The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1)

by JD Smith

‘I am glad Julius found you, that you are safe with us now. We cannot imagine the troubles you have known.’ Then to one of her daughters: ‘Hebony, take young Zabdas inside and find him a room in which to sleep.’

  The shorter of the two girls took my hand. The elder followed.

  Cool air filled the house. Rich tapestries lined every wall; a backdrop for numerous sculptures and statues. Hebony led me through to another room and I was awed. Dim light shrouded the fineries on this side of the house. I looked about me, amazed. Padded couches formed obstacles, neat rows of vases ran the length of the room, and a single golden figure posed atop a wooden pedestal.

  Hebony flopped onto one of the silk covered couches. Dark hair tumbled to her waist. She had a gentle face, more Julius than Meskenit.

  ‘You are our cousin, then,’ she said. ‘We did not think to ever meet you. Where did father find you? Tell us, please …’

  I felt awkward, wondering whether to sit.

  ‘Yemen,’ I answered.

  Hebony’s sister sank down beside her and gestured for me to take a seat opposite. She looked down at my arm, and the slave mark upon it seared.

  ‘You were taken as a slave,’ she said, a statement, not a question.

  I looked from Hebony to her sister, feeling uncomfortable, not quite knowing what to say, wishing I had Julius beside me. The elder sister’s strong nose and her eyes, black, reflective, unreadable, were identical to her mother’s. I looked at her a heartbeat longer than I ought to, and her face broke into a smile and I saw Julius in every contour of her expression.

  ‘I am not ashamed,’ I said, feeling suddenly that I should defend myself.

  Hebony said, ‘There is no shame. We are each born to what we are, and you were not born a slave.’

  ‘Untrue, sister,’ the elder said. ‘We are born in one place and we die in another, and the distance between is of our own design.’

  Hebony indulged her sister with a small nod. ‘Of course, Zenobia is right.’

  ‘You must be thirsty after your travels,’ Zenobia said. ‘Let us fetch something for you.’

  She leapt from the couch and pulled a silk tassel. Somewhere in the house a bell sounded and shortly afterwards a servant appeared.

  ‘Refreshments,’ she said simply and with a smile, and the servant left.

  Zenobia took my arm and ran her finger over my slave mark. ‘A brutal branding,’ she murmured. ‘Something my sister may well be able to remedy.’

  Hebony leaned forward for a closer look. ‘Perhaps. There is a poultice I know that could help fade the mark.’

  I looked down at the crude F, the puckered skin, purple and red, and knew a great moment of gratitude, that they had not recoiled from me, or thought me diseased.

  The servant returned with a tray of cups and a jug.

  ‘A drink for the young traveller,’ Zenobia said.

  She lifted the jug, poured and handed me a cup filled to the brim. I accepted and drank as she watched curiously. The wine was satisfying, delicious, and I half wondered if the girl had bewitched it. Her every movement and word appeared surreal, graceful, as though energy shone from her dark skin. She shadowed Hebony without effort. You could have told me particles of the sun danced in the waves of her black hair and at that moment I would have believed no different.

  She smiled at me with an unworldly charm.

  ‘Too many years without family,’ she said. ‘We must make up for that.’

  I nodded, incapable of speech. Her confidence commanded respect. Like her mother, like me, she too was descended from Egyptian royalty, and in turn, the gods themselves.

  Our day of reunion came to a close. Unable to sleep, overwhelmed by the kindness of Julius and the sincerity of Zenobia’s words, I walked through the house and gardens breathing my new life. Julius I knew well, and my cousins I would in time, I was sure.

  I heard voices and froze.

  ‘I had no choice but to bring the boy here. Have you seen the marks upon his arm, or known the life he has experienced these past years? He has been a slave, and not to a family like ours. The gods know what he suffered that he has not yet spoken.’

  Julius’ voice checked me, his words shook me. I thought of the beatings I had received, the favours forced to perform, and demeaning tasks undertaken. There were no secrets kept from Julius, he was too astute for that.

  ‘I agreed you could look for him, ensure his safety,’ Meskenit replied, ‘but I never agreed to him coming here, to our home.’

  ‘What would you have had me do?’ Julius asked. ‘Leave him with a family I did not know, find him and abandon him on the same day? Do not be cruel.’

  ‘Cruel? You call me cruel,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Hush or he will hear you.’

  ‘How dare you,’ she hissed. ‘It is you who is cruel, bringing the boy here to torment me, and for what purpose? Because I cannot bear you a son and you wish to ease your own longing? He looks just like them after all. Or do you wish to simply punish me?’

  ‘Punish you?’ Julius’ voice caught with hurt. ‘Why in Bel’s name would I want to punish you?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘It was not your fault, my love. I would not punish you for anything.’

  I could barely catch my breath when I heard the words; that I looked just like her sons. Of course I would, I was her nephew, son of her sister, my royal blood tainted by slavery. Did Julius bring me here only to fill his emptiness? I tried to recall if my mother had ever spoken of Meskenit. She must have, but I was too young then, and it was too long ago to remember.

  I peered beyond the leaves and I saw them standing together. Julius held his wife and tears trickled down her face as she clung to him.

  ‘I have missed you,’ he said. ‘I have missed you so very much.’

  Plants rustled in the light breeze. Insects clicked and buzzed. Meskenit pulled away from Julius, wiped her wet cheeks with her hand, and her hard, dignified expression was once again in place.

  ‘He cannot stay here, Julius, please understand that. It is too much to bear.’

  ‘He is just a boy. He has no family. He has nothing.’

  ‘Do not make things difficult.’

  My heart thumped, my head span. I did not want to leave. To be sent away.

  ‘I do not wish to make anything difficult. When I go to Palmyra to see the king, I will take Zabdas with me, and we can both think of what will be best for him.’

  Meskenit said, ‘Then it shall not be long. King Odenathus has sent soldiers requesting your attendance every week since you were last home. He grows impatient.’

  ‘I have heard as much.’

  Meskenit nodded. ‘The boy must go, Julius. I could never wish him ill, but I cannot have him here, each day. The reminder is too great.’

  Despite the king’s demand, we stayed in the villa for weeks. Time slipped by in a medley of assorted bliss as Julius demonstrated how life ought to be lived.

  I rode out hunting with Julius, a day’s ride beyond the city. Sometimes Zenobia came too, joyful as she rode the horses hard and the servants struggled to keep up. We ate well and bathed daily. Every morning I woke with renewed appreciation of the simple, elegant house and the contrast with the life I had known. But I lived in fear of Meskenit’s disapproval, of offending or upsetting her, and willed constantly for her to change her mind and request I stay. She would watch me when she did not think I noticed, or she would not look me in the eye at all. That and my fear of going to Palmyra, of Julius leaving me there, marred the otherwise peaceful weeks.

  No word came from King Odenathus in that time. Julius refused to speak of it as he enjoyed the company of his household. Rumours of disturbances in the east reached us, of Persian warriors raiding Syrian lands, but Julius brushed them aside.

  ‘I am no longer a general of Palmyra; it is not for me to become involved. But I assure you, it is a typical occurrence, nothing to concern ourselves with.’

  Hebony and Zenobia proved to be very
different from each other in spirit. Hebony was serious, disapproving of her sister’s directness, perhaps even a little jealous of Zenobia and Julius’ relationship, and of Zenobia’s thirst for politics. But Hebony knew so much of the fruits and herbs and spices in the marketplace, the history of the town, that it was wonderful to explore together.

  One evening, as the whole family gathered, Zenobia said to me, ‘Father says you have great mathematical skills. Will you teach me what you know?’

  ‘You know far more than I do already,’ I replied.

  Zenobia had received an education only the aristocracy could buy. I knew mathematics, but I had learned my skills as a slave, not from scholars and philosophers.

  ‘Leave him be. You have hounded him since his arrival,’ Meskenit said, careful not to speak my name. She glanced at me, impatient for my departure and reluctant for the time with her husband to come to an end.

  Uncomfortable, I said to Zenobia: ‘Would you recite for us this evening?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied with a coy smile and narrowed eyes. ‘Come, we can choose a verse together from father’s library.’

  Father’s library. I pondered her words as we walked, spoken as if he were both her father and mine. Could I be equal, as she saw me? Julius appeared to think of me so, and my stomach leapt as I thought again of leaving.

  Whilst Zenobia picked through scrolls in the library, I amused myself looking at unfamiliar Greek, Latin, Arabic and Egyptian texts. I could read none, but the words, the markings on the papyrus, intrigued.

  ‘You would do well not to take my mother’s coldness to heart.’

  ‘She does not want me here.’

  ‘Perhaps that is true, Zabdas, but …’

  Julius entered the room.

  ‘Father,’ Zenobia said, as if expecting him.

  ‘Have you found what you were looking for?’ He took a seat and held out a hand for the scroll Zenobia clutched. ‘Ah, Latin.’

  The scroll prompted desire. ‘Will you tell me of Rome, Julius?’

  He laughed. ‘You wish to know of the Empire’s capital?’

  ‘I have always wondered what it is like.’

  ‘Sit down and I shall tell you a little.’

  I crouched on the floor at his feet, Zenobia beside me. Julius was the first man I had known to have visited Rome. I could scarcely imagine the distance travelled, the greatness of the city, the way of life.

  ‘I travelled bearing demands for aid many times before I retired,’ Julius began. ‘The Persians have ever pressed hard on Syria, and a force from the capital could have put an end to it. But Rome has its own problems to the north and Odenathus holding the frontier was considered sufficient. Indeed, I have seen the wonders of Rome, and they are little more than politics and finery. Their outposts are weakening further each year and they are plagued by inner conflict; emperors raised and quashed every year. Rome conquers and leaves and we must fend for ourselves.’

  He spoke with a bitterness I did not understand, shrouded with discontent.

  ‘The Empire is unstable,’ Zenobia added.

  ‘And no longer my concern,’ Julius replied.

  ‘Do you miss being a stratego?’ I asked.

  ‘In part. I do not miss travelling to Rome to request troops from the senate. They sit at the centre of their empire, far from reality, leaving generals to fight on their behalf. It is little wonder the army raises emperors now and not the senate. They do not know what the brink of the Empire consists of, the look and smell. They hail their heroes of war when they have crushed another enemy, but if the troops lose, they are seen as failures. In reality they are just men who did not have enough resources or help, whose critical position was misjudged. I no longer care for the destruction or the appetite for killing a man needs to lead men to war. I do not even miss the rank.’

  I thought of the citizens as we entered the city, how they bowed their heads to him. He still held respect, general or no.

  ‘I wish I could continue to make a difference,’ he said. ‘I thought that by the end of my military career I would have carved an impression of good, yet I have not come close to my hopes.’ He paused, his expression calm, proud, if not a little resigned. ‘This is all the peace I can hope for now, my family and my home.’

  He cupped Zenobia’s chin in his hand, smiled. I sensed that his dreams were not over, that he still hoped for more. Zenobia’s expression showed understanding of this. His words of pushing Palmyra forward and making a difference were more than just echoes of a past life; they were dreams of the future.

  Three weeks after our arrival I woke to the sound of voices. I pulled on my tunic, splashed cool water on my face and rushed through the house. Servants ran back and forth. Whispers relaying. I stepped into Julius’ beloved gardens, and there stood Teymour and Julius’ men.

  Julius greeted them. I watched. Teymour pulled away from Meskenit and gripped Hebony affectionately, as old friends might, no preamble, pause or awkwardness. Yet he caught Zenobia in an uncomfortable embrace. For him, not her. She kissed him as she pulled him close. He blushed, but appeared to enjoy her proximity. Meskenit scowled; her daughter’s behaviour flamboyant, her attitude carefree. She glanced at me and turned away. I wanted to say something to Meskenit, to reconcile her attitude, to fix what had been broken, but I could not. She was hostile, and yet I wanted to comfort her; I could sense the pain my presence brought. Should I leave as Julius suggested?

  When Teymour and Zenobia parted, I heard him say to Julius: ‘Were you not headed straight for Palmyra?’

  ‘I have worked long enough to earn a short rest with my family,’ Julius replied, a note of irritation. His tone suggested he resented the king’s expectations.

  Teymour raised an eyebrow. ‘You would make him wait?’

  ‘A little longer.’

  ‘My father is no longer in the army,’ Zenobia said. ‘Perhaps our king is too well acquainted with Rome’s expectations. We are in Syria now.’

  Teymour caught my eye. ‘How do you like the country?’

  ‘I have seen little beyond this town, but if the rest is as welcoming, I could like it very much.’

  A girl of Julius’ household wove amongst the men, catching more than one eye. She had hair sun-burned brown, flecked with the colour of sand, and carried a tray bearing water and wine. She neared and offered me the tray, eyes downturned, a sweet hint of lavender emanating. I had thought her servant before, but now I saw then the mark upon her hand.

  ‘You are a slave.’

  She inclined her head further still in answer.

  I poured myself a cup of wine and returned the jug.

  ‘What is your name?’

  She looked up, calm eyes.

  ‘Farva.’

  ‘You enjoy the house of Julius Zabdilas?’

  She glanced to Julius, bowed her head once more, and said, ‘He is a generous master.’

  I was tempted reveal my own mark upon my arm, to prove myself equal to her. But I had been a slave for so long I felt unsure how to think differently, to accept I had no master save myself.

  ‘And tomorrow,’ Julius said, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘we shall hunt.’

  A cheer erupted, reverberating around the courtyard garden.

  ‘To the hunt!’ Teymour said, lifting his cup.

  But there would be no hunt. The following morning, soldiers arrived.

  Dirt clung to their skin, dusty and pale. Armour covered torsos and swords hung at waists. Their faces were blank and their eyes roved above the heads of the people. Julius, Teymour and a number of other men walked out to the courtyard to greet them.

  Zenobia and I followed, hanging back against the house wall, shaded by colonnade.

  ‘What do they want?’ I asked her.

  ‘Soldiers have come and gone for weeks. They never state their business, insistent upon seeing my father. Mother sends them away before father knows of their arrival. She is afraid he will go back to war.’ She gripped my arm. ‘They
fight now, Zabdas, in the east. Father has told me of it and I have heard talk in the town also. Some say we are weakening, that Rome ignores us, and the Persians will invade the whole of Syria. You, I think, would not see Syria under Persian rule?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, easily enough.

  ‘I pray to Selene each day that we should see an end to the Persians,’ she continued. ‘And Rome.’

  I started, not understanding what she meant, why she would want an end to the Empire.

  ‘An end to Rome?’

  ‘They do Syria no favours. We are responsible for our own frontier. My father is a merchant, and the taxes he pays … line the pockets of Romans.’

  The soldiers drew up before Julius and his men. One stepped forward, hard face scanning the group.

  ‘I ask Stratego Julius Aurelius Zabdilas to step forward and present himself.’

  Julius did not move. The soldier pulled his height. Eventually, Julius stepped forth.

  ‘I am Julius Zabdilas. Who asks for me, gentlemen?’

  ‘The Illustrious Consul our Lord, King Odenathus, sends his greetings. You are to accompany us immediately.’

  Julius inclined his head. ‘As the king requests,’ then to Teymour and his men, ‘Come, gentlemen. It is time we returned to Palmyra.’

  That night, Farva came to my room.

  Pigments exuded a feminine charm and her slight face was marked with much kohl. A smile hovering on rich lips. She wore the fine silks of the Orient. Her body, barely concealed, bore no marks of unkindness save the mark upon her hand. A slight jealously found me, that she might have found a better master than my own in Julius, and reminded myself I was no longer a slave, I was the nephew of a Palmyrene general. But if I was left in Palmyra, what then; a slave once more?

  She dropped her silks to the floor, revealing a naked body.

  ‘It is customary to please guests,’ she said.

  I wanted her. My body wanted her. But there was something about her, the eagerness to come to my rooms and reveal herself to me, that left me uneasy.

  ‘Julius did not send you.’

  ‘He did not need to.’

  ‘I too am a slave,’ I said.