by JD Smith
‘Two years sweating on the training grounds in order to become a soldier, Zenobia. I took every opportunity given to become more than a slave, more than when your father found me. All so I could go south to be with him. What else can I do?’
‘It is why I am here.’
My stomach lurched. ‘You have word from him?’
‘I have received …’ she began, but a rumbling disturbed the desert winds and we both turned to the blackness beyond the walls.
Nothing but blackness.
I picked up the torch and touched flame to dry tinder. The rumble turned to a rhythmic beat that soon filled the night. Horses. How many I could not tell. Yellow flames gripped and writhed and lit the night. Surprise and curiosity held me there, watching, waiting to see who approached. Never once in my nights on the wall had I known the gates open after dark.
The horizon began to move, shimmering like water.
The fire burned, brighter and lighter. Men shouted from below. Soon more fires raged along the walls. A horn sounded within the city as firelight flooded the night.
‘Behind the wall,’ a rough voice yelled.
Worod, the city commander waved us down. If enemy approached they would see us, glowing watchmen in our own firelight.
Worod ran the length of the wall toward the gates, shouting the command over and over. We all backed down behind the safety of the stone. Zenobia peered over, waiting for the first recognition of those approaching.
‘Friend or foe?’ she said.
‘We will find out soon enough. We are prepared for any attack.’
My words were true, we were ever prepared for attack, but still I felt my stomach clench at the unknown.
Behind us, behind Zenobia and the long line of soldiers atop the wall, a din sounded. A rustle of movement as the city woke.
Citizens came out of their homes half-dressed, bleary-eyed and confused.
‘The beacons!’ they shouted. ‘They are alight!’
Soldiers ordered people back to their beds, away from the wall, to keep silence. Few obeyed. They waited as we waited, blankets clung to shoulders, children crying or dancing or chasing, not realising the danger they may be in.
Darkness intensified the wind and pounding hooves. Daylight would have lessened fear, I thought, and we might have seen who approached. The city behind us would have been alive with trade, and I would not have been stood at the wall to witness the approach. I could not see their distance. I could see no standards, no colours.
The beacons roared and each one lit brought more people running. Archers swarmed into position. Everything was precise; every move executed perfectly. So much happened, but only a few moments passed and we were ready.
With my spear in hand and a sword at my waist, I waited, Zenobia beside me. I felt frustration, stuck in Palmyra when she could have changed this. She could have done something. I had fallen in love with the city when first I saw it, but now … now I wanted only to leave, to be in the south. Two years in the palace, she could have spoken with the king, changed his mind. Tears pricked. The wind, I thought, but I knew it was not. The years and training had tired me, matured me. I was no longer a boy and I had my freedom, but with it I could do little. Was that Zenobia’s fault? Perhaps not, she too was bound to Palmyra, away from her father and her mother. With an apology on my tongue I looked for her. A few feet away she stood talking with Odenathus.
He wore a tunic tied with a belt, hair dishevelled, and a sword hanging limp at his side. His injuries had faded in the two years since I first met him, and he had been contemplating his return to the frontier. It would be soon, I hoped.
Zenobia returned to me as Odenathus pushed through the crowds.
‘He will not say,’ she said, ‘but it is clear he has no knowledge of who approaches.’
Time had seen Zenobia grow tall and slender, thick hair framing her face in lustrous waves of raven black. Since her father’s departure we had spent little time in one another’s company, and each time we did she seemed older, more mature, more determined.
Commands sounded and the archers touched arrows to their bows. Despite her cloak Zenobia shivered. More commands and a ripple of talk.
The men approaching were Bedouin warriors. Our warriors.
As the gates opened and the crowd swarmed, Zenobia and I pushed through. I could see Odenathus framed in the gateway. He wore no armour, no rich cloths, yet still he looked like a king. He stood with authority and I imagined myself bowing to the man I disliked. Worod hovered in his shadow, fully dressed and adorned with jewels.
A small unit of soldiers, six in all, slowed. Their heads lolled, their horses bloodied. Crimson swords and spears hung at their sides. Faint smiles crossed their faces at the recognition of home, but they were shadowed with what had passed.
One man spurred his horse forward, slid with difficulty from the saddle and stumbled forward to embrace the king. They parted and the city fell silent.
Odenathus clutched the man with rough hands.
‘Herodes!’
Defiant eyes looked up into the king’s.
‘Father.’
Odenathus patted his son’s shoulders and beckoned the soldiers to follow him. Slaves intercepted horses.
They had travelled as darkness fell. The king must have known they brought ill news; the expressions upon their faces, what else could it be? Worod, small compared to the other two men, put a hand on the king’s shoulder and whispered. A moment later he dismissed the night-watch and installed fresh men.
Odenathus walked back through the city, the six warriors around him, crowds following behind. Zenobia and I joined them. Gossip filtered through the streets. What was the fate of husbands and fathers and brothers? Who lived and who did not? Were the enemy close? Prayers were cried out to the gods.
At the palace steps the king climbed to the top and turned to his people. His face tired yet hardened, he said, ‘Citizens of Palmyra, people of Tadmor. Our warriors return from our frontier. From bloodshed, terror and death. They have seen the Persians, have faced them in battle, smelled the breath of the enemy, and stood and fought for your homes, your families, your trade and your wealth. They protect mighty Rome from eastern enemies. They have our respect and honour. I ask that you leave them in peace this night. They have travelled far, and need rest.’ Odenathus spoke with a force that forbade disobedience. The atmosphere tensed. The crowd listened.
Next to Odenathus, Herodes’ head hung with exhaustion, face pale, muscular form limp, dirt and blood and the remnants of battle upon him.
‘Go back to your homes,’ Odenathus continued. ‘The defenders of our city shall have rest and recuperation. Tomorrow, I shall speak with them.’
He scanned the mass of faces, his gaze a personal reassurance. Then he retired.
Zenobia clutched my arm and pulled me up the steps behind them.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I wish to know what is happening.’
‘What do you mean?’
She grazed me a look of exasperation.
‘I have not been open with you, Zabdas. You moved out of the palace.’
She did not sound hurt, her voice betrayed nothing, yet I sensed her disappointment. I had rooms in the palace beside Zenobia’s, but I had chosen to move to the barracks so that I might forget my frustrations at staying in Palmyra and instead immerse myself in the army.
‘My father did not simply go to war at the king’s bidding as you believe. He made a bargain with Odenathus: if he agreed to become a general once more, and lead men to the Euphrates, I would have my father’s voice on the Palmyrene council. I was to put forth my father’s opinion on all matters, sit in their meetings, oversee documents sent to Rome, listen to the tax levies on grain, spice and silk …’
‘Apologies, Zenobia, I did not know.’
‘Apologies are not necessary, Zabdas, but I have missed your company. We are here in Palmyra together, are we not? And you are my cousin, I would have your support.’
I thought back on Julius’ departure. He had requested I meet with him before he left. Perhaps he would have explained, but I was too hurt to see him, too afraid of saying goodbye.
‘The bargain is a delicate one,’ she said. ‘Odenathus never wholly agreed. A woman on the council would not be well received by other councillors, Herodes in particular. My father sacrificed his retirement so that his dream might ignite, that I could have some weight in this city and make a difference.’
I could see Odenathus, Worod and the soldiers up ahead.
‘The king said no one would be questioned until the morning.’
‘Odenathus’ army returns in tatters. He will not wait.’
She looked to the ceiling and rubbed her forehead.
I glanced back, through the open doors of the palace, to the street and the crowds beginning to disperse.
We filed into a dark room as slaves lit lamps and men took seats. Zenobia remained standing.
Odenathus looked at her long and hard before his eyes flickered to the men in the room.
‘For the benefit of those who have been at the frontier, I introduce Zenobia, daughter of General Zabdilas, and Zabdas, nephew of the same. Now, let us speak of the matter in hand. Herodes?’
Heads turned to Odenathus’ son. He reclined in a chair, giant-like. A crooked nose sat upon a square face, much as his father’s but for the lack of scars and arrogant squint of his eyes.
Herodes regarded Zenobia and me, wondering perhaps if he ought to speak in front of us, licking his lips as if the very taste of our presence offended.
Servants came with bowls of water and cloths and set them down at the side of the room. Herodes stood up, walked over to one, washed his face and hands, and turned back to the room.
‘The daughter of General Zabdilas?’ Herodes mused. ‘A legendary man.’
Zenobia’s expression remained measured.
‘Sit down, Herodes,’ Odenathus commanded, anger lacing his words.
Herodes sat on the edge of his seat. He paused. ‘The Persians have taken Nisibis.’
The five other soldiers hung their heads.
‘How did this happen?’ Odenathus demanded.
‘We could do nothing, Father.’
‘Nothing?’ Odenathus shouted. ‘Nothing? How in the name of Bel could you do nothing? There is everything you could have done. Do you know what will happen if the Persians reach Antioch? They will have our path blocked. No more trade with Rome, no more trade at all. They will take everything. This palace,’ he said, moving towards his son, ‘will be nothing more than an empty shell. Gods damn you, Herodes, I trusted you to keep the frontier safe whilst I was gone.’
‘You should have been back months ago,’ Herodes retorted. ‘You claimed yourself well enough.’
‘A man cannot be everywhere at once, Herodes.’
‘The palace had greater need?’
Odenathus ignored the jibe. ‘How many men are left in Carrhae?’
Herodes opened his mouth, closed it again. The other soldiers remained silent.
‘How many?’ Odenathus shouted.
‘A few survived,’ Herodes muttered.
The king pulled a hand through his beard. He looked to the floor, to the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
‘My Lord—’ Worod said.
The king raised a hand. He opened his eyes and I thought I saw tears. He bent over his son, their faces almost touching.
‘It was a mistake to leave you in command of the army in Carrhae.’ Any early pride the king had shown evaporated. Herodes looked to argue. ‘They were my men. Soldiers I have spent my life fighting beside. Men I would call friends. How many must die before you become a leader? Twenty thousand, fifty, a hundred?’ A loud crack sounded. A gasp from Herodes followed.
‘Get out,’ Odenathus said to him. ‘I cannot look upon you. All of you, get out.’
Herodes hurried from the room. Four of the soldiers followed. Only one remained.
Beard and face were thick with blood, bulging arms bore marks old and new, and he wore more remnants of battle than the others, and beneath them his mouth set in a grim line.
Odenathus said, ‘I have known you many years, Zabbai, my friend, and I trust you more than I trust Herodes. Can I trust you now to tell me the truth? Tell me how my son lost the city of Nisibis.’
‘Your son fought bravely, my Lord …’ he said in a husky voice.
‘And yet?’
‘He made grave errors. He ordered all troops north of the city. We heard rumours from the nomads that the Persians were moving to take Nisibis. He called men to join him from Samosata, Carrhae, Edessa, and Singara, where I was stationed.
‘We warned him of the dangers if he consolidated the troops, but he insisted upon it. Once we arrived at the city, he gave orders to move a few miles north. If we had stayed behind the walls, we might have remained intact, but we would also have lost the surrounding land. He moved the army to the tip of the river, but we were not strong enough to hold the Persian force. Shapur himself led them. I have never seen an army so large. We were pushed back into the crook where the river splits, and it was there we were annihilated.’ He rubbed his face with both hands and gave a small groan. ‘I left reserves in Singara. Some managed to flee there. Then we rode for Palmyra to bring you the news. The Persians now number more than a hundred thousand.’
A hundred thousand.
Odenathus closed his eyes. ‘A force larger than we have known.’
‘What of the citizens?’ Zenobia asked.
‘I do not know,’ Zabbai replied, shaking his head. ‘The city was taken, that I know.’
‘You could have sought refuge within the city, protected it,’ Worod said.
Zabbai’s mouth thinned. ‘Once pushed back as far as the city, we were few and the enemy many. The citizens locked the gates. We could not retreat inside.’
Odenathus shook his head. ‘They turned against you, their own countrymen? How could they?’
‘Do we despatch men north?’ Worod asked.
‘There is little choice,’ Odenathus replied. ‘I will go myself. And we must warn Rome; they need to know of the Persian position. I pray they now send aid.’
‘You do not have enough men to combat so many,’ Zenobia said, her voice concerned.
‘You know little of war, girl,’ Worod replied.
‘Perhaps you can enlighten me as to our position, Commander,’ she replied. ‘Do we have enough?’
His silence was reply enough.
‘Call on the tribes,’ I said. ‘There must be hundreds in Syria. Call upon them for aid.’
‘You are right, Zabdas,’ Zenobia said, touching my arm. ‘We must call upon our fellow tribes. We are all under threat, they must see this. They will suffer too at the hands of the Persians if we cannot push them back.’
‘Rome will not listen,’ Worod replied.
‘We are in crisis, my friend,’ Odenathus said. ‘They will have to come or their eastern frontier will fall. When they do, together we shall finally crush the Sassanians.’
‘They will not,’ Worod said. ‘You waste your time. They have not sent an army before, what makes you think they will now?’
‘I have confidence.’
‘But how will you persuade them?’ Worod persisted.
‘In the past I have sent men loyal and trusted to me. They have been insufficient to persuade Rome. But I have come to trust others.’ Odenathus turned to Zenobia.
I could not hide my shock.
‘You go to Rome?’
She placed her hand on my arm.
‘I will. Odenathus and I have discussed it of late. Rome needs to be informed of the Persian position.’
‘Your father left you safely in Palmyra,’ I said, my voice quiet, weak, scarcely believing her words. ‘I do not think he imagined you going on errands to Rome.’
‘I will leave tomorrow.’
‘Zabdas, you are to go with her,’ Odenathus said. ‘You will form her personal gua
rd. You will travel more quickly without slaves and servants, and I know Julius would approve of your accompanying her.’
Odenathus’ expression turned thoughtful.
‘Zabbai, now that you are home, I would have you go too.’
Zabbai nodded.
I could not think. Zenobia, Julius; I could not keep them both safe thousands of miles apart. How could I embrace this new turn, this other path, and journey with Zenobia, forgetting the south? I could not leave her, and the king gave little choice.
‘I will go,’ I confirmed.
‘Keep her safe,’ Odenathus said.
Zenobia stood tall and proud, despite her youth, flickering with energy, no need of protection.
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘It seems we have our tasks set out,’ the king said. ‘Worod, Zabbai, in the morning we will begin uniting the tribes of Syria.’
His words told of an easy feat. I saw a huge undertaking. Each tribe needed to be found, persuaded, bribed or coerced into joining the warriors of Palmyra and the Roman legions already stationed in the region in a bid to scourge the land of Persians. My suggestion, but I did not now imagine it could be achieved.
Odenathus clapped my shoulder and smiled grimly, a familiarity I found uncomfortable.
‘Everything will fall into place,’ he said.
He glanced at Worod and Zabbai, but they posed no objection to his plans. He kissed Zenobia’s forehead.
‘You have my gratitude.’
She looked up at him, confirmation of the evening’s events on her face, the exchange one perhaps of friendship; the gratitude of a man to the daughter of a friend. But I knew the meaning of the look, the kiss. Zenobia had secured her position in the senate hall and the king’s affections.
Surprise hit me, then complete understanding. I had not seen it before because I had not been in the palace. Would it have made a difference had I been? I did not know. Zenobia knew she would rise, and she had. Her match was destined to be a man of political influence, but I had convinced myself it would be Herodes, the young prince of this beautiful city, and not the mature father, married once already.
Odenathus said, ‘As you are here, Zabdas, I would ask for your assistance tonight.’
With little choice I nodded.
