by JD Smith
‘No longer.’
‘Why are you here?’
Her smile faltered.
‘There are usually rewards for such service.’
For a fleeting moment I imagined her visiting Teymour’s room next, and how he might return a favour in exchange for her service and silence beneath Julius’ roof.
‘Gratitude, but I must decline.’
She scowled, a less appealing expression.
‘You like boys?’
‘No.
‘Then why?’
‘Should there be a reason?’ I paused, trying to find words to express the unease I felt. Perhaps it was that I did not know whether Julius would sanction this, or it might have been my own nervousness, but I realised finally it was neither. I had once been a slave, and I could not take one now, knowing they offered themselves to me because of their position, and the acts they were expected to perform. I had seen much of that myself, I could take no pleasure in it now.
‘You do not like what you see?’ she said.
Scooping up her clothes, I pressed them to her nakedness and pushed her back through the door of my room, offering thanks once more, hoping not to offend but at the same time wanting the confrontation at an end, my embarrassment to subside, and the rage I felt of having once been a slave to be pushed back down inside me once more.
We rode at first light, on cool sands and a full stomach. I had slept fitfully; Meskenit, the soldiers, the slave girl Farva, all playing on my mind. As we departed, Meskenit looked me in the eye, an expression of scorn, and wondered had I upset her enough to inspire hatred.
Julius kissed her, swore to be home soon, that we would ride safely. His words brought a jolt of sadness that I may not return with him. He idolised Meskenit. I had seen him watch her walk in solitude, content simply to look. She pulled away from him, eyes down-turned, face hard and unreadable.
And I broke her expression as I walked up to her and said with boyish ignorance, ‘It has been a pleasure to spend time with you, aunt. I hope we shall meet again soon.’
Shock erupted on her face. Composure returned followed by a discreet nod of her head. So long without a mother, I realised I was desperate to be liked, and loved, and to live once more.
We left through the gardens I had paced often in my weeks here, taking a last draw of its precious scents. Outside, citizens lined streets, murmured thanks and prayers. Julius touched their bowed heads with his hand, persuading them there was no need to bow for him. They refused, chanted louder and bellowed gratitude.
‘Why do they offer thanks?’ I asked.
Zenobia said, ‘My father’s men protect the city.’
‘I simply protect my family, whilst bringing the citizens a little peace,’ Julius replied.
‘Father cannot help himself. He will always be a protector of people. He brought you back to us.’
Her hair tied back, Zenobia had exchanged fine silks for a travelling cloak, but her expression was still beautiful and her mischievous grin bright.
‘You know,’ she said, pushing through narrow streets, ‘I have never been to Palmyra, even though we live so close.’
‘You have,’ Julius interrupted.
An old woman pushed her way to Julius, and he stopped, took her hands in his for a moment. Then he continued walking.
‘When you were very small.’
‘You did not tell me this.’
‘You were perhaps two or three years of age. Your mother had just given birth to Hebony, and you stayed there whilst I campaigned that year. Your mother loved Palmyra.’ I saw it, a flicker of desire. A longing he could not mask. He might have hated aspects of his old life, but his excitement of returning to Palmyra, being a part of the society he once held, was evident.
A strange look lingered on Zenobia’s face, unnerving, longing for something that perhaps Palmyra could yield.
‘Why do you go?’ I asked. ‘Because you wish to see the city?’
‘Of course. I have been destined to visit.’
‘And Hebony, does she not wish to visit Palmyra also?’
‘My sister does not wish to explore the world as I would, Zabdas. She is content to marry a merchant of our town. A rich man. She loves him dearly, as does my mother. My father sees that she is happy to accept him as a husband, so he is happy for her.’
‘And do you have suitors?’
A look of acknowledgement, a shrug.
‘Teymour asked my father twice though he thinks I do not know. Both times father refused him.’ Bangles on Zenobia’s wrist rattled down her arm as she swept a hand through her hair, brushing dark curls from her eyes.
‘Why did Julius refuse? They are friends.’
‘It is not meant to be. I am not destined for Teymour. Do you have a woman?’
‘None.’ I slipped into silence, feeling that she knew more than I about life and husbands and wives, worried that she might mock my own experience or lack of it.
The road east provided too much time to ponder. I was excited to visit Palmyra and see the greatness of a vast city, but equally afraid Julius would leave me there. Could I persuade him to speak again with Meskenit? I thought of my own mother, my father telling of my glossy curls being the same as hers, of the brothers and sisters I could not remember. Were there any? I tried to think back, to remember what had become of my family and the sparse years of childhood I had known. The memories blurred. Had my mother died in childbirth, or did I remember wrongly? Had her laugh been identical to my own? Or had they both died the day I was taken slave?
My subconscious prickled.
I cried out into a night of cloud and no stars, my father’s finger to his lips. I cannot remember his voice, but in my dreams I hear his words: ‘Be quiet now, they will be gone soon enough.’ And then I see the movement of his lips in shadow.
Midday became far cooler. Teymour assured me the weather would be much the same as Yemen, that we moved into colder months. Men who had travelled aboard ship now journeyed with us east. Some had fought under Julius when he was a general. They were his men. Loyal men.
Our camels lumbered across the plains, a reminder of the journey north with Julius. They were marvellous beasts of burden, their long, methodical stride lulling me to sleep more than once, so that I would jolt awake. Zenobia sat proud as she swayed with the rhythm, scanning the horizon for the first glimpse of Palmyra.
‘We cannot be far,’ Teymour grumbled.
‘We are almost there,’ Julius agreed.
No more than three strides and we had our first sighting of the desert oasis. Sun blinded me. Shielding my eyes, I saw a city sprawled across the plain as Zenobia gasped. Our group halted as the king’s men moved to the fore. We continued on and one soldier turned and said, ‘You are expected before the sun begins to fall.’
Zenobia stared, her eyes wide and desire obvious. I nudged my camel onward. The walls and distinguishing features became clearer. My concerns dulled, placed now at the back of my mind, thoughts only for this city and what glory might be contained within the walls.
Julius came to my side. ‘You are impressed, Zabdas?’
‘I can scarce believe the size of it.’
‘Palmyra is the richest city in the east; a vital link on the eastern trade route. She profits well enough.’
‘Julius …’ I began.
‘What troubles you, my son?’
I started. Son. He called me his son. A word, I thought. A phrase. But to me it was not. I longed for a father, for the man I had once known and could barely remember. Gods could be cruel, taking and giving at their pleasure, watching men suffer as we entertained them. And now the moment to speak had come, the words had gone, forming deep inside me but not on my tongue.
‘When we were in your house, I heard you talking with Meskenit.’
‘Go on ...’
‘Will I be left in Palmyra?’
Julius took a deep breath and cool breeze caught his hair and he squinted.
‘Meskenit was upset, that
is all. You look a lot like our sons. She knows not how to order her feelings. Give her time, Zabdas, and she will soften, I promise you.’
‘Then you will not leave me?’ My muscles relaxed, the sickness I felt subsiding.
‘Not now we have found you.’
‘And when you return home?’
‘You will come with me. Meskenit and I know one another well. She will accept you. Our trip to Palmyra should give her time enough.’
‘Do I really look like your sons?’
‘A little. They were young when they died, too young to compare. Meskenit believes all boys resemble our children.’ Julius paused for a moment. ‘You are not a replacement, Zabdas. That is not why I searched for you. I understand how you must feel. Your aunt and I, we owe your mother and father a great debt for not finding you sooner. I went in search of your because you are our family and our blood. And I am in no danger of wanting you here because you remind me of my sons, when you remind me so much of myself.’
Zenobia edged closer and I blinked back tears.
‘Have the king’s soldiers told you why you have been summoned?’ she asked her father.
‘They have not.’
‘It could be about the Black Stone?’ she said. ‘If Shapur presses with greater force, Odenathus will seek the true stone more than ever.’
Julius hesitated. Had he thought this since the port in Al’Aqabah, or suspected another motive? He continued to search for an answer and after a while he said, ‘Possibly.’
‘And what if he wants your men to fight in his war? He has asked you before.’
‘That is another possibility. But I do not know, Zenobia.’
‘You know I am right,’ she retorted.
Julius’ face grew stern. ‘My men are few compared to those Odenathus already has under his service. I find it unlikely.’ An undercurrent of command to a soft voice. ‘We should not continue to tire our ears and minds with speculation. What Odenathus wants will become clear when we reach the city.’
CHAPTER 7
Zabdas - 253 AD
Buildings sparkled, towering and elegant, marble paved the streets and fountains threw up streams of water. Locals bustled about their business. Gowns draped women, embroidered and woven with threads of gold and silver, sewn with rare stones, and men wore colourful robes or leather armour, carrying shields and spears and swords. Deep scars marked olive skin, and on their arms warrior bands were found. The raucous noise of the busy city deafened. Not unpleasant, but an exciting, pounding rhythm of a prosperous city. I stepped cautiously, for everywhere seemed so fresh and clean and delicate.
Market traders pulled their wares from the path of elephants, camels and horses. Stalls packed every space. I thought many things a rarity, but found them now in abundance. Silks hung from racks: blues, greens, yellows, reds, golds; every colour in between. Bottles of coloured oils and potions swung from wooden pegs, clinking, swaying, jostling to the city rhythm. Ginger, poppy seeds, aniseed, coriander, cumin, fennel, pulse, cloves, bay leaf, Indian spikenard, costly saffron shouted as being for sale, their names spoken for all to hear, yet I smelled them, rich aromas and head-dulling scents of the east.
Walking, looking, gazing, experiencing this city, a giant place beating with trade, I saw it all. Then we were at the bottom of steps. I looked up. Tall, magnificent marble and stone, a place fit for kings and gods.
‘The palace,’ Julius murmured.
Calm and cool, I welcomed our retreat from the baking sun. But as the chill settled I felt the urge to return to bustling streets, to experience everything the city offered once more and over again.
‘Follow me,’ a man of our escort said.
I blinked, eyes adjusting to dim light. Guards lined walls, motionless. Through room and hall we walked, each one richer than the last, every stone polished to reflection. We stopped in a room of low benches, where great tapestries of battles hung upon the walls and three statues of men stood in the centre.
‘Wait here,’ the soldier said.
We sat down. Time dragged. Teymour breathed deep in annoyance and Julius tapped fingertips on his knee as Zenobia stared down at the floor, expression glum, seemingly unimpressed with our surroundings and without a care for the guards. I closed my eyes, wondered what the king would be like: young, handsome, a great warrior in battle and heroic leader of men, or a rhetoric, philosopher, learned man? He and Julius had once been close, perhaps they were similar. Julius and Teymour were friends, yet I found them different.
Sleep took me and I was awoken by a nudge from Teymour.
‘Get up.’
I shuffled to sit up. Two soldiers had returned. Without a note of apology, one said to Julius, ‘He will see you now.’
Zenobia raised an eyebrow. What man keeps a friend waiting? I wondered. An ignorant man, with no care for others.
We followed the soldiers into an adjacent room where heavy drapes hung at every source of light; the room cast in impenetrable darkness. Guards lined every wall. A figure sat at the end of a long, pillar-lined space, hidden in shadow. Julius approached ahead of our party and I felt fearful, but he betrayed nothing.
‘You come at last,’ the figure said. ‘I have sent many messengers requesting your attendance.’
Julius did not reply. Beside me, Zenobia stood motionless.
‘Have you made any progress in our quest for the Black Stone?’
Julius shook his head. ‘None.’
Silence ensued, uncomfortable, deliberate.
The king spoke again, his voice no longer authoritative, but gentle, almost pleading.
‘Must we continue to hate one another, Julius?’
Julius sighed and the tension of the room lessened.
‘I do not hate you, Odenathus, but I do wonder at your demanding my presence. I do not think it is to discover my progress on the quest for the Black Stone.’
The king shifted on his throne. ‘Times have changed. Many things have changed since you were last in these parts; since you were a general in my army. Were we not friends once? Can we now put feelings aside and embrace one another again as brothers?’
Julius regarded him. ‘I design to make nothing hard, but ever easy, Odenathus. We were friends, and still are. No bitterness lies in my heart, no ill-feelings. I merely pity your position, as I always have. You lay guilt at my door, Odenathus,’ Julius said, flicking his hand. ‘You know why I left your court. We could never agree how best to secure Palmyra. You want freedom for your people, but you are too afraid to take it. You persuade yourself that you need Rome, and yet they still have not sent reinforcements requested and required. Have they? The Persian threat in the east is far greater than the Goths in the north, yet you are content to fight alone. To accept Rome’s decision.’
Julius breathed deeply. His fiery words echoed long after he had finished.
The king swept a hand through his hair. Perhaps he thought time would quell that which had driven them apart.
‘It is not as simple as that, Julius,’ Odenathus said, his voice small. ‘You know this.’
‘No, it is not simple. Kingship can be everything but simple. I do not wish to tell you how to rule, Odenathus. I cannot criticize your efforts, because they have kept your people safe and your city prosperous. But if you want more, if you want all of Syria to be safe, not just Palmyra, if you want to ensure that safety and push the Persians so far back into their own land that you might pause to breathe once again, then you cannot continue like this.’
‘My allegiance is to the Empire,’ Odenathus replied. ‘Syria has been in Roman hands for almost three hundred years. Have there not been enough generations born in that time that we might consider ourselves part of that empire? You are a Roman citizen yourself, Julius, bearing a Roman name.’
‘A name, not blood. Not safety or future. We will never be part of the Empire. Remember, I have been to Rome. I looked into the faces of the men under whom you serve and saw how little they cared for our troubles. I watched as they
argued amongst themselves. I heard the city whispers that if the worst came, Syria would be sacrificed to the invaders.
‘We have talked of this before; so many times before. I am tired of arguing, of debate. Rome rules Syria, taxes us, and yet refuses to send troops enough to defend our frontier. Sever yourself from Rome, form an alliance with the Persians if it is possible. Rome’s policies would never allow it whilst we are a part of the Empire. Rome is on the brink of disintegration. You need to secure your position.’
Odenathus rose from his seat. ‘I am a king, Julius,’ he said, stepping down from the dais, ‘I do what I need to do. The result of turning our backs on Rome could see us fall at their hands. They would not see us stand independent.’
‘If Rome falls, we all fall.’
I saw the king’s jaw tremble as the words hit. Julius stood up straight and tall. Two men who must once have been great friends, I thought, for Julius to speak thus to his king, with no restraint or thought to choose his words more tactfully.
Odenathus took a deep breath.
‘My family has lived in these lands for centuries, witnessed Palmyra grow from a village on a caravan route to a city of marble. We prosper. I cannot risk losing all we have achieved. Rome sees fit to grant me reign in the east. I must abide by their laws, if only to protect this city.’
‘And here we must agree as ever to disagree. You cannot continue fighting the Persians without aid. Your armies were exhausted under my command. Are they any less diminished now?’
The king must see Julius’ argument, I thought. How can he not? What blinded him? And yet it was me who was blinded. I could see only Julius’ argument, and not the king’s. Odenathus stood feet from us now, face flushed with frustration. He was as old as Julius, dressed in Roman garb. But I saw first his battered face, gashes to both arms and legs. He clutched his side, a patch of deep red seeping through his toga. Was this the reason he had not sought Julius, but requested Julius come to Palmyra? Shadowed eyes pleaded with Julius for compassion and understanding. Put our disagreement aside, they begged, and let us address other matters.
Julius’ face dropped. Teymour lifted an eyebrow. He knew Julius well, but I think his friendship was somewhat more distant than the connection between these two men. Zenobia smiled ruefully. I felt overwhelmed by the way in which the king of Palmyra and the merchant I had come to know spoke to one another.