by JD Smith
THE RISE OF ZENOBIA
Overlord Book I
JD SMITH
The Rise of Zenobia copyright © 2014 JD Smith
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
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Published by Quinn Publications
All enquiries to [email protected]
First published, 2014
ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9576164-3-1
ISBN Ebook: 978-0-9576164-4-8
For William and Alexander,
who have impeded the publication of this book by repeatedly requesting
‘more breakfast’ and ‘need wee, you come’.
PROLOGUE
Zabdas - 290 AD (Present day)
Clouds of sand billow across the road into Palmyra. I sit upon my horse, back to the city; the rubble and dirt and deadly silence of a place that once chimed with life. Walls that scraped the sky now stand two men high and cast us in shadow: five men beaten by time. Two of us defy death, restless for one last clash of iron before we make peace with our gods.
Behind the walls near five hundred of my men hold the remnants of the broken city. Beyond, thousands of citizens who spent years rebuilding with dust shelter in their homes, afraid of our common enemy. I sense their fear, the panic rising in those who cannot muster their own defence in the uncertainty of what may come. And who would not feel fear, alone in a desert oasis, with only crumbling walls and two carts to block the city gate?
I rub the pommel of my sword with my thumb, the grip worn smooth from a lifetime of killing. Killing, or defending? Suddenly I am unsure of the difference. Which am I, a soldier or murderer, a keeper of peace or a warrior who would have men under his command? Bent on revenge or broken man, or both? I shake the thoughts and watch the road with keen eyes. The Tanukh tribe bring their army north, raping and raiding, pillaging the cities of Syria; plaguing the sands. Scouts tell me they are close, and my breath quickens as I await first sight.
‘The Tanukh march two thousand men along this road,’ Vaballathus says. He is mounted on my right, and I hear the man beside him, a priest of Palmyra, suck in a sharp breath and begin to chant.
‘A thousand, two, a hundred thousand,’ I say, ‘it does not matter.’
‘You told me they numbered a thousand.’
Vaballathus speaks to annoy the priest, a jest we do not share. He knows the numbers I told the city leaders: the city commander and the priest who stand with us now.
‘I told the people they numbered a thousand. A lie to stave fear. What would you have? The streets swarming with citizens attempting to leave, only to find themselves in more danger still?’
‘You could have told me,’ he says more quietly.
I breathe deep, close my eyes, and open them again, my gaze resting on Vaballathus. He sits as tall as his father once did, a full head above an average man. He holds my eye a moment, then looks away. There is much guilt and regret and promise resting on our standing before the Tanukh army. Most of it mine, not his.
‘I did not think you would come,’ the commander says, forced calm in his honest voice. Appointed by the people of Palmyra, he has their respect and mine.
‘I swore to protect the people of this city and bring aid if ever it was required,’ I say.
‘And it is most welcome. But you lead the largest force in Syria. Why not station it here, in Palmyra? The people are afraid. They would welcome your continuing protection.’
I shake my head. He does not understand.
‘The Romans have not forgotten the threat of Syria commanding large forces. My men lurk in the shadows of what this country has been. We must remain so.’
‘The Romans would not know,’ the commander protests, glancing at Vaballathus.
‘If the Romans knew my warriors lined these walls, that we still lived, they would strip the city bare until they found us. They would not rest. You are not old enough to remember.’
The commander shades his eyes against the sun. He has seen perhaps thirty-five years. I have known fifty. He cannot comprehend the hatred of the Romans and the power Palmyra once held – the threat we were.
‘So be it, General Zabdas.’
Perhaps he uses the rank I once held to flatter, to remind me of the oaths that tied me to this country, that tie me still, but I cannot be sure.
‘I am no longer a general,’ I murmur. ‘I am but a warlord.’
‘And yet this country still looks to you for leadership, to keep the peace and provide our defences.’
‘I live to serve.’
‘And I live to bed whores,’ Bamdad says, my oldest companion and a leader of our men. ‘And drink and eat.’
I laugh. ‘And gamble.’
‘That too. Is there anything more I should do that you disagree with?’ he says, a proud, playful grin upon his face.
‘I will think of something before this day is done.’
I shift from one foot to another, my joints stiff despite the heat. I have spent a lifetime riding the sands, hunting those who would strip Syria bare, keeping order where I can, and bringing a certain peace to a country that has known too much war. We are invisible to all but the people my silent warriors protect. It is not the dream I once had, and I cannot call it greatness, for it is barely freedom. But it is what I have chosen for these lands.
‘The last of the scouts have not yet returned.’ Bamdad speaks. He shifts in his saddle, leather armour creaking and his horse snorting complaint beneath the weight of the huge man. Skin thin and loose over seasoned muscle; sweat collects beneath a red bandana.
‘I will ride out,’ Vaballathus says.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘We wait.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until they come,’ Bamdad says.
‘You are old and cautious,’ Vaballathus snaps.
Bamdad grins.
‘I am alive.’
‘Only just,’ I reply, returning his grin.
‘That is true, but I have ten years on you and half the scars,’ Bamdad says.
I glance down at my arms and the hatched lines which cover them. They are my warrior bands, proof of the man I have been and the life I have led.
‘I have more scars because I saw more battle.’
Bamdad snorts. His horse paws the ground.
‘They are coming,’ the commander says.
I urge my horse forward, listening for the sound of men on the road. A faint hum. I glance to Bamdad and Vaballathus and nod.
We wait in silence. I hate the waiting. Behind us my archers line the walls at a signal from Bamdad, and heavy cavalry flank the outer perimeter of the city, hidden from sight.
The Tanukh emerge from the haze of sweeping dust and sand. Two hundred men in all. No more than my own force. They stop a few hundred paces away, enough for me to see they are a ragged band of warriors with no banners and few horses. A grey mass behind grows darker, a firmer image, becoming steadily larger as the bulk of the army forms.
I turn my horse and say to the commander: ‘Invite the King of the Tanukh to join you in the city this evening, and for drink and food and provision to be sent beyond the walls for his men.’
‘A
re you sure, General?’
‘I am.’
He nods agreement as the priest beside him chants louder still.
I signal for the archers to stand down and the gateway to be cleared. Vaballathus rides into the city ahead of us. Bamdad gives an imperceptible nod. I take a look at the road and the Tanukh army growing ever larger and my stomach tightens. Then I urge my horse to follow Vaballathus inside the walls.
Tonight we dine with an old enemy.
The palace has long been stripped of marble and statues and stone. First by the Empire and then by the citizens and merchants, sold off or used to build new homes and repair crumbling fortifications.
Instead of receiving the king of the Tanukh in royal chambers, I sit in the commander’s house, drinking his wine and waiting.
‘Will he enter the city?’ Vaballathus asks.
‘We will see,’ I say.
‘He will come. He cannot resist sacking another city, and he has longed to sack Palmyra. He thinks they have no defence,’ Bamdad adds, and laughs. ‘He is a greedy fool.’
‘He takes advantage of the imbalance in Persia. He is not as stupid as you think, Bamdad.’
The commander enters, sits down on a low couch opposite me, worry lining his face. He is anxious, afraid of what will become of the city, what the king of the Tanukh is capable of.
‘Does he come?’ Vaballathus asks.
‘I … I am not sure.’ The commander shrugs first to himself, then looks at each of us in turn and shrugs again. ‘I do not know.’
‘You sent a messenger?’ I ask.
‘I did, yes. Of course …’
‘Did the king reply?’
‘Apologies … no, no he did not. We have heard nothing. Provision waits to be sent to his army beyond the walls. As soon as we hear …’
Vaballathus pulls off his boots and reclines on another couch, his hands behind his head, a smile playing upon his lips.
‘What amuses you?’ Bamdad asks, his voice clipped.
‘This,’ Vaballathus says, gesturing our company with a sweep of his arm.
‘I do not understand,’ the commander says.
I glance to Vaballathus. He is my son-in-law and I am his guardian, trainer, warlord and father. In him is a fiery youth I once knew. He has a passion for tomorrow I no longer know and a thirst for vengeance that in me has faded after every oath. And in Bamdad I see my friend, my companion, a man who has watched my back. But he is old and tired and worn, and in him I see myself. We have not moved on. We cling to our past. That is the cause of Vaballathus’ amusement.
A slave enters, her head downturned, and I feel the itch of my own slave mark upon my forearm. A reminder of my childhood.
‘What is it?’ the commander says.
I see the girl is shaking. Her mouth moves but she utters nothing.
‘The Tanukh king is in the city?’ I ask.
She gives a rapid nod.
‘Then let the feasting begin!’ Bamdad cheers.
‘Where is he?’ I say.
‘Approaching the house, General.’
‘See to the kitchens.’ Then turning to the commander: ‘You would do well to find other slaves to greet your guests. You betray a great deal of fear with this one.’
‘Apologies.’
‘No need, merely the suggestion of an old man.’
We walk through the house and into the atrium where more slaves clutch shadowed walls. We linger too, out of sight, a pause to gain the element of surprise and to steady the rush of blood in my veins.
‘You must greet him,’ I say.
The commander nods, but his complexion is grey and his eyes show nervousness.
‘He will betray our presence,’ Vaballathus says.
‘It does not matter. It will be too late when he does,’ Bamdad replies.
The sky is smoky-blue and the air so still I could push it aside with a wave of my hand. I can hear the breathing of the slaves, fast and fearful. The king of the Tanukh is introduced as he passes through the gate and into the courtyard. I watch the commander’s feet as he walks down the steps to greet the man who would sack his city.
His city.
Is it now the commander’s city? I had not intended that. Their city, I correct myself. A city of the people, or what is left of it. A place neither ruled by Rome nor, I ensure, plundered by neighbouring tribes or Persians.
The king of the Tanukh moves into view, twenty men in his company. He has not aged. The scars of old still line his face and a dirty cloak hangs from his shoulders. Armour is strapped tight to his chest and shins and his sword hangs ready at his thigh.
The gates swing shut behind him. A locking bar clunks into place.
And a rain of men and steel descends from the gods.
I beg with an outstretched arm for Vaballathus to stay back, to remain in the shadows as we have always done, but he cries a war cry, a shriek louder than any I have heard before, and forces his way into the dim light of the courtyard. Bamdad draws his sword and follows. I go too, dragging my blade from its scabbard and jumping from the top of the steps of the villa and into the fray.
My sword strikes home before my feet hit dry earth. A dozen dead already and more fall as I slice and cry and my blade cuts through flesh and bone. Aches fade and limbs fill with renewed energy, coursing with the youth of my past.
Man after man falls to my sword, more to Bamdad’s, and within moments I find myself facing the enemy I have not seen in thirty years.
‘You are an old man, Jadhima,’ I hiss at the king of the Tanukh.
He is puzzled a moment, furrowed brow and darting eyes. Then his face relaxes in recognition.
‘And you will always be a boy. I remember you stood on the banks of the Euphrates hiding in the skirts of a woman. You are not a man. Look at your beloved city! Look at what it has become. Full of ragged whores and men who pray not to hold a sword. Stubborn fools.’
Jadhima’s words do not touch me. His tongue has formed worse. Behind him, Vaballathus kneels in the dirt, head bowed, hair slick with sweat, as he bleeds on the sands.
‘Bind him,’ I order of Jadhima.
I walk past him to Vaballathus. I sheath my sword, blood and all, and kneel. I know this dusty ground, these walls, as home. I know them still.
Vaballathus groans.
‘You should have listened,’ I say. I do not think his wound too serious until I pull his hands away from where he grips his stomach and I see, between the folds of leather armour, his guts urging their way through, following the blood already leaking out.
He grunts and falls back. I press my hands on his wound to stem the escape.
‘Bamdad! BAMDAD!’
He is already at my side.
‘Damn him,’ I say. ‘Gods’ strength, what have you done, Vaballathus?’
His eyes roll, flickering lids, lips pale.
‘I cannot die yet,’ he murmurs.
‘Commander, where is your physician?’ Bamdad yells.
‘On his way.’
Vaballathus’ body weakens beneath my palms, still and quieter than in sleep.
‘Do not go. Not yet,’ I say. I have loved him since he was a boy, bound by promise to keep him safe, but in truth I am afraid of his death. Of my failing.
Behind me, wrists bound behind his back, tied to single post, Jadhima laughs, wild and wicked.
‘There is no end. You and I, Zabdas, we will always have a revenge to exact. Fortune’s wheel. There will always be a life owed between us; the gods are laughing.’
His words do not touch me. I am lost, memories skipping the years, skimming history, reliving the moments I have known. I cannot bear the moment, but I live it still.
‘He is gone,’ I murmur.
Bamdad grips my shoulder, leans down and closes Vaballathus’ half-open eyes.
‘And he joins many a great warrior in the otherworld.’
I nod. Bamdad is right. He joins his father, my daughter, and many other souls who would know him.
/> I stand. Beyond the walls I hear screams and shouts, the roar of my army massacring Jadhima’s men who are drunk on Palmyra’s wine and mead. For a moment I listen to the sound, relishing the knowledge that the city will not be sacked; that Palmyra still stands, albeit a shadow of what it once was. But it stands all the same, guarding the people within, keeping safe the heart of Syria.
‘The gods have long laughed,’ I say, turning to Jadhima. ‘But now they laugh with me. Today it is you who causes them amusement.’
‘I believe in no gods,’ he says.
His dirty, matted beard clings to his chest. Blood trickles from his brow, through sweat and grime and lines of defiance.
‘You have long plagued this city,’ I say. ‘Enough. It is time to put an end to this.’
I unsheathe my sword. Jadhima bares his yellow teeth and breathes a hiss of hatred. And with a brief cut of my sword, I open his neck and his blood runs through his beard and onto the ground. Hiss turns to choking gurgle.
My last enemy is dead.
CHAPTER 1
Samira - 290 AD (Present day)
I have been two days in Palmyra. The bustle of the city is much louder and busier than my home in Tripolis. The city is in disrepair, as I had been led to believe, with walls missing stone and defences crumbling; homes in some parts hastily rebuilt and in others little more than footprints of what must have been.
I travelled by camel with Bamdad, my grandfather’s man, across the desert, plodding ever inland. Now I sit in the commander’s house, waiting to speak with my grandfather. I glance at the commander’s wife, her hair piled high, eyes black with kohl, jewellery hanging from wrist and neck and hair and ear. And I think then how drab I must be. No jewellery of any kind, my travelling clothes filthy, my hair limp and unkempt, hanging about my shoulders just like all the other girls in Tripolis. But not here. Here the women show fierce dignity, a lift of chin and a hardened eye, caused by a history I cannot remember. Or perhaps secretly they think they are still greater than those beyond their broken city walls …
Bamdad sits with me, his face grave. He is old, very old, and I think the lines on his face make him always grave, always grumpy, but then I have known him forever and I have seen him smile.
