Beloved (4 page)

From her father’s bedchamber came the sound of wailing. The other members of the tribe had arrived, and the women going into the room sobbed with sadness, sympathy, and shame. Zabaai ben Selim came out from his room, and said curtly to his eldest son, “Bring Zenobia to her own chamber, Akbar. I would question her.”

Akbar arose, and carried his sister to her room in the woman’s part of the house. Setting her down upon her bed, he patted her reassuringly and gave her a small smile. Zabaai’s own face was grim and forbidding. He looked sternly at his young daughter. “I have heard Tamar’s tale, now I want to hear it from your lips.”

She gulped, and then told him the story from her child’s viewpoint, blaming herself for causing the two women to be delayed. He said nothing. Whatever anger he felt toward his young daughter melted in the face of their shared grief. The Romans would pay!
Oh yes! They would pay! A dozen of his sons had already been dispatched into the city with orders to bring the Roman governor back to him, along with Palmyra’s young ruler, Prince Odenathus. Only when they saw the horror done his wives would he remove Iris’s body from his bedchamber, and bury it with the honor it deserved.

His arm went tenderly around Zenobia and hugged her. “You are not responsible, my child. Rest now, and I will send Bab to you. I regret that you must tell your story a final time to the governor.”

Zabaai left the room, his anger now beginning to surface over the shock and the sadness. He had been a citizen of Palmyra for his entire life. He also held Roman citizenship, as did all Palmyrans. It was incredible that imperial soldiers were allowed to get out of hand in a peaceful and nonhostile client city. Suddenly he wanted to be alone so that he might grieve, but it was not yet time for that. First he must beard the Romans, and demand his rightful vengeance.

Returning to the dressing room off his bedchamber he washed the desert dust from his face and changed robes. The slaves removed the basin of rose water that they had brought him. Then they perfumed and combed his beard. He was yet a fine figure of a man, of medium height with his full dark-black beard just beginning to be sprinkled with silver. Only his dark eyes, dull with their pain, betrayed his feelings.

His son entered the room. “They are here, Father.”

Zabaai nodded and went out to greet his guests. “Peace be with you, my lord Prince, and you also, Antonius Porcius. You are welcome in my house, though it be a house of sorrow.”

“Peace be with you also, my cousin,” the prince replied, but before he might say more the Roman governor spoke irritably.

“What is this urgency?” he demanded, his manners gone in the face of his annoyance and the heat headache that pounded in his temples. “I am pulled from my couch by these bearded ruffian sons of yours, Zabaai ben Selim, and forced to come along without explanation! I remind you, chief of the Bedawi, that I am the emperor’s governor in Palmyra, and as such I am to be treated with respect!”

“It is in that very capacity, Antonius Porcius, that I have summoned you here.”

“You? You have summoned me?”
Antonius Porcius’s voice was an outraged squeak. His small double chin quivered angrily.

“Yes!” came the thunderous reply. “I, Zabaai ben Selim, ruler of the Bedawi, have summoned you! You would do well to listen carefully, my lord Governor, to what I am about to tell you. This morning my people and I departed Palmyra for our annual winter trek into the desert. As you well know, we leave this time each year, during the rainy season in the desert, to graze our herds outside Palmyra’s boundaries.

“Two of my wives were forced to remain behind, for my only daughter, Zenobia, dislikes this winter wandering, and with a child’s logic believed if she hid we would have to leave her in Palmyra. Of course, her mother and Tamar found her. As the women made to leave they heard unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs leading to my bedchamber, and with incredible foresight Tamar hid my little daughter beneath a bed. Praise the gods that she did!

“Roman soldiers had broken into my house, Antonius Porcius. Led by their centurion, they attacked my two wives, raping them, leaving Tamar for dead, cutting my poor Iris’s throat. All the while, hidden beneath the bed, my poor little girl cowered, terrified!

“Those men were Roman auxiliaries, Antonius Porcius! Auxiliaries of the Alae! It should not be hard for you to track them down. I want them punished! I will accept nothing less than their deaths, Imperial Governor! Nothing less!”

Prince Odenathus looked distressed at his elder cousin’s words. “Your lovely Iris, dead? Zabaai, what can I say to you? How can I comfort you for such a loss?” Then in a sympathetic gesture he tore his robe. “What of the child, your daughter Zenobia? She was untouched?”

“Yes, the gods be praised! The soldiers did not suspect that my innocent little daughter was also within the room. Had they found my precious child I have no doubt whatsoever that she too would have been viciously attacked! What kind of men are you allowing into the legions these days, Antonius Porcius? Palmyra is not a newly captured city where Romans may rape and loot at will. We are a client kingdom whose citizens are proud to possess Roman citizenship!”

Antonius Porcius, a man in his early middle years, was shocked by what Zabaai ben Selim had told him. He was a fair man who loved Palmyra—indeed, had lived in it most of his adult life. Still he was Rome’s governor, and he had to be sure that the Bedawi spoke the truth. “How do I know what you say is true, Zabaai
ben Selim? Where are these women you say were attacked? Can they identify their attackers?”

“Come with me!” Zabaai led the way into his bedchamber, where Iris’s battered body still lay amid the tangle of her shredded clothing. Tamar, in shock, still sat on the floor, her back against the bed, her eyes staring vacantly. The smell of blood in the hot, closed-up room was now quite apparent, and the flies buzzed noisily about the dead body.

The Roman governor, a small, plump man, looked upon Iris with open horror. He had met her on several occasions and remembered her as beautiful and gracious. The bile rose in his throat, and he gagged it back uncomfortably, ashamed of his entire sex in the face of this tragedy. “Your evidence is irrefutable,” he said sadly. “Rome is not at war with Palmyra and her loyal citizens. We are the keepers of the peace. The men involved in this terrible incident will be found immediately, tried, and punished as quickly as possible.”

“Today,” came the harsh reply. “The sun must not go down upon those criminals unpunished. The soul of my sweet Iris cries out for justice, Antonius Porcius!”

“Be reasonable, Zabaai ben Selim,” pleaded Antonius Porcius.

“I am being reasonable!”
thundered the Bedawi chieftain. “I have not sent my men into the city to cut the throats of every Roman soldier they happen upon.
That
is being reasonable, my lord Governor!”

Suddenly Tamar’s eyes refocused, and she spoke. “I can identify the centurion involved, and his men, my lord Governor. I shall never forget his hellish eyes, for they were like blue glass. There was no feeling in them at all. None. They were blank. He had eight men with him, and their faces will haunt my dreams forever. I shall never forget!”

Antonius Porcius turned away, embarrassed. He was often a pompous man, but he was also a good man. The evidence before his shocked eyes was sickening. “My lady Tamar,” he said gently, turning back to the woman on the floor. “You say that the men were auxiliaries, and of the Alae. How do you know this?”

“They were quite tall,” Tamar said, “and very fair with yellow hair, eyes as blue as the skies above, and skin, where it was not brown from the sun, as white as marble. They spoke in guttural accents, as if Latin were not familiar, or easy for them, and they went upon horses, my lord Governor. Their clothing was the clothing
of the legions. I am not mistaken, nor am I confused by my ordeal. I remember! I will always remember!”

He nodded, and then asked once more in a gentle tone, “You are quite sure that they understood fully who you were?”

“Both Iris and I explained carefully, slowly, several times. They were bent on mischief, my lord Governor. The centurion said Iris lied, that she was a—a—” Fearfully Tamar glanced toward her husband.

“A
what?”
demanded Zabaai ben Selim.

“A whore of Palmyra,” Tamar whispered. Zabaai ben Selim howled his outrage at her words.

Antonius Porcius shuddered. “I must ask you this, my lady Tamar,” he said apologetically with a glance of worry toward Zabaai ben Selim. “Who killed the lady Iris? Do you know, or can you remember?”

Beginning to shake with the shock once more, Tamar said, “Iris was taken by the centurion twice. It was he who killed her after he had finished the second time. I pretended to have expired from their attacks, and so they left me for dead.”

“What could the child see?” the governor asked.

“She saw nothing, praise the gods!” Tamar replied. “However, she heard everything. The bed coverlets hid her from their lusting eyes. I shall always remember the confused look in little Zenobia’s eyes. Those eyes asked a thousand questions I could not answer. What will this have done to her, Antonius Porcius? She has never known anything but kindness from this world.”

The governor turned to Zabaai ben Selim. “Can the lady Tamar be made ready to travel? I will have the entire garrison assembled before the city walls. It will not be hard to find the guilty ones with such a witness. Only one of the auxiliary legions is from Gaul. The other one comes from Africa, and its men are as black as ebony.”

“I want the centurion,” Zabaai said quietly. “Do what you will with his men, but I want the centurion!”

Antonius Porcius agreed quickly, saying, “Only if you punish and execute him before the entire garrison. I want a severe lesson made of him so this will never happen again. We are better off without such scum!”

“I agree,” Zabaai ben Selim replied.

“I will accompany the governor back into the city, my good cousin,” the young prince said. “Will two hours be sufficient time for you to prepare the lady Tamar for her journey to justice?”

Before Zabaai ben Selim might reply Tamar said in a suddenly firm voice, “I will be ready, my lord Prince! If I live but one moment past the time I testify against those beasts it will be enough!”

Prince Odenathus embraced his cousin, then he and the Roman governor left the room. In the upper hallway they saw the child Zenobia, who had come from her room, her mother’s servant, Bab, trailing behind her. Odenathus stopped, greeting her in a kindly voice.

“Do you remember me, my small cousin?”

She stopped, and he was suddenly struck by her beauty. She was but eleven, he knew, but already she showed promise of becoming an incredibly beautiful woman in a city famed for its beautiful women. She had grown tall since he had last seen her some two years ago; but her body was still the flat and rangy one of a child. Her long hair, loose and free of any ribboned restraint, was as black as a clear night sky.

Odenathus reached out and stroked her head as he might his favorite hunting saluki, slipping his hand down to raise up her oval heart of a face. Her hair was soft, as was her pale-gold skin. Her eyes were incredible. Almond-shaped with long, thick black lashes, they were the dark gray of a thundercloud, yet within their depths he could see golden fires banked now by her grief. She had a straight little nose, and such a lovely mouth that he had to restrain himself from bending down to kiss her lips, reminding himself sternly that she was yet a child. Still, he thought regretfully, she was a very tempting nymph of a creature.

“I remember you, my lord Prince,” Zenobia replied softly.

“I am sorry, Zenobia,” he said helplessly.

It was then that the silvery thundercloud eyes flashed. “Why do you tolerate the Roman pigs within Palmyra?” she burst out angrily at him.

“The Romans are our friends now as they have ever been, my flower. This has been an unfortunate incident,” he said smoothly, aware of his companion the imperial governor.

“Friends do not rape and murder innocent women!” she said scornfully. “You have become one of
them
, my lord Prince! A mincing and perfumed fop of a Roman!
I hate them!
I hate them, and I hate you also for allowing them to put a yoke about our necks!”

He could see her eyes were now filled to overflowing with
shining tears, but before he could say another word she turned away from him, and ran, followed by her grumbling servant woman.

“Poor little girl,” Prince Odenathus said sadly. “She was her mother’s only child, and they were very close, Antonius Porcius. I can see how terribly she has been affected by this horrendous crime.”

The Roman governor looked after the fleeing child. “Yes,” he said. Rome had a bad habit, he thought, of making enemies.

Once the prince and the governor had returned to the city, Antonius Porcius called immediately into his presence the twelve officers who were attached to the two legions at his command. He carefully explained the situation to them, and then asked, “Will the officers of the auxiliary legions stand by us in this matter?”

“I guarantee my Africans,” said the tribune of the ninth legion. “They detest the Gauls.” His fellow officers nodded in agreement.

“I can see no reason why my Gauls should not see the justice in your punishment, Antonius Porcius,” said the tribune of the sixth legion, somewhat stiffly.

“Assemble the entire garrison then,” the governor commanded.

Two Roman legions, or twelve thousand foot soldiers plus two hundred forty cavalarymen, and two full auxiliary units, equal in size to the legions, assembled themselves outside Palmyra’s main gate. Such a mighty gathering could not help but attract the curious. As word of the soldiers’ movement flew throughout the city, the citizenry hurried outside the gates to see what was happening.

On a raised and awninged dais in the hot, late-afternoon sun sat the Roman governor, Antonius Porcius. Resplendent in his purple-bordered white robes, with a wreath of silver-gilt laurel leaves upon his balding head, he waited with Palmyra’s princely ruler, Odenathus Septimius. A young man of twenty-two years, the prince set more than one woman in the crowd to dreaming. He was tall with well-formed and muscled arms and legs bronzed by the sun. The short skirt of his white tunic was embroidered in gold. His midnight-black hair was curly, his large eyes velvet-brown. His mouth was wide and sensuous, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm.