Beloved (23 page)

Al-Zena, however, was a changed woman as she desperately tried to explain to Zenobia. “I did not mean them to harm Vaba and Demi,” she wept, her proud face crumbled and suddenly old.

“If they had I would have torn your throat out with my bare teeth,” Zenobia snarled.

“I love Vaba and Demi too, Zenobia,” Al-Zena sobbed. “
I do!”

“You have never loved anyone or anything in your life!” was the cruel reply.

Al-Zena mastered herself. “You have the intolerance of the very young, Zenobia,” she said. “I have loved. Oh yes, I have loved!” Sighing, she began to pace, and as she did she spoke. “When I was ten I fell in love, and my whole life I have loved this man, although he is dead almost twenty years now. His name was Ardashir, and he was the King of Persia. His son, Shapur, now reigns. Ah, how I loved him. And from the first he loved me, though I was but a child. It was he who sent me here to Palmyra to be wife to Odenathus’s father. I fought against leaving. I begged him to let me be his concubine, to be his slave, anything but to leave him. I might have swayed him, but my older sister was Ardashir’s wife. She did not object to Ardashir having concubines as long as I was not one of them. So despite my protests, I was sent to Palmyra, and all might have been well if only Odenathus’s father had been understanding of my girlish heartbreak; but all he wanted was an heir.

“You have undoubtedly heard the story of how he raped me on our wedding night. Well, it is true, for he did, and every night after that until he was sure I was pregnant. When my son was born he was taken immediately from me. I was not even allowed to nurse him. I remember begging my husband to let me have my baby back, but he only laughed and said that he knew of Ardashir’s plan to make my son sympathetic to the Persians, and that I would never be allowed to taint him.

“Each day after that the child was brought to me for one hour, but I was never left alone with him. I begged my husband for another child that might be mine, but he refused. Then too, he said, I was not to his taste. I was too skinny, and he preferred plump women.

“I grew bitter, Zenobia, and is it any wonder? My son was growing up without knowing me. I had a husband in name only, and I was separated from the only man I had ever loved. When Odenathus’s father died I tried to regain my son’s love so I might
have some small comfort in my old age; but you came, and Odenathus had no time for me again.

“Do you blame me that I have hated you, that I have tried to make your life the hell that mine has been? Why should you have been loved and I not? Believe me, though, I would never intentionally hurt my grandsons!”

“Which ones?”
Zenobia asked harshly.

“None of them. Neither Linos nor Vermis; nor Vaballathus nor Demetrius. I love them, Zenobia! They are all I have, and they love me!”

“I do not know if I can ever forgive you,” Zenobia said.

“I do not know if I can forgive myself,” was the sad reply. “In my bitterness and jealousy I may have done Deliciae’s sons great harm. If you will let me I will try and undo it. Whatever I have said in the past, I know that Palmyra can have only one heir and it must be my son’s legitimate heir, your son, Vaballathus.”

Zenobia looked closely at her husband’s mother. What she saw convinced her that Al-Zena was being honest. “I do not know if we will ever be friends, Al-Zena, but whatever you can do to convince
those two
of the error of their ways, I will appreciate.”

“And you will not take Vaba and Demi from me?”

“No.”

“And you will forgive my Odenathus? You cannot fault him for loving all his sons.”

“His love is not the cause of my anger. I am angry with him because he refused to see the danger until it was almost too late.”

“You must forgive him, Zenobia! You are his joy! You have been surrounded your entire life by love, and cannot know how terrible it is to be without it.”

Afterward, as she sat alone, Zenobia began to question if she had ever really loved her husband. She enjoyed his lovemaking, and she certainly enjoyed his company. He was her friend and companion, and she respected him, but was that love? Was that all that had bound her parents together? She thought not, yet she did not know for certain, and wondered if she ever would.

For the first time her life was not simple and clear-cut. When she was a child, her father and Akbar had been her gods. When she had married, she had turned to Odenathus. It had never occurred to her that things would someday be different. She could not erase all the good years with him simply because he had disappointed her, but neither could she ever completely trust in him again. She knew that she was being unreasonable, yet the feeling was there
and could not be denied. Men, it seemed, were fallible. Why had that thought never occurred to her before? If Odenathus had put her on a pedestal to be worshiped, then so too had she put him on a pedestal.

“Majesty.”

Zenobia turned to see a slave girl. “Yes?”

“Marcus Alexander is here for your lesson, Majesty.”

Zenobia nodded at the slave girl, and hurried out into the garden of her little palace where lessons were held on pleasant days. When he turned to greet her something within her quivered, and for a moment she looked searchingly at him.

“Good morning, Majesty.”

“Good day, Marcus Britainus. I have decided it is far too lovely a day for lessons. Will you ride with me?”

“Are you certain you are not one of those women sent to lure hapless travelers to their doom?” he teased her, and she chuckled as she remembered their first meeting in the desert.

“You will have to take your chances, Roman,” she teased back, feeling more lighthearted than she had in days.

Marcus Alexander rode a large-boned Arab gelding, gold in color with a creamy white mane and tail; Zenobia, a big gray stallion. She was dressed as he first remembered seeing her, in a short white tunic and gold sandals. Although they were both recognized as they rode through the city, they were not stopped by the queen’s adoring admirers, and once through the gates of Palmyra Zenobia let her stallion have his head.

They rode without stopping and without speech for several miles. Marcus Alexander was content to follow, for although he had lived in the desert for some years now one sand dune looked the same as another to him. It always amazed him that the native-born of Palmyra seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Zenobia watched him from beneath her lashes as they cantered along. She was conscious of the long, muscled legs that guided his mount so easily, and suddenly Zenobia was painfully aware of him as a male being. There was an auburn down on his shapely legs, and his feet were much longer than her husband’s.

Unexpectedly, Zenobia’s mount reared up, and caught daydreaming, she found herself pitched from his back into a small dune. Marcus instantly dismounted and was by her side, gathering her into his arms, and calling frantically to her. She was momentarily stunned, but as her vision cleared she became aware of his mouth but inches from hers. Zenobia stared, momentarily frozen.

He wanted to kiss her, and she knew it!
Instinctively her lips softened and parted as she found to her shock that she wanted to kiss him.

“Zenobia”
he whispered.

Hearing the hunger in his voice was enough to bring her back to her senses. With a little sob she turned her head away from him, and hot tears slid down her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was crying, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

With a deep sigh Marcus held her close to his heart, and crooned to her as he might have to an injured child. “Are you all right, Majesty?” he asked, forcing away any thought of what might have been.

Her tears now controlled, Zenobia replied softly, “I think that I have only injured my pride, Marcus Britainus. I have never been thrown from my horse before. I cannot understand what caused the beast to rear up like that.” Her mount was now standing quietly, although he quivered nervously.

“I will see to the animal. He seems yet agitated.” Marcus rose and walked over to the queen’s gray stallion. “Easy, my beauty,” he said gently to the horse, and took his bridle. Scanning the ground around the animal for a few minutes, Marcus finally found what he sought. “Scorpion,” he said to Zenobia, “and a huge one at that. No wonder this big beauty of yours panicked.”

Zenobia rose to her feet. “Is he all right?” she asked.

Marcus ran a swift and knowledgeable hand over the horse’s legs and, looking up, said, “He appears to be perfect, Majesty. He just needs the reassurance of you upon his back again.”

“Help me up,” she commanded softly, and he bent, cupping his hands so she might have a mounting place. Zenobia vaulted lightly back onto the gray, and then said, “Come, Marcus Britainus, we have not finished our ride.” Kicking the beast, she started off again, this time more careful to keep her mind on the horse and her surroundings.

Later, however, in the privacy of her own rooms, she began to think over the incident in the desert. During her whole adult life her beauty and sensuality had been directed toward Odenathus. She had been taught that a woman cleaved unto her husband only. But Zenobia had always been honest with herself, and she was being honest now when she admitted to herself that she had wanted to kiss Marcus; had very much wanted to feel his mouth possessing hers in a burning and passionate kiss. Did she really desire Marcus, or was it that she was still angry at Odenathus? What had made
her turn away from the Roman at the last moment? With an angry sound she pushed the disturbing thoughts away. She was a grown woman and the king’s beloved wife, not a silly young girl who gave in to her desires.

The Roman Emperor Valerian came east from Italy, and engaged the Persian King Shapur in a pitched battle at the ancient city of Edessa in Mesopotamia, just north of Palmyra. The Romans were defeated, and driven back while their emperor was led into a shameful captivity from which he would never escape. No one could understand why Valerian had come east, especially when Odenathus and his Palmyran legions had successfully driven the Persians out of the Eastern empire the previous autumn.

Shapur now felt invincible, and taunted the Romans with the imperial captive. He used Valerian as a human footstool when mounting his horse. Finally beheading the emperor, he presented his tanned skin to the horrified Roman delegation sent to negotiate Valerian’s release.

Valerian’s son was wild with grief and thoughts of revenge. He was now emperor, and in their outrage over their defeat his army never considered replacing him which was fortunate, for Gallienus faced usurpations almost immediately on three fronts. While Gallienus took on two of his own challengers, Odenathus defeated the third at Emesa and was reconfirmed king by the grateful Gallienus.

Odenathus returned from his defense of the empire a changed man. Zenobia had greeted him coolly, but he seemed not to notice. “The time is close,” he told her, “when we may throw off the chains that have bound us all these years.”

“What has changed?” she asked.

“The government in Rome is worse off than ever, my flower. Every legion has a candidate for emperor, although only a few have dared to rebel so far. Gallienus is beset by too many problems both internal and external. He may be resolute, but he cannot possibly solve the empire’s difficulties. The silver coinage is being debased, and he has already incurred the enmity of the senate. He has taken away perquisites from the politicians, and the majority of the senate is far more interested in its social position and its privileges than in good government.”

“So we will take advantage of their weaknesses,” Zenobia mused. “We will attack them and free ourselves!”

“Not quite yet, my Queen. You must learn patience, Zenobia.
Never make a move until you can be sure of success. Rome trusts us and, having gained an alliance with us, will not look often in our direction. We will now begin to rebuild our armies, and in a few years we will free ourselves as well as expand our own territories.”

She smiled a smile of genuine delight as she finally fully understood his intentions. “In other words, my husband, we shall expand our own empire under the guise of keeping the Roman peace. It is brilliant!”

“Exactly!” was his reply.

“Oh, Hawk! I am so proud of you,” she cried, kissing him with the first genuine affection she had shown him in months.

He returned her ardor, wanting it to go on forever but knowing that he must clear the air between them. Gently he disengaged her, and set her back from him. “Zenobia,” he said in a serious tone, “do not make the mistake with me that you made before. I could not bear it if you withdrew your love from me again. You must understand that I am only a mortal man. I am not invincible, or infallible, my flower.” Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his hand for a moment. “What a paradox you are! You are intelligent enough to run a government, yet emotionally you are still a child in many ways. I erred, Zenobia, and you must learn to forgive those who err.”

“Am I so intolerant then?” she asked, troubled.

“Only of those you love,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, then he drew her into his arms.

It was better between Zenobia and Odenathus then, but the relationship that they had once had was gone forever. Perhaps if they had had the time they might have regained it, but there was no time. Palmyra’s king moved to annex Syria, Palestine, Mesopotamia, and eastern Asia Minor, finally breaking the back of the Persian ruler. King Shapur retreated a final time over his own borders, never to return.

In Palmyra Zenobia ruled wisely in her husband’s frequent absences. Driving her golden chariot around the city, she became a familiar sight to her people. In an unruly world Palmyra was a safe haven of green in the middle of a sandy sea. Each day Zenobia drilled her own troops, a special guard that had been formed in addition to her own camel corps.

At first the young men recruited for her guard would not believe that a woman could lead a command. At their first meeting, Zenobia
quickly disabused them of that notion, fighting the largest of their group and beating him soundly with her broadsword. She could throw a spear farther than any of them, and she taught them to use a bow and arrow while moving at a full gallop. They were quickly devoted to her, for she was patient with their errors and generous with her praise. The queen’s guard would have died for her, and on one of his rare visits home Odenathus teased her about it, wondering if he should be jealous of all those strong young men who were so loyal to his wife.