by JD Smith
‘Zabdas, it is good to see you,’ he said.
‘And you,’ I replied, earlier words brushed aside by good news.
‘Please, continue,’ Regulus urged Zenobia.
Zenobia smiled. ‘Gallienus meets with his father at this very moment. I believe he can persuade him, that we will have forces re-distributed to Syria. I sought Zabbai to give him the news.’
‘That is wonderful,’ Regulus said.
Zenobia slid her cloak from her shoulders and laid it across a couch.
Zabbai said, ‘We can hope. Valerian is the supreme emperor. If he chooses to stand firm, there may be nothing Gallienus can do. You need to remember that Gallienus commands in the west. The east is Valerian’s problem.’
‘Have faith,’ Zenobia said.
Zabbai grumbled, low and inaudible.
‘By the gods,’ Regulus exclaimed, ‘we might yet have the answer we need.’
And we would return home …
I looked back to see Aurelia standing in the doorway, eyes pooling and pink. She smiled at me and I knew joy and sadness simultaneously.
‘What happened?’ I asked, turning back. ‘Had Gallienus not already spoken with his father of Syria?’
‘It has been months since Gallienus last saw him,’ Zenobia said. ‘They need to talk of other matters primarily, but he understands our situation. He assured me he would speak with Valerian on our behalf. The city is already buzzing with the excitement of his return. And his victory.’
Regulus sat down and let out a long breath.
‘Well, Gallienus is a more sensible man than his father,’ he said, contradicting himself. ‘And more successful in war. This is what the Empire needs; stories of heroes and victories, not another frontier under attack.’
‘It does,’ Zabbai agreed. ‘Gallienus may be the man to provide just that. But I am still reluctant to believe he can change his father’s mind.’
‘Rome needs a true warrior in order to rid itself of enemies,’ Zenobia said, ignoring Zabbai.
Regulus looked reproachful. ‘It needs a leader, not necessarily a warrior.’
Zenobia nodded. ‘If Valerian agrees with his son and decides to send forces east, how long until legionaries reach our frontier?’
Zabbai shrugged. ‘It depends. He may take legions from Rome, or redistribute men already close to Syria. Either way it will take months.’
Night passed, then the day. Still we heard nothing. Celebrations in aid of Gallienus’ return still filled the streets outside weeks after his return, singing and the smell of freshly baked bread, and traders knocked on Regulus’ door offering goods.
In the evening Zabbai sat beside me as we ate, the atmosphere light and enjoyable, despite talk of our plight.
‘Are all Syrian soldiers great warriors?’ Aurelia asked.
‘We have many,’ Zenobia replied. She leaned close to her avid listener, touched her golden hair with interest. ‘To be a soldier of Palmyra — a Bedouin warrior — is a great privilege. We have distinguished philosophers, too. And priest kings rule some of our lands.’
‘And is your king a warrior or a philosopher?’
‘A warrior,’ Zenobia said. ‘He fights as I am told the Greeks do, without fear of death. Palmyrenes fight for their families and their homes. They fight because it is an honour and duty. And they die with swords in their hands.’
‘Do you fight like a Palmyrene, Zabdas?’
‘He does,’ Zenobia replied for me.
Embarrassed, I said, ‘I have yet to see battle.’
Zenobia frowned. ‘Your heart, Zabdas, can match any Palmyrene’s for courage and honour. You are an Egyptian after all.’ Although she paid me great compliment, Zenobia’s words were firm.
Wine flowed. We spoke of great rulers, the Empire, Persians, Tanukh, Goths, Britons, food, philosophers, and slavery. We talked of everything and the night wore on and Zabbai clapped me on the shoulder and pulled me away from the rest of the group.
‘I do not know how she did it, but Gallienus will be talking with his father. How in the name of Bel did you walk up to a marching army, demand an audience with the co-emperor, and return here victorious? For the love of the gods, her father never came close to securing aid.’
Swaying slightly, my head whirring, I said, ‘I cannot tell you, Zabbai, for I do not know. I think she is blessed,’ I slurred. ‘She talks about the gods and Selene and their favour …’
‘The gods! Ha!’
I nodded slowly. ‘Who knows?’
‘Not me, I can tell you. The men, they like her.’
‘Everyone likes her.’
‘It is more than that. They hold respect. They believe she can achieve anything.’
We retired, hoping dawn would bring news. I wanted a moment alone with Aurelia, but I could not find it, and so I bade her a polite goodnight. I could not stop thinking of her, looking at her, but every time she crossed my mind my heart grew heavy. She was Roman, she would stay in Rome and marry. But if she felt as I did, she would not wish me to leave.
My thoughts dwelt on her above all else. I became tormented by my own desires, my own inability to flush thoughts of her from my mind. It felt natural to want her. It felt simple.
I stirred from sleep, morning chill on my shoulder and the room dark. Pounding sounded. Half-dressed, I left my room to find Regulus, confused and bewildered.
Aurelia appeared behind him. ‘There is someone at the door,’ she said.
We hastened down the passageway. I stole a glance at Aurelia, tousled hair, pale skin, a blanket wrapped about her. Zabbai appeared with a knife in his hand, Zenobia beside him. Zabbai was fully dressed, perhaps having slept as such. Zenobia wore a light shift.
Thudding again.
‘Roman soldiers?’ Zabbai asked.
Regulus, expression fearful, shook his head. ‘I do not know.’
‘It could be Gallienus.’ Zenobia said.
I hoped for the latter.
A slave moved forward and opened the door.
‘Move aside,’ the visitor said.
Regulus moved forward. ‘Who are you and what is your business here? This is no hour to call upon good citizens.’
Aurelia tugged my arm, gestured for Zenobia and Zabbai to follow. We backed down the corridor and she pulled a tapestry aside, pushed us behind and let the woven wall drop back into place. Hidden behind a false wall, I could not breathe, musty smell overwhelming and the urge to sneeze tormenting. My eyes adjusted to the dim light and I looked to my companions.
‘Stand aside, old man,’ came a voice, harsh and authoritative, but I sensed a faint quaver.
The door banged open. Aurelia gasped and feet shuffled back down the hallway.
‘What now?’ Zabbai whispered, raising his knife.
Zenobia put a finger to her lips and frowned.
‘I insist you leave my home,’ Regulus said.
The other man spoke, quiet and inaudible.
‘They are searching for us,’ I mouthed.
Zenobia nodded.
I looked for another way out, a passage to another part of the house, to a hidden room or outside, but found only solid walls and cobwebs.
‘Something has happened,’ I said. ‘It is too quiet.’
We fell silent. Zenobia’s breath on my cheek. I leaned toward the opening, straining to hear. Nothing.
We seemed to wait an eternity in the darkness before footsteps sounded and the tapestry was pulled aside. To my relief, only Regulus and Aurelia stood before us.
‘Apologies, my friends. They took some persuading to leave.’
Zenobia put her hands on Regulus’ shoulders. ‘What news? What is happening?’
‘I am not sure,’ he replied, a hundred years on his old face. ‘It seems there is a warrant out for your arrest.’
‘We need to leave,’ Zabbai said. ‘It does not matter why they want to arrest us. And you are in equal danger, Regulus.’
‘Ha,’ Regulus replied, ‘I am in no danger.’
‘Zabbai is right,’ Zenobia said. ‘This house is no longer safe.’
I opened my mouth to speak, to agree that we should leave, that Regulus and Aurelia ought to find another place to stay, with friends or family, until our presence had past. But I did not, for a knock sounded at the door.
Gallienus himself had come to the house of Regulus.
CHAPTER 12
Samira - 290 AD (Present day)
I cannot deny I am afraid, that the men upon this ship drive fear into my heart and anger into my soul. Grandfather is injured. He tries not to let it show but I know he is as I dab blood from his nose with my skirts. He is not as young as he once was, and he forgets.
I think of the captain, his hand upon my breast, his breath upon my face, and bile rises in my throat. Bamdad is looking at me. He sees what I am thinking, and I am embarrassed by the look he gives me, of pity.
‘I am all right,’ I say to him. ‘Do not look at me that way.’
‘None of us are all right,’ he replies. ‘What a fucking mess.’
I recoil at his tone. Jovial Bamdad, never serious, always humorous, and I know then we will be lucky to survive.
I try to unfasten the manacles on my grandfather’s wrists and ankles, to free him of his bonds, but it is no use.
‘Leave them,’ he says.
I sit back, despair filling me, but we cannot let them take us and claim a price for my grandfather and Bamdad. How can we escape, I wonder, and set my mind to positive thought.
Shouting above and orders flying back and forth across the deck and the chant of the oar slaves. So much noise I cannot concentrate. A splash. The anchor dropped? The people about us stir, children wailing and whimpering and crying as mothers try to comfort them.
The hatch opens and daylight pours into the black hole in which we huddle.
‘Move, move, up you come. Out.’
Bamdad and I help grandfather to his feet and we shuffle forward. He looks incapable of climbing the steps, bound so tight, but somehow he manages. Screams of fear ring behind me, and I try to block them out.
We step onto the deck into fierce, blinding light and I cannot see and then the colours of the sea and the grain of the ship slide into focus and we are tied off to another boat.
‘Not you,’ the captain says as we shuffle forward with the slaves.
Sticks crack against slaves’ backs and I wince and close my eyes a moment. I cannot bear this, the pain caused and life traded. A woman darts to the edge of the ship, but she does not make it as one of the crew grabs her hair and hauls her back from the edge. Her cries fill the air as he slaps her hard across the face, over and again.
The screams cease.
We watch in silence as eight men with faces masked against the wind board from the other ship. They inspect the slaves and murmur to the captain and one looks to us with black eyes. The captain tells him who my grandfather is, who Bamdad is, I am sure. I bite my lip to stave the tears I know will come. I can be strong, I think, but I cannot. We must escape and I must ensure my grandfather and Bamdad are not sold for a hefty ransom; that my own virtue remains intact.
I look to the sea and escape. The horizon calls and I feel myself answer it.
We wait for what seems like my whole life and a second, whilst the captain talks with the men of the other ship, negotiating I am sure a price for the slaves he carries.
‘I would see us free of this,’ grandfather says.
‘We will be,’ Bamdad replies, ever sure.
‘Shut your fucking mouths,’ our guard sneers, his teeth yellow and his breath rancid and I recoil. ‘I will have you,’ he says to me. ‘We all will have a taste of you before long.’
I maintain a blank expression, the one I imagine Zenobia wore many times.
Grandfather takes my hand. Women sing and the waves lap. The captain’s men roam the deck, and our voices are more hushed as they pass.
‘What will we do?’ I whisper.
‘Hold tight, Rubetta,’ Bamdad replies.
The door of the captain’s cabin swings open and slaves gasp and murmur and strain against heavy bonds. The captain smirks and I suspect he has made a good sale. He speaks with his men and commands are shouted and the slaves are herded like cattle, clubs and sticks wielded.
‘Something is not right,’ grandfather says.
‘What is it?’ I say. ‘What do you see?’
‘I do not know.’
Men stand on the other ship, their faces, too, wrapped black against the salt wind. They do not move but for the wind plucking at cloth. Sailors urge the slaves forward and heat rises in my neck and face as I will whatever happens next not to.
The slaves board, every last one; all screaming, crying, looking at the guardians of death standing over them and I glance at spiked heads along the side of the boat and I am afraid.
The man with black eyes walks back across the plank to our ship and I cannot bear to look but neither can I take my own eyes from him.
‘You have them all,’ the captain says.
The man nods.
‘The gold ...’ the captain prompts.
A sword whistles from a scabbard and the captain takes a step back and looks behind him for the support of his crew. It is too late. The masked men have boarded our ship
‘What is happening?’ the captain asks, nervous and unsure.
The black-eyed man reaches up and pulls down the mask from his face.
‘I owe you nothing.’
‘Fuck the gods,’ Bamdad says. ‘Bel’s fucking balls. I cannot believe it.’
‘Mehercule!’ grandfather says. ‘It is Rostram.’
‘We had an agreement!’ the captain shouts.
‘I do not abide by your laws or your code,’ the masked man replies.
The captain spits on the ground and I am confused. I want to ask who Rostram is.
The captain shouts, ‘I want my gold or I will have your guts trailing the deck of that ship.’ But he can say no more. With one sweep of Rostram’s sword, the captain’s head is severed from his body and thumps onto the deck.
Dozens of men run forward to meet the crew and their swords are held high and they are screaming a war cry loud and long as they slice at the crew and do not stop.
Rostram comes to us and grins. He is wild with death and hunger and I am uncertain of him, but he bends down and frees my grandfather and Bamdad and they embrace one another as brothers and he places a sword in each of their hands.
‘By gods, I did not expect to see you here. It has been a long time,’ he says.
‘Bel’s balls,’ Bamdad says again, ‘you are right about that.’
Grandfather throws his cloak to the floor and takes the sword hilt in both hands and roars to the sky, crying out, letting the moment consume him, and Bamdad does the same and I know that death will follow.
Shouts and screams and cries of pain reverberate on the waters. Years fade from my grandfather as he moves. He is lithe and he is fast and he kills. He is no philosopher or merchant, he is the man I have always known him to be, a soldier and a general and I see him move as he had been trained to as a boy, the same age as me. Does he owe these men and women, these slaves, something because he was once a slave? I cannot be sure but I see him and watch and whatever other reason he might have, he was born a warrior.
I realise I am alone, the slaves are all aboard the other boat and they are frightened and screaming. I move toward them, skirting the fighting and the killing, cross the plank between the two boats.
‘It will be all right,’ I say to them, helping remove manacles where I can, each freed man assisting another. I sing sweet lullabies to the small ones in the hope that I can block the sound of killing, because I can hear it, the wails and screams and cries of the dying, the clash of iron and the scrape of bone.
And then the shouting stops and there is no more ringing of swords or jeers, and laughter sounds because the killing has stopped.
‘It is over,’ grandfather roars, a
nd thrusts his sword toward the god, Helios, blood running down his blade and arm.
I sit staring out at the waters. Bright light flecks the ripples and birds squawk overhead. We are sailing on Rostram’s boat, bound for the north coast. Beneath me I know the slaves I had freed of manacles are bound by them once more, treated little better, and for that I could weep.
‘It is a pirate ship,’ I say to Bamdad.
He sits beside me, a needle and thread in hand, sewing a cut to his leg.
‘Well observed, Rubetta,’ he says, and I cannot decide if he agrees with the trade or not.
‘You know the captain? Rostram,’ I say, distaste on my tongue.
I want to leave this ship, to return to land and forget what has happened to us on the river. My eyes are glazed red and I cannot wash it away.
‘We have known Rostram many years. Try not to concern yourself. We will not be on the river long.’
‘Here,’ I say, and take the needle and thread from him and squint at the gash. I pierce skin with needle and pull the wound together. He winces and I grin up at him, relishing causing a little pain.
Grandfather approaches. He has been talking with Rostram and he knows I am unhappy that the slaves are still slaves and that we sit on the same ship as if it has not happened.
‘You were a slave yourself once,’ I say, ‘yet you do nothing.’
‘I have spoken with Rostram, the slaves will be seen to land at the next dock.’
I nod, satisfied.
Once finished stitching, I look up at my grandfather. He has washed away the blood from his face and neck and hands and arms. He is what I have always known him to be, a slave turned soldier turned general. He is a great man and a keeper of peace in Palmyra. I love him for that, for his frankness and his honesty and his fearlessness. That he has spent his life putting others before himself, protecting his people and his country, as Zenobia once did.
I want to know more of her, the whole of her, to discover all I can, and I wish then for my grandfather to tell the rest of his tale.
‘My apologies,’ he says, ‘you should not have witnessed the slaughter that took place today.’
