The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  ‘We are as one.’

  Odenathus looked from left to right, up and down the faces eagerly awaiting his words.

  ‘We are united.’

  He took the great Roman crested helmet off his head and put a hand through his hair.

  ‘We celebrate a day of peace in a land that has known too much war.’

  His voice rose with his last words and so the people shouted and screamed once more. Dozens lay prostrate on the ground, weeping into the soil, thanking the gods for the King before them. They wailed as soldiers moved to keep the crowd at a distance from the King and Queen of Syria for fear of them being pushed back onto the pier in the excitement and joy.

  The crowd began to break apart and I saw Paul, the bishop of Antioch, coming towards us. His modest build could have lost him in the mass of men, but he held himself tall, his robes a colourful mix of yellow and blue. His hair was grey, his eyes sharp above puffy bags of flesh resting on his cheeks. Despite his sixty or more years, he was nimble and deferential as he bowed first to Odenathus, then deeply to Zenobia.

  It was Zenobia’s idea to include Paul of Samosata in the celebrations. She was a great friend to the old gods, and her friendship with this new bishop, a man beloved of his flock, would ensure her the friendship of his followers also.

  Paul turned to the people and smiled, flourishing a scroll with his right hand, pausing as the crowd made curious noises and muttered between them. They knew what would be announced, they had known for many months, and yet they played along with the excitement the bishop encouraged.

  Finally, Paul of Samosata untied the scroll and read aloud:

  By the will of Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus, Emperor of Rome, Odenathus of Palmyra is hereby granted the titles dux Romanorum, Restitutor totius Orientis, Restorer of the East, and Totius Orientis Imperator, Independent Lieutenant of the Emperor for the East.

  Paul rolled up the scroll as the crowd screamed its pleasure, but with his arms he waved them to silence once more.

  ‘There is one more title to announce, one granted not by Rome but by this country, our own people. Odenathus has long been the King of Palmyra. Indeed he has long been commonly known as the King of Syria. Now we,’ he said, gesturing the kings and warlords, warriors and priests before us, ‘bestow upon Odenathus the title King of Kings.’

  Two boys walked up to the bishop, worshippers of his church I assumed, each with a crown clasped in his hands. They were laurel wreaths made of gold to denote the new title, one that bridged the divide between Odenathus’ own assumed title of king and those titles given to him by Gallienus in the wake of his victories.

  The bishop reached up to place one wreath on Odenathus’ head, settling it neatly on his grey-flecked hair. Then he took the second wreath and held it up for the people to see.

  ‘And the same title is conferred to the son of the King of Kings, the heir to Palmyra’s throne and now heir to the entire east.’

  He turned to Herodes, whose expression was triumphant, and placed upon his head the second crown.

  It was no surprise, for I knew this would happen. Zenobia had warned me of it. It was meant as no snub to those stood with us now, the warlords and leaders of men who considered themselves kings in their own right. For the title was a Persian one, adopted by the King of the Persians assuming control of his empire as an emperor in Rome might assume the title Caesar. It was in every way Zenobia’s idea, that Odenathus might solidify his position after the Persian defeat by assuming Shapur’s own title, stripping him of everything she could, sending a message to Jadhima that she would never forget his actions and that he might call himself a king of the Tanukh, but her husband, he who defeated Shapur and pushed him back into his own lands, was in fact the King of all kings of the east. And in conferring the title to Odenathus’ first born, she ensured the people knew it would not be relinquished.

  That evening, as the celebrations turned to drunken brawls and soldiers who had not seen their families for many months cried in reunion, I was summoned to Odenathus’ great tent.

  ‘You must go,’ Aurelia said to me as I lay beside her in our own tent, the light so dim I could barely make out her curves, the form of her body. ‘Zabbai is waiting.’

  She smiled, mischievous, knowing as I did that Zabbai stood outside the entrance to our tent waiting for me to dress and accompany him and he was not a patient man.

  Between us, our girl lay awake, her tiny feet kicking the air and her hands grabbing at something unseen.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘Do not be long.’

  ‘I shall do my best.’

  I stooped out of the tent and into the dark.

  ‘I pray this will be quick,’ I said to Zabbai, but he walked on without reply.

  Upon reaching Odenathus’ tent I stooped inside. He lay on a couch in a pale tunic, his armour hanging on a stand behind him.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said, gesturing a couch opposite. ‘It has been a long day, but a good day. I feel we have finally unified our country, fortified the frontier, and ensured a future for our children.’

  ‘We have done that and more. Today was a chance to share that news and to celebrate it. It seems everyone is joyful.’

  ‘They are.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Zenobia’s pregnancy progresses well. Another child will certainly secure our family’s position and solidify the succession. The gods favour me.’

  ‘Indeed they do,’ I said, careful not to let my mask slip, to show any feeling or emotion beyond my agreement.

  ‘It was Zenobia’s decision to grant Herodes the joint title King of Kings.’

  ‘It was an easy decision for her to make.’

  ‘She will do anything to secure a safe Syria, even grant my son who dislikes her so much a title that will ensure power passes to him when I am gone, and his sons or brothers in turn.’

  I was surprised by his words. I never heard Odenathus speak of his wife and his son’s mutual dislike. But then I doubted Zenobia disliked Herodes, it was more that he despised her.

  ‘It is beneficial for everyone that Zenobia and Herodes find common ground. She knows this,’ I said.

  I half wondered if Zenobia feared for Odenathus’ life, and so made effort to seek the respect of his first born son so when the day came she would be able to stand beside him still as a Queen of the east, mother of a successor, supporter of Herodes. What would happen if Odenathus was no longer with us? The thought chilled me.

  ‘There is something I need to ask you to do for me,’ Odenathus went on. ‘I need a man I trust to go to Rome on my behalf, take news of the situation here in the east, and also to take captives and trophies of our victories. Gallienus wishes to hold a triumph. We have had one of our own of sorts with the celebrations that took place today. But this will be a formal triumph, a great spectacle in the capital, and an opportunity for our alignment with Rome to be known by all. It is important, after the rumours that have surfaced of our betrayal of Valerian.’ He shook his head. Even after all this time he could not forgive or truly understand Zenobia’s actions. ‘You have risen far and proven yourself a loyal man, Zabdas. I would like you to go on my behalf whilst I ensure the east remains stable.’

  The request came as a shock, a punch to my stomach that took the wind from me. I had not considered a triumph to be held by Gallienus, least of all the requirement for me to attend. If anyone should have gone, it should have been Odenathus himself, to have his titles bestowed upon him in person, and for all the deeds done in securing the east to be known by his peers and superiors and all the people of the Roman Empire.

  Why me?

  ‘Of course,’ I said, dutifully. ‘Am I to go alone?’

  ‘I will send an escort with you and the prisoners, but I need all my generals here. With so many Romans under my command, I am wary of maintaining control over the combined armies. Zenobia, as you know, is heavy with child. She cannot travel, although if she were able she would make an ideal representative at the triumph. H
owever she agrees that it is not possible.’

  I nodded. I understood how unwise it would be for Zenobia to journey in her condition. And Odenathus would not want his child, a baby he believed to be his own, brought into this world in Rome or at sea or anywhere other than Palmyra.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, thinking suddenly of Aurelia and my own baby and how much I hated to be sent from them. The dread I felt at telling Aurelia I was going. ‘I thank you for considering me suitable.’

  ‘I cannot think of a better man to go in my place. There was a time I would have sent Julius, you know. You succeed him, as it were, as my ambassador.’

  I smiled at that. I could not help it. Odenathus was right. Julius travelled many times to Rome for many different reasons. Now I would travel as he had.

  Odenathus yawned.

  ‘It has been a long few years.’

  EPILOGUE

  Zabdas – 262 AD

  The day I left for Rome I was light of heart and yet heavy with the knowledge that Aurelia would stay in Palmyra with our infant who was too young to travel the distance. And Aurelia was unwilling, I knew, to return to her homeland.

  I walked up and down the phalanx of men and horses. Wagons brimmed with the riches taken in the wake of Shapur’s retreat. Yet I did not feel elation at our taking them. They were Syrian treasures, gold and silver, cups, goblets, statues and stones. They were treasures taken from the cities captured by Shapur. Syrian cities. And they should have been returned to them. How could we tell, Odenathus had said, to whom each item belongs? But I had taken enough to see our people put right their homes, and we were wealthy enough. We could spare these treasures for Gallienus’ triumph.

  And so they rattled in the wagons as soldiers tightened straps. I checked and rechecked each wagon. I asked every man with me if he had done his duties and bid his family farewell. I looked at the trail of pitiful Persians, spitting and cursing, still wilful despite their chains.

  Then I could delay no longer. The moment had come to leave Syria. Leave my people and my home. Journey to the west once more.

  Aurelia walked toward me, child in her arms, Sohrab lingering behind.

  ‘Take care,’ she said, and although she smiled I knew there was a great sadness in my leaving so soon after the birth of our girl. She looked close to tears, tired and worn, shadows beneath her eyes. Yet she was beautiful still, with the sunshine in her hair.

  ‘For once I am travelling to a celebration and not to war. There is no need to this time.’

  ‘There is always a need.’

  Her smile slipped from her face and she looked more tired still as Zenobia and Odenathus came to bid my party farewell.

  ‘You have the messages for the emperor?’ Odenathus asked.

  ‘Packed on my own horse,’ I replied.

  ‘Good. Safe journey.’

  I nodded and looked to Zenobia, assuming she held parting words. She did not speak. Her eyes were dark, brows knitted in curiosity. She smiled, but there was something in that smile, something more than mere farewell.

  She looked to the sky and the clouds skimming the sun and said, ‘You should make a move, Zabdas.’

  The words were pointed. She did not try to hide them, and suddenly I realised their meaning. My going west was not Odenathus’ idea but hers. She engineered my leading the prisoners and trophies to Rome. Every decision, each command, was her will, her words leaving the lips of the King.

  She put a hand on her stomach, the gentle swell of it. Behind her I saw the nurse with Vaballathus, holding him close.

  I was ordered to Rome because of the knowledge I held and the threat it carried. I had told Zabbai and he must have confessed his knowing to Zenobia. Now I was the man who could not hold my tongue; the foolish relation who compromised the Queen. I was unpredictable and she did not want me near Odenathus, close enough to choke on the truth, to stumble over it, leak it from my lips and into his ear. She rid herself of me for the remaining months of her pregnancy as easily as one might sell a slave.

  The puckered mark burned on my arm, reminding once more of the stinking docks where Julius found me and the loneliness I had known.

  I turned away from the King and Queen of Palmyra, my beautiful Aurelia and nameless daughter, feeling ashamed. Feeling angry. I was nothing to Zenobia in that moment but a risk. I was her brother, craved her touch as a lover, and doted on the friendship we shared for so long I never predicted she would turn her back so easily and effortlessly as she did now. This was who I was; a man who could trust no one just as she did not trust me.

  I walked on, hailing the train of men to begin the long march, my feet heavy and my heart weary, the road beneath me solid and seemingly endless. To Rome. Gods, how I hated the place. The bustle and the dirt and the politics.

  I walked out across the desert plain, the men and trophies and Persian captives my company. I continued until the sun dipped and my feet blistered and my legs ached and we made camp. I rubbed my sores and nursed the embarrassment and shame and utter disappointment I felt. I lay under furs without my Aurelia, destined for Rome and the greatness Odenathus believed he sent me to. I thought of the swell of Zenobia’s belly and the moments we shared: the times she gripped my hand; brushed her lips across my cheek; kissed me firmly on the mouth; rode beside me toward the Persian camp; stood next to me in battle. I loved her. Hopelessly and always. I loved Aurelia too but even her sun, her blinding brilliance, did nothing to shade Zenobia from my mind. I was a fool, as blind as the rest, a man in awe of the Queen of the east. And yet I had thought myself something more, had convinced myself I was, that I must have been, for we were as close as two people who were not lovers could be. I lay there and realised the closeness was gone as quickly as she had come into my life. Gone by her own choosing because she would not confess the humiliation inflicted upon her.

  It was there beneath a black sky my bitter resentment for the Queen I loved began.

  Also by JD Smith

  The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord I)

  Available in ebook, paperback and audio.

  The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord II)

  Available in ebook and paperback.

  Tristan and Iseult

  Historical Novel Society Indie Book of the Year Finalist

  Available in ebook and paperback.

  The Love of Julius

  A FREE short story which precedes the Overlord series.

  Available as an ebook.

  Sign up at www.jdsmith-author.co.uk for notifications of new releases and special offers.

  Historical Note

  Threatened by financial crisis, plague, invasion and rebellion, the 3rd Century AD saw the Roman Empire closer to collapse than ever before. Palmyra – known then as Tadmor – was a vital caravan city on the eastern trade route. It was taken under Roman control in the mid-first century but despite this, its people were of mixed Aramaic and Arabic stock, and the language used a form of Palmyrene: a mixture of Middle Eastern Aramaic and Greek.

  In the spring of 261AD Ballista acted as kingmaker in the wake of Valerian’s defeat by the Persian King, Shapur I. He elevated Macrianus and Quietus (father and son) to co-emperors. There seems to be some confusion as to whether there were in fact two sons, Macrianus Junior and Quietus, depending on which source you consult. They were indeed defeated by one of Emperor Gallienus’ generals in the Balkans.

  King Odenathus swiftly descended on Emesa where Quietus had retreated, defeated Ballista, and was thought to then lay siege to the city.

  It is documented that the Emesenes sided with Odenathus, murdered Quietus and threw his body over the walls. Odenathus’ own Palmyrene and Roman units were now the largest in the area.

  Gallienus subsequently granted Odenathus, amongst others, the title of corrector totius orientis, vice-regent of the east, and he then held supreme command over all the forces of the east and full authority over all provincial governors from Asia Minor through Egypt.

  Zenobia was born with the name Iulia (or Jul
ia) Aurelia Zenobia, although this varies between languages, and on official documents she would use Al-Zabba, meaning ‘the one with long lovely hair’. She claimed to be a descendant of Dido, Queen of Carthage, the King of Emesa Sampsiceramus and the Ptolemaic Greek Queen Cleopatra VII of Egypt.

  Although Zabdas features in history, there is no mention of his family tie to the Zabdilas family.

  Shapur I and Jadhima, King of the Tanukh, are indeed historical figures, although the rape suffered at the hands of Jadhima are not documented his history.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go to: the Triskele team, Gilly, Jill, Kat and Liza, of which I am proud to be a part; to Perry for his above and beyond proofreading; my family and my friends and all the wonderful people I have met through the world of literature.

  I take full responsibility for all factual errors, but for everything that is right I owe thanks to:

  Farrokh, Dr Kaveh. Sassanian Elite Cavalry. Osprey, 1995.

  Fraser, Antionia. The Warrior Queens. Phoenix Press, 1993.

  Goldsworthy, Adrian. The Complete Roman Army. Thames and Hudson, 2003.

  Stoneman, Richard. Palmyra and its Empire. University of Michagan, 1992.

  Watson, Alaric. Aurelian and the Third Century. Routledge, 1999.

  The massive and incredibly helpful resource that is Wikipedia.

  And the members of historum.com, which I have only just discovered, but whose members are enormously helpful and knowledgeable.

  Thank you for reading

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