The Better of Two Men

by JD Smith

  Shapur laughed again. Jadhima’s hands became more insistent, his fingers grabbing, roaming, sliding over Zenobia’s body.

  ‘Boy, your expression is as much an enjoyment as watching Jadhima defile your beloved Queen.’

  ‘I see the word of a Persian is as dirty as the word of a Tanukh. Have you no honour?’

  Shapur ignored me.

  I willed the scene to stop. For Jadhima to tire of his fun. For these games to cease.

  Then Zenobia surprised me.

  She leaned toward Jadhima and smiled seductively.

  Then she kissed him.

  I could scarce believe it at first.

  The initial force of her lips on his subsided. She pulled away and I realised compliance was the only way she could maintain control, to act as if she were willing, that she had not lost nor been forced.

  Jadhima moved his hand from her breast, fingers trailing down her tunic until he reached the hem, then slid his hand between her thighs.

  ‘Still such lovely long hair,’ he said, voice heady.

  Zenobia inclined her head and shrugged as much as the guards holding her arms would allow. Then she parted her legs.

  ‘Let her go,’ Jadhima ordered.

  The guards relinquished their grip and stepped away. Jadhima took hold of her shoulders himself and turned her away from him, the gentleness with which he had unfastened her breastplate gone as he pushed her roughly down so her back bent and she leaned forward, the stool upon which she had sat now taking her weight.

  ‘Get your filthy fucking hands off her!’ I shouted, pulling and twisting, desperate to stop what was about to happen. But the guards held fast and I could do nothing. ‘May the gods strike you down before my sword does, Tanukh. For I will cut off your cock and you will forever walk the Otherworld a eunuch.’

  Zenobia made no sound as Jadhima entered her, and still none as he pounded into her. A few thrusts later, he left behind his filthy seed.

  Anger forced its escape through my eyes and I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw hurt. My arms ached from straining against the guard’s grip. Tears grew hot in my eyes.

  Jadhima, breathless, pulled away from Zenobia.

  ‘As compliant as a whore accepting coin.’ He groaned in satisfaction. ‘I have waited many months to fuck you. You disappoint only in your acceptance.’

  Zenobia stood up, threw back her hair, picked up her breastplate and fastened it back in place as she would dress at daybreak. Only I would have noticed her hands trembling.

  Jadhima walked across to me, patted my cheek firmly. I pulled away from his touch as he hissed: ‘Boys with wooden swords should not make threats they can never hope to keep. Facing you in combat would be little more effort than squashing a beetle beneath my foot. One day you will grow up and remember to keep your mouth shut and your sword arm practiced.’

  My rage consumed me entirely. I could not breathe nor clearly think. Each sense numbed by the swift scene just witnessed crushing every nerve. My mouth, my lips, my tongue … they did not feel mine as I said:

  ‘I will find you and I will kill you, make no mistake.’

  Jadhima smiled indulgently and walked back to where Shapur sat. The guards let my arms go. I did not move. I felt light and strange, shorn of feeling. Should I comfort Zenobia, go to her, ensure she was well? Or should I stand and bear an expression of indifference as she did now? I had already shouted my protest; indifference valued nothing on my features now.

  ‘King Odenathus would not accept you in his bed again if he knew who had had you,’ Shapur said.

  ‘It would make no difference,’ Zenobia replied. ‘My people do not treat their wives as you do yours. If you think being fucked by him would change my position in Palmyra, you are wrong.’

  Shapur laughed hard; the most animated I had seen him.

  ‘You thought taking her virtue would somehow break her spirit?’ Shapur asked of Jadhima. ‘I do not think you succeeded.’

  ‘Fucking a woman is always a pleasure. A queen more so,’ Jadhima replied.

  ‘Bastard,’ I said.

  ‘Do not,’ Zenobia murmured.

  Pale skin shone. The black kohl smeared on her face a war mark. Her eyes beckoned me to say no more, and so I stilled my fiery and venomous tongue.

  ‘You have until the next full moon to make your decision, Warrior Queen. If you do not deliver Odenathus to me by then, I will take your cities and every man of my army will experience the pleasures Jadhima has today.’

  ‘Do not worry, Shapur,’ she said. ‘You will know my decision.’

  I climbed my horse with sea-legs, hands slippery on the pommel, jitters and light head threatening a fall. Air whistled out through my teeth and I sucked a deep breath to steady myself.

  ‘Ready?’ Zenobia asked.

  ‘Ready,’ I confirmed, the solitary word a tremble in itself.

  I mirrored Zenobia, riding out of the camp as if we had supped wine with an amiable ally, talking of frontiers and the responsibilities of manning them, discussing the delights of walled gardens and problems with aqueducts. We were two Syrians amidst an entire army of Persian soldiers, and yet my fear in that moment was for Zenobia herself, nothing more.

  We cut through the still air under the eyes of Shapur’s army, onto the desert plain. We left alive and yet I felt sicker than when we had arrived. Should Odenathus discover the humiliation Jadhima had inflicted upon Zenobia and Palmyra – upon himself – what would he say? What, I thought with rising panic, would he do? To me? To Zenobia? To Jadhima and Shapur and the Persian army? We were already at war. Would Odenathus forget his mission against the pretenders and strike with all force the east and Persia? Was that Shapur’s plan, to provoke Odenathus? Would my King banish Zenobia and her ruined, defiled body to a remote coastal village, to live out her days in the company of her mother and sister, no longer carrying the once respected name of Zabdilas, but that of Disgrace? Or would Odenathus dismiss any plebeian or military gossip as unfounded, and ignore the possibility that it could be true? And me? I who had stood there and watched, uselessly, as Jadhima …

  Gods! Fucking gods! What game did they play with us that they saw humour in Jadhima’s actions and Zenobia’s humiliation? She was a queen, not a whore. She did not fuck for favours.

  I was angry again – perpetually angry; that after our previous encounter in Shapur’s great tent and his seeming respect for Zenobia, he pissed on our meeting with the very same contempt Jadhima showed when first taking hold of those parts of Zenobia so private on the banks of the Euphrates.

  With lovely long hair.

  The phrase came back to taunt me. Was Shapur’s humiliation after his defeat the previous year so great he felt obliged to retaliate in any way that occurred to him?

  I felt sick and my mouth was dry, but apart from gripping the reins of my horse I could no more command my body than I could have commanded Zenobia never to have walked into Shapur’s tent.

  ‘I will kill him,’ I said at last.

  Zenobia remained quiet, her mood unreadable. She had spoken one word since our departure. In the distance I thought I saw our soldiers, our camp, but the shadows moved and changed, my eyes tricked by the light and dark and the eagerness with which I rode.

  How many women could have hung upon their high cheekbones and stern brow the expression and hardness Zenobia did now? I had heard the drunken slurs and seen the sway of cheap whores holding in place a mask whilst degrading themselves beyond hope. Rome was filled with such women and boys, offering their services to anyone throwing down a coin. I knew too the aftermath of war, of cities taken and what became of the women and children within; the curses and screams and silent tears. None of these I saw now upon Zenobia’s face.

  ‘What decision will you give Shapur?’ I asked.

  ‘None. He expects no decision; no betrayal of Odenathus. He asked for that meet to humiliate me and threaten our weakened position with his new alliance with the Tanukh. He perhaps expects me to tell Odenathus wha
t happened, to anger him and provoke a reaction that would endanger our army and position but that is all. He plays with us.’

  ‘Then what do we do now?’

  ‘Shapur is not sure whether or not I have taken his offer seriously. We perhaps have a month of grace in which he will wait for his army to consolidate, the remaining Tanukh to stabilize, and our position to become weaker still. And then we will know battle again.’

  ‘What will you tell Odenathus?’

  ‘I will tell him the truth. That Shapur played with us, seeking a bargain on his life that he knew I would never agree to.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  Her iron eyes met mine.

  ‘Of Jadhima he will know nothing.’

  Her voice warned never to utter a word of what had passed in Shapur’s tent. Never to mention the humiliation she had been subjected to, nor breathe the faintest murmur of the act that could destroy her position and power in Palmyra.

  I saw strength in her eyes but also fear. Perhaps I imagined it. It could have been my own fear reflected. But she must have felt more than she betrayed.

  ‘He would never hear that from me. You know this,’ I said.

  Zenobia drew her camel close to mine and reached out her hand. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and for a moment know that she was safe in my embrace. But Zenobia would not have wanted that and the camels made it impossible, so I placed my hand in hers and she gripped briefly.

  ‘Do not look so worried, Zabdas. What happened is done and no one need ever know. You said you would kill Jadhima. Promise me you will not endanger yourself on my count. Never do that. Avenge a life, but never my virtue. A moment’s embarrassment is not worth the risk.’

  I shook my head, not in answer to her question, but because I could not believe her concern for me after everything. Then I realised she hid her hurt behind it.

  ‘You should not worry for me.’

  ‘I worry for all of my people. Swear to me.’

  We rode back to our camp. I wanted to make that promise to Zenobia, and I did. But even as I said the words I knew the image of Zenobia’s defilement would linger in my thoughts, taunting me, until I bled Jadhima’s life onto the sands of Syria. I knew also that I would, if it took me years, find a time and a place to see through my threat.

  Zabbai’s oiled flesh shone in the afternoon sun. Muscles rippled and worked as sword struck sword and the men encircling the training ground cheered and laid bets on the outcome.

  Zenobia and I stood at the edge of the ring and watched the men enjoy the peace she had bought with her virtue.

  Seeing us, Zabbai concluded the match with two cuts. He took a rag from a stool and wiped his brow and neck as coins were exchanged amongst the crowd, and gestured we walk back to his tent.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  My skin became hot and clammy. I could almost hear Zenobia speak of Jadhima’s raping her, but the words did not pass her lips.

  ‘Shapur asked me to sacrifice Odenathus as I did Valerian.’

  ‘Which you will not do,’ he replied.

  ‘Of course not, but whilst I ponder his proposition we have gained a month’s grace before facing his army again.’

  A month in which we had to turn the tide to our advantage and sweep aside the pretenders who would wedge themselves between us and Rome, and present a force to our east that would cause Shapur to quiver in his tent of gold.

  A month. A few days would be more accurate. Shapur’s word meant nothing. He had not kept it before when promising to retreat from Syria in exchange for the life of Emperor Valerian.

  Zabbai nodded as if he believed Zenobia’s words, as if he trusted Shapur to give the month promised.

  ‘You will return to Odenathus tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘There is nothing to keep me here,’ Zenobia replied.

  Palmyra, I thought. Back to Palmyra and home and Aurelia and my awaited child. A sensation of guilt hung in the air around me for a moment, an external guilt, not deep down in the pit of my stomach, but removed as if I could feel it but it were not a part of me. I had a child coming into the world and Aurelia awaiting my return to the city but I barely thought of them. For a simple man wanting a simple existence, I was forever drawn to Zenobia and her complex, political life.

  Zenobia raped. Jadhima and his filthy cock. The pleasure upon Shapur’s face as he watched another king defile the only woman for whom anyone assumed he held respect. How stupid I felt to never have anticipated such an act. To have the pair of us held captive or killed, of that I dreamed nightly, but I had never entertained a vision of Zenobia as a plaything to be used for the amusement of kings.

  Should I tell Odenathus? The thought dried my tongue. Zenobia might have been adept at betrayal, but I could barely let the notion enter my thoughts. And yet for some inexplicable reason I felt I betrayed Odenathus by my silence. Betrayed, ha! There was a time I would have gladly betrayed him, my feelings for Zenobia so much greater than simply those of a blood relative. Now? Now seemed different. My respect for the King had built gradually but was all the more solid for it. As for Zenobia, her agenda was her own, she acted upon her own wishes always, and I had seen more than once the anger and humiliation upon Odenathus’ face as his wife disobeyed him once and again.

  ‘Zabdas?’

  I realised Zabbai had been speaking to me. We had reached his tent.

  ‘Apologies.’

  ‘I will send the men Odenathus asked for back with you, though the gods know we could do with them here if Shapur does not adhere to his own thirty-day truce.’

  ‘Odenathus will be grateful,’ Zenobia replied.

  Two days later and I stood in my rooms at the palace in Palmyra. Aurelia slept, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks, hair pooled in golden waves on the pillow, a hand resting over her belly. I could no longer withhold my anxiety for our mission, my hatred of Jadhima and Shapur, my guilt for doing nothing, and my utter and impossible exhaustion.

  I cried in silence.

  CHAPTER 17

  Samira – 290 AD (Present day)

  November arrives and the weather has begun to turn. Syria will have clear skies now and a little heat to take the chill from Grandfather’s old bones. I see him rubbing at the aches and pains beneath his cloak and I know he is suffering. The further west we travel the greyer the days become. The nights are worst, with damp blankets to layer damp clothes and I cannot keep warm. We hang the sheets and wool from the rigging during the daytime in the hope they will dry, but the salt spray does little to help. I confess I have never known weather like it.

  Rostram worries for the cargo below and how well it will survive the journey, but when I tell Bamdad of this he seems not to care. There are looks which pass between my grandfather and Rostram and Bamdad now that I do not understand. They were friends, I had thought, but now they are wary of one another and suspicious.

  Is it my doing? For accepting the cloth given to me by Rostram? That was when this atmosphere aboard the ship began.

  ‘The weather we endured on my first trip to Rome thirty years ago proved preferable,’ Grandfather says, joining me. ‘We travelled in Ianuanius and Februarius, and although the weather bit your fingers and toes until you could no longer feel them, the skies were mostly blue and the air crisp and fresh. That was a shock to my lungs; drawing those arresting winter breaths. The snow clung to our cloaks; settled beautifully in Zenobia’s black hair. She made no complaint on that first journey.’

  ‘It is cold,’ I say.

  He kisses my forehead, the warmness of his lips welcome on my skin.

  ‘I am going below,’ he says.

  I watch him leave. Watch him stagger across the deck with the sway of the ship. He looks back over his shoulder as he descends the steps to his cabin, and I see pain in his eyes and I feel alone once again in this bleakness that is the west.

  I find Rostram.

  He is playing dice with Karaish and I sit down beside them and Rostram smiles at me. They continue the
game until Karaish loses. Then he leaves.

  Rostram and I are alone.

  ‘Do you play?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. I have never really liked the gambling game of dice.

  He looks around him.

  ‘We will be stuck on this ship for a while,’ he says.

  ‘It is not so bad,’ I say.

  ‘You make this grey sea a brighter place.’

  My heart thumps at his words. I have thought the same myself of him. He is the light on this ship for me and I cannot imagine travelling without him on board. His is the smile that brightens the bleakness and the company I crave more than any man’s aboard, as much as I enjoy my grandfather and Bamdad’s. But it is not the same, they are not this man, they are not my age. And although Rostram is not either, he is at least closer.

  Rain begins to fall. It is light at first, a fine rain to soak through any cloak, and then it becomes heavy and harder.

  ‘Let’s go below,’ Rostram says.

  He bellows orders to his men to man the ship and then we are running along the deck to the steps and we go down them as fast as we can.

  The cabins are full and noisy with men not needed to sail the ship hiding from the storm now upon us.

  ‘Come to my cabin,’ he says. ‘There is room enough to sit.’

  He takes my hand and I follow him as I brush wet hair from my eyes.

  He pushes open his cabin door to find it empty and he leads me in. I take off my wet cloak as he pulls over his head his wet tunic. His back is dark and rich from the sun and corded with muscle and laced with the marks of the whip.

  I gasp, but the sight is covered with a dry tunic as quickly as it was revealed.

  I say nothing for I do not wish to intrude upon his privacy and secrets and past. I realise now how little I know him and the stranger he is.

  He turns, and my face must say everything I think and feel and attempt to hide, for his expression is one that he knows what I have just witnessed.

  ‘We all have a past,’ he says.

  I smile at the simple explanation and with a gesture from him sit down on a chair as he sits too.