Beloved (41 page)

Her voice had been strong and even, but he could hear a ragged edge to it, and he saw in her eyes the most terrible pain. She was close to tears, which she valiantly fought back, and ashamed, he lowered his own gaze. “It will be as you wish, Majesty,” he said. Then he left her to rest.

Zenobia pulled the long red cloak about her and lay down upon the ground, curling herself into a ball. Her mind began to sort out all that had happened. She had failed in her attempt to escape the Romans, and gain help from the Persians. She had been so close to succeeding.

Through hooded lids she looked to the river bank, weighing the possibility of escape. The fisherman was long gone, and the river was broad here, but possibly she could swim it. If not, then at least the Romans would not have a hostage to hold over Vaba and the city. To her vast annoyance, however, Gaius Cicero had placed pickets at intervals of three feet for one hundred and fifty feet along the river bank. She smothered a particularly ripe curse and, unable to think of another way, sighed and put her mind to falling asleep.

When she awoke the sky above her was streaked in gold and peach and lavender; the narrow ruffled clouds were pale pink edged in dark purple. She could hear the soft sounds of the river as it lapped against the shore, and for a brief minute she experienced a feeling of incredible peace. Then reality quickly surfaced, and she remembered all that had passed. There was a faint breeze, and upon that breeze wafted the scent of lamb. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively, and with a small smile of amusement at herself she realized that she was hungry. Except for some figs and dates, she had not, after all, eaten in several days.

Slowly standing up, she stretched, spreading her arms wide and tensing her muscles for a moment, then relaxing again. Shaking the sand from the long cloak, she set off down the beach seeking the cook fire. She did not have to go far. She regally accepted a tin plate with two smoking-hot portions of lamb kabob from the legionnaire who was designated cook. The chunks of lamb had been skewered on peeled sticks and interspersed with small onions and pieces of sweet, green pepper.

“Would you like some wine, Majesty?”

“The privileges of rank, Gaius Cicero?”

A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he answered her, holding out a tin cup.

She hesitated for a moment, then took it from him with a nod of thanks.

“Do you wish company?” he pursued her.

“No,” she said shortly, not even bothering to turn around as she made her way back down the beach.

He sighed. What a pity, he thought. He would have enjoyed her company. She was a beautiful woman, and her reputation was that of an intelligent and witty woman. He could understand, though. This was hardly a comfortable situation for her. Zenobia of Palmyra had never been beaten before, and defeat was never a pleasant thing. At least her capture would serve one good purpose. The Palmyrans would certainly surrender once they learned that their queen was in the hands of the emperor. A frown crossed Gaius Cicero’s face. He did not have to wonder what Aurelian would do with Zenobia. The emperor had been like a young boy from the day of their arrival before the gates of Palmyra. He could not stop talking of her. It was obvious that he had been quite smitten, and Aurelian had never been one to deny himself a woman who took his fancy.

Shortly after sunset they departed the shores of the River Euphrates, retracing their steps of the last three days as they traveled westward back toward Palmyra. Zenobia sat her camel stoically, never complaining at the brisk pace set by Gaius Cicero, who was determined to bring his prisoner before the emperor as quickly as possible. There was always the chance that the Bedawi would learn of her capture and seek to rescue her.

As they moved across the desert, the shock of what had happened finally began to sink into her very soul. Why had the gods deserted her so cruelly in her hour of deepest need? How was she to tell Deliciae and her children of Rufus Curius’s death? And what of the families of the Bedawi? How many widows and orphans had been made? Curse the Romans! Curse them all! Yes, even Marcus, who had betrayed her! How she hated them, and the hate was the first thing that she felt as she began to rise, phoenixlike, from the ashes of her first defeat.

I will not be beaten again, nor will I beg, she thought fiercely. Even if they take me to Rome, I will escape them somehow and return to Palmyra to rebuild my empire, Odenathus’s empire. As the banners of the Roman army came into view and their enormous encampment became visible, as she saw the walls of the city once
more, she sat proudly upon her camel, her head held high, looking straight ahead. Finally they stopped before a large tent, set upon a platform deep within the encampment.

Gaius Cicero was quickly at her side, helping her to dismount and then escorting her into the tent. As her eyes grew used to the gloom she saw a tall man with blond hair and a long, elegant bearded face standing in profile by a map stand.

“Hail, Caesar!” was Gaius Cicero’s greeting.

The man turned. “Ah, Gaius, you are back.” His glance flicked to Zenobia, swiftly taking her in. “I assume this is our rebellious queen?”

“Yes, Caesar!”

“You may leave us, Gaius, but wait outside. I will have further need of your services.”

Aurelian now turned back to look at Zenobia again, and their eyes instantly locked in a battle of wills. He felt his heart quicken at the sight of her, for close up he realized that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was filthy from her travels, and her dark hair was dusty and matted; but still she was beautiful. She stared boldly at him, making him a little uncomfortable, although he would not show it. Finally he said, “You need a bath, Queen of Palmyra. You stink of camel.”

She never even blinked. Instead, her sultry voice replied, “I have always hated blue-eyed Romans, and you do nothing to change my opinion, Emperor of the Romans.”

His narrow lips twitched faintly as he suppressed a smile. She was not beaten, and he was glad. He wanted to tame this wild creature himself, and by the gods he would! “You are now my prisoner, Zenobia,” he answered.

“You speak the obvious,” was her quick retort. “I am your prisoner, but it will do you no good, Aurelian. Palmyra will not surrender!”

“No? Why did you flee to Persia?”

“I wanted Shapur’s help,” she said irritably, as if he were an idiot child. “I needed an ally to attack you from the rear in a pincer movement. You disturb the economy of this entire region, in fact the entire world, by this stupid attempt at war on us. I want you, and your puny army gone back to where you belong so the trade routes may once more be open.”

“You wanted to end this war because you are running low on provisions in Palmyra,” was his answer.

“Palmyra is more than well stocked with provisions for a long
siege, Aurelian, but I do not choose to play with you any longer. Had I reached Persia I might have ended this madness quickly. Now it is not to be. Very well,” and she shrugged, “I bow to the wisdom and the will of the gods.”

“Without you your son will collapse. Once he knows that I possess the Queen of Palmyra, he will open the gates of the city and we will march triumphantly in.”

“The king will never give in. I am ready to die for Palmyra, Aurelian, and Vaballathus knows it. For me there can be no greater honor than to give my life for my city.”

Into his eyes crept an admiring look he could not suppress, and he said quietly, “You are too intelligent and too beautiful to die so needlessly, Zenobia of Palmyra. I will not allow it!”

“You will not allow it?”
Her mocking laughter startled him. “What I will, Aurelian, you cannot prevent! How can you understand? You are a peasant who has clawed his way up the ladder of the Roman military! I descend from the great Queen Cleopatra.”

“Who was beaten by the Romans,” he reminded her.

“You will have another Masada on your hands before you take Palmyra from my son,” she threatened.

“We won at Masada, too,” he said quietly.

“A victory over a fortress of corpses?” she replied scornfully.

“A victory nevertheless, Zenobia. But enough of this! Gaius,” he called, and instantly Gaius Cicero re-entered the tent. “Gaius, take the queen to my sleeping tent, and see that she has a bath.” His bold look told her what would come later.

Zenobia drew her breath in sharply.

A slow smile lit his features, and his light blue eyes danced with amusement for a moment.

“Come, Majesty.” Gaius was at her elbow, leading her away.

She followed him down the line of tents, her mind quickly working. Aurelian lusted after her. She shuddered. He would have her, she knew. But if she must take the emperor as a lover then it would be on her terms, not his. He would expect resistance, she knew, and instinctively she realized that resistance would give him pleasure. Therefore she would not fight him physically, but with her mind. She would yield her body, but nothing more. Aurelian might be a peasant, but he was an uncommonly intelligent one. He would want all of her. He would not get it, and it would drive him mad. This was one Roman who would not betray her because he would not control any part of her mind and heart. Rather, she would control him.

Gaius Cicero stopped before a large tent and ushered her into it. “I will send some men with water and a tub for you,” he said, and he flushed with embarrassment.

“Be sure the water is heated,” she said calmly. “I dislike cold baths, and I will need warm water and soft soap to clean the desert from my hair and skin. I assume that you have soap in your encampment, Gaius Cicero? Of course you do. The camp followers would bathe, at least occasionally, wouldn’t they?”

“I will see what I can find,” he muttered, turning his flushed face away from her.

“Thank you,” was her polite reply, and he was quickly gone. Zenobia sighed and gazed around the tent. It was divided into two sections. The larger section, in which she stood, was simply furnished with a low round table where, she assumed, the emperor must eat. There were several large seating pillows strewn carelessly about it. There were two chairs set up in another part of the tent and some trunks, but nothing more. The wooden floor was well worn from many campaigns, and spread with several sheepskins. There were a few brass oil lamps, nothing opulent. All in all, it was quite plain. A soldier’s tent without a doubt.

Walking across the floor, she pulled aside the woven woolen divider. Behind it was a rather large and comfortable sleeping couch, but other than that the smaller section was empty.

“It certainly lacks the amenities,” Zenobia observed softly to herself. She heard the sound of feet coming in and out of the main section of the tent, and turned to see a procession of straining legionnaires lugging large containers of water into the tent and emptying them into a round, wooden tub. “Is there a respectable woman in this camp?” she demanded loudly.

The legionnaires stopped, startled, at the sound of her voice. They stared openmouthed at her for a moment, and then one, braver than the others, replied, “There are several good women, Majesty.”

“Have one sent to me then,” she said. “I will need help washing my hair.”

“Yes, Majesty,” the brave legionnaire answered. “I will fetch a woman immediately,” and he hurried from the tent.

Zenobia hid a smile as she stood watching her water bearers. The last of them gone, she saw a woman standing in the entry of the tent. Zenobia waved her into the room. “What is your name?” she asked.

“I am called Keleos, Majesty.”

“What do you do among the Romans? Your speech is of Palmyra.”

“I am Palmyran, Majesty.”

“Then why are you not safely within the gates of the city, Keleos?”

“I am a widow, Majesty. I live with my aged father and my son, who is a cripple, just outside the walls. Neither my father nor my child could be moved, and so I was forced to remain in my home despite the Romans.”

“Could your neighbors not help you, Keleos?”

“Majesty, they were terrified, and could not get themselves and their valuables into the city quickly enough. They had no time for us. I have a small bake shop. Normally I baked for my neighborhood, but now I am forced to sell my wares to the Romans. I still have my father and son to support. Please forgive me, Majesty,” and Keleos fell on her knees, her hands outstretched in supplication.

“You are forgiven, Keleos,” Zenobia replied. “You did what was necessary to survive, to insure the survival of your family.”

The woman crawled the short distance between herself and the queen, and prostrating herself further kissed Zenobia’s feet. “May the gods bless you, my Queen,” she sobbed.

“Get up, Keleos!” Zenobia commanded, and when the woman had scrambled to her feet the queen said, “I would like you to help me wash my hair.”

“Gladly, Majesty!” Within minutes Keleos had everything prepared, and was washing Zenobia’s hair with some of the soap that had been brought for the queen’s bath. They used one of the extra wooden buckets filled with warmed water that had been left. Zenobia could feel the sandy grit of the desert as Keleos soaped it free, and with another bucket of water rinsed it away. It took three latherings, but eventually Zenobia’s hair was clean. Keleos wrung the queen’s long mane of excess water, and then taking a towel rubbed and rubbed. The hair was quickly dry in the hot desert air. Thanking the woman for her aid, Zenobia dismissed her.

Quickly she stripped her filthy clothes off, and kicking them aside sat down in the round, wooden tub, laving warmish water over her shoulders. Taking a bit of soap, she washed herself and then settled back a moment to enjoy a small soak and the solitude. She wondered how soon he would come and demand her surrender. It would take everything strong within her character to give him her body without flinching. She hated the very thought of his
touch, for instinctively she knew he would demand far more than she was ever going to give, and the ensuing battle would be exhausting. Finally she stood up, and with a little smile realized that she faced a predicament of sorts. She could not redress in her dirty garments, and there was no large and dry towel with which to dry and wrap herself. The small towel that had been used for her hair now lay in a sodden lump upon the floor.