Zoe's face darkened, and a little wind sprang up around her, swirling first this way and then that. Her fingers, dark and thin in the desert sun, made a mark in the air, and it hung there shimmering softly for a moment. I remember, she thought grimly, and I will remind the whole of the world that the city still lives.
Below her, on the long boulevard, a movement caught her eye. Her head turned, canting like a hunting hawk, and she peered down from her perch high on the ruin of the palace hill.
A man was in the city, walking carefully among the bones, leading three camels.
– |Thin streams of dust fell from the cracked rubble above, filtering down through slanting beams of sunlight. Three stories below the level of the street, Odenathus picked his way carefully across a mountain of paving stones. Below, in the darkness, he could hear water falling into some kind of pool. The sound, magnified by the curving walls, made him terribly thirsty. He negotiated a fallen lead drainage pipe and found himself on a set of steps that emerged from the debris. Heartened by this, he made his way down.
At the bottom, a pool of green water spilled over a section of tessellated floor. Dolphins, mermaids, and high-backed ships cavorted on a pale blue surface. Letters marked out with small black chips of stone spelled the name of a notable merchant house of the city. Odenathus paused at the edge of the floor, looking for a way around to the wall beyond where he could see a bent pipe sticking out, spilling a tiny stream of water. The tumble of stones on either side seemed precarious, though. No matter, he grumbled to himself, you've gotten your boots wet before! He stepped out onto the mosaic floor, still moving carefully. A stone rattled past from above and splashed into the water. He looked up. Something dark blotted out the light coming from above. He threw up his arm and was smashed down by a heavy weight.
"Roman pig," someone snarled above him in the sudden darkness. "Water-thief!"
Odenathus went down hard, feeling tesserae crack under his back. The weight on his chest squirmed, and he felt a knee drive into his stomach. He gasped and tried to roll to one side. The assailant clipped him on the side of the head with a fist, but got more floor than flesh.
"Ay! Bastard!" the voice squeaked in pain. Odenathus shoved up, catching something that felt like an elbow. He tore at the rough fabric around his head and snagged a finger on a leather strap. The cloth ripped, and he rolled again, suddenly losing the weight. He threw the bristly cloth away. He was soaking wet.
A man in ragged clothing stood over him, wiping water out of his face. Odenathus scrambled up to his feet, though the footing on the wet floor was treacherous. The man scuttled back, fumbling at his belt for some kind of knife. Odenathus slid forward, keeping his boots to the floor, and grabbed the man's shirt. The old stained fabric tore in his fingers. The man twisted away, snarling. "Hands off, Roman pig!"
Odenathus punched the man in the face, then grabbed hold of his hair and kneed him in the stomach. The man's face bulged, and a croaking sound came out of his throat as he fell to his knees. Odenathus reached down and plucked a bone-handled knife out of nerveless fingers. Without looking, he tossed the knife away into the shadows. "Friend," Odenathus said, "you shouldn't attack people trying to get a drink of water."
"You've no friends here, Legionary."
Odenathus turned slowly, hearing now the breathing of dozens of men in the darkness around him. Four stood in the slanting light from the street above, bows in their hands, arrows nocked to the shaft. Behind the four, a stout woman was making her way down the slope of rubble with a long, Persian-style spear for support. The young man raised his hand, raising an eyebrow at the rabble who had inched out of the dim recesses of the cistern. He recognized them well enough; the detritus of a destroyed city, living by scavenging the food, coin, and goods that had been left, or forgotten, by the victors. He had seen the same faces when the Imperial Army had marched out of flood-drowned Ctesiphon. Then he had pitied them and thrown a few coins from the back of the wagon he was riding in.
Anger suddenly bubbled up in his breast-these were his people in his city, and they would not slink and prowl about in the darkness like rats. He looked around, straightening up, his face grim. "I am not a Roman," he said in a blunt tone. "I am a lord of the great city of Palmyra, Queen of the Desert. Who are you?"
The woman, who had reached the watery floor, laughed bitterly. "The great city? There is no place by that name, stranger. It is in ruins, destroyed. Its people are nameless and faceless-who are you to question those who have the advantage of you?"
"I am Odenathus, son of Zabda, cousin of the Queen of the City." While he spoke, he had raised a fist, and fire trickled between his fingers. Tongues of orange flame flickered up, and the room was suddenly filled with light. The scavengers flinched back, and their shadows grew suddenly great against the crumbling walls. The old woman leaned heavily on her spear, her head turned slightly away. Even so, Odenathus could see that her right eye was a milky sightless orb.
"Odenathus?" Her voice echoed hollowly in the domed ceiling of the cistern. "He is dead. All of that house are dead, ground down by pride and the darkness. Dead or fled away into the desert. Not one of the noble House of Nasor still lives."
"Not true," Odenathus said, stepping forward, his boots splashing in the water. "I live and I am here. The Queen is here, and while she lives, the city lives." His words echoed around the chamber. The fire he had called to his fist drifted up and away, forming a slowly spinning circle over his head. The light it cast filled the watery floor with blood, where the dolphins swam in a sea of red. The old woman, both her eyes destroyed, turned to face him fully.
Odenathus' step faltered, and the ring of fire flickered, almost going out. He stopped, stunned. "Mama?"
– |In a hollow formed by the fallen statue of Bel, Zoe cleared a space among the chipped ceiling tiles and charred beams. Now, with the sun set and full night upon the valley, she huddled in a woolen cloak she had taken from the baggage on the camels. A tiny fire flickered in a ring of stones. Beneath it broad blue-and-white hexagonal tiles could be seen-once they had decorated the floor of the entrance hall to the Little Palace. The ever-present wind still blew in from the desert, making the air chill and cold. Across from her, wrapped in his own blankets and a hood of thick wool, an old man with a bushy white beard was gnawing on a hunk of bread. It had come, like the wine mulling at the edge of the little fire, from the supplies that Odenathus had so carefully carried from distant Antioch.
"Grandfather," Zoe whispered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering, "what did you see?"
The old man ignored her and stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth. His fingers were cracked and grimy, only partially covered by cloth wrappings. With the bread gone, he rummaged in the bowl she had found for him and found some last morsel.
Zoe frowned. The old man was just going to eat her food and say nothing. She reached out and moved the ceramic bottle of wine away from the fire, closer to her. The old man watched her, his black eyes shining with a tiny reflected flames.
"Tell me, Grandfather, what did you see? You said you had seen something important."
"Wine?" he croaked, edging a little closer to the fire. His eyes followed the bottle.
Zoe frowned again, and the bottle disappeared into the folds of her cloak. "No wine," she snapped. Her fingers curled around the hilt of a Legion gladius laid on the ground at her side. "Tell me what you saw, and you will have wine."
The old man drew back again, folding into the cocoon of blankets and sweat-stained cloaks that he carried with him. Only his firelit eyes remained visible in the darkness. He made a snuffling sound. "I saw…" He paused and suddenly looked up. The line of his body tensed, and Zoe's eyes widened to see a long, curved knife suddenly catch the edge of the firelight. "Someone is coming."
Zoe stood and waved her hand over the fire. It went out, plunging the hollow among the ruins into complete darkness. The moon had not risen, so only the glittering firmament of stars overhead shed any light. Out on
the rubble was the clink of a brick shifting and a low mutter. Zoe squinted, then breathed out slowly, summoning focus. Her vision wavered, and then the tumbled mounds of broken building and snaglike pillars sprang into view. Even in starlight the methods of the Legion thaumaturges could lend her sight. At the edge of the royal platform, where the crumbled gate lay, figures-more than one-were moving in file toward her. Instinctively she opened her awareness and began drawing the power for a Shield of Athena from the air and wind and sky. Its pale blue tracery began to build, whirling, in the air between her and the strangers. The dim red shape of the old man flickered at her side, the fire of his spirit low and guttering. Across the field of rubble, at least one bright shape moved, burning with its own powerful flame.
"Men are coming," the old man whispered, creeping to her side, his knife at the ready. "Many men."
"I see them, Grandfather, but one of them I know. Do not be afraid."
The shield spun down and dispersed. Zoe sat again, and the fire sparked in the stones and leapt up, making a beacon in the night. The old man flinched from the sudden light and scurried back into his nest of blankets. Zoe pulled the bottle of wine out and waved it at him. "Tell me what you saw."
The old man bowed his head to the broken tiles twice. "Yes, mistress," he muttered. "I was in the hills to the north, when the dhole smashed the gates of the city. I was looking for wood in the ravines and gullies. The Persians, my lady, they were paying well for firewood."
Zoe's faced darkened with rage, and the old man paused, then groveled on the stones. "Please, my lady, I am just an old man with no family! I must eat! I only did what I had to do."
The girl looked away and, when she looked back, her face was calm again. She motioned for him to continue.
"My mules ran off when the dhole was sent away. That was a great noise! Like the gods raging in the clear sky. I hope never to hear such a thing again… It took me days to find them all and bring them back together. Then I went to the city-but it was gone!" The old man rocked back and forth, wringing his hands. "Everything was destroyed… even the stream had dried up and the aqueducts were torn down. I could not find any water. It was very hot, so I went into the city. Oh, it was dreadful: All the bodies withering in the sun… I went into a house that still stood, hoping to find a pan of water. There was nothing. But when I was coming out, I heard a noise. I hid, thinking that the Persians had come back… but it was not the Persians, oh no." The old man's voice ran down, mumbling and cursing to himself.
Zoe frowned and coughed to get his attention. "Who came to the city? Romans?"
"Oh," the old man said, looking up with a puzzled expression on his wrinkled face. "Not Romans, oh no. Bandits, desert bandits, in their long robes and fierce beards. They had sabers, you know! I saw them at the gate."
"Bandits? What tribe? Why did they come to the city?"
"Oh, they came for…" The old man began muttering again.
"For what?" Zoe's patience was wearing very thin. Too, she could hear the clatter of boots coming across the rubble. Odenathus would be here very soon, with these strangers. "What were they looking for?"
"Oh!" The old man looked up, his eyes suddenly bright. "They came for her! Well, for her body, for it was nailed up over the gate then-but they took it down, and very gently, too. Very mannerly, for bandits-"
"Her?" Zoe's voice was as cold as morning frost. "Who was nailed above the gate?"
"Her… the most radiant one." The old man mumbled again, then his voice strengthened. "One of them had a scar; he said that she would be put away, safe from ravens and wild dogs. They bore her off on their shoulders. They were singing a dirge, as is right. I saw it all, I heard it from the house inside the gate. I say that it is so!"
"The radiant one…" Zoe felt her world spinning out of turn. "It can only be Zenobia."
"Oh yes!" The old man brightened. "That was what they called her, these bandits."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The House de'Orelio, the Quirinal Hill, Rome
Tiny beads of sweat spilled down Anastasia's brow, pooling in the hollow of her neck. The sweat gleamed in the light of hundreds of beeswax candles placed around the periphery of the room. Anastasia's face was contorted in a grimace of pain, and the thin cotton shawl that had been draped around her shoulder slipped. Her carefully trimmed and polished fingernails bit into the muscular arm of the attendant standing behind her chair. A thin trickle of blood seeped from underneath her nails.
"Aaaaa!" Another contraction ground a low moan out of the Duchess. She panted heavily. "Oh, Goddess," she gasped, "blessed Medea was right… aaaahh!"
Between her legs, the midwife looked up, smiling. The woman had short brown hair and a pleasantly plump face. The sleeves of her dark red gown were rolled up and tied back with strings. The obstetrix seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease. Anastasia, her body in the grip of excruciating pain, briefly envisioned the woman-still smiling-being torn apart by wild dogs on the hot sand floor of the Flavian. Beyond her, the Duchess was dimly aware of the other two attendants-young women of her house who had borne strong sons-kneeling on the floor, holding long tapers. These four women were her only companions, here in her bedroom.
"Soon now, dear," the midwife chided as she rubbed her hands and forearms with olive oil. "You'll have forgotten the pain in a day or so, mark my words."
"Never!" Anastasia hissed as another wave of contractions rippled across her abdomen. "I didn't forget how it was before… oh, Goddess… ah!"
"Now, now, you've just been a little time away from children and birthing. It'll all come back to you." The midwife made a clucking sound and slipped a gentle hand into Anastasia. The Duchess tried to concentrate on what the woman was doing, but then another wave of pain washed over her and she could only see the ceiling and hear-distantly-someone crying out. The pain passed, leaving her whole body sore and shaking. She slumped exhausted against the attendant behind her. The midwife stood up, holding something red and wrinkled. The woman was smiling. She held up the red thing, and a glad cry rang out from the two women who had been kneeling on the mats at the base of the birthing chair.
Anastasia's head rolled back, and she stared vacantly at the ceiling. The pain ebbed and began to seep away. One of the girls leaned over her, taking the Duchess's head and laying it back on the padded headrest of the chair. She tipped a krater of wine to Anastasia's lips. It was hot and very sweet. The attendant stepped away and took a silver bowl of water from the other girl. From somewhere, the Duchess heard a knife rasp out of a metal sheath.
There was a popping sound, and then a wailing cry. At the edge of vision, Anastasia caught sight of the midwife turning, her forearms covered with blood. The girl with the silver bowl was there, and the midwife rinsed her arms, drying them with a pale white woolen towel. This done, she took a second cloth and poured water from the bowl over it. "This is the water of the river of life," the midwife chanted in a hushed singsong. "This is the purity of the first morning of the world."
Anastasia rolled her head to one side-an enormous effort. The midwife had laid the red thing, all squalling and tiny, on the side of the birthing table in a thick linen quilt. With careful, sure movements, she bathed the baby while continuing to chant in the same low voice.
"O Goddess, bless this child and let it see its father's glad smile in five days. Let it grow strong."
Anastasia blinked tears away, feeling a sudden and unexpected sense of loss. Her husband should have been waiting outside the door, pensive and nervous, dressed in his best formal toga and tunic. He should be knocking at the door right now.
"O mistress of the dawn and the hunt, guide the path of this child through the forest. Let it grow wise."
He would have been so proud, his lined, old face all wreathed in smiles, grinning in that merry way that had melted her heart, even as a young and foolish girl. He should be here, she thought disconsolately. Why isn't he here?
"O mistress of the ship that crosses the waters, lead this child
from birth to death under your beneficent aegis. Let it live with honor."
Anastasia began to cry, entirely silently, her chest heaving. She turned her head away from the child and the midwife and the attendants. This is what she had always wanted for her dear old husband, now dead fifteen years. How can I miss him so? Will this pain ever grow less?
"Mistress?" Anastasia turned her head back, smoothing her features with an effort of will. The midwife held up the baby, now swaddled in cotton and silk. The woman was smiling, her round face creased with a broad grin. "This is your son, my lady. Shall I send the girls to put a crown of olive above the door?"
The baby stared back at her with deep blue eyes all round and wide. It looked like a little red monkey. The Duchess's lips trembled for a moment, but then she took her emotions in hand and put them behind her. Slowly, without taking her eyes from the round, wrinkly little face and its button nose, she shook her head.
"Sister, this child will never be known to the world until he comes of age. No crown will grace my door, nor shall he walk around my hearth, little hand in mine."
Anastasia sighed, seeing the pitying look in the midwife's eyes. The woman was of the temple, she thought, and deserved some small explanation. The Duchess tried to straighten in the chair, but she was still too weak. "Sister, this child's father is gone, and his family cannot claim him. I will see that he is well taken care of, and when he comes of age, he will come into the honors that his father would likely bestow. No fear, he will not be sent to the rubbish heaps. But I cannot claim him as mine, either, though he will have the protection of my house always."
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