The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1)

by JD Smith

  ‘The Tanukh? But your father defeated the Tanukh years ago. He told me as much himself.’

  ‘They have a new king now, a man named Jadhima, intent on taking the Euphrates and Palmyra’s trade. My father left two years ago, and I have not seen him since.’

  Regulus shook his head.

  ‘The Empire falls into dark times. We hear of new enemies rising and old enemies returning every day. There was a time when Rome knew only victory. Now everything is in chaos. Chaos!’ he repeated. ‘The gods do love it!’

  I was barely listening. My eyes and mind were fixed on the pale girl with paler hair and bright eyes. I had been used to Zenobia’s eyes, of my people’s eyes, dark and mysterious. Yet hers were blue and innocent; the sea in daylight under a radiant sun.

  ‘The east is not chaos,’ Zabbai said. ‘Odenathus holds the frontiers well, or as well as he can under the circumstances. We do not have enough men.’

  Zenobia hushed Zabbai with a hand. ‘Before we left Syria, we heard that one of my father’s friends, Teymour, had been injured during battle. I believe you knew him?’

  Aurelia glanced to me, her cheeks growing red, a nervous smile upon her lips.

  ‘I believe I did. A quiet fellow with a surly face, but amiable once you got to know him. I am sorry to hear of this, Zenobia. I thought your father well. The last time I heard, he searched for the Black Stone of Elagabal.’

  ‘Two years ago you would have been right,’ Zenobia said.

  I smiled back at Aurelia. I could not help myself. She had an innocence rarely witnessed. A bastard born, I pondered, yet she was exquisitely beautiful, soft hair, a heart-shaped face.

  ‘Did he find the stone?’ Regulus asked.

  Zenobia shook her head.

  The old man sighed. ‘That does not surprise me. He asked if I knew of anything that could assist him, anything that might give a clue as to its whereabouts. But one hears little when people believe the Stone is in Edessa!’ He caressed his cup. ‘Does Odenathus still believe it will save him from the Persians?’

  ‘Mina does, the king’s mother.’

  ‘Fools. They are all fools! I told him as much when I saw him last. He mentioned his disagreements with Odenathus. I have been involved in the politics of Rome for many years, but even so I sympathise with your father’s beliefs. Things here are not smooth, they are constantly changing. I think your father may be right. The Empire is on the brink of financial crisis. Whole legions are hit with plague as they attempt to defend against invasion. Emperors come and go with the wind. All backstabbing and murder and I make no joke! The best thing Odenathus could do is sever himself and secure his lands. Julius was right. He is always right. A fine man, your father. He said the king rules with passion. He is proud of him. I think he likes Odenathus a great deal, but I think Julius the wiser of the two.’

  We all sat in silence a moment, but the girl, Aurelia, had moved closer, so close I began to feel the warmth of her, my skin pinching at our proximity as I looked around at our silent group, wondering suddenly if they looked at me, at us, knowing my thoughts.

  ‘How is your sister? Hebony?’ Regulus went on.

  ‘She is married now, and with child.’

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful! You must give her my congratulations when next you see her.’

  He turned to Zabbai. ‘You are a general, no?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The scars give you away, my son. And you,’ he said to me, ‘who might you be?’

  I wrenched to the present and the conversation in the room, unsure of the words that had a moment before been spoken.

  ‘Apologies,’ I said, ‘it was a long journey.’

  ‘Of course,’ Regulus said. ‘I was asking your name.’

  ‘My name is Zabdas.’

  ‘You give little away, my boy. Are you a soldier?’

  ‘A soldier and Julius’ nephew.’

  Regulus looked a little surprised, glanced to Zenobia. ‘The boy your father has been looking for, he found him?’

  ‘In Yemen,’ Zenobia said. ‘A slave.’

  ‘Oh dear. Gods do like to play games,’ Regulus said. ‘I am glad he found you. He always wanted a son. Very good. Well now, we have the formalities over with, I think it best you tell me what you are doing so far from home.’

  ‘My father has never been a man of chance,’ Zenobia said. ‘If in Rome, I was to seek your help.’

  We explained how Persian forces breached the Syrian frontier, that our armies were no longer large enough to sustain a defence and would soon be crushed beneath the weight of invasion.

  ‘Disastrous,’ Regulus said. ‘I can scarce believe they have taken so many cities. I have heard murmur the threat increased. Indeed, the message came through only a week or so ago that you were pressed still further. The senate suggested you could hold, as you had always done.’

  Zenobia shook her head.

  Zabbai said: ‘That is no longer possible. Too much land has been taken, too many soldiers killed. I was there as Shapur defeated us and took our cities. I watched his hundred thousand strong army swipe ours from the north. He has amassed a substantial force; far greater than ours.’

  ‘And what is it I can do to help you?’ Regulus asked.

  ‘We need an audience with the emperor. He is in the city?’ Zabbai asked.

  ‘Valerian Caesar is at present. Ideally a campaign needs to be put in motion. For that he would be the best man to speak to, I should imagine. The senate will sit and talk of it much so I think a military man is your best option. As an ex-member of the senate I still have some sway, but not much. I will do my best, of course. It seems I have some messages to send. Aurelia!’

  ‘You wish to stay here tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Our men are camped outside the city,’ Zabbai said. ‘We will stay with them tonight.’

  ‘I will return tomorrow, Regulus,’ Zenobia said, ‘to see what news you have. Much gratitude, for everything you have done.’

  ‘Send word of your location, in case I need to reach you. Aurelia, my dear, fetch a messenger.’

  We wished Regulus luck, offered him thanks, and left. Gods willing he would gain audience with the emperor.

  ‘You think he will succeed?’ I asked Zenobia.

  ‘My father believed Regulus could be trusted to do everything in his power if the need arose.’

  She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and took a long, deep breath. I yawned. I longed for home, just one night back in Julius’ house with his family, my family. I thought of my promise to Meskenit two years ago; that I would keep Julius safe. How I had failed her. Julius was at the Euphrates. I was here. He had Teymour, but Teymour was injured, perhaps now dead.

  A breeze dragged across dirt and sand and grassy hills. It pulled Zenobia’s hair back from her face, the long, strong nose and black kohl eyes. Did she think of her family, of her father, of Syria’s danger? Did she trust the man, Regulus, on her father’s word? I could not tell. I could never decipher her thoughts, her words, her posture or expression. Perhaps she had misgivings, fretted whether he would gain audience with the emperor, or queried the character of this man, but in those moments I did not know if she questioned herself, doubted her ability to persuade an emperor, to gain an army, to ride home ahead of legions. She did not show it. Her almond eyes held confidence. Her persona always the same: untroubled.

  Sunlight vanished behind the tiled roofs, streets grew dark and grey, and night fell entirely as we reached camp.

  The following day, the three of us returned to the house of Regulus. The air hummed with activity, messengers coming and going, slaves rushed back and forth, carrying stylus and parchment and scrolls.

  ‘Ah, Zenobia, come in,’ Regulus said as we entered the sitting area. ‘I wondered what time you would arrive.’

  Zenobia, Zabbai and I sat down. Aurelia offered us refreshments. Her pale cheeks and golden waves were striking beside Zenobia’s black hair and dark complexion. Zenobia was sure and determined, b
ut Aurelia’s shoulders curled, her head turned slightly away. Her attitude one of timidity.

  Regulus rolled a parchment, slipped a ribbon around it and sealed it with a disc of wax. ‘Aurelia, please wait a moment.’

  He eased himself to unsure legs, and moved slowly to a writing desk. He pulled a blank papyrus toward him, scratched a few words, and handed it to the messenger.

  ‘Kindly see the messenger out would you, Aurelia. Thank you, my dear.’

  They left and Regulus turned his attention to us.

  ‘Well, I have made petitions on your behalf and I am hopeful that I can gain you an audience with Valerian Caesar in the coming weeks.’

  ‘Weeks?’ Zabbai said, and I felt my own energy ebb. ‘Gods be damned, we could be crushed before we reach home if we left this very day. Can nothing be done?’

  ‘I am afraid not. The emperor is in great demand. You are fortunate he is in the city.’

  Zenobia pulled her gaze from Regulus, stole a glance at me. Frustration hung on her face. Regulus’ respect and weight could no more gain a meet with the emperor than those who had come before.

  ‘Is a few weeks realistic?’ Zenobia asked. ‘Or does the emperor have no desire to see us?’

  ‘It is hard to say, I am no longer at the centre of politics, an old man only. Perhaps we should rest. There is little more we can do but wait. I can scarcely believe I have been the centre of such a whirl of information.’ He grinned. ‘Do not fret. Nothing more can be done today.’

  ‘You are right,’ Zabbai said. ‘We must wait.’

  ‘Stay here, until you are called up,’ Regulus suggested. ‘I would enjoy your company very much.’

  ‘I must return to my men,’ Zabbai replied, but Zenobia agreed to stay, and I with her.

  We ate, and talked and drank, through the late afternoon and into the evening. I enjoyed Regulus’ house, his curiosities, groaning library and hospitality. It was as if I were back in Julius’ house.

  ‘You are as beautiful as I expected you to be, Zenobia,’ Regulus said, his eyes watery. He took a long sip of wine and studied her. ‘A descendant of Cleopatra Selene. I should have expected no less.’

  ‘You are kind, Regulus. Perhaps one day you will do me the honour of visiting the Palmyrene court. You would like it.’ She smiled, warm and sincere.

  ‘Perhaps I shall make the effort.’

  We retired. I rolled from one side of my bed to the other, unable to sleep, staring at the blank walls of the room. I thought on our company outside the city. I lay in comfort as they lay in tents. I could not imagine our audience with the emperor now. With Valerian Caesar. Day would turn to endless day, weeks to months. Success was impossible. And yet I could not imagine returning defeated. We had to return with troops. We could not fail.

  Morning came and with it the sound of the city. The noise seemed louder than the day before and my head pounded from too much thought and too little sleep. I left my room and found Zenobia and Regulus talking, but I did not join them.

  I walked through to the rear of the house, looking for a water pump. I entered a communal area, women washing clothes, tradesmen hurrying back and forth, the smell of bread baking filling the air.

  ‘Merchants arrived from Syria this very morning. They talk of the Persian threat. They say you are close to collapse, that you have lost cities already. They claim the Persians raid and trade suffers.’

  My heart jumped. I turned to see Aurelia, a bucket beside her. She ladled two cups of water and offered me one. I drank, cold and clean and when I had finished she offered more and I splashed my face and neck.

  ‘They are right,’ I said. ‘Our king sent us to Rome to beg for reinforcements. He has lost thousands of men the past few months. Cities too,’ I conceded. ‘He cannot hold for long.’

  ‘Regulus will do his best,’ she said, voice soft as golden hair. ‘Though I daresay by midday the whole of Rome will know how close you are to collapse. The mob talks.’

  She passed me a cloth. I dried my hands. Merchants talked, I thought, and wondered if we stood on firmer ground, that the emperor would now have to act.

  I handed the cloth back to Aurelia.

  ‘I have never seen the east,’ she said. ‘It is as glorious as they say?’

  ‘I saw Palmyra for the first time when I was thirteen. It is a beautiful city. Marble and statues and stone, mosaics in the streets, spice and silk and anything you can imagine in the marketplace. The people are friendly, too; the merchants proud. Palmyra thrives.’

  ‘You love your city,’ she mused. ‘Is it more beautiful than Rome?’

  I thought to say no. I did not wish to offend the Roman girl, but I could not lie to innocent eyes. We walked back into the house and I said, ‘I think it so. Where I am from, luxuries are commonplace. Every corner of Syria is beautiful beyond comprehension. Palmyra was not always my home, but I am honoured to call it so. To see it fall …’

  ‘Where did you live before Palmyra?’

  ‘I was born in Egypt.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  The slave mark upon my arm burned and with it shame grew. I could not utter the words, the story of my past, and explain how and why I found myself in Palmyra.

  ‘My family are in Syria,’ I said. ‘Julius, Zenobia …’

  ‘You are fortunate indeed.’

  She reminded me of Zenobia when I first met her in Julius’ home; her expression free of worry and full of youth.

  ‘And you,’ I asked, ‘you are a student?’

  ‘Regulus teaches me languages, philosophy and mathematics. I have been in Regulus’ house a long time. He is a private man, and I think perhaps I care for him more than he cares for me now. I am loath to ever leave his home for he is the best of men.’

  We stood in the corridor. I could hear Regulus and Zenobia’s muted conversation.

  ‘Your father, why are you not with him?’

  I could have kicked myself for the bluntness of my question, my ignorance of the politics of her birth, but she answered freely enough.

  ‘My father is Dux Equitum, Commander of the Cavalry in the north. He fights the Goths. Right now they celebrate another victory.’ She grimaced, as if war had no place. ‘My father knows I reside in Regulus’ home, that I am tutored by him, but he has never visited this place, never once wondered what his bastard daughter might look like or whether she bears any resemblance to him at all.’

  ‘I am sorry for that.’

  ‘There is no need. It is as it has always been. I will never be recognised by him. And you, Zabdas, you have always been a soldier?’

  My name on foreign lips, the roll and mispronunciation, warmed me.

  ‘Almost always,’ I said evasively.

  My past weighed heavily and I craved the touch of Aurelia’s skin. That it might offer comfort, gentle and warm. It seemed her mother had secured her an education, as Julius had Zenobia. And yet neither Zenobia’s nor Aurelia’s past was mine.

  ‘What do you not say?’ she asked.

  I sighed. A soldier, a cousin to Zenobia, a man now, but still …

  I rolled down the leather cuff I wore on my arm, the slave mark beneath. Hebony’s concoctions had seen it fade, yet it was no less visible. A lurid mark of the rank I had once held.

  ‘You are a slave?’ Her face fell, eyes shocked. ‘A slave.’

  She could not take her eyes from the mark, the brand of the man I was, and I could not escape it any more than I could wash the burn from my flesh.

  ‘I was,’ I said.

  ‘But no more?’

  ‘I was not born a slave.’ For a moment I felt different, defensive. ‘I was taken a slave when my parents were killed. Five years old,’ I said, and I was angry. Not at her, not at this beautiful creature before me, but at what had been, the inescapable brand I had been given. ‘I am Zenobia’s cousin. Her father found me and took me back to Syria.’

  She smiled. Reached out. I pulled my arm away but her fingers were upon it, the inside of my ar
m, my wrist, tracing the scars.

  I had not shocked her, she did not recoil. I watched her face, pale and soft and delicate, eyes downturned. Long, soft lashes resting on pink cheeks.

  We would be leaving soon, I told myself. And it pained me to think it.

  Regulus bustled in, grinning.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I have had word. You have been granted audience with the emperor in the morning.’

  I felt Aurelia beside me. If the emperor saw us in the morning, we could well be leaving by the afternoon. I should have been overjoyed at the news, but I was torn. I craved a few moments more with this Roman girl.

  Regulus sent a slave to fetch Zabbai. He arrived the following morning, relief evident.

  ‘We have what we came for,’ he said.

  ‘We have an audience,’ Zenobia corrected. ‘We need soldiers.’

  We set out, a slave to guide us, walking through streets that looked almost like those of Palmyra. Clean stone paved our way, the finer dressed citizens dotting about here and there. Even the slaves wore better clothes, washed and clean and cared for. Soldiers ushered beggars on, and litters carried many aristocrats down into the city.

  At the house of Valerian Caesar, armed praetorians granted entrance. A servant greeted and exchanged words with Zenobia. She handed him the scroll from Odenathus and he nodded and disappeared from sight.

  In due course the servant scurried back. We rose and followed him through the enormous house. The interior bore resemblance to Julius’ home. Floors of polished marble reflecting whole rooms and carefully positioned statues rang of good taste.

  We came to a halt. A doorway of solid wood blocked our path. The servant opened the door fully, stepped aside, bowed, and announced:

  ‘Zabbai, commanding officer in the Palmyrene army and Zenobia Julia Zabdilas, Zabdas Zabdilas.’

  We filed past, into the room, and the servant closed the door behind us and left. Inside, praetorian guards stood either side of the door. Shelves lined the walls, books, maps, plans, official documents, the odd ill-placed bust and figurine. My eyes came to rest on a man behind a large desk, his head buried in scrolls, two more praetorians behind him.