The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  A son that was not yet born.

  How many months? Aurelia could not be long with child, for the curve of her stomach was not yet obvious, and there was only one time she could have conceived: as I returned with Odenathus to Palmyra for the celebration of Vaballathus’ birth. It was then I had lain with Aurelia before travelling to the Euphrates with a mind for Jadhima’s blood.

  I thought of it every step until we reached the city. Familiarity excited me as we approached the gates more than four or five men high. Merchants and travellers rolled carts to the edge of the road to let us pass. Many lay prostrate on the ground as the great train of soldiers passed by, and chanted Odenathus’ name. These were people who knew what the King had done for them. Praising his success and his rule. Chanting his title Illustrious Consul our Lord. They spoke Zenobia’s name too: Hail the Queen of the Desert; Gods shine upon our Protector, defeater of the Persians; Bless you our saviour; Praise be to Selene and her child on earth …

  We could spend months away from the city, and still the inhabitants would welcome home their King and Queen with a respect and affection you would scarce expect of a lover.

  The days that followed our arrival were days of triumph. The mob rejoiced in the arrival of Odenathus and Zenobia. Tributes of cloth and spice, gold and beasts were sent to the palace in honour of their rule, and in turn the city commander, Worod, distributed bread and wine to the populace. We celebrated, and yet within the confines of the marble palace, Odenathus celebrated nothing.

  ‘I am too old to fight a battle that can never be won.’

  In a hushed voice he spoke to Zenobia as we congregated in the great hall. We listened to despatches that had waited weeks to be heard by the King. Some were messengers from our various frontiers, other tribes throughout the kingdom, yet more from Rome itself.

  Zenobia placed a hand on her husband’s. ‘Of course it can be won.’ Then in a lower voice with a lick of mischief, ‘And you are not so old!’

  ‘I have passed my fortieth year, Zenobia. Do you not see the lines upon my face?’

  ‘I see many, my love. Battle scars all, of that I am certain.’

  Odenathus allowed a smile to glide over his face. ‘You see the toll kingship takes. I have seen more damned war than any man can stomach. I am surprised that a sword has not yet taken my life, or an assassin’s blade. I feel I have lived long enough to claim I have cheated death. My limbs ache more sitting here listening to the visitors at my court than sat on a horse in the middle of the desert waiting for the enemy to charge.’

  ‘A soldier’s ache and a sign you want to return to the frontier.’

  I ached, I thought, standing idly in the palace beside Zenobia, with courtiers and senators around us. We had been there hours, listened to a dozen or more reports, and with each one we heard how much more powerful the three pretenders had become. They gathered men from every corner of Syria, men who had Roman blood and men who were sympathetic to Rome. They secured legions farther west, rallied support within the Roman capital itself, made promises they could not – and probably never intended – to keep. Gods be damned, but standing there in the great hall of Palmyra’s palace, we experienced an assault of reports and could do nothing but listen.

  A man stepped forward whom I had not seen before. From his casual, stooped posture and battle-weary face, he was a warrior, not a messenger. And he spoke a name I knew well.

  ‘I bring news from General Zabbai.’

  He paused, hesitating, until Odenathus leaned forward on his great chair and beckoned him closer.

  ‘What news does he send?’

  The man bowed before Odenathus. ‘Shapur knows we are weakening. He does not attack, but his forces grow strong and prepare to move. General Zabbai believes that the Persians know the Romans leave the frontier exposed, Lord King.’

  ‘Zabbai puts forth a proposal?’

  The warrior shook his head. ‘If Shapur attacks now, we will be forced to fall back. The Romans with us stand firm, but we are uncertain how long it will be before they kiss a new purple. Their honour and loyalties change with the treasury.’

  ‘You must stand against the pretenders,’ Zenobia urged Odenathus. ‘It is the only way. Gallienus has given us his ear and his legionaries. Stand against these usurpers and keep your alliance with him.’

  Odenathus dropped his voice so that only the few closest to him could hear. I saw the soldier strain to listen, but I doubted the King’s words carried.

  ‘We have no alliance with him. We are not allies. He is the emperor of Rome and we are beneath Roman rule. Valerian was once our overlord, and now Gallienus has inherited that position. The way you speak of him could make a man wonder what loyalties inspire your words. You despise Rome and our alignment with her, yet you have affection for Emperor Gallienus that you did not have for Valerian Caesar.’

  Beside Odenathus, Commander Worod’s face twitched in agitation as he pointedly surveyed the room. How much he knew of Zenobia’s actions, I could not tell, but he struggled to control himself in her presence, a detestation in his features that betrayed his dislike of her having the King’s ear.

  Zenobia replied, ‘I have no interest but Syria.’

  ‘When will you understand that we do not stand on Palmyrene sand, but Roman ground?’ Odenathus said. ‘The deserts, trade, roads, the palace in which we sit, it is Roman, Zenobia, Roman. It is the difference between ruling as a king and a client king. I am a client king. I sit here as a guest of the Roman government. They bestow upon me title and position and military forces because they need someone to rule here. But it does not have to be me, and if I am to keep my place, I must commit to the ways of Rome.’

  ‘They would have lost vital trade routes if not for your competence. Gallienus and Rome knows this.’

  ‘Gallienus would not so well care for our country and its stability if he knew my wife had betrayed his father.’

  ‘You think Gallienus was not relieved when his father fell to the Persians? It is exactly what he hoped.’

  ‘You have not a single idea of what you speak. Gallienus will have been humiliated.’

  She shook her head. ‘It will have freed him from a co-emperorship that did not benefit him.’

  ‘Quiet your tongue, Zenobia. You push my patience and understanding too far.’

  Zenobia nodded and turned her attention back to the soldier waiting for the exchange to end. She knew when to stop pushing the King, the point at which he might break. She would give her opinion as gently or as forcefully as she could before Odenathus might turn against her.

  The King sighed and stood before the court.

  ‘For those of you yet to know, Valerian’s Praetorian prefect, Ballista, acts as kingmaker. He aims to elevate a man named Quietus as emperor and to stand against Rome. They rally the Roman legions remaining in Syria and those who would see change in Rome. They hold Valerian’s treasury and they will march against the man who saw our plight and sent to our aid a hundred thousand men: Emperor Gallienus.’

  The senators and courtiers gasped at their King’s address, as if every ounce of air was drawn into a man’s chest and held there until Odenathus spoke again.

  ‘We have a duty,’ Odenathus bellowed, ‘not only to our capital and the Empire to which we belong, but to those who understand the troubles we face, and to our own country. Ballista and the Macriani care nothing for our defences and our frontier. Syria, the grain supply it carries from Egypt to the Empire, and the trade by which Rome prospers, means little to them as they seek imperium. We are a small price, gentlemen, to buy a power far greater than any of us can comprehend. They wish to rule half the known world. And they will, at a cost to many, ourselves above all, if we step aside and allow them.’

  Zenobia almost smiled at his words. She had what she wanted. The path they took was of her making, her choice. She had positioned us in the best possible place to ensure our greatest outcome.

  And this time she paid with loyalty, not treachery.


  CHAPTER 11

  Zabdas – 261 AD

  A torrent of messages flew back and forth between Palmyra and the frontier, our generals and the King of the Persian army. The thought of our messengers handing over correspondence with Persians filled me with dread, convinced they would return headless or flayed, but they did not. It seemed Shapur was willing to communicate with Syria.

  We had beaten Shapur back once on the north leg of the Euphrates. We had known a great victory that day and I was sure that Odenathus could keep him from Syria despite Zabbai’s concerns that if Shapur attacked, he would be forced to fall back.

  The messages between Palmyra and the frontier were a furious exchange of opinion. Zabbai and Pouja each led legions facing the enemy. Even Odenathus’ eldest son Herodes commanded men despite his humiliating defeat at Nisibis two years before. It seemed the King’s favour grew stronger with the presence of a second son.

  The generals wanted to attack with full force, pushing Shapur back beyond his own capital, Ctesiphon, before turning our army against the three pretenders and crushing them before they could march on Rome. But Odenathus claimed the situation with the men laying siege to imperial power could not be allowed to continue, could not wait. Ballista and the Macriani were accumulating power at an astonishing rate. The majority of the Roman legionaries had already defected to their cause, wanting to return home and the prospect of greater position rather than stay in Syria. And our own forces had begun to wilt.

  Defeat the pretenders, Zenobia told me, and we would have the men to push Shapur back indefinitely. In the meantime, she said – surprising me – we must sue for peace.

  ‘Peace?’ I said to Aurelia. ‘She thinks there can be a form of peace between us after they went back on their promise and moved to attack Palmyra. They have agreed before and it meant nothing! It is a ridiculous idea.’

  ‘Does she really believe that there can be peace, or is she relaying what the council hopes to achieve?’

  ‘It is Odenathus who craves peace I should think, and not for the first time. He has attempted to gain it with the Persians before. It makes no difference. He can never have it. Not with Shapur.’

  ‘But why not? Perhaps Odenathus can make a truce for a time? At least for as long as he requires it?’

  We sat in the palace gardens beneath the star-spotted sky. The children were already in their beds as the evening wasted away and a faint smell of wood smoke drifted from the kitchens to linger on the chill air. I half thought to tell Aurelia what had happened the last time Zenobia and I met with Shapur. That she betrayed Valerian and sacrificed him to the Persians so that Syria would be free of his grasp and the armies would revert to Odenathus.

  I checked myself.

  Had we believed the armies would simply revert to Odenathus, that he could take command as easily as one might move a chess piece?

  ‘I wish we could make peace and this fighting would cease. That we could live in harmony and never need to draw a sword again. It can never be. Do you know what they did to Valerian?’

  Her face adopted a ghostly look. ‘I have heard.’

  ‘They flayed him alive. I listened to the report spilled from the mouth of a Persian messenger. Valerian died without an inch of flesh on his bones, screaming for mercy. And he was an emperor.’

  I realised I was still appalled by what I knew, what had happened to our emperor, that the King of the Persians would never abandon his greed for the prospect of leaving Syria indefinitely. He would continue to fill his tents with gold and jewels, crowning his position with our riches, building his empire on our sands.

  Aurelia placed her hand on mine. ‘That is why you do not think there can be peace?’

  ‘I do not think peace is something that will ever exist, in any nation, at any time.’ I held her hand and caressed her slender fingers and pale skin. ‘Even when one man desires peace, there will be another who does not.’

  ‘It is worth trying for something so great,’ she soothed.

  Always the voice of reason, and yet often I found it trying. Sometimes I wanted her to agree with me and ease my thoughts, providing assurance that my opinion was a legitimate one. I knew I was right. There could be no peace.

  Birds pecked at the grain on the stone paths and fluttered their wings in the pool beneath a fountain. I thought of the one I had yet to repair at Julius’ house and cursed myself. His home was like a distilled version of the Palmyrene palace, with fewer strangers and more of those you knew and loved. It was warmer, too, the rooms smaller and therefore fuller.

  Now, in the vast gardens of the Palmyrene court, we were alone despite the hundreds of people I knew were within our walls.

  ‘Shapur has agreed to a meet,’ I admitted.

  ‘Then there is hope.’

  I said nothing. The birds disappeared a few moments later, having bathed for the evening as men and women all over the city would be doing, unaware of the new threats we faced, and that the palace would not sleep this night.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Aurelia said, and it was as if she drew herself away from me without actually moving. ‘He will meet but it must be with Zenobia.’

  ‘She is one of the only representatives of the Roman Empire ever to gain audience with Shapur himself and return alive.’

  ‘And you will go with her.’

  I nodded. ‘Odenathus has commanded it. And I could never let her go alone.’

  ‘You are afraid?’

  ‘To return alive once was a miracle. A second time would be pushing even the gods’ favour.’

  Aurelia slid her arms around my neck and pressed herself against me. I felt the slight swell of her belly and the promise and excitement that brought. Closing my eyes, I sighed and resigned myself to what I knew would come. How could beauty such as the statues and gardens and architecture live in the same world as blood and death and war? Nothing could save us this time. We had already given Shapur the only thing he desired that he could not take for himself: a Roman emperor. No bargaining chip remained to secure our safety.

  ‘A child grows inside me,’ Aurelia whispered.

  My eyes still closed, I smiled and felt the warmth of a tear trickle down my cheek. My throat constricted but I managed to murmur, ‘The gods show great honour.’

  ‘We must be careful,’ she said, pulling away from me. ‘I have accepted Sohrab into my life, our lives, for he has no one else to be there for him. We must treat him as we treat our own child and love him the same too.’

  I kissed her cheek, her lips, her hands.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Promise me?’

  ‘I promise,’ I said, knowing as I spoke that I would not keep my word. I knew I did not care for the boy and I knew I never could. Perhaps I was a selfish man, unable to show the generosity Julius had shown me. With each encounter with the boy I became increasingly uneasy, and yet still I tried to make an effort to know him. I wanted to give him the care that Julius had given me. I wanted to give him the same love I had known. But love is kept for those of your blood and for people who love you in return. Not a boy who could barely look at me or remain in my presence.

  ‘Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?’ I asked.

  ‘I have no care either way.’

  Odenathus beckoned Zenobia and me to his private chambers the following morning. I arrived first. It was cold in the close, stone room. Two chairs had been set on a dais, and behind them hung rich red and gold tapestries. The floor hosted marble mosaics of the Roman Empire some hundred years before: a tribute, Zenobia once told me, to Marcus Aurelius. The curl of his hair and thoughtful expression depicted in the shades of marble were typical of many statues in the palace.

  ‘A great man,’ the King said as he stood waiting by the window.

  I looked up. ‘He looks a lot like you, my lord.’

  ‘I sometimes think stonemasons are only capable of carving a single face. I am told it is a good likeness of Marcus Aurelius, so perhaps craftsmen model all of their subjects on the
great philosopher. Who knows?’

  ‘Perhaps emperors and Caesars have no time to stand and have their likeness captured?’

  Odenathus did not look to me but I sensed his amusement.

  ‘I have coins with my face impressed upon them,’ he said with an expression of mild distaste. ‘An artist followed me through the halls and almost onto the battlefield scribbling his pictures to ensure thousands of denarii looked like me. The senators say it reminds the people I am King. I am not sure. Having my face on a scrap of metal donating a value it does not hold seems less effective than having my soldiers in every town and city under my command.’

  I understood his argument. I had also seen the faces of emperors and kings and generals on coins travelling through the docks daily when I was a slave. They made a man known, even in peaceful towns and villages.

  ‘What would you have on coins if not your face?’

  Odenathus sat down on the edge of the dais, took a coin from his pocket, and studied it.

  ‘Not an usurper, that I know. I admit that it is an effective way to have your name and supposed rank spread through the country faster than the gossip of senators. Ballista and the Macriani are paying in advance the wages of any man who stands with them. Did you know?’

  I shook my head. ‘Can you offer them more?’

  The King flicked the coin into the air, caught it.

  ‘We are already generous with our pay, Zabdas. I do not think a bidding war is the answer.’

  ‘It is if you win.’

  He pointed the coin at me. ‘They are Zenobia’s words. We have discussed all possibilities in council sessions. I feel this will be more of a military matter the gods know I could do without.’

  On his face the scars of battle seemed more livid than ever. Here was another fight for the man who wanted to bring his country to peace as his own years matured. And yet he would fight the pretenders, continue to push Shapur back, and perhaps stand his forces against the Tanukh once more. I thought on the last with dread. After returning to Palmyra and the north, I had dismissed the idea that Jadhima remained alive and would seek revenge for the commander and men he lost on the banks of the Euphrates.