Beloved (12 page)

“We weren’t racing,” he replied.

“Weren’t we?” Her gaze was mocking, but then she turned and, again laughing a soft provocative laugh, ran into the building.

He felt a quickening in his loins, and then he chuckled. Their wedding day could not come soon enough to suit him. Despite his crowded day, he intended seeing Zabaai ben Selim before the sun set, and settling with him the details of his betrothal to Zenobia. A public announcement would be made the next day, and then the little minx would be committed. Purposefully he strode across the courtyard to his own section of the palace. Soon, he thought, soon my flower, and then neither of us shall ever be lonely again, for we shall have each other forever.
Forever.
He liked the sound of the word.

Palmyra, queen city of the Eastern Empire, lay almost halfway between the equally ancient city of Baghdad and the blue Mediterranean sea. It was said to have been founded by Solomon, a fact of which the Palmyrans were mightily proud. Built upon and around the great oasis where the major caravan routes between east and west crossed, it was the city through which all the riches of the world passed en route west to Europe or east to Persia, Cathay, and the Indies. Greeks and Romans, Syrians and Jews, Arab merchants of all tribes gathered here, building great storehouses and warehouses in which safely to keep the silks, carpets, spices, ivory, jewels, grain, and dates that passed through their hands. They built luxurious villas in which to house their families, as well as their concubines, for as all inanimate valuables arrived in Palmyra so did the choicest of the world’s slaves.

The architects of the city had a passion for columns, and all the major buildings were adorned with them. About the central courtyard of one temple were raised three hundred seventy graceful colonnades; and upon projecting stones half way up each column stood statues of Palmyra’s most famous men. The city’s main avenue was lined on each side with two rows of pillars, seven hundred and fifty to a side; and the Temple of Jupiter had a mile-long colonnade consisting of fifteen hundred Corinthian columns.

The city had been built for merchants by a wise king, and a thousand years later it was still firmly controlled by commercial interests. The main business and shopping streets were all covered over, so even in the heat of a summer noon one could conduct his business in relative comfort. Although not prone to attack due to its inaccessible location, Palmyrans had raised around the city a wall seven miles long, to discourage the boldness of desert raiders.

This was the kingdom over which Zenobia bat Zabaai would soon reign as wife to its prince. Zabaai ben Selim was suddenly
and for the first time really considering the serious responsibility he was placing upon his only daughter’s shoulders. He sat comfortably in Odenathus’s private library, a carved alabaster goblet of fine Cyrenean wine clutched in his hand. Behind him, a deaf-mute black slave plied a large woven palm fan, creating just enough breeze to ease the still heat of the late afternoon.

As he had come into the city today he had looked at it as if for the first time in his entire life. When one is used to something, one sees with dulled eyes, he thought. He had been born here on this oasis, and the city had always been a part of his life. Today he had really looked, and what he had seen made him think. It was not just the magnificent architecture of the city, but the marvelous parks kept green by the oasis’s underground springs that suddenly stunned Zabaai. The intellect behind the creation of the city was overwhelming.

Zenobia, he knew, would not be content simply to be an ornament and a broodmare. What part would she play, he wondered, in the government of this city? Palmyran princesses were famed for their beauty, not their administrative abilities. He shook his head wearily. Had his ambition for his beloved child outstripped his good sense?”

“Zabaai, my cousin!” Odenathus hurried into the room, his white robes whirling about him. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

“I have been comfortable in these pleasant surroundings, my lord Prince.”

“I have asked you here so we may discuss the terms of this marriage before I call in the scribes. What will you give as dowry?”

“I shall give a thousand pure-bred goats, five hundred white and five hundred black. There will be two hundred and fifty fighting camels; and a hundred Arabian horses; not to mention jewelry, clothing, household goods, and the deed to her mother’s house.”

The prince was astounded by the magnificence of Zenobia’s dowry. Never had he suspected that it would be so large; but then her father could easily afford it, for his herds were enormous.

The dowry agreement was drawn up by the prince’s scribe, who set his quill flying across the parchment as each point was stated. A transfer of goods between the bride’s father and her husband would make Odenathus Zenobia’s legal lord according to the Bedawi laws; but the prince was Hellenized, as had been Zenobia’s mother and the bride herself. They would be married
in the atrium of Zabaai’s home, the exact date depending on the omens to be taken this very evening by the temple priests.

Al-Zena was sent for, and she and the prince’s Greek secretary witnessed the signing of the document of betrothal and the formal words in which Odenathus said to his future father-in-law, “Do you promise to give me your daughter as wife?”

“May the gods grant their blessing. I promise,” Zabaai said.

“May the gods grant their blessing!” Odenathus finished.

“So,” Al-Zena said sourly, “you are really going to do it.”

“You disapprove of this match, my Princess?”

“Do not be offended, Zabaai ben Selim. I think your daughter a sweet child, but I cannot see the necessity for my son to many. He already has children.”

“Palmyra has never been governed by a bastard line,” came the sharp reply. “Surely
you
must know the law.”

Odenathus hid a smile as his mother, very discomfited, replied stiffly, “You have always been most outspoken, Zabaai ben Selim. I can only hope your daughter does not take after you.”

“Zenobia is herself. She will be a credit to the city.”

“Indeed!” Al-Zena snapped, and she turned and abruptly left the library.

Zabaai ben Selim smiled blandly at the prince, and said, “You will want to see Zenobia before we leave.” It was a statement.

“Leave?”
The prince was somewhat taken aback.

“Now that the betrothal is official, my lord, Zenobia must return home. She cannot stay here in the palace under the circumstances. She will return on her wedding day. You may not see each other until then.”

“But I thought we might spend this time getting to know one another better,” he protested, disappointed.

“Alas, custom demands we be discreet,” came the reply.

“Whose customs?” Odenathus demanded.

“Ancient Bedawi customs, my Lord,” was the silken answer. “There will be plenty of time for you and my daughter to get to know one another after the wedding.”

“I will have the priests from the Temple of Jupiter sacrifice a lamb this very night to determine the date,” the prince said. “But first I will go to Zenobia, and bid her farewell.”

“I will await your return, my Lord.” Settling back in his chair, Zabaai held out his goblet for the slave to refill. He watched with dancing dark eyes as the young man hurried from the room. How very eager he was, and a brief separation would whet his appetite
even further for this marriage. Al-Zena might carp and complain, but Zabaai wagered with himself that Odenathus’s few sweet memories of Zenobia would spur him eagerly on toward their wedding day.

Odenathus did not go directly to the apartments where Zenobia was housed. First he stopped at his treasury; walking into the roomy jewelry vault, he carefully selected a ring that would be his betrothal gift to his future wife. It was not a hard choice, for he had seen the ring months before when it had been discovered by his treasurer in a rotting leather bag, hidden on a back shelf. The treasurer had been quite excited, saying that the ring was one sent to King Solomon from Sheba’s queen as a token of her affection, and was catalogued in the ancient records of the treasury.

Having made his choice, the prince hurried to find Zenobia. He was met, however, in the apartment’s anteroom by Bab. The older woman looked him up and down, nodding approvingly. “She is just come from her bath, Highness. If you will wait but a minute my lady will be fit to receive you.”

“My thanks, Bab,” Odenathus replied courteously. He instinctively liked this small round woman in her simple robe, her graying hair hidden beneath its veil. Her face was brown from the desert sun, and there were deep laugh lines carved about her black eyes and on either side of her mouth.

“You will be good for my child,” the woman said with the quiet assurance of a beloved servant.

“I already love her, Bab. I want her to be happy.”

“Be firm, my lord. Firm, but gentle.”

“Can one be firm with Zenobia?” he teased.

Bab chuckled appreciatively, but before she could answer Zenobia entered the room. Odenathus’s eyes were immediately riveted to the girl, oblivious to all else. Smiling, Bab slipped from the room and left the lovers alone.

He could scarce take his eyes from her, flushed and rosy from the bath, the faint hyacinth scent clinging to her unbound hair, her simple white tunic. For a moment he stood powerless to move. Then he heard her voice: “My lord?” The spell broken, he reached out and pulled her almost roughly into his arms. One arm held her firmly against his hungry body, the other hand tangled in her soft hair, drawing her head to his. Bending, he let his lips brush hers lightly, and was satisfied to feel a faint tremor rush through her.

“Oh, Zenobia,” he murmured, kissing the corners of her mouth,
her closed and fluttering eyelids. Then his lips found hers, and as his kisses deepened her arms slipped up and about his neck; her lithe young body pressed as hungrily against his. Enchanted by her budding passion, he ran his tongue over her lips, which parted instinctively. Tenderly he explored the fragrant cavity of her mouth; the hand that had earlier held her head now moved to caress her breasts.

The ache that had so mysteriously materialized the night before reappeared to taunt her. It swept over her from out of nowhere, leaving her breathless and confused. His thumb rubbed insistently against the already stiff peaks of her nipples, and she wanted to cry with the strange pleasure that it gave her. It was so new, so wonderful, this marvelous sensation that was called love.

After what seemed the briefest eternity he released her, and for a moment she swayed dangerously, but finally her head cleared and she grew steady once more. She heard his voice coming at her from what seemed a long way off, but the words were clear.

“Your father and I have signed a formal betrothal agreement, my flower; but Zabaai says you must leave the palace before the public announcement is made tomorrow. We cannot see each other until our wedding day.”

“But why?!” she burst out, disappointed.

“Custom, he says.”

For a minute her lips clamped shut, and then she said, “It must be as my father has decreed.”

Her obedience pleased him. “I have brought you the traditional gift,” he said, taking her left hand up and placing the ring upon the third finger, whose nerve it was said ran directly to the heart.

Zenobia stared down at the large round black pearl in its simple gold setting. “It is … incredible,” she said softly. “I have never possessed such a ring.”

“My treasurer says that it is listed in a catalogue of gifts sent from the Queen of Sheba to Solomon when he was here in Palmyra overseeing the construction of the city. I knew that it would be perfect for you, my flower. It glows against the warm apricot tint of your skin!” He turned over her hand, which he had yet to relinquish, and placed a tender kiss upon the palm, sending delighted little tingles down Zenobia’s spine.

Suddenly shy, she withdrew her hand from his.

His mouth captured hers again in a swift kiss. “Oh, my Zenobia!” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “So sure of herself in everything but love. I will teach you to understand those feelings that assail you, and even frighten you a little. I will
teach you to love, and be loved in return. There will be no fear or hesitation between us, my flower, and we will trust each other only.” His lips caressed hers lightly once more. “I love you, Zenobia. I love you!”

She had never come so close to fainting in her entire life and, clinging to him childlike, she whispered breathlessly, “I love you also, my Hawk. I do!” Saying the words seemed to bring a strange relief.

Neither of them heard the door to the antechamber open.

“And are you ready to leave yet, my daughter?” Zabaai ben Selim stood there, smiling benignly.

Almost guiltily, they sprang apart and, blushing, Zenobia said, “I must change into my chiton, Father.”

“No,” Odenathus replied. “I will return you to your home in a litter. I would prefer that you did not ride with bare legs for all to see.”

To Zabaai ben Selim’s surprise, Zenobia bowed her head in assent, and moved to his side. “I am ready then, Father.”