by JD Smith
‘I have a wife and three children in this city,’ he replied. Fret and worry simmered beneath the surface of the Syrian, shattering his joyful humour. If the city fell … He and his family, if they survived, would become slaves; playthings of our enemy. He was a husband, a father and a warrior, but he was also a man of Antioch. He knew the city better than anyone.
‘Do you know anything which might tell us who has betrayed Antioch?’ Zenobia asked.
Bamdad’s face creased. ‘It was you who meddled in the conviction of the senator Mareades.’
‘It was. Tell me, do you know who might have done this? Or how the Persians might have infiltrated the city? They cannot have done it alone.’
‘There are some who know the truth,’ Bamdad said, ignoring her words, his own voice little more than a whisper.
‘The truth?’ Zenobia asked.
‘Yes. Many of us believe the priest Haddudan, who convicted Mareades, who swore the senator’s guilt, is a liar and a thief.’
‘It is true,’ I said. ‘The priest king is the man who stole from you and the people of Antioch. And yet we could do nothing. Mareades would have been dead before Haddudan was brought to trial. We did what we could for him.’
‘The priest covered his tracks?’ Bamdad said.
‘We are wasting time,’ Zenobia reminded us.
Bamdad’s eyes flickered between the two of us and he leaned closer. ‘There is another way into the city.’
‘The gate to the east is manned by Roman soldiers,’ Zenobia said. ‘The emperor posted them himself. They monitor every person, every cart going in and out of the city.’
Bamdad shook his head. ‘Not on the east side. There is another entrance. Concealed. To the north. Few know of its existence.’
‘You think that could be their way in?’ I asked, my voice lower still, aware of ears in the room.
‘Perhaps,’ Zenobia replied. ‘Show me this path into the city. If it is not already manned, then it should be.’
We pushed our way through the streets, citizens about their market trade despite the lack of water, the heat of day, the enemy beyond the walls … I could see the fear in their faces, the fact that they were close to crumbling, and I wanted to reach out to them, to reassure, but in my own heart I felt the same fear, rooted in the knowledge that one or more of the people within these very walls had betrayed us.
‘Why did no one tell the king or the emperor of this other entrance?’ Zenobia asked. ‘The lives of the people in this city depend on the city walls, the safety they afford.’
Bamdad glanced this way and that, threading a path, leading us on.
‘Few know of its existence, fewer still that it is still an open passage. It is well hidden. A smugglers’ entrance,’ he continued. ‘Opened ten years or more after it was first blocked. The guards are paid by merchants who have goods couriered in and out of the city.’
‘How do you know of it?’ I asked.
‘I have worked for the less honest in my time,’ he replied.
We broke into less crowded streets. Zenobia bent forward, her breathing heavy.
‘Wait,’ I shouted to Bamdad.
‘We keep going,’ she said. ‘Which way now?’
Bamdad pointed to our right, a narrow street, tall buildings casting shadows.
Our footsteps echoed as we followed.
‘Do you trust him?’ Zenobia asked me, her voice low.
‘I barely know him. We fought together at the gate, nothing more.’
We crossed into another street, then another, past women washing clothes and old men throwing dice. Boys crowded around wells, peering down at the poisoned water as horses drank from troughs.
‘This way,’ Bamdad said.
He led us to a building with bowing walls. A door hung on rusted hinges. Zenobia and I shared a sceptical glance as the Syrian lifted the door’s latch. With a dull squeak, he pushed it open. Inside, the air was hot and stale, the floor dust-covered. My eyes grew accustomed to the light and I saw there were no furnishings within the building, no bags of stored goods or trace of habitation.
‘What is this place?’ I asked, looking up at a roof and the shafts of bright light that penetrated the darkness in which we stood.
‘This is the gateway leading beyond the walls. As I said, it is concealed.’ He glanced around, the memory of an errant youth in his eye. ‘I haven’t used it in years.’
Zenobia surveyed the room, her face hardening. She knew as well as I what this could mean. We had experienced much these past years. We had both watched Julius go south; both experienced the worry for a father. Together we had travelled across the empire, to Rome. We had seen the centre of the world and overcome every obstacle to bring home a force large enough to defeat the enemy. We had given the past years in the service of our king and our emperor; Zenobia giving both mind and body, and secured a large force in order to defeat the Persians. And we could lose it all because of the citizens of Antioch.
‘There are no guards here?’ Zenobia said.
‘They are on the outside of the wall,’ Bamdad replied.
Zenobia nodded to Bamdad and we followed him through the dim and abandoned rooms, rat skeletons crunching beneath our feet, the stench of any decay long gone. A moment later, a circle of light shone ahead. Bamdad stretched out his arm, halting us. He whistled, paused.
Silence.
‘What is wrong?’ I asked.
‘It is our warning,’ he said. ‘When we approached, we whistle to alert the guard we are coming. They should signal back to say everything is clear.’
‘And yet they have not,’ Zenobia said.
‘No,’ he replied, confusion and concern creeping into his rough voice.
He drew his sword. I did the same, the blade hissing a sweet breath, ready for what may come and the blood it craved. I glanced down at it. There was no trace of the lives it had taken, no nick upon the fine blade, nor blood crusted to the hilt.
A cold hand touched my own.
‘Take care, Zabdas,’ Zenobia said, her other hand touching her swollen belly. Gods, I thought, what Odenathus would say if he saw us there, what punishment he might inflict knowing I had taken Zenobia to the brink of the city, to a secret gate leading beyond the wall. I wondered for a heartbeat which I feared more, Odenathus or the Persians.
Bamdad and I moved toward the illuminated doorway, blinking in the harsh light. There was no sound or movement, no sign of disturbance, no smell of sweat-coated Persian. Once outside, the ground sloped down and away, the craggy hillside moving freely beneath my feet and I lost my footing and was surprised and annoyed that it was Zenobia who grabbed my arm. I dared not make a sound, hidden by bushes and trees and thick green leaves, a wall of nature to cover the hidden passage.
A movement. A flick of something beyond the shrubs, light and dark.
I moved forward, knowing as I did so we were not alone, parting the undergrowth with my hand, careful to keep my sword from site for fear of catching sunlight.
‘Where are the guards?’ Zenobia whispered.
As the words left her lips I found them.
‘Here.’
Zenobia’s breath felt heavy and hot on my neck as she peered over my shoulder, Bamdad beside me, to see the guards: two men, throats slit, half-hidden in the undergrowth.
‘I must inform Odenathus. Zabdas, Bamdad, hold the passageway. Ensure no one comes through.’ The commands came easily from her lips. Bamdad frowned, but he accepted her authority with a nod as Zenobia hurried back through the entrance. How we would hold the passageway if the Persian force came, only the gods knew.
We stood in silence. The smell of shit hung feculent and fresh. The sun crept lower and the hillside took an orange glow. I saw the moon, a quiet sliver of the coming night creeping into the day as the enemy slunk their way into Antioch, Bamdad and I the only men standing between the Persians and the gateway into the city. I wondered if a citizen had betrayed their own people, the people of Syria and the army of Rom
e to the enemy, or whether the Persians had found the entrance by chance. I thought of Palmyra and her beauty and could not resist reflecting on how angry I would be if I were stood in Palmyra now, defending her walls as she bowed beneath the same threat; betrayed in the same way. Rage boiled. We were one people: Romans, Palmyrenes, men of Antioch. We had been betrayed. Bitterness stung as I looked into Bamdad’s face and saw his worry for what would come. I went to speak, but Bamdad let out a long, low hiss as he listened for sound.
‘Someone approaches,’ he murmured.
Footsteps crunched. I could see nothing from my position, yet I dared not move. Footsteps again, then hushed voices. More than a couple of men. I shifted to maintain the blood flow in my legs. I needed to be ready.
‘They are preparing for a night attack?’ I mouthed.
Bamdad shook his head and mouthed back: ‘Poison more wells. Ruin our stores.’
I caught a flicker of light on iron; of men gathering a hundred feet from us. They crept closer, silent but for the crunch of stone beneath feet and the dull chink of weapons.
Then I heard the Persian tongue.
‘Gods’ mercy,’ Bamdad, his voice little more than a breath on the calm air, echoed my thoughts. Two swords stood between this horde and destruction.
Bamdad plucked my arm and we crept back toward the sanctuary of the city.
There had been no exertion, yet I breathed hard, the enemy just feet away.
‘They’ll wait till dark,’ Bamdad said.
‘What do we do?’ I said. I racked my brains for a way to slow them enough to allow our army to move and build a suitable defence.
Bamdad shifted his sword from one hand to the other, then back again, over and over. I thought he might suggest we stand and fight, hold the gate until our own forces arrived, die in the attempt to keep the enemy out. But he sheathed his blade.
‘We must close the gateway,’ he said, looking around him.
A short sigh of relief and I sheathed my own sword as we retreated back into the city street.
‘Zabdas?’
Zenobia hurried toward me, her unborn heavy in her belly, her movement awkward and breath short and laboured. Perspiration glistened on her brow. Beside her, Odenathus strode with heavy steps. Behind him, four of his personal guard and a unit of soldiers.
I have a curt nod as he approached.
‘Gods be damned, my pregnant wife should not have been here,’ he said to me. ‘We will talk of this later.’ He flicked a hand and the soldiers formed a shield wall before the passageway. ‘You are the Syrian?’ he demanded of Bamdad, then without waiting for reply said: ‘Why was I not told of this entrance sooner?’
I could see the bristle, the tone of the king’s voice sitting uncomfortably with Bamdad. Finally, he dipped his head and did not look up as he said, ‘I do not know, Lord King.’
‘Tell me what you know,’ Odenathus replied.
‘We have seen a force, my Lord,’ Bamdad went on, ‘gathering beyond the walls. We suspect they’re waiting for nightfall to enter the city.’
Zenobia glanced to the passageway and the men with spears and swords waiting. Her cheeks were red, expression determined.
I could sense Odenathus’ desire to put his head in his hands and weep for the stupidity of the citizens who had not told him of this entrance. But he did not let the notion overwhelm him. Instead he stood tall and looked the wall up and down.
‘This wall,’ he said.
‘My Lord,’ Bamdad acknowledged.
Odenathus grunted. I waited for him to say something more, but no words passed his lips.
Zenobia said, ‘The emperor talks of abandoning the city.’
My ears deceived me, I thought, but realised immediately they had not. Disbelief coursed over me, but then in the shadow of the moment I knew it was true.
‘But why?’ I said.
Odenathus’ grave face could meet neither my eyes nor his wife’s.
It was Zenobia who spoke.
‘Valerian Caesar believes we people of Syria have betrayed him. He has been persuaded that the water supply has been poisoned by the citizens in order to rid the city of him and his men, and that our supply ships are afraid of coming upriver, rather than blocked. He feels that staying within these walls will bring nothing but death to his empire.’ Another man may not have noticed it, but I saw the mask begin to slip from her face and glimpsed the loss of composure which lay beneath.
‘And how does he intend to leave?’ I asked. ‘We will be slaughtered.’
‘The Persian’s main force is on the east side of the river. We can leave by the other gate, force an exit and head for the mountains.’
‘You think we should leave?’ I could not believe that Zenobia would consider such a course, that she would not be more willing to stand and to fight.
‘There is no choice.’ Odenathus said. ‘If Valerian leaves with his armies, the Palmyrenes and men of Antioch will be left to stand alone. We are not enough to hold the city and our water supply is already poisoned.’
I looked up at our king, seeking some words of solace, words of certainty. But his face was flushed with embarrassment. He had no faith in his own words, nor did he agree with the emperor’s decision any more that Zenobia did, any more than I did, and yet still he would not move his stance. He would toe the Roman line no matter what future it would bring. He would remain a friendly king in a client kingdom. He would carry on whoring himself to the emperor of Rome.
I had once hated Odenathus, indeed I hated him still, for his connection with Zenobia, his placing a child in her belly, for sending Julius south to fight to Tanukh, away from me when I had only just begun to know him. I knew that it was Julius, not Odenathus, who refused me permission to go south, yet in that moment I not only hated Odenathus, but I despised him for his alignment with Rome; for what I saw as a betrayal of his own people.
‘What of the citizens? What of my family?’ Bamdad spat. He stood before the king of the east, his posture a challenge.
‘The people are free to go with us,’ Odenathus replied, his voice deliberately clipped, hiding something more than embarrassment.
I watched the king’s internal struggle with a sense of grim satisfaction. Bamdad had confronted him as I had long wanted to face him, Odenathus, King of Palmyra, Ruler of the East. Odenathus was giving the people of Antioch two choices; leave the city, your home and your lives, or stay and face the mercy of the Persian invaders.
CHAPTER 4
Zabdas – 258 AD
Screams sounded, but not close. They were on the west side of the city, telling of a renewed attack on our walls.
‘Go back to our lodgings,’ Odenathus said to Zenobia. ‘I must ensure this route into the city is blocked and buy us the time to leave. I will come for you.’
I looked into her eyes, disbelieving as I saw her guilty resolve.
‘Odenathus is right,’ she said. ‘We must think of what is best. We will die in Antioch if we choose to stand alone. The Roman army is under the command of Valerian and the Roman generals, and they would see the city abandoned. If we stay, we fight alone, and there are not enough of us to face the Persians. There is no hope left here.’ Her eyes pleaded. ‘Come with me.’
She held out her hand, but she must have known what my response would be. I could not hide from the enemy with her as my fellow warriors faced the enemy.
‘I will stay,’ I replied.
Zenobia’s voice was stern. ‘Zabdas, come with me now.’
‘Zenobia, go back to the house,’ Odenathus said. ‘Zabdas, go with her. Guards,’ he called behind him, and his four personal guards stepped forth.
Damn it, I thought, as we hurried back through the streets, Bamdad with us.
Zenobia squeezed my hand as we walked. I did not know why. Perhaps reassuring me that it would all play out, that the city would not fall, that we would be saved. But we both knew that was not to be.
‘When the time comes, we must all go,’ Bamdad said.
‘First I must go to my family, to ready ourselves.’
Zenobia nodded. ‘Stay safe, Syrian.’
He winked back at her. ‘I always do.’
Two days later the Persians made a hole so wide in the outer wall with their catapults that we had no choice but to abandon the city, no matter what Valerian might have chosen to do.
I was on the training ground with Bamdad when we heard the news. Sweating and grunting, I lunged and cut and parried. He was older, yet I was no match for the strength in his arms or the sense of anticipation he had come to learn over the years.
‘You’ll not kill many Persians with a cut like that, boy,’ he said.
‘I am growing faster; you are only getting slower, old man.’
He barked a manic laugh. And I caught his leather covered breast with the tip of my sword. It scored a mark, but did not break through.
‘So you are,’ he said, ‘but not stronger.’
He crashed his sword into my shield, his full strength behind the blow, and I buckled beneath the force of it.
A boy’s voice screamed and I looked up from behind my shield.
‘They are in the city. They are in the city,’ the boy said, running onto the training ground, addressing the hundreds of soldiers stood there. ‘The emperor has ordered everyone to evacuate on the west side of the city.’
‘Fuck the gods. What a day to flee,’ Bamdad said, looking skyward.
‘I must go to Zenobia. Ensure she leaves safely. ‘And Aurelia,’ I added as an afterthought.
‘Where are they?’
‘The east side.’ I pulled the leather cover that I had used during training from my sword to reveal the grey metal beneath.
‘My family lie to the south,’ Bamdad said.
‘Then I will see you at the gate, old man,’ I replied.
I nodded, safety bidden with unsaid words. I ran fast, suddenly desperate to reach Zenobia and Aurelia. Roman soldiers already moved through the streets, herding men like cattle, heading for the gate through which they would flee. I forced a path through the tide of armoured men as the city screamed and my own panic welled.