The Fate of an Emperor (Overlord Book 2)

by JD Smith

  ‘What have I noticed?’ I ask, unwilling to confess my unease.

  ‘We’re being followed. That is why you insist we sail day and night.’

  He scours the horizon then glances at me. I hold my silence. There is little point in answering him, he knows me too well. I think perhaps my senses prickle with the knowledge that someone is always out there, always seeking, and now I know it is not only me, but that Bamdad feels it too.

  ‘The Tanukh will not forgive us lightly for Jadhima’s death,’ he adds.

  He speaks what I dare not voice. I wish the gods would not play with us, see us battle for their amusement. Jadhima was right, I think, there would always be a revenge to exact, because there is always someone left to desire that revenge, and I know already there is a price on my head. But I do not wish to stand again, to fight them, not with Samira aboard. I have chased the Tanukh for so long, it is strange to think that they now chase us.

  ‘They cannot forgive us lightly, no,’ I agree. ‘You and I both know Amr will not forget the death of his uncle.’ I rolled my shoulders. ‘He was a savage when he was young, and Jadhima’s kingdom will pass to him now.’

  I can smell the day creeping upon the night. Feel the light about to emerge on the horizon. If the Tanukh were out for our blood, if others in search of the price on my head hunt us, we will know soon enough, and we will be ready for them. I sense rather than feel the weight of steel at my side, for I am used to it now.

  Samira appears on the deck. I do not realise how long I have stood with Bamdad, lost in my thoughts, staring at shadows on the shore. Bamdad winks at her and she grins in return and I sense the bond they share, and know that he is as much a grandfather to her as I am. Sometimes I can feel a fragment of jealousy creep upon me, that he so easily captures her affections when I think to work so hard to be close to her, to protect her, and for her to trust me in return. It feels unnatural, as if I am a stranger and I have not been a part of her life since she was born.

  Samira has become ever more intrigued by Bamdad since hearing of his participation in our tale, and yearns for more. He is growing old; many years have passed since we stood side by side as brothers and faced the Persians at Antioch. Where once his hair was black as coal, now it is greying, the years of battle taking their toll. And still his smile is young and mischievous, rather like Samira’s.

  My own bones ache in the cold wind as I think of how much time has passed since I first encountered my loyal friend. How the distances we have travelled and the choices we have made define us. I have become increasingly philosophical, I think, and to my amusement I think of Julius and I can but smile to myself that I should have now his traits even though I am not of his blood, but of Meskenit’s. I wonder do all men seek philosophy as they progress in years. Bamdad, it seems, does not.

  ‘I love the morning,’ Samira says as she joins me.

  ‘A fresh day full of new opportunities,’ I reply.

  She smiles; an innocent, fresh expression, one that I have seen on her many times, one that I remember seeing on Zenobia on in her early years.

  ‘It is,’ she says. ‘Have we travelled far during the night?’

  ‘We have made good time.’ Bamdad winks again, and there is an awkwardness in Samira, as if something has passed between them, but I do not know what.

  ‘We will reach Hama shortly,’ I add, and take a deep breath. ‘Then we travel to Antioch on foot, then the open sea.’

  She smiles and leaves us, and I am once again alone with Bamdad.

  ‘What has passed between you?’ I ask him. I am not one for games. I am too old for them.

  ‘Ah, Zabdas, you need to open your eyes. Have you any idea what she’s feeling? Poor girl’s had more to contend with these past days than you and I have in twenty years. Vaballathus is dead. He’s not coming back. She knows this. She’s weary with mourning him but you don’t see it.’

  I am taken aback by his words, and realise he is angry. Perhaps he is angry that I have not taken more care, that we should have stopped Vaballathus, or simply that he does not wish to see her hurting. I think the latter likely.

  ‘You are right,’ I say. ‘She is hurting. The gods know I wish she was not.’

  ‘Take a care with her. She’s strong, but I do not think she’s as strong as you like to think. She is no Zenobia.’

  He is right once more. She is no Zenobia, but neither would I have her be. She is her own person, a young girl becoming a woman, and I would have a path for her that is safe, that does not hold danger, but every imaginable possibility that she could wish to choose from.

  ‘No one will ever come close,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve read your documentation of what happened.’

  ‘What of it?’

  He does not speak, but shakes his head and laughs a little and walks away.

  And I am left with that look, and wonder what it is that amuses him, which part of the tale he thinks a jest, what events he believes are not told as they should be. But they are my own recollections, my knowledge of that time, not his, and that is the one I am writing.

  CHAPTER 16

  Zabdas – 260 AD

  Surrounded by soldiers, I felt oddly alone. Zenobia’s horse moved nervously as she and Odenathus surveyed the army amassing before us on the hot and humid horizon. Zabbai rode up and down our lines of men, shouting orders, speaking encouragement, sending messengers back and forth.

  I sat upon my camel, no familiar faces around me, watching as the workings of the army turned and moved and rotated. And I wished Zenobia would move back with me, back behind the lines of men where we had been instructed to be before the armies clashed.

  I was between two cohorts in the central force. Sweat stung my eyes. I wiped it aggressively with my palms, making it worse, and feared that I would be unable to see when the enemy attacked. The ground here was uneven; chosen by Pouja because the Persians had more horses than we did, and it would serve to immobilize them, giving us the opportunity to attack and lever a small advantage.

  Behind me the wind blew, cooling my neck, dragging with it a blanket of dust from the banks of the Euphrates.

  ‘Stand firm. Today we fight for our countries. Today … we fight … FOR ROME!’ I could just make out the Latin words bellowed to the Roman legionaries. Perhaps by Ballista himself, but I was too deep in the Syrian ranks to see.

  Zabbai walked in front of the cohort nearest me and shouted, ‘Warriors of the East, brothers and countrymen, remember this: we are all that stands between the Persians and invasion of the Roman Empire. We have been their shield. We have been their sword arm. We have been the slave that wipes the arse of Rome!’

  We laughed and cheered, and for a moment my fear was forgotten. The words were not the words of Zabbai, although he spoke them, they were the words of a man who knew how to perform, how to rally his men when he needed to. They were the words of a general.

  ‘And yet today we fight for more than Rome. We will see the Persians defeated. We will see them crushed into the ground, their blood staining our sands. And we will do it for ourselves, for our own country, for one another, because without each other we are nothing. Without each other, fighting side by side, we cannot protect this country or our homes or our families or our livelihoods. Remember that. Be sure we have victory, and let the Roman bastards know who saved them!’

  A roar of support followed Zabbai’s words as he carried on down the lines of men, repeating them over and again, spurring the men on, until all I could hear was a roar of noise in response.

  The commands and speeches of encouragement continued as Odenathus and Zenobia pulled back, a contingent of commanding officers and messengers in their wake. I followed. Legionaries looked up at the king as he passed. If his eyes were upon them, their courage and skill in battle could be seen and rewarded.

  But not for me, I would stay with Zenobia. I would not fight nor see the skills I had acquired used only as a guard for the eastern queen. But that did not seem to matter an
ymore. My frustration was quelled by the knowledge that it was because of the protection of Julius and that I could not imagine being anywhere but at Zenobia’s side as the lines of Roman soldiers and the lines of Persian soldiers met. I would protect her, no matter what, and the thought of riding hard for the south, taking Zenobia to her father, filled my vision. Pray that does not happen.

  Once behind the lines, Zenobia, her guard and I rode further back, beyond the reserve line from where we would observe the battle. I could see the formation of our men more clearly. Heavy infantry carrying spear and sword and shield were backed by a single rank of archers. Legates behind them were mounted on horseback. Flags fluttered overhead and I thought perhaps I saw light flickering on the legions’ eagles, but I could not be sure.

  ‘Odenathus stands too close to the fighting line,’ Zenobia said.

  I looked for the king’s red cloak beyond the re-enforcements, amid the messengers and commanding officers sprawling the rear of our troops.

  ‘Do not worry,’ I replied. ‘He knows what he is doing.’

  Zenobia remained silent and continued to stare at our men.

  I worried for her. She thought the king too close to the fighting line, when we were so close ourselves. I could have seen her further back. I thought perhaps to ride now for Julius and wait to be called before returning to Palmyra, but it seemed that all my senses were fixated on the army before us.

  Seeing the lines forming on Zenobia’s brow I said, ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘We have the best possible men commanding the Roman and Syrian armies. We have the most skilled legionaries in the world filling our ranks.’ She met my eyes. ‘But we are so very small compared to the Persian force. I do not fear for myself, standing here, I fear for our country. If we lose this battle, we lose Palmyra and the East. This is our chance to save it, to push back Shapur, to gain a defeat at last, and if we do not I think we will never recover from it. What are you thinking, Zabdas?’

  After a moment I grinned half-heartedly.

  ‘That I have never seen so many men in one place.’

  In a haze of men and horses and heat, the enemy loomed ever larger. Soon individual riders could be made out amongst the swarm of warriors heading toward our lines. The enemy appeared greater in number than it had before, and I felt my own grip tighten on the sword at my hip, knotting the muscle in my forearm.

  Persian kettle drums beat their awful rhythm. Zenobia and I could only watch as they neared. From the midst of churning dust, a lone rider pulled ahead of the Persian force.

  The horse galloped frantically and the rider raised his right arm signalling he carried word from his masters. Odenathus bellowed a command from behind the line of archers backing the infantry, and a moment later arrows whistled overhead, thudding into the messenger, hitting him with such force he was thrown from his horse.

  What message he carried from the enemy we would never know.

  That was our reply to Shapur: the time for talk was over.

  Drums beat.

  Out of arrow range, the main Persian force came to a halt.

  The entire plain fell quiet but for the sound of the guards next to me breathing heavily, the wind whistling at my back, and the rustle of armour and horses. Even the daunting beat of the kettle drums ceased. Grim-faced, the two armies watched one another. Halfway between, the Persian messenger lay dead, arrows protruding from his fallen body and his horse meandering aimlessly a few feet away.

  More than one hundred and thirty thousand men stood on the plain; there were women too in the Persian ranks. Romans, Syrians, Persians; all moved simultaneously toward each other. Drums beat once more with the promise of blood and death, victory and defeat. Many would not see tomorrow. I could hear nothing but the battle cry of my people. My people. I was behind the fighting line, but for every part of me that was thankful, there was a bigger part that wanted to be in combat beside my countrymen. I wanted to be with them, help them, or die as one of them. I was torn between the joining the ranks and staying with Zenobia and taking her to greater safety. And for the first time since the Romans had come in force to Syria, I appreciated their presence.

  Horns sounded as the front lines of both armies drew close to one another. Arrows hummed overhead and thudded into Persian shields and flesh and earth and horses, or else glanced off armour. More arrows flew. Soon the Persians were returning our arrow fire with their own waves of steel-tipped death until missiles broke apart their formation.

  As the Persians advanced, so our own ranks moved forward. The two front lines met for what seemed like a heartbeat, before pulling apart. They moved toward each other again and there was a brief clash of metal followed by screams from the injured and the dying. I could not breathe and I could barely think. I kept looking to Zenobia, as if she would say something to ease my worries, but she looked on with a hardened expression, no surprise or worry or panic in her features. She betrayed nothing.

  The Persians pushed hard into our left flank, and all I could do was watch. I scanned the rear line. Despatch riders with feathers tied to their spears moved back and forth. Whole cohorts rippled as they engaged the enemy. More arrows rained down on our men.

  Behind the central formation, Odenathus waved his arm overhead, commanding officers and couriers and shouting support, spurring on his men, guiding them. The battlefield was his stage, the legionaries before him players. He moved back and forth, presumably to gauge the progress of his centuries more clearly.

  Suddenly his horse began to meander away from the line. Odenathus arm dropped to his side, and his cloak lifted as he slid heavily from the horse and into the churning dust. There he lay and did not move, an arrow sticking vertically from his torso.

  The king had fallen.

  Beside me I heard Zenobia gasp, a whimper of distress almost, then more shouts and more screams rushed across the ground to us and I was deafened by it.

  A commander moved into Odenathus’ position as a group of soldiers encircled their king. Men swept in from behind our lines and a moment later the king was carried away. The sound from the battlefield grew, and I suspected the Persians knew that our king had fallen, that one of our leaders no longer rallied his men, and that our Syrian ranks were weakened.

  And my heart plunged at the sight of our first heavy loss.

  ‘My Queen,’ one of our company said, ‘we need to move back.’

  The guard said what I should have done, albeit in a nervous, fretful voice. He worried as I did I am sure that more losses would succeed the first. That the Persians would be rallied by the fall of our king and our troops would lose courage. Zenobia must move to safer ground. Odenathus would want that.

  ‘My Lady?’ the guard persisted. ‘My Queen? ... Zenobia? We must move back to safety. The king was specific …’

  His voice trailed off as Zenobia shook her head. Her face pale and her eyes empty she spoke in a calm voice. ‘Go back and get the baggage train moving toward the city. Make sure our people reach safety. Get them inside the walls. Our king has fallen, but we will not lose this fight. We cannot lose this battle.’

  There was no time to argue as she spurred her horse across the sands toward our army.

  ‘Zenobia!’ I called after her. Then instinctively I followed, my camel’s speed closing the gap between us.

  The noise intensified as we neared the battle and the two beasts came to a halt behind the rear rank. I was not prepared for this. The noise was more deafening that before, and I could barely hear my own voice as I called after her. We were so close to the killing that I could smell the blood and sweat and shit of the dying and dead.

  Zenobia and I moved across to where the heavily armoured, mounted commander bellowed orders. Pouja looked at us then looked again.

  ‘Get out of here now. You are a target for the enemy, get back,’ he shouted to Zenobia. Then to a courier: ‘Have reserves brought up on the left flank before the Persian cavalry punch a fucking hole in our line.’

  But they wer
e staring at Zenobia. In frustration he turned back to her and said, ‘I told you to get back. Get out of here. This is no place for you.’

  ‘The soldiers should see that their queen is amongst them.’

  ‘Odenathus will have my fucking head!’ he growled back.

  ‘King Odenathus has fallen,’ Zenobia replied, her tone matter of fact. ‘And the morale of our troops will wane. You need me here.’

  In fury Pouja turned away and instead looked at me for longer than was comfortable before saying, ‘Zabdas, if you want to smell enemy shit then get off that camel, draw your sword, and join the fucking reserve. Do it now before I change my mind. Ha, change my mind,’ he said more to himself. ‘I always thought Odenathus should control his woman better but it seems no one can.’

  In the confusion that followed, I did as I was told, leaving Zenobia at the commander’s side. The enemy and Roman lines were not engaged as I joined the central reserve, but instead shouted insults to one another. Nothing was in perspective; every sense heightened by what was happening and would come. The smell of sweat ridden leather filled my nostrils, polished iron gleamed, and the sound of thirty thousand men ready for battle deafened me. In that moment I wondered why I was here. Why I stood amidst the armies of the Roman Empire, amongst men of many countries, waiting to fight an enemy. And then I knew. I stood waiting to face men who would invade the country I had come to love. In my army were people I cared for. I fought amongst friends; amongst people who saw me as one of them. I belonged here, as a warrior. I belonged with Zenobia. And I would fight and I would die here if it meant I was a part of it.

  ‘You ready for a fight?’ a familiar voice shouted to my right.

  I looked around to see Bamdad, wild-eyed, just as he had been at the gates of Antioch.

  ‘I am,’ I replied, relishing the fact that suddenly my fear had gone, replaced by an ecstasy I could not even begin to explain. Bamdad was here and the thought of our previous fight together came to me with the notion that this was just the same. We stood before the enemy once more. We had survived.