The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord Book 2)

by JD Smith

  My pounding heart shook my entire body as I pushed through soldiers and women and children and livestock. I found the place where we had stood at the walls, watching the Persians beyond our arrow range, now littered with discarded water-skins. The archers had stood down.

  A thudding, heavy and deep, sounded as the Persians rammed the gates nearby. It would not be long before they broke through.

  I had not reached Zenobia when I found Aurelia, our belongings bundled in her arms, her delicate face drawn with panic.

  ‘Zabdas!’ she cried.

  ‘Where is Zenobia?’ I shouted above the noise.

  ‘With the king.’

  I put my arm about her shoulders and guided her back through the streets.

  More men and women ran across our path, arms burdened with possessions, treasures they did not wish to leave behind; everything they could carry. Children were dragged from their homes crying and women wept as soldiers hurried rushed them on, desperate to leave the city.

  Some citizens stayed, peering out of windows, hiding from crowds, trusting in their trade to see them living safely beside the Persians. Aurelia leant into me, flinching, cowering from the noise and disruption. Had Bamdad, found his family? Had he left the city and headed for the hills? I looked into the face of each soldier we passed, searching for familiarity or recognition. I wanted to ensure all those I called friend were safe.

  I spotted a girl with long hair, caught the scent of floral, sweet-scented oils and thought it Zenobia. When she turned I saw tears and swollen cheeks, but not my cousin, my half-sister, the queen.

  I feared the iron-cased enemy more with every corner we turned. I squeezed Aurelia’s shoulders, drawing her nearer to me, pressing her against me, as if it would see her safe. My senses heightened, hoping vigilance would keep me alive.

  A young boy pulled at his mother as she struggled with sacks so large she could never carry them out of the city. The boy looked up as we approached. He pulled his mother harder at the sight of me. She brushed him off and tears trickled down his nose, and she seemed not to notice the boy tremble as Aurelia halted.

  ‘You must leave the city now,’ she said to the woman as she tried to prise the much beloved sack of belongings from the woman’s fingers.

  The woman grunted in response, pushing Aurelia aside. She struggled on, and the boy’s wails heightened, and Aurelia stooped to his height and said, ‘Come with us.’

  He shook his head wildly, clinging to his mother.

  ‘Leave him, Aurelia. We have no time for this.’

  Despair and hopelessness filled her wide eyes, driven by a heart large enough even for these people; those unwilling to save themselves. I could not watch it, the pain in her face, the distress of leaving a small boy to Persian mercy. I sheathed my sword.

  With rough hands I lifted the woman from where she stooped and shook her.

  ‘You must leave now. The enemy is already inside the city. If you do not leave, you will not only lose your possessions, but your son, your virtue and your freedom.’

  Her eyes locked on mine.

  Wordlessly, her lips a tight line, she opened the precious sack and rummaged inside, pulled out jewels and bottles of swirling liquid and stowed them upon her person. With a last look of disdain, she grabbed her son’s arm and heaved him off, disappearing into the crowd.

  I put my arm around Aurelia and moved on, pushing through the streets, past carts and horses, trekking endlessly to reach the gate on the west wall. People swarmed around us, all pressing to reach and squeeze through the small gateway and on to the hill-ridden land beyond. I scanned the crowds ceaselessly for Bamdad and his family, hoping that he had found them. Hoping he sought safety. We were shoved, pushed, squashed in the mess of humanity. Aurelia clung to me. I looked over my shoulder, fearing the Persians would come at us whilst we were trapped inside the city. And yet I knew they would not. The citizens would turn a good profit at a slave market, yet the Persian army was not like ours. Theirs was made up of a mixture of men—and some women—and they were disorderly and ill-trained and greedy. They were here for plunder, nothing more. By now they would be raiding the homes and buildings all across the east side until there was nothing left.

  We gathered north of the city, lost souls in a barren land, not quite knowing what to do or where to turn next. Our departure had not been planned, as we had wanted it to be. We had not left by choice. We fled the city at a time dictated by the hole punched in Antioch’s walls. I was angry. I wanted to know how we could gain victory and take back what was ours, but how could anything be victorious now? We had lost Nisibis, Carrhae, Edessa and many more, and now we had lost Antioch. How much could we lose before there was nothing worth fighting for? The city should have proved a sanctuary, yet it had proved another blow, an ebb in army morale, a failure for the emperor.

  A handful of Persians screamed and laughed and taunted us as we fled the city, spitting and cursing and throwing stones and bread and pots after us. But most were content to squabble over the riches we left behind. Everything seemed a blur as I pushed Aurelia onwards, hoping that Zenobia was safe, knowing it was not just my duty as the royal guard that spurred thought of her.

  Darkness fell, a cold blanket to cover the day. We stopped at the roadside, breathless, hungry, a bedraggled band of men, woman, children, soldiers, all moving to where more Roman legions had been stationed in the north, a faint hope that they would provide protection forcing our legs to carry us onwards.

  I looked back to Antioch. A fire, fierce and bright against the blackness. Screams carried on the wind. How easily we had been defeated. How quickly. Beside me, Aurelia shivered.

  ‘People still flee,’ she said.

  I squinted, looking more carefully into the darkness, at the movement in front of the flames. I saw them, moving, bags on backs and children on shoulders; the last people to leave.

  ‘They are lucky the Persians do not have them in shackles.’

  She rested a head on my shoulder. ‘It was a beautiful city.’

  ‘No longer,’ I replied.

  We caught up with Zenobia and Odenathus on the road the following day.

  ‘Valerian rides ahead,’ Odenathus told us. ‘He has despatched riders with the aim of reuniting the scattered factions of the army.’

  ‘You have seen him?’ I asked.

  ‘After leaving the city. He is panicked, and he has received information that the Goths press his troops hard in Anatolia.’

  ‘He is weak,’ Zenobia said. ‘And he will desert us given the chance. We must push the Persians back.’

  We walked, Zenobia too, and I worried for her. Her stomach bulged with two thirds of her pregnancy gone, her tired and pale face bearing an expression that betrayed her discomfort. It was to be expected and yet I wished she would ride or sit in a cart instead of continuing on foot.

  ‘We cannot maintain control of a single city,’ I retorted. ‘What hope is there of pushing them back?’

  ‘It does not matter what we hope for, only that we must,’ she said. Her pace slowed a little, and Odenathus took her elbow.

  ‘Ride,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I cannot. It is better to walk.’

  A day and a night passed and more soldiers came into sight. I breathed relief, for our company was small for such times. As we neared the groups of soldiers, we saw Romans and Syrians and Valerian himself. We moved on, pushing hard, eager to reach the safety of city walls, until finally we came to rest far north of Palmyra, in Edessa.

  ‘Valerian has called for council,’ Odenathus said. ‘I must go.’

  We were in the house of the city commander, eating his bread and drinking his wine. I looked out of the window, observing people milling in the dark street below. I heard Odenathus’ footsteps leaving and turned from the window. I had thought Zenobia would go with him, but she said nothing. A slight sheen covered her forehead, her skin pale and her eyes tired. She moved, adjusting herself, then moved again, her discomfort obv
ious.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘He moves,’ she said.

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘He is strong.’

  She put a hand on her stomach and sighed. She walked across to the bed. With each step pain flashed across her face. She was so incredibly young, I thought, and her husband so very old. I saw no happiness in her face, only weariness, and I could not help but blame Odenathus. She should have been happy, like her father and Meskenit or me and Aurelia, but I convinced myself she was not. The toil of her reign beside Odenathus, of her responsibility as the wife of a king, and the ambitions she harboured were heavy.

  Zenobia lay down and closed her eyes.

  ‘Let her rest,’ Aurelia said.

  As we walked back to our own room, Aurelia said, ‘She should not have walked so far. Not so late in her pregnancy.’

  ‘The king will have an heir soon.’ I could not hide the bitterness from my voice.

  ‘The king already has an heir,’ Aurelia snapped, the hurt in her voice told me she thought my tone aimed at her.

  ‘I did not mean … my apologies.’

  I pulled her to me and drew in the scent of her hair.

  ‘We will have children of our own one day,’ she said, ‘and the palace in Palmyra will ring with their laughter.’

  ‘But Herodes could be killed in battle. A king always needs more than one son.’ I was unable to shift my thoughts. The heirs of Odenathus played in my mind.

  We reached our room and I pulled on a cloak and went out into the night.

  Unease had built in me since leaving Antioch; something I could not explain. Soldiers kept watch over the city perimeter, but inside the walls all was quiet. The Persians had sacked the city a few months earlier. I could see their plundering in the broken architecture of the commander’s house and felt sorrow for the craftsmen who had spent years creating such beauty. I thought of Odenathus as he had stood at the edge of our camp each night on the road to Edessa as I stood guard and tried to make a certain sense of what had happened, where we had found ourselves. I had seen the king awake many times when others lay curled in their beds. Part of me sympathised, but another part of me, the part which held love for Julius, told me he was a coward for not standing apart from Rome.

  I walked through the courtyard and breathed the scent of the plants, reminding myself of the garden Julius so dearly loved, picturing Meskenit tending the flowers, savouring the moonlit delight, the only sound the soft pad of my feet on stone blocks. Jasmine and other sweet smells filled my senses, and the whole place appeared to glitter, though no statues or busts remained. Nothing of value had been left within the walls and I became suddenly aware of the emptiness around me.

  My heart beat slowly yet more strongly, as if full of the sadness we had all felt as Antioch fell. I could not separate myself from this sadness, only let the thud in my chest accept it, embrace is, drive it round my body until it became a part of me, until I realised what it meant to know loss.

  Screams. Loud and long and groaning.

  The sounds came from the house.

  I ran back, through the heavy wooden door, slamming it into a slave, running through the house, taking the steps two, three at a time, crashing into Aurelia at the top.

  The horror and fright on her face checked me. I pushed past her and into Zenobia’s room.

  Sweat poured from her brow. She screamed again, teeth clenched tight together. Hand clutching a hard stomach, blood … blood covering the sheets, her gown, a great pool of crimson red.

  I had crossed the room without realising it and grabbed her hand from her stomach. She near broke my fingers, her grip was so tight.

  ‘Gods,’ she screamed. ‘Selene. Save my boy.’

  She tipped her head backwards, grimacing.

  A slave rushed in, bowl of water in hand.

  ‘Where is the physician, the midwife?’

  ‘They have been sent for,’ the slave-girl said, her head low, and I felt guilt suddenly for my tone.

  More slaves entered, carrying sheets and water.

  ‘He is coming,’ Zenobia said.

  At first I thought it a question, then I realised she meant the baby.

  ‘He is coming,’ she said again.

  She looked at me, eyes locking on mine, and I saw real fear in them for the first time.

  Zenobia slept. I watched.

  I could not see her face from where I sat, only dark hair falling and the silhouette of her figure beneath silken sheets. I felt a chill, and shivered before walking across to her. I perched on the edge of the bed, brushed her hair away from her cheek and whispered her name.

  She was pale in the wan light, but she did not wake. I nudged her shoulder. Nothing. It felt as though my heart beat in my throat. The events of that night meant I could not sleep, could not still myself or rest. I was awake, but I was not. In control, yet racing inside myself, trying to keep balance and order.

  I placed both hands on the bed and leaned close to listen for breath. I heard a low, shallow sound, and my heartbeat settled. Her eyelids flickered in sleep. She had been given a draught by the physician to aid her slumber, but I was sure it did nothing for the dreams she must have.

  I went to stand, to call a slave to fetch the physician back, to have him sit in her room as I did, to watch over her.

  ‘For the love of the gods, what has happened?’ Odenathus stood in the doorway of the room, voice echoing in anger and confusion.

  I could not speak. My tongue could form no words.

  Odenathus looked at Zenobia.

  We had stripped the sheets and sent them for burning, dragged in a new mattress from another room and covered it in clean linen. Yet now it was red once more, pooling dark around her, unstopping, uncontrollable, like water slipping between fingers. I feared for her, for her life. But more than that, I was terrified of a future without her, not just for myself, but for everyone, for the whole of Syria. She had become a rock to the people of this country, a steady mind and will of iron that kept us going, that inspired hope where there was none, for her defiance would not let it fade.

  Odenathus crossed to her side and peered down at her still form.

  I felt as though I should leave them, but I did not want to go, nor could I summon the will to move from her side, no matter the courtesies I owed my king. I stayed there beside them, watching Zenobia beneath her husband’s gaze. I wanted to shout, to scream that this was his fault. I blamed him for everything that I hated, and now Zenobia lay on a bed, closer to death than I could bear.

  Laughter sounded from the courtyard below, jarring and strange. Then I heard Zenobia’s laugh in my memory. It seemed more distant now than ever.

  Odenathus leaned over her. ‘My dear Zenobia.’

  My. She was not his, she belonged to no one. Tears stung my eyes as I thought of how little he deserved her. How much I loved her. How quickly I had come at her cries.

  ‘My Lord,’ the physician appeared behind us. ‘She has lost much blood and is very weak. Death could yet claim her.’

  Odenathus appeared unable to utter any sound.

  ‘What has caused this ailment?’ he finally managed to ask, voice strained and distorted.

  ‘Her condition in the morning will tell us more.’

  ‘What happened?’ Odenathus asked again.

  The physician shook, his beard quivering.

  ‘The child did not survive, my King. Indeed, it very near killed her.’

  As he spoke, the scrap of flesh, so small, so perfectly formed, born into the world without ever taking breath, burned in my mind. I scrunched my eyes, trying to rid myself of the image, but it refused to shift or to fade.

  Odenathus gave Zenobia an unreadable glance and then he was gone.

  The physician scrutinized her further.

  ‘She still bleeds,’ I said. ‘Can you not stop it?’

  ‘I have packed to stem the flow. I only hope it is enough.’

  ‘She cannot die. Syria needs her. Th
e people need her.’

  ‘You must get some rest. I am here to watch over her.’

  I nodded, without intention of leaving Zenobia’s side until she woke. I felt limp with failure, trying to determine what had been the cause: the walk from Antioch to Edessa; the losses our army had suffered; my own feelings toward her marriage to Odenathus and the child she had subsequently carried ...

  The physician went to prepare further draughts that he hoped would aid her recovery. I sat down beside her on the bed. Even then, so drained of life, she was beautiful. Tears streamed down my face as I felt my world disintegrate. It was as though all hope had abandoned glorious Syria; the light and heat and heart of the desert extinguished.

  CHAPTER 5

  Samira – 290 AD (Present day)

  My arms ache and my grip is loose and I fear I might drop our provisions as we struggle back to the boat. I see Bamdad on board and he smiles at me. I smile back. I cannot help myself, he is my grandfather’s closest friend; my friend, a man who cares for us yet could not be more carefree. He is a man of the world, a man who enjoys life, who worries little for tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that. He lives now and for this moment alone. Yet I know there is more to him than that, I know now that he once had a family, but I know not where they are. Did he find them, I wonder, as I struggle with sacks of bread? Did they escape Antioch before it fell?

  Bamdad’s smile fades and I realise my own has gone. He frowns at me, and I could laugh at that as I laugh at many things with Bamdad. He disappears from the side of the ship and in a moment reappears, heading down the gangplank, hurrying to help, taking from me the largest sack of bread.

  ‘Gratitude,’ I say.

  ‘Have no worry, Rubetta, I am always here to help.’

  ‘Are we ready to leave?’ grandfather asks.

  ‘As soon as we’re all on board,’ Bamdad replies.

  We board the boat and I find myself face to face with Rostram, the captain, a man I know to be a slave-trader and a pirate; an old friend to my grandfather. He is a little shorter than Bamdad, his hair soft and brown. His eyes hold mine a moment and then he stands aside and with a brief flick of his hand bids me pass.