by JD Smith
He had played a part in treachery. He and Zenobia, and I find I cannot forgive them that, for sending a man to an inevitable fate, no matter what he has done. I am unable to make sense, to turn the tables and see events from their perspective, to look upon their actions as if I were there and knew what it was to be at war with Valerian Caesar leading men and doing it so badly.
And I am angry with myself for not understanding and with my grandfather because I cannot agree, I cannot change my feelings and thoughts and know his and Zenobia’s decisions would have been my own, and yet I want them to be so very much.
I am struggling to believe, unable to comprehend betrayal, this betrayal of a man that should have been respected and admired. Yet I know he could not be, because he was no emperor like Gallienus was emperor, he could not hold respect or authority. And so what then? What to do? Can what they did be determined as right?
‘Did Zenobia not feel guilt for what she did?’ I ask him.
The water rushes beneath my gaze, green and blue and white, and I am mesmerized by the movement and by my thoughts.
‘She did not,’ he says. ‘Zenobia only felt guilt for leaving me in the Persian camp. She had no guarantee that I would leave there alive, with or without the deliverance of the emperor.’
‘But how could she not feel guilt, for subjecting an emperor to a life of imprisonment and for turning against the Empire of Rome and for all of that?’
‘Because she could not,’ he says simply. ‘The moment her father secured her a seat on the Palmyrene council, she had a duty to protect and to serve the people of that city, a duty which became a far greater responsibility when she married Odenathus and became queen. She saw her people, those of Syria, suffer, and the only way to make it stop was to stop Valerian. So the answer is no, she felt no guilt, because she could not allow herself to.’
I am struggling again, because I know he is right, that Zenobia could not allow herself to feel too much, to have her will bent by the fate of others. I understand that and the effort it must have taken …
Silence falls between us and it is still and heavy in the air and I feel suddenly tired.
I am young and my eyes are keen and I see the people roaming the roads on land as we drift out of the valley, children playing on the shore and the happiness in them. The air here is pungent and I smell rotting wood mingled with rich spices on the breeze.
‘Shapur called her a warrior queen,’ I say. ‘I have heard the same myself.’
‘You will have done. She was known as such by many.’
‘Was she?’ I ask, thinking of a queen in armour and with sword and shield clutched in thin and delicate fingers. I think of myself in her place, and I feel only the weight of responsibility and I am more tired still.
‘Zenobia was a warrior queen in more ways than one. Shapur’s words were the first I heard which truly described the difference between a soldier and a warrior. A warrior is someone who knows the danger and faces it, head on, regardless. Zenobia was certainly that. She defied not only Rome, but also her king and her husband. To her, it never mattered what others thought. She was content to do what she thought was right.’
I am thinking and I feel suddenly the knot in my stomach, the fate which awaited her. Rome might never know she betrayed their emperor, just as I have never known and many others would not, but there is one who would and I am already afraid of the king’s discovery and what he would do.
‘What did Odenathus do when you returned without the emperor? He cannot have known that Zenobia was intending to betray Valerian?’
‘I have told you enough for today,’ he says.
‘You cannot leave the tale there!’ I say, annoyed and frustrated and eager to know more.
‘Not now, Samira,’ he says, and I know he is tired also.
His eyes hang heavy and he is not concentrating. He is gaining in years, I know, and I am afraid of the day when he will leave me as my father has, but I hope it is a long time from now, and of old age and failing health, and not to the edge of an enemy sword. Yet I know that is not what he would want. He would die in battle and he would break the heart of me, his granddaughter, and Bamdad would too, and as grandfather turns and retires to his cabin there are tears in my eyes.
They are the tears of someone who is tired and who has known too much these past weeks. It is catching me, the late nights with my grandfather’s men and the slaves we have set free and my father’s passing, and it is all too much in this moment.
I am thinking of him. I cannot help myself. Vaballathus, my father, the rogue I have loved and who has loved me in return, who cared for me. And yet he could not help himself, he could not stay from enemy swords and out of danger.
I have grieved and yet now, with a yawn and thoughts only for my bed, he is creeping into my mind and he is bringing with him great sadness. I am alone. I have my grandfather and I have Bamdad, but both are gaining in years and neither are my age; neither a childhood friend. And neither of them can be here with warm arms around me. They are not as Aurelia was to my grandfather, always there, always waiting for him, a caring and loving soul that would be beside him through each night no matter what he had done nor who he had killed.
They give me everything they can but they cannot give me this. Whatever that might be.
‘It is late.’
I cannot take my eyes from the water for I cannot look up at the person who speaks. I do not wish them to see my red-rimmed eyes and to know I have been crying for the father I cannot have returned to me and the loneliness I feel.
He places an arm on my curved back and I feel the stroke of his fingers against my coarse tunic. It is as if he has read my mind; knows my thoughts and come to me, but I do not believe that. I know men cannot read minds. They read only what they see.
I turn into him, without looking at him.
My face is against his chest and his arms are around me and my tears will not stop, they will not cease, but they are silent.
‘This is not a good place for a young woman,’ he says.
I can smell him, the spike of leather and oak and salt.
I say nothing. I do not pull away. I do not dare to look up at him and for him to see my face. I am wishing this man who holds me, who grips me firmly, was another man, a man my age, a man who has begun to create a warmth in me that I do not fully understand, but I know that I want to feel it again, to have his arms about me, and know that I have begun to forgive the things I never thought I would.
‘Ah, Rubetta, come now, there’s no need for tears.’
Bamdad takes my shoulders in his hands and stoops down to look me directly in the eye. He grins a broad grin, one designed to force me to smile back at him.
‘It’s late,’ he says, ‘and you’re tired. A good night’s sleep is all you need.’
I nod. I know he is right. I know that I can no longer stifle a yawn and that I have stopped crying but my eyes are so very heavy and wishing for slumber.
CHAPTER 12
Zabdas – 260 AD
I was hungry and I was thirsty, my mouth drier than the sands upon which we rode, and I felt utter exhaustion as we approached the city of Edessa, where the remaining Roman and Syrian legions lay. Ballista had ridden hard ahead to speak with the Praetorian Guard. Zabbai had breathed no words after we had parted with Shapur; his mind, I think, plagued by what had happened, the treachery we were all party to. And yet Zenobia appeared only to concern herself with matters of what would happen next.
As our small company came within the shadow of Edessa’s walls, I saw a figure running from the main gate, crying my name, her feet kicking plumes of dust from the roadway. Soldiers attempted to block her passage but she pushed them aside.
Aurelia.
I slid down from my horse and she ran into my arms and she cried upon my shoulder.
‘I am returned,’ I said, brushing her hair with my hand. ‘I have come back.’
Once inside the city, Zenobia sought Odenathus.
; ‘He will be angry with you, Zenobia,’ Zabbai said.
‘You did not tell him what you intended to do?’ I know I sounded shocked, but I should not have been, for the knowledge did not surprise me.
‘He knows of the meet and that we accompanied Valerian Caesar, but he knows nothing of what we have done,’ she replied.
‘And what of me?’ I asked. Odenathus must have known of my absence, wondered where I was, suspected my being held by the Persians.
Zabbai said: ‘I led Odenathus to believe that Shapur detained you as assurance against Valerian failing to attend the meet; that Shapur wanted a Syrian messenger to send back with his displeasure.’
As he spoke, I could not help but think of my flesh stripped from living skin and I shuddered. The peeling and the pain; the blood and the muscle.
We found Odenathus waiting in the house Emperor Valerian had once commandeered. Even after such a short time, it already seemed subdued and lifeless, the walls and floors grey, the lamps unlit, as if knowing the last occupant would never return.
The king met us in the hallway, his large, sturdy figure striding towards us. His look one of anxiety.
‘You are returned,’ he said, and put a hand affectionately upon Zenobia’s shoulder. ‘And you also, Zabdas! I am grateful for that. The Roman generals have been waiting but have now left—’ He gestured behind him to another room, then stared at us, his last words hanging.
‘What happened? Where is Valerian?’
‘The Emperor Valerian has been taken captive.’ Zenobia’s words contained no emotion, nor any pause. She delivered the news as swiftly as one would lift a cup of water to parched lips.
‘And yet you are here?’ Odenathus’ face became laced with confusion and fury. He looked between us but none spoke. Finally he breathed, ‘What have you done?’
‘Valerian has been taken captive by Shapur. The meet was never to discuss peace, but to fulfil a bargain made between myself and the Persians. Syria is now free of the one man stopping us from pressing Shapur back into Persia,’ Zenobia replied, her expression impassive.
‘You have done what?’ Odenathus’ voice was little more than a whisper of disbelief.
‘Using Zabdas as security, I bargained with the Shapur that if I gave them the Emperor of Rome, they would leave Syria in peace.’
For long moments the king seemed incapable of speech. He set his mouth in a firm line, and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them he said: ‘You have betrayed the Empire and everything I believe in. This was not your choice. It was never a decision you should have made, nor were you entitled to make it. You have made fools of us and you have made an enemy of Rome. Have you any notion of what they will do when they discover your actions?’
‘They will discover nothing,’ she replied coldly.
‘What in the name of all the gods do you mean, Zenobia? How can you possibly keep this from them? You have just bargained with the life of the Emperor of the Roman Empire, the most powerful man in the world! For the love of Bel there is no turning back from this!’
‘Valerian’s Praetorian prefect, Ballista, knew of what we planned. He rides now to inform those who did not know, but if we are accountable to Rome, then so are the Romans themselves. They have turned on their own emperor, and they will be at this very moment jostling for power in the east. Those who resist Ballista will be put to the sword.’
‘Ballista? Gods, I had thought that man to be Valerian’s most trusted man, his advisor!’
Zenobia shook her head, her face hard.
‘You know as well as any of us that Valerian’s own men have been dissatisfied. It was obvious. They talked amongst themselves, and they talked to their women. That is how I discovered their willingness to assist me. If I had not given Valerian over to the Persians and hidden the usurpation of Ballista, then he would have killed Valerian anyway. We would have been subject to internal war and discontent—those who believed in the Emperor standing against those who did not. Instead the Romans will think their Emperor fallen to the Persians rather than betrayed. Instead we will suffer a jostle for power, but you have a right to that to. You are as much a Roman as any I have met in Rome. You have a claim to the purple just as Ballista does.’
‘What do you expect to happen now, Zenobia? You think my taking the purple will see you the peace you want? Gods, you are your father’s daughter! You cannot have peace when you are at war!’
‘We are always at war with one frontier or another.’
‘And yet now we are at war with both.’
‘You have been at war with yourself for many years, husband. I do this for you and for Syria. We would have fallen beneath the might of Shapur. The armies of Rome are yours if you would simply take them. And then we can march on the Persians.’
‘Shapur told you this? And you believed him? You have agreed peace with them. You would go back on your word?’ Odenathus spat.
‘Shapur will never give us peace. The terms were a ruse. We both knew that they would not be upheld. I knew as I gave Shapur the emperor that we would not see a peace after that one act. Shapur has no morals with his enemies, no desire to uphold what he promises. And yet I believe he thinks we do. He will expect us to retreat now in the wake of the peace negotiated.’
‘And you!’ Odenathus turned on Zabbai. ‘You knew of this?’ I heard anger in his tone, but I also sensed hurt, a betrayal that the king did not understand.
‘Not at first. I had no knowledge of the plan until we reached the Persian camp on our first visit. But in reality, Zenobia had little choice—’
‘Silence,’ Odenathus said, his voice low but forceful. ‘I do not want to hear your reasoning. Your actions are inexcusable and you should have known better than this; you of all people, Zabbai. Rome will never forgive us. And they would never accept my rule. Who would support me in that, Zenobia? We have turned against the Empire, against the still ruling emperor, Gallienus. They will seek a revenge on us like none other for what you have done.’
‘They will not,’ Zenobia said. ‘They have no reason to suspect what has passed. And if Rome suspects anyone, it will be Ballista and not you. He was Valerian’s Praetorian prefect, he was there as we handed the emperor over to the Persians.’
Odenathus’ anger subsided, his shoulders dropped, his face drained of feeling. He did not answer, he just shook his head. Some small fragment of him knew what Zenobia had done was in the best interests of Syria, I was sure. He must have seen that she had no choice. Or would he rather she had given up her life in doing Rome’s bidding, had her body returned to him flayed, and to know that it was caused by his own loyalty to an empire which cared so little in return. And yet I could sense from the look on his face that she had gone too far, she had betrayed everything he believed in; the one thing he had sworn loyalty to. She had betrayed his empire and its emperor; his superior, his overlord.
He rubbed his forehead with both hands.
‘You need to call a council of all the generals, my lord,’ Zabbai urged.
‘What?’ Odenathus said, lost in the weight of what had been done. Nothing could change it now.
‘My king,’ Zenobia pressed.
‘Do not call me that,’ he hissed. ‘You wilfully disobey me; how can I possibly be your king. Where is the respect you owe me, as your husband and your master? Where is your loyalty? Where is your pride?’
He turned away.
‘Odenathus,’ Zabbai beckoned, ‘you need to move quickly if you want to secure the Roman army and your position. Please, what has been done cannot be undone. The east needs you, just as it always has. We sit on a knife edge; Rome on one side, the Persians on the other. Only you can command the obedience of the army and defeat our enemies. Please, my friend, do not waste this opportunity.’
Finally, Odenathus appeared to stir from his solitary thoughts and nodded. Without looking at Zenobia, he ordered Zabbai to send for the Stratego of the Palmyrene army and those of the Roman army to join him in the house.
&nbs
p; ‘We must do our best to turn this situation to our advantage,’ Odenathus said, and though it was a slight on Zenobia’s actions, she did not flinch or show any reaction to his words. Taking little notice of me, he turned to face her. ‘Zabbai will be back with the Stratego within the hour. You are not needed here.’
‘You may not approve of what I have done, but I am still a member of the Palmyrene council. I have every right to stay and be a part of what happens now.’
‘Will your ambition never cease, Zenobia? Have you not done enough?’ Odenathus looked disappointed, his eyes were at once sorrow and anger. ‘I have only ever asked that you be my wife and bear my children. You have failed in both.’ His voice rose with the honesty of his words, and the truth of them checked me. On both counts she had failed, though the latter through no fault of her own. Or did some of the blame for her lost child lie with her own actions? Did Odenathus blame her for always wanting to be present, for being in Antioch with him instead of behind the safe walls of Palmyra? Did he think she had walked too far as the citizens of Antioch fled as the city fell? I had thought so at that time, but whether it caused her to lose her child, no one could know.
In those moments, I doubt Odenathus saw it as such. He saw a woman who had become his wife and a queen turn against him, ignore his will, defy his authority, betray the empire that had made him king and lose their unborn child. Grief, confusion and despair seemed to overcome him. I could see the waves of emotion in his eyes, spilling into the contours of his face.
‘You have failed me in every conceivable way.’
Perhaps he thought to humble her, to break her strength and for her to know his authority, but her face only hardened with each accusation. Deep within, I suspected she would be hurting, her surety crumbling and emotion bubbling inside. But on the outside she looked at her lord, master and husband with contempt.
‘If you wish to rule then do so. We brought armies back from Rome, and now I give them solely to you. But you must grasp them now, not later. Do as you have sworn to do for your country and protect her.’