the young. I welcome you all this day.’

  The crowd fell silent at the King’s words. I heard my baby, wrapped in her mother’s arms, gurgle. I beckoned Aurelia with my hand to stand with me and the rulers of Syria: Odenathus, Zenobia, Zabbai, Herodes, Bamdad and, I supposed, myself. We were the country’s strength, its sword arm. I had not thought on it before but I led men and was an ear to the King, and together we led armies streaming across the desert sands and kept safe the heart of our country.

  Close to the front of the swarm of our people, the kings and warlords of all the tribes of Syria stood before us. They came at Odenathus’ invitation. Some fought beside us and some did not, a few had come to our aid years before when I first came to Syria and sat all night with Odenathus writing letters begging for their assistance. But all knew better than to rebuff the request of the King and the power he now held.