by JD Smith
‘Yes, but still …’
‘Rostram has not been before either. Nor many of the men.’
‘Rostram tells me he is to buy the boat that will sail us across the Mediterranean,’ she says.
I can tell by her words she does not approve. There is a dislike in the sharpness of her tone. I say nothing. The sun is hot and there is too much else on my mind to delve deeper into the politics of emotion. Indeed Rostram is at this very moment within the city walls, sounding out the merchants and captains, to see if he can find a boat.
Bamdad turns back and comes to sit with us. There is a reserve in his eyeing the city, his head downturned, expression reluctant and unwilling to be here in this place.
‘Did you burn the Tanukh ships?’ Samira asks us.
Bamdad looks at her and sniffs.
‘This is your grandfather’s story. Only he can tell you what happened,’ he says, and nods to me.
‘But it was you who led the men to the river, to burn the Tanukh ships?’
‘Aye,’ Bamdad says, ‘I did.’
‘And so what happened?’ she asks, keen and curious, bored with our waiting.
Bamdad is torn between recounting that night and his fear of revealing how hard he is finding it to be back at Antioch. I know, for I have known him a long time, and each time we return to this place he is the same way.
Samira leans forward, avid and ready to listen.
Bamdad succumbs.
‘With the Tanukh warriors dead, we lost our chance of a surprise attack. The enemy would have been alert, anticipating the arrival of their men back at the river. Thirty of us left the fort. The sky was blacker than I’ve ever known as we stumbled down to the shore. Everything was quiet; even the river. Balls, but we couldn’t even see our own feet it was so dark!’
‘What happened? Did they see you coming?’
‘We were like daemons of another world, that night.’
Bamdad’s eyes gleam in the afternoon haze. He breathes deeply, tension leaving his muscles and mind, as he relives the past.
‘The gods guided us through the dark. And the blazing glow of all those precious boats was almost as satisfying as seeing the Tanukh’s frozen faces skewered with our arrows.’
Samira is silent. She does not reply, and Bamdad adds: ‘You have a lot to learn, Rubetta.’
‘Zenobia, she was never merciful?’
I sigh at the question.
Mercy.
It is the one thing Samira seeks for people she does not know. The killing, the bloodshed; they are parts of my past she cannot understand. She has seen us slay illegal slavers and she understood the need, but still she did not understand.
Bamdad touches Samira’s shoulder, an awkward gesture compared to their closeness earlier.
‘Don’t think on it too much.’
‘I agree,’ I say. ‘Kings and queens, warlords and senators – they make decisions many of us will never comprehend. It is better not to worry about the decisions you would have made in Zenobia’s place.’
‘True enough,’ Bamdad confirms. ‘I’ve never needed to make a decision in my life. Much better that way.’
Samira laughs, and he leaves us, walking amongst our small company all waiting in the sun.
‘What I am telling you,’ I say to Samira, ‘is not a justification for what has passed. I tell you only because you deserve to know; because Zenobia is your grandmother.’
‘I understand.’
‘She was merciful to her own people,’ I say eventually. ‘Bamdad and the men who went to burn the Tanukh ships did just that. They burned them. They did not go to slaughter the crews, although I confess they probably killed many. Once the entire fleet was gone, it would take months before they could progress further up the river. I think she hoped it would give us time before they crept into our lands once more. She gave them a chance, just one, to be at peace with us. Palmyra was a prosperous city on the trade route and they could have been a part of that.’
‘Then why did you kill Jadhima all these years later?’ she asks.
She knows I killed him in the ruined city of Palmyra. I hunted him for long enough. I toy with jumping forward in the tale.
‘Jadhima sought revenge for Zenobia’s actions.’ I laugh, a small, hollow sound. ‘Revenge is a desire that goes beyond reason. I knew my thirst would not be quenched with his blood, but I took his life nonetheless. In time I will tell you exactly what happened in the years that followed.’
‘And Teymour?’
I shake my head and I am filled with regret for the man I wish, even now, had been a better friend to Julius.
CHAPTER 7
Zabdas – 261 AD
Ships blazed in a distant fog of deep orange and yellow-gold. Zenobia and I watched. Slave-women and their children, the injured and our guards, lined the ramparts and watched too. Wind parted the curtains of smoke and fog, and the flames burned brighter and more fiercely, the oranges turning to amber and red, and I could almost feel the heat on my face. The night screamed with the Tanukh’s cries and curses; fearful of the daemons Zenobia had sent to drive them from Palmyra; terrified of the fire sent by the gods.
The scene before us rippled and distorted as the heat grew and rose, reaching up to the sky, warming the Christians’ heaven. I prayed each of our warriors would come back unscathed from the ships as I, as always, remained at Zenobia’s side. Her expression was unmoving as the flames danced in those black eyes. She ordered the burning. She would not turn away from what she had done, nor would she ever show weakness.
We stood there for what seemed like the whole night, fire licking the sky as my legs grew weary.
‘I feel no different,’ I said at last. ‘I thought there would be relief once Teymour was dead, but there is nothing.’
Zenobia closed her eyes a moment, extinguishing the reflection of burning ships. She gave a small humming sound as if agreeing with me.
‘Do you feel relief?’ I asked.
Still she did not speak.
I looked back to the blaze and wondered if the moving shadows were men running back and forth, but they were too far off to distinguish. I longed to be home again, in Palmyra. I had desperately wanted to come to the Euphrates in the years Julius was there, so that I might stand beside him, and when he died I longed to come for revenge. But it was not the same now. Teymour was dead and I felt as empty as before, and for the first time I knew that nothing could ever change that. Perhaps Amr was now burning along with his uncle’s ships, and yet I found I did not care. What did his life matter if it could not bring back what I had lost? I was trying to hold on to the first man, the first person, who had shown me kindness, and yet he was slipping from me as surely as Teymour journeyed with the ferryman.
After long moments Zenobia said, ‘Your heart belongs in your chest, Zabdas. Not upon your breastplate.’
It was as though the flames on the river jumped up and burned me.
‘Do you have one at all?’ I snapped. ‘You showed no hesitation in sending Teymour to his fate, though we must both have hated him in equal measure. You asked to come here and avenge your father but show little sorrow for his death.’ As I spoke, I knew what ate at me most. It was the fact that she had not cried for anyone other than Odenathus, as if only he could penetrate this unbreakable woman.
My words fell into the space between us. Then I murmured, ‘For you everything is either water or sand.’
Zenobia glanced sidelong at me and back to the river.
‘They come together, Zabdas, the water and the sand, and they become one. I knew Teymour my whole life. My father, my mother; they trusted him implicitly. But he was not to be trusted. He betrayed my father.’
‘They once trusted him. By the end, your father did not.’
She inclined her head. ‘True. It was a hard choice, to match him against a Tanukh, knowing what fate awaited him. But he had already begun to rally the men to his own cause, breaking open trade routes, going against my father, and that wa
s enough for me to know I had to do what was necessary. If you think I do not mourn my father, Zabdas, then you are blind indeed.’
I shook my head, incredulous, wondering if I had indeed missed the signs of her sadness, had blinked and missed the tears she shed.
‘I feel constantly lost,’ I said.
Zenobia sighed, almost impatient, and I felt my embarrassment at revealing my thoughts stir.
‘We head back to Palmyra now,’ she replied.
‘It cannot come soon enough. The gods are enjoying this.’
Down by the river, shadows of men began to emerge from the splay of burning vessels. The fire seemed so final. It should have been the end of our desire for revenge and the end of the Tanukh. It was neither.
Two days later charred lumps of wreckage were still floating downstream past the fort. Other ships had sunk and their scorched beams jutted from the riverbed like the ribcages of slain giants. Wisps of cloud hung in front of a pale sun. It was cold enough to warrant furs over my shoulders, even though by mid-morning I would be sweltering. Beside me, Zenobia sat astride a camel, her olive skin exposed to the fresh day.
The beasts plodded through the fort gates and out onto the hillside. I looked back in the direction of the Tanukh and wondered where Jadhima was now; whether he hated Zenobia as much as I had hated Amr, or cared for the men he had sent to their deaths as I cared for Bamdad and Zabbai, Zenobia and Vaballathus, Aurelia, or any one of the people that were as close to me as family. Strange, I thought. Aurelia and the boy she mothered were my family. And yet in my mind I always distanced them.
We lumbered down the path towards the river, further upstream than where the Tanukh’s fleet had been. A dozen men were already at the riverbank waiting for us. There were many solemn faces as we dismounted, and as Zenobia’s feet touched the ground, every one of those twelve guards dropped to their knees. Bamdad alone stood, his mischievous grin still apparent though not so wide.
Zenobia walked toward the shingle bank and brushed the heads of the soldiers as she passed. They clambered to their feet, leather creaking. Her touch was fortune, pure as a newborn lamb.
‘Hold the Tanukh,’ she said to Bamdad.
Bamdad bowed his head. ‘They come upriver only when I am dead.’
Zenobia accepted his hand and stepped into the waiting boat.
Once Zenobia was seated I said to Bamdad, ‘We are still friends?’
‘How many years must pass and how many arguments must be had, slave of Yemen,’ he laughed, ‘before you realise that I am not so easily offended … at least for no more than a day.’
Relieved, I grinned.
‘Many times, I imagine.’ I paused. ‘There is one thing I would ask of you.’
Bamdad’s gaze was uninviting.
I reached into my pack, pulled out a coin, and pressed it into his hand.
‘Put this under Teymour’s tongue. To pay Charon.’
‘You would greet him in the Otherworld?’
I shrugged and climbed into the little boat after Zenobia. She was looking downriver towards the heat haze that shimmered on the horizon.
No, I thought, I would not greet him in the Otherworld. I would hate him as I hated myself for not being sure of my emotion, for lacking the conviction I saw in Zenobia. I would rather spit upon his corpse than forgive him. Or would I? If Bel smiled upon me would I shake the hand of a traitor to Palmyra? I could not decide. And if I did, would he greet me with open arms in return? Perhaps not. Not now.
But there was one man who would greet his old friend with a smile and forgiveness. And I had paid the ferryman with his coin.
We travelled upriver for three days before crossing land to Palmyra. I was desperate to be inside the walls of the city, safe within their welcoming stone. It was as if a disease gripped me and only the familiarity of Palmyra could break the sweat and fever.
Zenobia rode beside me and she glanced and smiled at me more than once. She could not wait to see her son, I thought; her smile the infectiousness of a small boy that she loved more than anyone else in the world. That she loved almost as much as the sand we trod.
We rode the last few miles hard. Zenobia’s face danced with childish excitement and we lost ourselves as the camels thumped across the ground, racing one another, pushing hard for home. We passed traders on the roads and the ever more familiar hills and bridges, and it was as if I had never been away. We were racing back through time, remembering the years I spent here training. When I thought on it, I had not spent much time in Palmyra itself, but it was the place I always came back to.
We reached the gateway, our escort immediately behind. I let Zenobia win, of course. I wanted to see the laughter on her face as she beat me, and her affectionate ridicule.
‘You lose, Zabdas,’ she panted.
‘If only I were not so muscular I might weigh less and my camel could run faster.’
‘Or you might be fat instead and breathing even harder.’
I laughed openly. I wanted to grip her, to contain the pleasure on her face. How to keep it, bottle it, preserve the lightness of her features and the dancing in her eyes?
I nodded to the soldiers at the gate. The moment was over as she turned to enter.
Traders and their customers moved aside as our camels plodded through the streets spilling with the rarities of the east. I could still be amazed, even now, by all the scarlet and deep blues, the yellows and the imperial purple silks lining our way. Coriander and cumin were amongst many scents that filled the air, and I breathed them in with care, for fear that the smell might evaporate as quickly as Zenobia’s laughter. I remembered Rome, so full of everything from everywhere, and smiled to myself as we rode through those streets, because Palmyra was not just full of goods, it was enriched by them.
Loose sheets draped over the pale bronze of the olive crib. Streaks of afternoon light warmed the room, birds twittered outside, and the quiet brought with it a sense of peace. I let myself rest my weary heart for a moment. We were home now. Palmyra again. And I basked in that knowledge as I would soak in the bathhouses.
Zenobia reached out a hand and rocked the empty crib. The gentle creak echoed and footsteps sounded in the hallway.
‘Where is he?’ Zenobia asked without turning.
‘Vaballathus is with your mother.’ The woman, taller than Zenobia; taller even than most men, spoke in a high, congested voice, her shrill words bouncing around the close walls. ‘Odenathus approved, so they went two months past.’
Zenobia stilled the crib’s movement. She inclined her head to Mina, King Odenathus’ mother.
‘Is Odenathus here?’
Mina turned slightly, as if straining to hear. She seemed about to dismiss the question before saying, ‘He comes and goes. The country is busier than it has ever been. There are threats he needs to quell, and soldiers to dispatch, and a hundred other duties. He will return again soon.’ Her voice seemed to teeter on the edge of a question; spoken in the mind a hundred times and all the more difficult to speak aloud.
‘Then I shall go to my son,’ Zenobia replied. ‘Would you see that Odenathus is informed if he returns before me?’
The King’s mother nodded but did not move from the doorway. Zenobia’s face was soft and enquiring. The two women crossed one another rarely, but I could not forget the resounding slap Mina had delivered to Zenobia the first time she met her.
‘Is Aurelia with Vaballathus?’ I asked.
‘She is. The boy is with her.’
‘Gratitude,’ I replied.
We stepped past Mina.
‘Zenobia, wait a moment.’ There was a faint hint of pleading in the downturn of her eyes.
‘What troubles you, mother of the King?’
‘Nothing troubles me. But Odenathus will want to know the outcome of your time in the south?
‘I will tell him when I see him.’
Zenobia’s footsteps could be heard along the corridor, fading, and Mina’s bitter face trembled.
I always suspected she held affection for Julius from the years when he had first been in the army, a friend to her son, but I could not be sure. Or perhaps she despised Zenobia still for her place at Odenathus’ side. She peered back into the room at the crib, her face turned away from me.
‘What did you wish to know?’ My voice, I thought, was soft and helpful, understanding, even.
She erupted with fury, her expression became angular and the sinews in her neck taut.
‘I wish to know nothing from a slave.’
We stayed in the palace overnight and departed for the Zabdilas family villa in the west at daybreak. Our camels plodded across the great blanket of sand as each crest came then fell away. Caravans thronged the road, slowing us and our escort of eight soldiers. Trade, it seemed, had improved since the Persians had been pushed out of Syria a few months before. It was easy to see, with the expensive carts, glittering merchants and well-bred beasts, that trade brought much gold to our city.
The crowded road came to a standstill. I waved two of our escort forward to find out why. As we sat there, the midday sun beating down on the cloth covering my head and shoulders, I thought back on Mina’s words. Indeed I had been a slave, but no more. And still, despite everything I strived to achieve, every friend I made, and each coin that pulled me further from that life, that one single word slave was immune to banishment.
For every positive deed and word directed to me, I could remember one harsher, crueller, and more soul-sapping. I could never wipe away the mark puckering the skin on my forearm, but could I ever shed the collar of slave, the name? If a man was a king, and became his enemy’s prisoner, was he still a king? Could they any more discard his title than I could lose my own?
Zenobia could strip a man of anything, I reflected.
Gold silk shaded most of her face as she sat atop her camel, though I could see her eyes were closed to the bright sun.
‘What troubles you, Zabdas?’
‘Nothing.’
She turned her head, opening those deep black kohl eyes.