Beloved (54 page)

There was a rustle among the bushes, and Adria appeared. “The emperor is just returning, Majesty. He is already in the outer courtyard.”

“Demetrius!” Zenobia’s voice was impassioned and pleading. “I beg of you, please, my son, come with us!” She pulled him so that he faced her in the dim light.

For a brief moment Demi softened. “Mother, I must stay,” he said quietly. “As long as I remain in Palmyra our people have hope. They will know we have not deserted them. If I am your son then I am my father’s son, too. Please try to understand.”

“You will throw your life away needlessly,” she said brokenly. Where was her power now? This was but one more thing she had to thank the Romans for! She huddled in her son’s arms for a long minute, alternating between anger and despair; and then she stood straight. “Demetrius, Prince of Palmyra, may the gods go with you, my son, and keep you safe until we meet again.” Pulling his head down, she kissed him on the forehead. “Farewell, my son.”

“Farewell, my Mother,” he answered her.

She looked at him a long minute, committing his face to memory, then she turned and hurried back to the palace.

“You have hurt her terribly,” Vaba said quietly.

“She will survive, my brother.”

Vaba realized that there was to be no reasoning with his younger brother. The king knew that every minute they now remained in Zenobia’s garden brought them closer to discovery, and so he said, “We must go, Demi. You have Mother’s blessing, and I give you mine also. I think that you are wrong, but your sacrifice is a great one. The gods go with you, brother.” He embraced his sibling a final time.

Flavia hugged him also, saying in her gentle voice, “Mars protect you, dearest brother; and Athena give you wisdom.”

“The gods go with you both also,” Demi said softly. He kissed her tenderly upon her lips, then saluting his older brother a final time slipped through the little wall door and into the darkness of the sleeping city.

Slowly they closed the door, locked it, and carefully replaced the key. Then together Vaba and Flavia returned to the palace.

In Zenobia’s bedchamber the emperor lay back looking up at her. “You are sad tonight, goddess. Have you seen your younger son?”

“Yes,” she said.

“He persists in his foolishness?”

She nodded. “You will have to kill him,” Zenobia said low, and a single bright tear rolled down her cheek.

Gently he brushed it away with one finger, and reaching up gathered her into his arms. “Perhaps we shall catch him before he does something too unforgivable, goddess. I will give orders, I promise you.”

“How can you be so kind on one hand, so cruel on the other?” she asked.

“I don’t want to make you any sadder than you are already, beloved, and I know the wrench it is for you to leave Palmyra, be parted from your family. I understand these things, and I can afford to be generous under the circumstances.”

She almost wept then and there, but instead she pulled away and looked him in the eye, saying, “I thank you, Roman, for your kindness.”

“What a little fraud you are, goddess,” he chuckled. “All right, don’t weep upon my neck as you really want to do at this moment. I understand pride.” He pulled her back into his arms and covered her lips with his in an almost tender kiss, pressing gently, nibbling teasingly. “You silver-eyed sorceress,” he murmured against her mouth. “One day you will yield fully to me!” Wisely the queen refrained from an angry retort, closing her eyes in seeming surrender.

The following evening after a busy day of packing—for the royal Palmyran couple were to be allowed to take all their furniture and personal possessions with them to Cyrene—Zenobia found herself bidding most of her family farewell. In the main courtyard of the palace, where only a short few weeks ago the council had been executed, a fair-sized caravan prepared to leave. There were over two hundred laden camels, each with one of the king’s slaves walking by its side. All the royal slaves and free servants would walk with the caravan, as would the legionnaires of Rome. Only the young king, Gaius Porcius, and the military officers would be mounted. Julia and young Queen Flavia would ride in their own litters, each big enough for sleeping.

“We will write you, Mother, as often as possible,” promised Vaba.

“Wait until you have reached Cyrene to send me your message,” Zenobia replied. “The emperor is leaving to return to Rome in another day or two, Vaba. There will be no place you can send the message to me until I reach their capital.”

“Will you too be hastened from the city under cover of darkness, I wonder, Mother?”

“No. Aurelian sends you from Palmyra this way in order to keep his Roman peace. He will march me from the city in plain view of all our people, a captive queen, a lesson to any foolish enough to reconsider rebellion.”

“Mother …” The worry showed plain upon his face, and she was touched by his caring.

“Vaba, my son,” and she put a hand on his shoulder, “do not be afraid for me. Save your caring for Flavia and your unborn child. Aurelian is nothing more to me than a lustful man with whom I can contend quite successfully.” She laughed softly at the shock in his eyes. He knew of her relationship with the emperor, of course, but he did not like to admit to a truth that embarrassed him. “It is never easy to be a woman, Vaba,” Zenobia said soothingly, “even a woman who is a reigning queen as I have been. What the gods give with one hand, they take back with the other. Remember that always, my son.”

“I am a king, and yet I was unable to aid you, Mother. I will never forget that, and it will haunt me always,” Vaba declared.

“No, no, dear one!” Zenobia protested. “The Roman had more power, that is all, and that is what I tried to gain for you, my son—power. That and wealth will always protect you.”

“When will I see you again?” he demanded.

“When the emperor tires of me, enough to allow me to travel to Cyrene from Rome. Not until then, my son.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him on both cheeks, then quickly upon the lips. “Farewell, my son. Farewell, son of Odenathus. Farewell, rightful King of Palmyra. Until we meet again may the gods watch over you and care for your safety.”

Quick tears sprang into his eyes, but he forced them away. “Farewell, my Mother,” he said in a tremulous voice. Then his voice grew stronger. “No man has ever had a mother as wonderful as you, Zenobia of Palmyra. May the gods watch over you until we meet again! I love you, Mother!” He quickly returned her kiss
and then as quickly turned away, leaving her to say her good-byes to Flavia and Julia.

“I will look after him as if he were my own,” Julia quickly said, seeing her old friend’s face begin to quiver. She lowered her voice. “For goodness’ sake, Zenobia, do not give way to tears now! The children have all they can do not to cry themselves.”

Zenobia breathed deeply, and replied, “I’m all right now, Julia, it’s just that I cannot remember the last time that Vaba told me that he loved me.”

Julia laughed. “You are a sentimental woman for all you deny it, Zenobia. I will write to you, and I shall tell you all.”

Zenobia nodded. “Thank you, Julia. I know I may rely upon you. You are so fortunate. You shall see the baby long before I do. Be sure that he knows of his great heritage, and of me.”

“I will, Zenobia! I most asuredly will.” Julia hugged her friend and then gave way to her daughter.

“Oh, Majesty,” Flavia said, openly teary, and clung to the queen.

“Flavia,” Zenobia admonished her daughter-in-law gently, “I am relying upon you to watch over Vaba and see that he does nothing foolish. Dear girl, what a joy you are to my son, and I am so grateful to you for that! Take good care of yourself, and of the child.” Zenobia kissed the girl then stepped away from her. “The gods protect you, and my grandchild.” The queen turned and walked from the courtyard and back into the palace. She would not stand there painftilly watching until the vast caravan was out of sight. Instead, she returned to her gardens and walked amid the torchlit paths. Beyond the high garden walls she could hear the soft plod of the camels’ hooves, and the tinkle of their harness bells as they wended their way down the back streets toward the gate to the western road.

The sound beat itself into her consciousness until suddenly she was aware that it was gone, and the night was silent. Only then did Zenobia sit down on a little marble bench in the most secluded part of the garden and weep bitterly, unaware that Aurelian, hidden in the shadows, observed her. When she returned to her apartments he awaited her, greeting her as if nothing unusual had happened, making passionate love to her in the deepest part of the night, holding her until she slept, exhausted with the emotion of her son’s departure.

The next day was a busy one, for Bab and Adria had begun to pack all the queen’s belongings for the trip to Rome. Zenobia
was anxious to leave now. Palmyra was no longer hers, and the pain of that knowledge was too great.

She was granted permission by Aurelian to leave the palace and visit her father. She was carried through the streets in a closed litter so that the people might not see her. Aurelian had no fear that she would try to escape. Where would she go? Besides, he had Zenobia’s daughter with him at the palace.

Zenobia was conducted to her father’s bedchamber by Tamar. Zabaai ben Selim was close to eighty now, and seeing him propped up in his bed, Zenobia realized that her father did not have much more time to live. Yet he was sharp and fierce in mind even if his body now failed him. In his time he had fathered forty sons and a daughter. He had one hundred fifty-two grandsons, and forty-three granddaughters, over three hundred great-grandchildren, and ten great-great grandchildren. His own people often likened him to the Hebrew patriarch, Father Abraham.

“It is Zenobia, Zabaai,” his elderly wife said. Tamar was seventy-five.

“I can see her!” the old man snapped. “Come closer, my daughter. Come closer so I may feast my tired eyes upon your fresh beauty.”

Zenobia bent to kiss her father. “As always, you spoil me with flattery, Father.”

“I hear stories about the Roman, about you. Are they true?”

“Would you have me plunge a dagger into my breast in remorse, Father?”

The old man cackled. “By the gods, my daughter, you are a survivor! Good for you! Follow your own instincts, and do not be led by the opinions of others. Do you love him?”

“I detest him, but if I can outlast him then perhaps I may get Vaba restored to his rightful place, Father.”

“Hmm,” the old man said. “You are wise, Zenobia. When do you leave for Rome?”

“Tomorrow, Father. Mavia goes with me, but Demetrius will not come. Instead, he skulks through the alleys of the city with a group of young men who call themselves the Brotherhood of the Palm. They claim to work for Vaba’s restoration, and the total annihilation of the Romans.”

“He is a foolish boy,” Zabaai remarked, “but then at his age you were as stubborn. If Odenathus had not been your husband, who knows what mischief you would have gotten into, my daughter.
Well, do not fear. The Bedawi will keep an eye upon the boy. We will try to save him from himself.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The old man looked closely at his only daughter. “I am near death,” he said bluntly.

“I know,” she answered.

He nodded. “Soon I shall be reunited with my beloved Iris. Do you think she will have forgiven me for the manner of her death, Zenobia?”

The memories rushed back in as they had not in so many years. They rose up to batter and assail her, and she felt the tears starting. Reaching out, she put a reassuring hand on his gnarled old one. “You were never responsible, Father. If anyone was, it was I.” Her voice shook with remembrance. “When you again meet with my mother, tell her it is I who need her forgiveness. I have never forgotten, and I do not believe that I ever will.”

“I grow tired,” the old man said. “Kneel, my daughter. Kneel, and let me give you my blessing.”

She knelt, and felt his hand, heavy upon her head, as he intoned the ancient words of blessing of their tribe. When he had finished Zenobia rose and, bending, kissed her father a final time. He smiled up at her reassuringly. “Another door closing, my daughter,” he said with complete understanding, “but another door will open. Go through it! Do not be afraid! Always go forward and never look back! Those words are your heritage from me! Farewell, child of my heart.”

Zenobia looked the old man full in the face, and said, “I love you, Father. Farewell!” Then she turned and, never looking back, went from the room.

Zabaai ben Selim died late that afternoon as the blazing sun slid below the horizon. Zenobia’s oldest brother, Akbar, was formally and quickly proclaimed patriarch of the tribe, and all came to pay him tribute even as old Zabaai ben Selim was placed upon his funeral pyre, a pyre that burned all night while his children held vigil around the flames. At dawn’s first light the old man’s ashes were carefully gathered and formally placed in the family’s tomb along the eastern caravan road. For the Bedawi a new era had begun.

Zenobia bid her brothers farewell, then entered her litter to be carried back to her palace for a final time.

Aurelian awaited her, a little angry. “You have delayed our departure,” he said.

“But give me time to bathe a last time, and I will be ready,” she promised.

“No,” he said. “You are exhausted. You have been up all night. You need rest as well as a bath. We will leave tomorrow.” Before she might protest further he picked her up and carried her into her bath where he personally undressed her and helped to bathe her. Then he carried her back into her bedchamber and tucked her into her bed. “I am glad you have had the good sense not to argue with me,” he noted as he bent and kissed her goodnight.

“I am somewhat stunned by your behavior,” Zenobia said weakly.

“I just want you full of fight when I parade you through the streets tomorrow as we leave Palmyra,” he said, a slightly wicked grin on his face.

She threw the thing nearest to hand at him, a small statue of the little love god, Cupid. With a harsh laugh Aurelian turned and left the room. Feeling somewhat satisfied even if she had missed him, Zenobia lay back upon the soft pillows and fell asleep. She slept almost around the clock, awakening in the gray light of early dawn the following day. Slowly she stretched out, feeling a delicious sense of contentment. Beside her, the emperor appeared to slumber still. He had obviously joined her in the night. He was, she considered, becoming positively doting.