Beloved

by Bertrice Small

  "Part of being a businessman is being a diplomat, Highness," he replied smoothly. "Shall we begin with the couches?"

  Zenobia laughed, and nodded. "By all means let us begin with the couches," she agreed.

  He led her into a section of the warehouse that was completely filled with couches, carefully lined up side by side, row upon row. They were extremely ornamental, made of finely grained and finished woods, the arms and legs carved ornately or inlaid with tortoiseshell, ivory, even precious metals. Several couches had frames of solid silver and legs inlaid with jewels, or carved in high relief to depict scenes of the gods in various attitudes of play. There was a couch with a rather graphic scene of Jupiter as the swan seducing the maiden, Leda. Zenobia, Marcus noted, quickly turned away from that particular piece of furniture. For some reason her modesty pleased him.

  "There are no cushions or coverings for the couches?" she asked.

  "Most merchants have such items already made and on the couches, Highness. I, however, prefer to allow my customer a choice of fabric, for I should hate to lose a sale because you disliked the color of the cushions."

  "That is very clever of you, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

  He chuckled with delight, for it gave him great pleasure to be complimented by this girl. Quietly he listened to her needs, and then suggested several possibilities, always explaining why he chose one couch over another so she might learn, but leaving the final decision to her.

  They next moved on to chairs. They were not upholstered, but they did have fabric cushions. The tables were elegant with supports and tops of marble, solid or veneered woods, or thin sheets of precious metals such as gold or silver. The most beautiful and the most expensive table in the warehouse was a round one made from cross sections of exquisitely marked, perfectly matched African cedar. Zenobia reverently rubbed her hand over the surface of the table, almost purring her pleasure.

  "Do not tell me," Marcus teased her. "You must have it."

  "Am I wrong to choose it?" she inquired hesitantly.

  "No. It is a fine piece; in fact, to my mind, it is one of the best tables ever done. It will be fearfully expensive though, Highness."

  Her winged brows raised themselves slightly. "I do not recall asking you the price, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

  Just the faint hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Shall we move on to chests and cabinets, your Highness?"

  Zenobia followed him into another section of the warehouse with what she hoped was a regal step. There, with Marcus's aid she picked several wooden cabinets, each one more beautifully decorated man the last. The cabinets were compartmented, but had no sliding drawers, locks, or hinges. She chose a dozen iron-bound wooden chests with ornamental locks and hinges of dark bronze, then moved on to purchase footed charcoal-burning iron floor stoves, to heat the rooms on chilly evenings and winter days.

  Next Zenobia bought lamps to light her home, exclaiming with delight at the variety available to her. Following Marcus's advice, she chose only lamps made of metals, for they, he assured her, would last a lifetime. There were lamps with handles that could be carried from room to room; some that would be suspended from the ceilings by chains; and others that would be kept on stands or tripods. The lamps were graceful in form, and all had been finely crafted, precious and semiprecious stones set within the gold and silver.

  It had taken over two hours for Zenobia to make her purchases, and now she must choose fabrics for her couches and pillows. "I am exhausted," she complained to Marcus. "I mink I should rather lead my camel corps in a desert drill than shop."

  "Your camel corps?" He kept his voice curious but impersonal.

  "The Bedawi are great fighters when they have to be, Marcus Alexander Britainus. When I was thirteen my father began to train me, as he had trained all my brothers in the art of desert warfare; as even today he trains his youngest sons."

  "Whom do you fight, my Princess?"

  "The Bedawi have few enemies," came the reply, "but, as my father has said, we must never grow soft."

  "So all your brothers lead camel corps."

  "Oh no, Marcus Alexander Britainus! To lead a Bedawi camel corps you must be the best. Only three of my older brothers and I have our own troupe, although one of my younger brothers appears promising." She smiled a shy smile at him. "You have been so kind, Marcus Alexander Britainus. Now I must choose fabrics. Lead on, please."

  The conversation was closed, and he knew that he could not reopen it. She was young and she was inexperienced. He would question Antonius Porcius. The whole idea of this slender and delicate-looking creature being a warrior fascinated him. He smiled in return and said, "I will have a chair brought so you may sit, your Highness. The slaves will bring the fabrics to you."

  He gave several sharp orders, and Zenobia quickly found herself comfortably seated, an alabaster goblet of cool juice in her hand. Another terse command from Marcus Alexander Britainus, and the slaves began to bring great bolts of fabric, unrolling several lengths of silks so she might see them properly. Zenobia's eyes widened at the glorious colors that were spread before her like a thousand sunrises and sunsets rolled into one. There were solid colors; and brocades and silks shot through with gold and silver threads.

  The delicately woven wools were both local and imported, and there were many shades ranging from dark red to black. The best linen was from Egypt, he informed her, and cotton was grown only in the eastern provinces.

  "I don't know where to begin," she said, and so he advised her as to which fabrics were best, showing her how to match colors and textures to make a pleasing effect. Bending over her, he breathed the subtle scent of hyacinths that she always wore; tortured himself with quick glimpses of her pale-gold breasts rising and falling calmly above her stola's low neckline. With superhuman effort he restrained the emotion that encouraged him to turn her to him and cover those luscious breasts with hot kisses.

  "You have been so wonderfully kind, Marcus Alexander Britainus." Her voice came at him from a million miles away. "I did not, until today, believe there was any kindness in the Romans. I see now that I was wrong."

  "There is good as well as evil in all peoples, your Highness. If I have taught you not to make quick judgments then I may count it a victory for Palmyra and her peoples."

  "My husband rules Palmyra, not I."

  "All women rule their husbands, your Highness. I have that on the best authority, for my mother and my sisters have often told me so."

  Zenobia laughed. "I am rebuked," she said, rising from her chair. "Tell me now, Marcus Alexander Britainus, when will all these wonderful things I have purchased be delivered to the palace?"

  "I will have them sent tomorrow, your Highness. They might come today, but we will need time to upholster your couches. If you will permit it I will escort you to your litter now."

  He stood outside his warehouse and watched as the large litter, filled to overflowing with Zenobia and her maidens, disappeared down the street, escorted not, he noticed, by Palmyran soldiers, but Bedawi warriors. He knew now more than ever that this exquisite woman was the only woman for him. Whatever happened he must remain near her. He wasn't sure quite yet how he was going to do it, but somehow he would.

  * * *

  As if Venus herself had heard his wish and taken pity on him, the opportunity presented itself the following day, when he personally oversaw the delivery of Zenobia's purchases to the palace.

  She greeted him gaily, then began to direct the slaves as to where they might put each article. Then Odenathus joined them, kissing his young wife's cheek, and smiling indulgently at her explanations.

  "I should not have been able to do any of this, my Hawk, had it not been for Marcus Alexander Britainus."

  "Then we owe you a debt, Marcus Alexander Britainus," Odenathus said. "Indeed, you are not in the mold of our average merchant. You seem more educated, a patrician I would swear."

  "My family is patrician, your Highness. The Alexander family dates
back to the earliest days of Rome. The key to our survival, I suspect, is that we have never involved ourselves in political intrigues. Each generation has been taught that only by hard work will they profit. The family estate, which is located in the hills outside of Rome near Tiber, was given to us in the first days of the republic. My grandfather, who is the current head of the Alexander family, still oversees the farm and the vineyards."

  "Yet you are a merchant, Marcus Alexander Britainus. Why is that?" Palmyra's prince demanded.

  "My father was a younger son, your Highness. Unlike others in his family, he chose to serve the government. Eventually he was sent to Britain as governor. There, he met and married my mother; and there, he began, in order to finance his growing family, to purchase and send back to Rome rare articles of beauty. When he was finally recalled to Rome he discovered that he had a burgeoning business. My grandfather allowed my father to start his own branch of the family. He continued to pursue his business, finding it preferable to life in the country. My younger brother, Aulus, resides in Britain, where he purchases goods to send back to Italy. I was sent here to obtain the magnificent goods of the Far East, and to send the luxuries of the West, east."

  Odenathus eyed the tall Roman. "You have served with the army?"

  "Yes, your Highness. With the Praetorian under the young Emperor Gordianus, in Africa."

  Odenathus was impressed. "My wedding gift from the emperor is that I am to be made commander of Rome's legions here in Palmyra."

  “A magnificent gift, Highness, I have no doubt you will bring glory to the region," replied Marcus.

  "I think that Marcus Alexander Britainus should stay for the evening meal, my Hawk," Zenobia said. She turned to Marcus. "You will stay, won't you?"

  The prince smiled. "I'm afraid you cannot refuse us, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

  There was no way Marcus could decline gracefully. The truth was that he did not want to, for though it pained him to see the prince being so affectionate with Zenobia, at least he, Marcus, was with her also.

  The winter dining room of the little palace faced south, and its walls were overlaid with thin slabs of pale yellow marble, its cornices and baseboards of carved and gilded wood matching the latticework that covered the windows. The east and west walls of the room had magnificent frescoes, bright with gold leaf, brilliant colors, and mosaic work. One showed a party of hunters after hippopotami and crocodiles on the Nile; the other offered mounted hunters with their sleek, fleet dogs chasing down gazelles in the desert. The floor was done in tiny pieces of blue, green, and yellow mosaic. Three dining couches, each one sectioned to seat three people, were set about a square dining table.

  The prince took the center couch, Zenobia sat to his left, and Marcus was placed on his right in the place of honor. Marcus ate automatically, not even noticing the food served to him on silver plates. He was far too busy answering the many questions Zenobia fired at him.

  He spoke of different philosophies for a time, then she looked shrewdly at him, saying, "Do you believe in these things, Marcus Alexander Britainus?"

  He smiled at her. "I am a realist. I believe in that which I can see."

  "I do not mean to offend. I am simply curious. There is so much I do not know of this world, and I want to learn!"

  "The most beautiful woman in Palmyra," the prince remarked, "and she is not satisfied with all she has."

  "It is not enough to be beautiful, my Hawk. If you had wanted a fluffy kitten of a wife, you would have been married long since."

  "What is it you want to know, my Princess? I will gladly share my little knowledge with you."

  The prince nodded, and Zenobia said bleakly, "Marcus Alexander Britainus, I do not even know what the sea looks like, and that, my Roman friend, is but the beginning of my ignorance."

  He began to speak, and in his eloquence he made wonderful word pictures that allowed them to see the sea and the ships upon it. He told of Rome set upon her seven green hills; and Britain, the land of his birth, with its misty wet weather and even greener hills. He spoke of his service in Africa, that primitive land of fierce contrasts; and all the while Zenobia sat motionless, absorbing his every word like a sponge. The night darkened beyond the dining room windows, and the servants cleared away the fruit and honeyed nut cakes. The goblets were refilled with aromatic red wine, and Marcus spoke on until, out of the comer of his eye, he saw the prince yawning behind his hand.

  "It is late," he said, "and I have been droning on like a schoolmaster."

  "You have barely begun to tell me what I seek to know," Zenobia murmured.

  "Perhaps then Marcus Alexander Britainus will come again and tell us of his experiences," the prince said politely.

  'Tomorrow," Zenobia replied.

  "Tomorrow?" Both men looked startled.

  "Yes, tomorrow. You must command him, my Hawk, to come each day for an hour, and teach me of the world beyond our city."

  Odenathus seemed annoyed, and glanced somewhat irritably at the Roman. "Marcus Alexander Britainus is a busy man, my flower."

  "Is he so busy that he cannot spare an hour each day?" she protested.

  Marcus could see that the prince was beginning to eye him with something akin to jealousy, yet he desperately wanted to be with Zenobia. "Perhaps," he said, looking directly at the prince, "you would allow me to visit with her Highness twice a week, my lord. By rearranging my schedule I could manage it."

  Zenobia had risen, and now she twined herself about her husband provocatively. "I do not ask you for jewels or other baubles, my Hawk. All I seek is knowledge. How can you object? You spend your days meeting with your councillors. The slaves care for the house, and I am left to the pursuits of boredom. Of course I might visit with your dear mother, or perhaps Deliciae." She smiled up at him with false sweetness.

  "I do not want you in the company of another man," the prince hissed.

  "Surely you are not jealous, my Hawk?" Zenobia's voice was a whisper now, but Marcus, always sharp of ear, could make out every word, and winced at her next statement. "He is practically old enough to be my father. Besides, I shall have Bab with me, and if you insist, my maidens also. I care not how many people are with me as long as I may learn!" Teasingly, she blew into his ear. "Please."

  Marcus turned his eyes away from them. He could not bear to see her affectionate with the prince. He drew a deep breath, and made an attempt to control his emotions. Zenobia was married to Odenathus. They were obviously very much in love.

  "Would you mind coming to teach my wife, Marcus Alexander Britainus?"

  "No, my lord, I should consider it an honor." He kept both his face and his voice grave.

  "Very well then, so be it. And I thank you, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

  The Roman rose from the table. "I have overstayed the bounds of good hospitality," he said. "With your Highness's permission I shall take my leave."

  "You have my permission, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

  He bowed from his waist, and exited the room, hearing behind him Zenobia's little cry of glee.

  "Oh, my Hawk, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" She flung herself upon him, and kissed him quite vigorously.

  He protested faintly. "Zenobia! We are in the dining room!"

  "The couch is big enough for both of us, my Hawk," she murmured, loosening his robe and nuzzling at his nipples.

  He groaned, all thoughts of the Roman driven from his mind, and wrapped his arms about her, burying his face in her soft shoulder. "Zenobia, Zenobia! What am I to do with you?"

  "Make love to me, my Hawk," she answered him boldly.

  He untangled her arms from about his neck, and stood, pulling her up with him. "A fine idea, my flower, but not here for some poor slave to stumble upon us." He brushed a kiss across her pouting mouth, and with a faint smile led her through their house and upstairs to their bedchamber. "Leave us! Go to your beds!" was his curt order to the slave girls who awaited their young mistress.

  As on their wedding n
ight two months earlier they quickly undressed each other, shivering in the cool air of a desert summer night. They stood for a few moments, and his hands caressed the marvelous mounds of her breasts, moving downward to smooth along her firm thighs and hips. He pushed her away from him and stood back, admiring her nudity in the flickering light of the perfumed lamps.

  "You are like a golden goddess, to be worshiped and adored. I never tire of looking at you," he said.

  She stood quietly, no longer afraid or shy of him, and when he knelt before her she stroked the dark head that pressed itself into her soft belly. She was beginning to feel languorous as she always did when he began to make love to her, but as always he sensed the moment when her legs began to weaken, and stood to pull her atop him as he fell back upon the bed. For a long moment their mouths met in a fiery embrace, and then Zenobia drew away. She sat upon him, and wetting her finger in her mouth began to encircle his nipple teasingly. He watched her through slitted eyes, a faint smile upon his face. In just two months the virgin he had married had become the most sensuous woman he had ever known. She was wonderfully passionate and constantly inventive. In one sense it was fortunate that her mother had died before she might pass on to her daughter those inhibitions that invariably divided a married couple's sexual life into the acceptable and the unacceptable.

  Pushing himself into a sitting position, he pulled her forward and impaled her on his ready lance. Reaching out, he grasped one full breast and pulled it to his open mouth, sucking hard on the sensitive nipple while his other hand slipped under her to caress her buttocks. Zenobia moaned, and sought for the wonderful motion that always eventually brought her relief. He, however, would not allow it, holding her still between iron thighs while his mouth and hands wreaked delicious havoc and her desire became more frantic. His lips captured her in a deep kiss, his tongue driving into her mouth, his hands clutching her tightly, holding her still while her ardor mounted, until finally she was tearing her mouth away from his and begging him to give her release.