Beloved (13 page)

The Bedawi chief could only think to say, “Bab will come later with your things, my daughter,” but she was already moving past him and out the door.

“I will send you word as to the date of the wedding late tonight, my cousin,” the prince said, and the Bedawi chief nodded his assent as he followed his daughter from the room.

Just before sunset in the Temple of Jupiter, the high priest slaughtered a pure white lamb. After gazing at the smoking entrails, he announced that the most propitious time for the nuptials would be but ten days hence. Receiving word from the royal messenger, Zabaai ben Selim smiled to himself, wondering how large a gift Odenathus had donated to the temple in order to receive such a desirable verdict concerning the date of his marriage.

The coming celebration was announced to the public the following day, and the citizens of Palmyra rejoiced.

In the Roman governor’s palace, Antonius Porcius Blandus, still the empire’s representative, took the news less cheerfully. “Hades!” he said in an annoyed voice to his visitor. “I had hoped he would remain satisfied with his little Greek concubine. Had he died without a legitimate heir, Rome might have the city completely and unopposed.”

“We have the city,” the governor’s visitor said.

“As long as Palmyra has a legitimate ruler there is always a chance of uprising,” Antonius Porcius retorted.

“I had been led to believe that Odenathus is totally loyal to Rome,” was the reply.

“Oh, he is loyal. It is his bride that I fear. What a vixen he has picked, Marcus Alexander! Zenobia bat Zabaai; half Alexandrian Greek and Egyptian; half Bedawi savage. Some Gaulish auxiliary Alae murdered her mother four years ago, and she has hated the Romans with a passion ever since.”

“Small wonder,” the other man murmured.

“You do not know this girl!” the governor protested. “She sat in the midst of the men who were responsible, and for over eighteen hours she watched them die. She was but a child, and yet she sat as still and as cold as a statue as she watched their agony. There was no pity in her! A man in love is a fickle creature, and Odenathus is, I am told, totally enamored. She could influence him against us.”

“I think you put too much importance on the marriage of a petty princeling and a half-caste girl, Antonius Porcius. No girl will defeat and destroy the empire. There have been men who tried, and they have all failed. Rome is, and will always be, invincible.”

The governor sighed. Why was it that Romans never understood? Antonius Porcius thought bitterly. I know the East and its peoples. Unless love has softened that hard-eyed child I remember, she will bear watching.

He turned his attention to his dinner guest, Marcus Alexander Britainus, the wealthy son of a Roman patrician and his British wife. Lucius Alexander Britainus had been a Roman governor in Britain who had married a powerful local chieftain’s daughter. Marcus Alexander was their eldest son. A younger son, Aulus, had already inherited his maternal grandfather’s estates and responsibilities in Britain. There were two sisters, Lucia and Eusebia, who were married to prominent Romans, and already settled matrons.

Marcus Alexander was not married. He had already served in the army; and now he was coming to Palmyra to set up a trading business that would bring the goods of the East to Britain, where his younger brother would market them. A strange business for the son of an eminent Roman. Patricians usually amused themselves in lighter pursuits. Still, the early Romans had been diligent and industrious. The governor could not help but wonder if, in
addition to his business, Marcus Alexander would be the government’s unofficial eyes and ears.

There had been talk of allowing Prince Odenathus to govern for Rome when he, Antonius, retired in a few years. Although the prince still ran the city, with the exception of minor judicial matters it was all done under the governor’s direction. The young Palmyran ruler had proved extremely friendly and trustworthy, and why not, thought Antonius Porcius. Roman legions kept the Persians at bay. Rome, however, was not apt to allow Odenathus totally free rein. There would be someone sent to watch, and the governor suspected that Marcus Alexander was that person. By the time Odenathus was given alleged control, Marcus Alexander would be a part of Palmyran life, and no one would suspect him at all. Never in all the history of Rome—either as republic or empire—had the Alexander family been implicated in any kind of disloyalty. They were Romans first and always.

Marcus was an attractive man, thought the governor, although he had inherited his British mother’s coloring and height. He was tall by any standards, measuring several inches over six feet. His hair was the warm, burnished color of a chestnut; his eyes a bright, almost startling blue, rimmed in outrageously thick lashes of the same color as his hair. He had a firm and well-muscled body, in proportion with his great height. He was obviously not a man who lolled about the banquet table, his only exercise the lifting of a wine goblet. Antonius Porcius could not help but notice Marcus Alexander’s hands. They were large and square, yet the fingers were slender and tapering. The hands bespoke power, but at the same time gentleness.

The governor had not a moment’s doubt that the women of Palmyra would flock to the newcomer’s bed, for the attractive body was topped by a handsome face of classic elegance. Marcus Alexander might have his British antecedents’ size and coloring, but he had his father’s features. The face was oval with a squared-off chin and jawline. The forehead was high, the nose pure Roman, long and aquiline; the piercing blue eyes were set well apart; the mouth was sensuously big and yet the lips were narrow, their expression faintly mocking, faintly amused.

Those lips now spoke. “You are staring, Antonius Porcius. Is there something amiss?”

“What? No, no, Marcus Alexander! Nothing is wrong. I was simply thinking how like your father you are in features. I served
with him for a time in Britain. Wretched climate, Britain! I could never get warm there.”

“And here in Palmyra I’ll wager you can never get cool,” came the teasing reply.

The governor chuckled drily. “These old bones of mine prefer the heat of the East to the damp of Britain and Gaul.”

Marcus Alexander swished the Falernian wine about in his goblet. “Do you really think this marriage will be a dangerous thing for Rome?” He paused, then said quietly, “Perhaps the girl should be eliminated before the event even takes place.”

Antonius Porcius felt an icy chill sweep over him. He chose his words carefully. “Zenobia bat Zabaai does not like Rome, or Romans, it is true; but I suspect that you are correct. She is but a slip of a girl. What real harm can she do an empire? She will be kept busy in her husband’s bed, and in the nursery for many years to come; and then she will be so busy with her grandchildren that her life will be gone before she has time to think of revenging against Rome for her mother’s death. I am growing old, Marcus Alexander, and sometimes see shadows where none exist.” And, thought the governor, I certainly do not want that girl’s death on
my
conscience.

“Better you are too cautious, than not cautious enough. Will you be going to the wedding?”

“Oh, yes! The Palmyrans have long been Hellenized. It will be a traditional Confarreate ceremony celebrated in the atrium of Zabaai ben Selim’s house, and after the banquet the bridal procession will wind back through the city to the bride’s new home at the palace. It’s really no different from Rome.”

“Perhaps I shall stand with the crowd outside the bride’s house to see her when she leaves,” was the reply.

“She is very beautiful,” the governor said.

“Perhaps by Eastern standards,” Marcus Alexander said. “I, myself, prefer blondes.”

“So did Odenathus,” Antonius Porcius said, “until he saw Zenobia.”

“Indeed?” The governor’s guest was thoughtful. “I shall most certainly then want to see the bride, although girls on their wedding day have a glow about them that gives beauty even to the most unattractive of females.”

“Then see her before her wedding day,” the governor said mischievously. “She has returned to her father’s house, and is in
the habit of riding in the desert early each morning. Perhaps if you, too, ride early you will see her.”

Marcus Alexander
was
curious, and so the next morning he rose before dawn and followed the caravan road a small distance into the desert. Waiting behind a dune, he watched as the sun began to color the sky and reflect onto the vast sands. His patience was finally rewarded, and his ears pricked at the sound of drumming hoofbeats. Into sight came a magnificent white Arabian, galloping flat-out, along the track; and on the horse’s back, low and almost at one with it, was a rider who slowly drew the sweating animal to a halt, then straightened.

Marcus Alexander caught his breath. It was a girl, but what a girl! Long, bare legs; full breasts; and a face that could only be described as the most beautiful he had ever seen. He had never imagined that a woman could be
that
lovely. When he moved his horse out into view from behind the dune, she turned slowly to gaze at him haughtily. “Good morning,” he said.

Zenobia nodded silently to the giant of a man who had so suddenly materialized before her.

“I am Marcus Alexander Britainus, lately come to Palmyra.”

“I am Zenobia bat Zabaai.”

“Do you always ride alone, Zenobia bat Zabaai?”

“Don’t you, Marcus Alexander?” was the disconcerting reply.

“I am a man.”

“So I have noted. Good morning, Marcus Alexander.” She urged her horse forward.

“Wait!” he caught at the white mare’s bridle, but Zenobia was faster, and yanked the horse’s head away, causing the animal to rear up.

Bringing her mount under control, Zenobia turned her full attention on the man before her. Her gray eyes were almost black in their fury, and her voice, though controlled, was filled with anger.
“Never
touch an animal I’m riding again, Marcus Alexander!
Never!
You greeted me, and the laws of hospitality demanded that I do so in return; but I do not like Romans. I especially do not like blue-eyed Romans. Blue-eyed Romans murdered my mother four years ago after they had broken into our home and used her for their pleasure. I ride alone through choice. Now, get out of my way! I wish to ride on.”

“Your pardon, Zenobia bat Zabaai. I regret that my personal appearance brings back painful memories for you. I meant no offense, but I am new to Palmyra and, although I enjoy riding, I
am not certain I would not get lost in your desert. I merely sought the privilege of riding with you so I might grow familiar with the track.”

She felt guilty for her outburst, but she had no intention of either backing down from her stand, or of letting the Roman know that her conscience had been pricked. “It is best that you not ride in the desert without an escort, Marcus Alexander. There are always marauding Persians, or a renegade Bedawi or two looking for a foolish traveler to rob and murder. They do not distinguish between Romans and other peoples, for it makes no difference to them whose throat they slit or whose purse they cut.” As she sat stiffly, proudly staring at him, the thought flitted through her mind that he was a very attractive man, perhaps the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Instantly she felt contrite. It was her Hawk who was the most handsome man in the world.

Marcus Alexander had the most incredible urge to lift Zenobia from her horse and kiss that scornful mouth until it softened, but he did not. He could not jeopardize his position in Palmyra, and making love to the prince’s bride-to-be would certainly do that. Instead he nodded, and said, “You are probably correct, Zenobia bat Zabaai. I would do well to return to the city immediately.” And then, because he could not resist it, he said, “For all I know you are one of those women used to lure the unsuspecting traveler to his doom.” It gave him great satisfaction to hear the furious gasp of outrage behind him as he rode off.

A beautiful girl, he thought; a bitter girl—but who could blame her? Antonius Porcius had simply said that Zenobia’s mother had been killed by Roman legionnaires. He had said nothing of rape. Poor girl. This was certainly not the time to explain the differences to her between renegade Gauls and Romanized Britons like himself.

He rode a short distance, then turned his head to look back. She had whipped her horse into a gallop, and was tearing across the desert at an incredible speed. Marcus Alexander chuckled to himself. He liked a woman with real spirit.

He worked hard during the next few days, driven by the ex-slave who was to be his right-hand man. Severus had been his tutor as a boy, but when his father offered to free the man, Severus had asked to remain in the service of the Alexander family. It was a request they could not deny, and from that day on, Severus had learned from Lucius Alexander the ways of business. He had
arrived in Palmyra two months before Marcus Alexander to purchase a villa and warehouse.

Now Marcus Alexander had to take the reins. Though he strove to concentrate, his mind was constantly being interrupted by visions of a long-legged girl as spirited as the white mare she rode. It came as something of a shock to him to realize that he wanted her, because he could not have her. Marcus Alexander, son of Lucius, wealthy, handsome, and since birth denied nothing within reason, had fallen in love seriously for the first time in his twenty-five years.

As the appointed day for the wedding grew closer, the excitement within the house of Zabaai ben Selim rose to a fever pitch. Though none of Zabaai’s women except Tamar had ever paid the slightest attention to Zenobia, all now wanted to help, wanted to take the place of the bride’s mother. Each advised her as many times daily as they could get near her; each attempted to choose her manner of dress; and each bitterly resented the
interference
of the others. Zenobia became as a choice piece of meat to be haggled over by the women in the market. She was finally forced to beg her father to tell his women that she wanted only Tamar to help her. Tamar, who was her friend, would be the bride’s mother, and no other. Zenobia was finally left in peace.