Beloved (10 page)

“You are awake?”

Zenobia turned and walked back into the room. “I am awake, Bab.”

“You should have called,” the older woman grumbled.

“I wanted a moment alone.”

“Humph,” came the reply, but Bab understood.

Zenobia’s sleeveless white tunica with its draped low neckline was a simple garment. She smiled a secret smile. By the very innocence of her dress she would point up the difference between herself and Odenathus’s mother. “Leave my hair loose,” she said, and Bab nodded, brushing the long thick tresses, containing them only with a simple white ribbon band embroidered with tiny seed pearls.

Zenobia reached for her jewel case. From it she removed a single large cream-gold teardrop-shaped pearl on a thin golden chain. Fastened about her neck, it nestled between her young breasts, a temptation between twin temptations. Matching clusters of pearls on gold wires dangled from her ears; arm bangles of carved pink coral and thin gold wires with pearl bangles braceleted her arms. A single round pearl set in gold adorned one hand, drawing attention to her long, tapering fingers with their polished nails.

Bab nodded her approval as Zenobia daubed on her perfume. “It is perfect, my baby. You will outshine the old witch
and
the Greek concubine!”

The words were scarce out of Bab’s mouth when one of the black slave girls hurried in to announce, “A eunuch is here to escort the lady to the banquet hall.”

With a faint nod to Bab, Zenobia followed the girl and then the eunuch, hurrying through the vast palace so quickly that she scarce had time to note a thing along her way. The slave girl had been wrong, however, for it was not the banquet hall to which they went, but rather a small family dining room. Dressed in greens and golds, Al-Zena was already there, reclining on a dining sofa. Next to her was an exquisite fair-skinned blonde, dressed also in Parthian fashion; but her colors were sky blue embroidered in silver.

“Zenobia, my child,” Al-Zena purred, “this is the lady Deliciae.”

“Good evening to you,” Zenobia replied sweetly.

Al-Zena was somewhat disconcerted, for the girl showed neither distress nor anger at Deliciae’s presence. She was either totally unfeeling, very stupid, or very clever, and the fact that Al-Zena couldn’t determine which gave her pause. She eyed Zenobia suspiciously as the girl settled herself upon the dining couch marked for her, then turned to Deliciae, saying, “I understand that you
have two sons. How fortunate you are! I hope I shall one day be the mother of sons.”

Al-Zena choked on her wine, spilling some of it on her gown, and sending a servant scuttling for water and a cloth. Zenobia cooed solicitously, “Oh, you have spilled your wine. I do hope it will not stain your tunic.”

Deliciae eyed Odenathus’s prospective wife from beneath her heavily mascaraed lashes, and forced back a chuckle. The little Bedawi girl was wise to Al-Zena, and ready to do battle with her, although Deliciae could see that Al-Zena was not quite sure yet as to the girl’s character and intelligence. She took the opportunity to gauge her rival, and sighed. The girl was positively beautiful. She makes me look insipid, thought Deliciae.

A slave was rubbing frantically at Al-Zena’s tunic as the Prince of Palmyra walked into the room. His glance swept over the three women, and then he said sharply, “Deliciae, what do you do here?”

“Did you not invite me, my lord? Your mother said that I was to come to supper tonight.”

“You were
not
invited,” came the icy reply. “Please return to your quarters.”

Deliciae rose, stricken, and Zenobia instantly realized that Odenathus’s mother was using the woman as a pawn. “Please, my lord Prince,” she said, “do not send the lady Deliciae away. I was so enjoying her company.”

“It does not distress you, my flower? I would not have you unhappy.”

“Deliciae and I are of an age. We will quickly become friends, I know.” Zenobia put a hand on his arm. “Please, my lord Prince.” Her glance was melting, and Odenathus felt his heartbeat quicken.

“If it pleases you, my flower, Deliciae may remain,” he said gruffly, wishing to the gods as he said it that neither Deliciae nor his mother were in the room so he might kiss that adorable mouth that pleaded so prettily with him. Instead he signaled impatiently to a slave to fill his goblet with wine.

“Thank you, my lord Prince,” Zenobia said softly.

Al-Zena almost gnashed her teeth with frustration. He was in love! The gods be cursed! Her son was in love, and there would be no reasoning with him. Still, if she could show up the chit for the unsuitable creature she was, then perhaps Odenathus would see reason. A Bedawi girl Princess of Palmyra?
Never!

The meal was fairly plain, beginning with artichokes in olive oil and tarragon vinegar; followed by baby lamb, broiled thrush
on asparagus, green beans, and cabbage sprouts; and finished with a silver bowl of peaches and green grapes. The prince could hardly take his eyes from Zenobia, much to his mother’s consternation and Deliciae’s resignation. Zenobia ate heartily of the beautifully cooked meal, while the others could only eat sparingly.

After the last of the dishes had been cleared away and the wine goblets refilled, a troupe of dancing girls and a
jongleur
entertained. Deliciae saw how desperately Odenathus longed to be with the beautiful girl he desired for a wife, and so as the dancing girls ran from the dining room she rose, saying, “Would you permit me to withdraw, my lord? I find I am quite fatigued.”

The prince smiled gratefully at her, and nodded as Deliciae bowed to Al-Zena and Zenobia and departed the room. For a few more minutes they reclined in silence, Odenathus waiting for his mother to withdraw. When it finally became apparent that she was not going to do so, he stood and, holding his hand out to Zenobia, said “Come! My gardens are justly famous. You will excuse us, Mother? I expect you will want to retire now, for it is quite late.”

Zenobia put her hand in the prince’s and rose. “I should very much like to see your gardens, my lord Prince.”

Without a backward glance at Al-Zena, Odenathus swept Zenobia outdoors into a vast and darkened garden. Here and there torches blazed along the paths, but it was virtually impossible to see. Zenobia could not resist a chuckle. “I hope you know where you are going,” she teased him. “I should hate to end up in a fish pond.”

He stopped and, swinging her around, looked into her face. “I want to kiss you,” he said fiercely. How beautiful she looked with the torchlight flickering molten gold across her features.

“What?”
Her heart began to hammer wildly, and she felt almost afraid. Looking into his handsome face, her gray eyes widened slightly with surprise.

“I want to kiss you,” he repeated. “If you were any other girl I should not even ask.”

“Oh!”
Her voice was suddenly very small, and as he looked at her a slow smile crossed Odenathus’s face.

“You are like the fresh breeze that blows across the city at sunset, my flower.” One hand moved from her shoulders to encircle her slender waist; to draw her hard against him. The other scalded up her neck and face to tangle in the jet silk of her hair. His dark head dipped, his mouth brushing lightly and swiftly across hers, sending small shock waves racing through her body as she
desperately struggled with herself to regain control over her emotions.
“Zenobia.”
His voice caressed her name, and she shivered. What was he doing to her? How could the sound of his voice saying her name render her breathless.
“Zenobia!”
Her legs felt weak, and she fell back slightly against the encircling brace of his arm. His head was poised above hers for a brief moment, and then it came swiftly down and his lips closed over hers.

His mouth was warm, and smooth and hard, but Zenobia, innocent as she was to kisses, felt his restraint. He kissed her gently with great tenderness, his lips drawing the very essence of her from her untutored body. Deep within her core she felt the ache begin. She longed for something, but she knew not what, and when, after what seemed an eternity, he finally lifted his lips from hers she murmured, “More!”

He looked upon her, his brown eyes almost liquid with his passion. “Oh, Zenobia, you have intoxicated me!” he said softly, and then he kissed her again. This time his kiss was less gentle, but she felt no fear, only a desperate longing to know more. He parted her lips, his tongue seeking, learning the velvet softness of her mouth. She wanted—she wanted she knew not what; only that she didn’t want him to stop. She shivered deliciously as he sucked for a moment on her little tongue; and then she nestled closer against him, her young breasts taut.

With a groan of impatience he thrust her away from him. “You are so young, my flower,” he said softly. It was almost a reproach.

“Have I displeased you?”

She was distressed, he could see. “Come!” He took her hand, and they began to walk again through the darkened garden. “You do not displease me, Zenobia. In fact you please me mightily. At this moment I very much want to make love to you.”

“Then let us make love,” she said simply. “I have never been with a man before, but both Tamar and Bab say it is a natural and good thing between a man and woman. I am not afraid, my lord Prince.”

He smiled in the darkness. “No woman, I believe, should make love to a man for whom she doesn’t care, for whom she has no feelings. That, my flower, is immoral. I have never made love to a woman who did not love me a little. Tonight you have barely been awakened to the sensual side of your nature, and you long to know more. You do not yet know me, Zenobia. There is time for us, I promise you.”

“You make me feel like a child,” she pouted.

“You are a child,” he said. “But there will come a night when you and I care for one another, and then, Zenobia, I shall make you a woman, fully aware of her passionate powers.”

She sighed. “I must be content with your judgment then, my lord Prince, for I know naught of such matters.”

Odenathus laughed softly. “I think I shall enjoy this small submission, for I suspect that you seldom defer to anyone.”

“I know that I am not like other women,” she said defensively. “If you truly want me, my lord Prince, then you must accept me as I am. I do not know if I can change, nor if I choose to do so.”

“I want you as you are, even if I suspect that my desert flower has thorns.” He stopped for a moment, tipped her face to his, and kissed her again, sending a pleasurable thrill through her. “Please learn to love me, Zenobia. I ache to love you.”

“Love me?” she said. “Or make love to me?”

“Both,” he admitted.

She gave him a quick kiss in return. “You are an honest man,” she said. “I believe that we can be friends, and friends, I have been told, make the best lovers.”

Odenathus was amused. She was quite serious, and he had never met a female who was so delightftilly interesting. “Why do you not use my name, Zenobia?” he asked. “You call me ‘my lord Prince,’ but you never say my name.”

“You have not given me permission to use your name, my lord Prince. I may be naught but a Bedawi girl, but I have manners.” She paused, and in the dark he could not see the twinkle in her eyes. “Besides, I do not like your name.”

“You do not like my name?”
He was astounded.

“It is a very serious, almost pompous name, my lord Prince.”

“If we are to be married you cannot keep calling me ‘my lord Prince.’ ”

“It is not settled that we are to be married,” she said calmly. “Besides, I do not think of you as Odenathus Septimius, my lord Prince.”

He could hear the teasing laughter in her voice, and with the same spirit he entered into her little game. “We will be married, my flower, never fear. I am going to teach you to like me, to love me, and to call me by my name.” He paused. “If you cannot call me Odenathus, then what will you call me?”

“In public I shall call you ‘my lord Prince,’ but in private you shall be Hawk, for you look like that bird to me with your long straight nose and your piercing, dark gaze.”

He was flattered beyond measure, as she had known he would be. “So I am Hawk to you.” He chuckled. “Do you fancy to tame this wild bird, my flower?”

“One should never tame wild things, my Hawk. One should gain their trust and respect, become their friend, as you and I shall do.”

Once again she had surprised him, and he grinned to himself. “Hawk I shall be if it pleases you, Zenobia, but now it is late. Come, and I will return you to your quarters.”

Taking her hand, he moved through the dark gardens with the surefootedness of a camel traveling a familiar trail. They entered the palace, and she followed him up an almost hidden staircase and found herself in the hallway outside her own rooms. They stopped before the large double doors.

“Can you ride a horse?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Be ready at dawn,” he said and, turning, strode off down the corridor.

For a moment she watched him go, and then his figure in its long white tunic disappeared around a corner. Zenobia sighed, and stood for a moment before her door. Then one of the soldiers guarding her apartment leaned over and opened the door. With a blush she hurried into her rooms, and closed the door behind her as Bab hurried forward. “It went well, my baby?”

For the first time in her life Zenobia did not want to talk to her dearest servant. What had been between herself and the prince was something she did not choose to share with anyone. “It went well, Bab.”

“Good! Good!” the older woman approved.

Sensing that if she did not give Bab something more the servant would continue to pry, Zenobia said, “I am to go riding at dawn with the prince.”

Bab was successfully diverted. “Dawn?”

“Yes.” Zenobia feigned a yawn.

Within minutes Zenobia found herself undressed and in bed. To her delight, she was alone, for Bab had been allocated a separate small room off her antechamber. She stretched out in the comfortable bed, wiggling her toes in delight beneath the fine silk coverlet, her mind busy with thoughts.

Everyone said she had a choice about this marriage, but the truth was that it was a choice already made. Marriage to Palmyra’s prince would make her a woman of property and a person of
importance. All she had to do was produce the next ruler of Palmyra. He was a gentle man, the prince. Like her father, he seemed to genuinely care what she felt and what she thought. There was no real choice, and yet was it that terrible a fate? She turned restlessly in her bed, remembering his kisses—and what they had done to her.