Beloved (43 page)

With a soft cry her nails dug into the muscled skin of his upper back; and his laughter was triumphant. With slow, deliberate thrusts of his pelvis he began to move upon her again, and this time Zenobia pushed her own body up to meet him. “I hate you!” she snarled at him through gritted teeth.

“But your delicious body wants mine,” he murmured.

She caught his head between her two hands, and kissed him fiercely, then finding his left ear she provocatively ran her pointed tongue around it, pushing it into the cavity insinuatingly, blowing softly, laughing low when he groaned. He countered by sliding his hands beneath her rounded buttocks and caressing them. Leaning forward, his mouth began to play with her taut nipples, licking and nipping at them until her breath began to come again in short, quick gasps. She tried to push him away so she might counterattack, but grasping her bottom he drove hard into her, pinioning her once more beneath him, subduing her cruelly. Soon Zenobia writhed, mindless, beneath Aurelian while he brought her to the brink of pleasure once, twice, three times, until at last she cursed him, “Damn you, Roman, give me release!” And he did, climaxing with her with a sound somewhere between laughter and a groan.

Afterward they lay sandwiched together for some minutes before he rolled off her, and shortly she heard him snoring. Only then did Zenobia pull herself into a tight little ball and weep softly into the pillows until at last she fell into a deep, healing sleep. When she awoke she found that she was lying upon her stomach, caught beneath his hard arm. She debated the wisdom of moving, for she feared that if he was awake too he might want her again, and Zenobia was not yet ready to undergo another such battle.

“You are awake.” Aurelian’s voice decided the matter for her.

“I am awake, Roman.” Deliberately she made her voice flat and emotionless.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

“Why should you care?” she countered, rolling over, then sitting
up and dragging the coverlet over her chilled body. “You have had your victory, haven’t you? You won the battle between us, Roman. What more do you want?”

“You.” He made the word sharp and clear.

“You had me.” Her voice trembled slightly, and she silently cursed herself for the weakness.

“I possessed the body, Zenobia, but I did not possess you.”

“You never will, Roman! No man ever has, nor ever will!” she lied.

“Not even Marcus Alexander Britainus?” he asked.

“Damn you, Aurelian! Damn you a thousand times over,” she said in a tight voice, and she forced back the tears that threatened to begin again. “What do you want of me? Perhaps the truth will silence you once and for all. Very well, then. I loved Marcus as I have loved no other man. When he married your niece I ached not only with the loss of him, but for his betrayal, for I thought I knew him. Yes, I gave myself wholly to him, and I shall not make that mistake again. Each time you desire me you will have to force me, and perhaps you will again make me cry out a surrender of sorts, but you will never really have me. And you will never be able to use Marcus as a weapon in your war with me. You cannot hurt me.” She felt drained by the speech, but, incredibly, she also felt strong again.

He had lain on his belly throughout this exchange, and now he rolled over and looked up at her. “How strangely naive you are, goddess.” His blue eyes regarded her with a funny mixture of compassion and determination. Then quickly the look was gone, and his glance was once again unreadable. Calmly he arose from the bed and, turning, said to her, “Get up, goddess. I sent a message to your son last night, and this morning I will present you to the city of Palmyra as my prisoner. They will have the space of one day in which to decide their fates.”

“They will not surrender,” she insisted.

“Then I will destroy the city about their ears,” was the reply.

They glared at each other, each immovable in intent, each sure of lightness. Finally Zenobia said sulkily, “I have nothing to wear, Roman. Surely you aren’t going to make me stand naked before my own city walls?”

A wicked grin creased his mouth. “A delectable thought, goddess, but no. I rarely share with others what belongs to me. Late last night before I joined you there came into camp a querulous old woman who claims to be your servant. Your son sent her with
garments and other things that a woman needs. Poor Gaius Cicero had a terrible time with her. Only when one of the Bedawi women spoke to her could she be calmed. I will send for them now.”

Aurelian dressed quickly and left the tent without another word to her. Shortly afterward he returned with two women.

“The gods be praised! You are unharmed!” cried Bab, tears running down her weathered old face as she fell on Zenobia’s neck.

The bed’s coverlet wrapped around her, Zenobia soothed her nursemaid. “Hush, old woman! As always, you fret too much over me. Am I not the beloved of the gods?” Aurelian, however, noted the concern on the queen’s face. So, he thought, her heart is not entirely cold.

“Zenobia.”

She looked curiously toward the other woman, who threw back the hood of her robe. “Tamar! Oh, Tamar, is it really you?”

“It is me, child.” Tamar eyed Zenobia’s garb. “Is all well with you?”

Zenobia nodded quietly. “It is as expected,” she answered.

“Who are these women?” the emperor demanded.

She looked at him. “My old nursemaid, who has always cared for me. Her name is Bab, and this,” she drew Tamar forward, “is Tamar bat Hammid, my father’s wife.”

“Then you are in good hands, and I may safely leave you,” he answered. He turned to the two older women. “Prepare the queen in her finest garments.” He raised Zenobia’s hand to his lips and, turning it, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Until later, goddess,” and he was quickly gone from the tent.

For a moment the three women stood in silence, and then Tamar said quietly, “Bab, show Zenobia what you have brought so we may choose from among her garments for something suitable.”

Bab shuffled to the entry of the tent and, bending, dragged a small trunk inside. Opening it, she brought forth a diaphanous dark garment. With a ghost of a smile she held it up, saying, “I have chosen this for you, my baby.”

Zenobia’s own lips twitched with delight. “Are you becoming a rebel in your old age, Bab?”

The old woman cackled. “I thought it fitting under the circumstances.”

“Have you gone mad?” Tamar demanded. “Black is for mourning.”

“Should I not be in mourning?” Zenobia shot back. “I mourn
for my virtue, torn from me last night, and I mourn for Palmyra, my beloved city. I sense that this battle with Rome will be to the death.”

“Can we not win?” Tamar’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“If I were in the city instead of here, yes; but I am not within the city; and Palmyra’s king, my son, is not as skilled in the art of ruling as I would wish. I fear that Aurelian will outwit Vaba, for he is a clever man.”

“Then why did you turn over the full responsibility for Palmyra to Vaba before you rode for Persia?” Tamar was curious.

“If I were not to return I wanted no misunderstanding among the council as to who the king was. I can only pray that Vaba will be the king his father was; that he will hold firm even though Aurelian holds me prisoner. I shall pray to the gods, if they have not deserted me entirely, that he will be strong.”

Outside they heard the trumpets call, and Bab said, “We must dress you, my baby. Soon they will come for you, and you must be ready.”

A few moments later Gaius Cicero arrived with a six-man escort that he left outside to await their prisoner.

Zenobia greeted him pleasantly enough, and unable to conceal the admiration he felt, his eyes widened at the sight of her. “Are you ready, Majesty?” he inquired politely.

“I am ready, Gaius Cicero,” was her calm reply.

Tamar and Bab stood at the entry to the tent and watched as the Roman centurion and his men marched Zenobia from their sight. They brought her to the edge of the camp that faced the main gates of Palmyra, and there she saw a raised platform with a small tent upon it. They led her up a small flight of steps behind the little tent and then into it, leaving her there. Within the little enclosure Aurelian awaited her. He raised one blond eyebrow at the sight of her and then he chuckled.

“Thought you to irritate me by wearing mourning, goddess? I believe your gown an excellent choice, for it implies defeat. Defeat for Palmyra.”

Her heart sank. He was right, but she had not thought of it that way and neither had old Bab. She had indeed sought to annoy him by wearing a plain, black kalasiris and no jewelry other than her royal circlet of golden vine leaves atop her unbound black hair. “Will you allow me nothing, Roman?” she said low.

“It is dangerous to
allow
you anything, goddess. We gave you
a city, and you took an empire. You are known to bite the hand that feeds you, Zenobia.”

Her hand flashed out, catching him off guard as it slapped his face. Instantly rage suffused his features, and grasping her arm, he brutally forced it behind her. “Were it not necessary for me to present you publicly to your people, and your son in a few moments,” he said through gritted teeth, “I should beat you. Never raise your hand to me again, goddess!”

“You are hurting me, Roman,” she spat back, not daring to struggle for fear the movement would break her arm.

The anger drained from his face, and he released his hold on her. “I give only one warning, goddess,” he said coldly. “Stay here and do not move. You will know when I want you.”

He exited the tent, and she was left alone to listen to the sounds whose sources she could not see. She could hear the movement of many feet, the undertone of voices, and then suddenly silence followed by the flourish of trumpets, which was answered by Palmyran trumpets from atop the city walls. Zenobia’s heart quickened. She heard Aurelian’s voice in the clear air.

“People of Palmyra, I am Aurelian. Hear me well! I have now in my possession your rebel queen, Zenobia. Surrender to me, and I will spare not only her, but all of you and your city as well. I will not impose fines upon you, for the fault has not been yours but that of your overproud queen. You have until this time tomorrow to make your decision.”

Zenobia felt her anger rise. The cheek of the Roman! Overproud, indeed! Then she heard the voice of Cassius Longinus.

“You say you will spare the queen, Emperor of the Romans, but surely you will not leave her here to rule in her city. What say you?”

“Who is that man?” Zenobia heard Aurelian demand of Gaius Cicero.

“His name is Cassius Longinus. He is the queen’s chief councillor.”

“Not the king’s?”

“I do not know. He came to Palmyra from Athens many years ago to serve Zenobia. Possibly he also advises the young king. I can see the boy standing near him. You could answer him without losing your dignity, Caesar.”

“Your queen, Cassius Longinus,” Aurelian said, “will not be allowed to rule Palmyra ever again. She is now a prisoner of the empire. She will go to Rome to be marched in my triumph. Afterward,
I do not know. It will be up to the senate, but if the citizens of Palmyra are once again loyal citizens of Rome the senate could be merciful.”

“And who will rule Palmyra, Roman?” was Longinus’s next query. “Will our king be allowed to keep his place if we surrender to you?”

“Possibly,” Aurelian replied. “King Vaballathus has never shown disloyalty to Rome, only his mother has.”

Liar!
Zenobia thought furiously. I know exactly what you mean to do. Oh, Jupiter father, hear my prayer! Do not let my people be swayed by the silken tongue of this Roman Minerva, great wise one, grant my son the wisdom to see the truth.

“You claim to have our queen, Aurelian,” came Longinus’s voice once more, “but how do we know that you speak the truth? Show us Zenobia of Palmyra so we may know for certain.”

Suddenly the tent top above her was pulled away and the body of the small enclosure fell away to reveal Zenobia to all those who stood upon Palmyra’s walls. “Here is your queen!” Aurelian declared dramatically.

Zenobia knew that she would have but one chance, and so at the top of her lungs she cried out for all to hear, “Do not surrender, my son! I die gladly for Palmyra!”

At Aurelian’s signal a legionnaire leapt forward to silence her by placing one arm about her waist while a hand was clamped firmly over her mouth. Zenobia did not bother to struggle. She had said what she had to say, and it had had its effect. Upon the walls of the great oasis city the populace began to chant her name softly at first, and then louder, and louder until it became a roar of defiance.

“Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia!”

“Take her back to my tent,” the Roman emperor commanded angrily.

Zenobia pulled away from the offending hand over her mouth, and laughed mockingly at Aurelian. “We are even now, Roman. You won last night’s battle by brute force, but I have won this morning’s by better tactics.” Then she easily shook off the legionnaire’s grip. “Let go of me, pig! I am capable of returning to my quarters without your aid.” To prove her point she walked swiftly away.

Gaius Cicero looked at the emperor. “Will they surrender, I wonder?” he said quietly. “You see how she holds the populace within the palm of her hand.”

“The decision isn’t theirs, but rather the young king’s,” the emperor returned irritably. “He will surrender if for no other reason than his mother told him not to. My spies tell me that he resents the queen and very much wants to be his own man. He will open the gates tomorrow. Wait and see if I am not right, Gaius.”

“The men are restless, Caesar. What will your orders be for today?”

“I think it best that they drill for several hours beneath this charming sun. It will take the meanness from them. Afterward they will return to their quarters, where they will spend the rest of the day polishing their gear for tomorrow’s triumphal entry into Palmyra. Only when they have completed these tasks may they have some time to themselves. Encourage them to visit the whores, for I want no rape tomorrow when we enter Palmyra. A city of resentful rebels is not to our best interests.