The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1)

by JD Smith

  ‘She spoke more. She was incredibly accomplished. Julius bought her an education, and she did not rally against it. She devoured anything that would broaden her knowledge.’

  ‘What of Teymour?’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘He asked Julius for her hand in marriage. Did they marry?’

  I feel weary. Exhaustion took me as I held the ring that once belonged to Zenobia. Now it sits against my breast, next to a heart that still beats, that has not quite finished with this life.

  ‘You ask many questions.’

  ‘And you explain little of what you tell me!’ She stares up at me, cheeky, challenging, everything my granddaughter could be.

  I sigh and look across at the dock. No sign of Bamdad.

  ‘No, they never married.’

  Samira’s shoulders slump.

  Bamdad appears.

  ‘I have a boat. Be ready to wade! Oh, and the captain says Samira will suffice as payment. I did not think you would mind, Rubetta.’

  He grins at her, and she laughs at him. I wonder why he thinks his humour entertaining, for it has been a while since I thought as much. But Samira laughs, encourages. She understands him, and I try to remember if I once did. When I was young, did he humour me?

  A man comes in a rowing boat to take us out to a larger vessel. I take Samira’s elbow, help her to her feet. We tie our sandals to our waists and wade out, the precious pages of my life, of Zenobia, in my pack.

  We travel the short distance and I glance across the river to steep mountains on the opposite bank. Once aboard, I look back. One last look at Emesa. Afternoon sun hovers on ruins, long shadows cast as the wind pulls our boat gently north and the city drifts further away. Darkness creeps in and I feel sadness. The last time I left the buildings were still whole, the streets bustled with people, and temples stood proud.

  A memory always there, hidden in the years.

  Samira is beautiful. Even with the dowdy clothes and lack of thick kohl around her eyes, she appears to me other-worldly. Perfectly proportioned features, a figure already shapely, and a sureness gained since I last saw her at our own Tripolis. Startling given her age, just thirteen years; my age when I first met Julius.

  I doubt I look much of a warrior huddled in the boat, but I bear scars and carry muscle accumulated from years of training and fighting and living hard on scraps from the land as my warrior band faced enemies beyond the cities and settlements.

  We travel for hours, sleeping through the night. In the morning, other ships come into sight. There are many on the river, yet ours seems different in ways I cannot fathom.

  It is the captain’s glance in passing; of greed in yellow-tinged eyes.

  I rove the deck. Samira sleeps beside me. I slide a hand beneath my cloak for the handle of my dagger as watching eyes hover. Every impulse tells me to fight, to face the crew, but I dare not.

  ‘You have a twitch?’ Bamdad hisses.

  ‘Where did you find this ship? Persia?’

  ‘Fuck you, Zabdas.’

  ‘We are not safe.’

  Bamdad looks about him, keen eyes seeing clearer than before.

  ‘They watch you,’ he says.

  ‘Safe passage but for me? Fucking wonderful. We are on a ship and it seems there is a price on my head.’

  ‘Higher price on mine, I wager.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ I say.

  Samira stirs. Eyes still closed, she says, ‘I wondered how a slave became a warrior.’

  ‘We are driven by our desires, not always our ability.’

  I watch men move across the deck. Feel Bamdad reach for his own blade.

  ‘Odenathus’ mother was forceful. It surprises me he would give her so much rein in the palace.’

  ‘Julius knew when he warned Zenobia what lengths Mina would go to achieve her desires. She would shriek at Odenathus, loud and publicly. When not shouting, she whispered in his ear attempting to influence. And if he refused her, she claimed it the will of the gods and sent for a priest of Emesa to persuade him. But the people loved him. He held their frontier for years, brought riches to the city, rode out to battle ahead of his army.’

  ‘They loved him, even though he listened to her?’

  ‘Mina had a fiery temper and iron will, but her persuasions were mostly well informed. I hated Odenathus for sending Julius south, away from Palmyra, but his people needed a protector, and he gave them what he could.’

  ‘What are we to do?’ Bamdad asks. ‘Sit here recounting the past, or address the present?’

  ‘What is it?’ Samira says.

  ‘We are not amongst friends,’ I say.

  Samira falls silent. The touch of my sword gives me comfort. The feel, the weight of it. It is a part of me.

  Seven men encircle us, knives clutched in hands. They hesitate, and I see their fear. Men commanded to face us, they do not enjoy this role. I know then I have more skill with a sword or knife, that Bamdad has more still. Yet they come.

  I draw my sword, the first ring of iron on iron ripples across the deck. My cloak falls and I am armour and sword and dagger and shield. A warrior now, not a traveller. I growl, and the men growl back and Bamdad laughs a wicked, insane laugh that would unnerve the gods if they were sleeping. But they are not. I know they are not. They watch us as we amuse them, laughing and cackling at our misfortune. Then the men before us smile and I glance to Samira, a knife at her neck, and Vaballathus obscures my vision. Vaballathus covered in blood on the dusty ground, bleeding out on the sands of home, no breath, no life, no tomorrow.

  My blade clatters on the deck.

  Samira whimpers.

  A punch to my stomach, I keel in pain. Retch. Feel a blow to my face and my nose breaks, mouth filling with blood. I sink to my knees, take blow after blow, kick after kick.

  ‘Grandfather,’ Samira whimpers.

  Gods’ strength, Bamdad, I think, what a mess we are in.

  Darkness rolls before my eyes and a man approaches, tall, wavering in and out of focus. The captain.

  ‘I thought myself the luckiest of men when I saw this beauty board my boat.’ He strokes Samira’s cheek, hand moving down her neck, her shoulder, her breast. I am fire and heat and hatred but I can do nothing. Tears well in Samira’s defiant eyes, yet she does not flinch or speak. ‘You will be enjoyed and you will fetch me a high price. But you,’ he says, turning to me, ‘are the true prize.’

  I spit blood onto the deck. ‘I am yours. Do as you will. Let her be and I will not fight you.’

  ‘Fight me?’ He laughs. ‘You cannot fight. You cannot move, my friend.’

  ‘She is untouched. She will fetch a higher price if you leave her so.’

  ‘I have no need of the coin she could make. I have you. Do you think the Tanukh have no friends? Your defeat over Jadhima is well-known, and now there is a price on your head that will buy me five more boats.’

  He pulls Samira toward him.

  ‘She could have had a man in her already.’

  A shout from the sailor at the wheel and the captain says, ‘Take them down.’

  Samira disappears into the belly of the boat. I follow, a knife at my back, stumbling down steps and falling to the floor. Wood thumps. Blackness. I can see nothing. Where is Bamdad? Rotting souls fill my nostrils. Samira finds my hand and grips.

  ‘Bamdad?’

  A groan.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I am, my friend. Rubetta, is she with us?’

  ‘Here,’ she replies.

  My eyes adjust. Figures grow out of the darkness. Dozens of people crammed into the small hold down in the bowels of the ship, filthy and covered in piss and shit. A fucking way to keep slaves, I think, how many will survive to reach their destination? Children shriek and whimper. Pleading faces look to me, as if I can somehow save them.

  ‘Do we travel downriver or upriver now? I say to Bamdad.

  ‘Gods know,’ he replies. ‘I am sorry, my friend, I did not know.’

  ‘The
price is on my head alone.’

  ‘Of course. The rest of us are not worth a shit.’

  I laugh at that, though I know not why. Stuck in a hold in chains and still he can joke.

  For hours we sit in gloom. Breath comes shallow and painful from the blows I have taken and the pain in my ribs, perhaps broken but I hope not. I have known worse.

  Samira shuffles closer and looks at my wounds.

  ‘Bruised only,’ I say.

  She takes a corner of her tunic and wipes the blood from my face. Does the same for Bamdad.

  ‘How do you fare?’ I ask him.

  ‘Not as badly as you,’ he says. ‘I heard them say the Tanukh want you alive. They must want to make polite conversation over a game of dice.’

  ‘I will lose if they do.’

  ‘You always lose,’ he says. ‘It is why I have more money than you.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘You think we can buy our way out?’ he asks.

  ‘Perhaps.’ I am trying to think, to form a plan, gauge our options, but the pain makes it difficult and we have Samira with us. I brought her for a promise made long ago and now wish I had not. This is my choice, my decision. She is with me because I wanted this.

  ‘Not much fun, though, is it, buying your way out?’ Bamdad says.

  ‘Never is,’ I reply with a weak smile.

  ‘Tell me of Teymour,’ Samira asks. She is diverting me. Does she think my injuries worse than they are?

  ‘You were reading this tale,’ I say. ‘It was not meant to be spoken.’

  ‘Teymour was an arse,’ Bamdad interjects.

  ‘Helpful, Bamdad. He was a ruthless man, loyal to Julius. His heart, I learned, belonged only to Zenobia. But they could never be together, even if Zenobia had shared his affections. Teymour was a soldier, Zenobia a descendant of Cleopatra. She would rise higher than him, and she would see him fall.’

  ‘That is an elegant phrasing, Zabdas, I applaud you,’ Bamdad says, chuckling.

  I winced with pain. I think of the pack taken, the pages of my tale wrapped inside, the captain reading them, the words of a life I have begun to divulge. Perhaps it is better to keep stories to the spoken word; never enshrined, always living through the repetition, the changes, embellishments and interpretation of others.

  CHAPTER 9

  Zabdas - 256 AD

  I slipped in the dust, sword a finger’s breadth from my face, roll and pull myself up. I struck again, my sword slippery in hot hands, lost in a world of fire and rage and competition. My arm burned from the weapon’s weight. I pushed the pain to the back of my mind. Sweat poured down my face and I gasped for breath, desperate to master anger and frustration. I sliced forward and my opponent blocked, again and again, although I sensed him tiring with each stroke. The ground reflected bright white as I cut. My sight adjusted and I ducked. Pulled up, parried and slashed tirelessly, yet nothing gave. I found no relief, only weakness.

  Each morning I woke and followed the regime of all soldiers. I trained. I worked each muscle in my body, stretched every organ and limb, became the best I could be. And never did it feel enough. In battle the weak fall, and I was afraid that would be me.

  I heard men say not caring whether you live or die makes a man immortal; I said it made a man careless. But I had yet to see battle. In battle, I wondered, what would I see? How carefree would I become, how lost? I had never killed a man. I trained each day, but I was not sent to the frontier as other men were. I saw the rising sun on my sword in a training yard.

  I thrust and cut again. The fight would not last. My opponent’s strokes were sluggish. I finished with a series of strong, quick lunges. Karim fell back hard on the dusty ground.

  A voice. For a heartbeat my concentration evaporated. I glanced over my shoulder, then a heartbeat more and I found myself in the dirt, forearm shading my eyes from the sun, groaning.

  ‘Not often I see you on your back,’ Karim said. He offered a hand and I took it and pulled myself from the ground. ‘A win for me!’ He beamed. A little older, he was taller and stronger, but I was quicker, and usually won.

  I grunted, annoyed. Realised I had shown it and groaned again.

  Two years since Julius’ departure. It felt as raw as yesterday.

  I trained as he arranged for me, focussing on becoming a soldier and one day soon joining him in the south. Or hoping for his return. What I would have given for that, to see him again in Palmyra, enjoying the gardens of the palace or his home. To have him read to me.

  I brushed myself down as a king’s guard approached.

  ‘What does he want?’ Karim asked.

  ‘I requested a transfer to Al Quatif. So I expect he will inform me I am on night-watch.’

  ‘Again?’

  I shrugged. Karim did not understand. He would say nothing and stay from the frontier as long as possible, but I wanted to be with Julius, to fight for what he fought for and to have a place, an occupation.

  ‘Zabdas.’ The soldier gave me a curt nod. ‘Commander Worod requests you on night-watch. You are to attend the main wall, east gate, before the sun sets.’

  He turned and walked away. No more needed saying. I had performed the very same duty for the past six weeks.

  ‘Again? I do not understand you, brother. It will not change anything.’

  ‘I want to fight with Julius.’

  ‘With Julius! All you ever talk of is Julius. Is it worth the time you spend on the wall when you should be in your bed? You can barely stand, brother, you are so tired.’

  ‘Leave it be, Karim. I will ask until I am transferred or Julius returns.’

  ‘Dolt.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Petition the king. You are cousin of Zenobia, can she not persuade him?’

  ‘I already petition the king directly and still he will not let me go.’

  I picked up my boots and tunic.

  ‘I must go.’

  My requests were numerous. Each time the king ignored me, each time I was ordered by Commander Worod to take night-watch. Two years pushing myself to the brink of physical capability, taunts by my superiors, the slave mark burning upon my arm in the hot sun. I was a solider now, despite the mark of what I had been in a past life, yet I alone of my brothers that season had not been despatched to the frontier.

  The men followed paths. Some dictated by birth, others seeking fortune and position. Many did what was expected, and others because they knew no other way. Meskenit followed the path of love, and accepted her husband’s decision to travel south, and Teymour with him. And I understood both. But I could not understand Julius, and his choice of loyalty to country and king. He had despised Odenathus’ decision to stay under Roman rule, yet now he fought for him, for Rome and for the greater good. And I hated myself for not feeling the same, not understanding what it was to believe in something greater than oneself. Instead I was obsessed by the thought of having a father again, and I could not hold back. I wanted Julius to be proud, for me to be his equal. Perhaps it was a test, to be given my greatest desire and have it ripped from me.

  My veins ran hot. I struggled constantly to control my fear and sadness. But what burned most was guilt. Zenobia had been in the palace as I trained. Any distress she might have felt eluded me as I submerged in self-pity. She showed no emotion, but she must have felt something, and I should have seen it.

  Julius was her father, not mine.

  I stood on the city wall, looked out, wished my punishment more active so that I might stay awake. Cleaning the bathhouse? Perhaps not. Linen cloths clung to my face, protection from fine black sand and grit. I could barely see nor hear as wind whistled in my ears and stung my eyes. I had stood in the same position for hours and my legs had grown numb and I needed to piss. I walked to my left, to my right. The wall dropped the depth of several men. At my back, a ladder tormented. I had only to step down the rungs and I could go into the warmth, to drink and gamble the last of the night as my fellow soldiers did. No. I must stay; to
disobey orders would be punishable by death.

  Beside me, a torch flickered. Deep in my pocket, flint provided the means to re-light should the flames go out. I wished it were for warmth or even for light. To my right, a large beacon of dried timber, cotton and foliage lay dormant; my task to light the beacon and warn our soldiers should anyone approach the city. A pointless task. One that saw a man cold and hungry and wishing for his bed.

  Nothing stirred. Nothing but wind-whipped sands. Tiredness crept upon me. My eyes closed as I fought to remain alert. Stiff, cold fingers clutched a spear without thinking. Weeks of the same routine took their toll. During the day we performed our drills and duties as usual, but most were expected to stand night watch a day or two, before recouping lost sleep.

  I thought I heard my name as the wind whispered songs of long ago. Night spoke. I shook my head, eyes conjuring shapes on a black horizon.

  ‘Zabdas?’

  Again, my name. Tired ears deceived me.

  ‘Zabdas?’

  Clear and strong. I tried to turn, to look around and see who called, but exhaustion overwhelmed and I could do nothing but stare ahead.

  ‘Zabdas, is that you?’

  The wind whistled more than my name. With great effort I summoned the energy to turn and look down the ladder. Zenobia ascended.

  Awake, fully awake. I turned my back and looked out into the darkness once more. I did not wish to see her, to look upon her face and be reminded of Julius, of what I had lost, of what had been the past two years. To know she could have persuaded Odenathus to send me south but chose not to.

  ‘Zabdas,’ she shouted, ‘I have sent messages. You did not return them. Why not? It has been weeks since I saw you last.’

  The feeble torch provided little light, but it was enough. I turned to find her face creased with annoyance.

  ‘I am kept here by Commander Worod, despite petitioning the king to be despatched south to aid your father. Why is that?’

  ‘If Odenathus says you are not to go, then you should cease petitioning him. Perhaps your commanders do not think you ready.’ She spoke with little compassion. I bit my tongue to avoid retort.