Beloved (55 page)

Then Aurelian destroyed her fantasy, reaching out and pulling her close, running his hands across her breasts. To her fury, she felt her body respond, her breasts tightening, the nipples rising up to push against the soft cotton of her chamber robe. “Good morning, goddess,” he breathed against her ear, running his tongue around the curve of it.

She kept very still, and said in a detached voice, “Should we not be rising, Roman, and preparing to leave? Surely we do not have much time.”

He chuckled indulgently. “There is time, and besides, I have an unquenchable yen for you this morning. When I came to bed last night you were sleeping as peacefully as a babe, your pretty bottom a most tempting sight. I want you, goddess, and I don’t have to beg. What I want, I take!” Then he buried his face between her breasts, and breathed deeply of her. The faint scent of hyacinth still clung to her warm body, making her all the more enticing to him. Impatiently, he ripped her sleeping garment away and, dipping his head, took a nipple in his eager mouth.

“That is the second piece of my clothing you have torn,” she protested, trying not to admit to the excitement he was stirring up
in her body. Damn the man! She could feel the heat beginning, knew that her heartbeat was quickening.

“Then stop wearing these silly gowns to bed,” he said, lifting his head but a moment from the sweet fruit.

“Oh, the gods, how I hate you!” she protested, feeling her control beginning to go.

“But you want me,” he countered.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you!”

“Take me in your hand, goddess,” he ordered her. “See how much I want you! How ready I am for you!”

She never even hesitated, reaching out to grasp his mighty weapon in her hand. He was warm and throbbing, and so very eager for her.

“It is yours, goddess,” he said softly. “When you are ready for it, it is yours!” Then he began a sweet assault, kissing her lips, her breasts, her belly, all the while aching with his want for her as she caressed him.

Finally Zenobia could no longer bear the passion that was building within her. She actually hurt with her desire. “Please, Roman, please now!” And she took his bigness in her two hands again, and guided him home. The pleasure, the relief, was incredible! Her body exploded with starburst after starburst of passion as he thrust again and again and again into her eager body. Finally the release came, and with a sigh she clung to him.

“You are magnificent,” he breathed with pleasure.

“Don’t you care?” she said. “Don’t you care that I don’t love you?”

He hesitated long enough to tell her he was lying when he said, “No, I don’t care, goddess. I enjoy your lovely body. It is enough.”

She squirmed from his embrace and rose. “I must have another bath, Roman. It will be a long time before we reach Rome, and I have traveled enough with the army to know there will be few amenities.”

“No mourning today, Zenobia. I want you to wear the golden garments.”

“I will not wear mourning, Roman, but I prefer to choose my own clothing. I shall not disappoint you. Remember, it is the last time my people shall see me, and I would have them remember Zenobia the Queen with pride.”

“I will trust you, goddess,” he answered.

At the hour appointed for their departure Zenobia walked slowly through her apartments a final time. Although the military goversnor
was to live in the palace, he was a bachelor, and there would be few rooms open. In fact, she suspected that he would take up actual residence in the small house that Odenathus had built for her rather than in the main buildings. The closed rooms would lie in lonely waiting for the return of Odenathus’s dynasty.

Aurelian found her in the garden, just leaving a room whose entry was overgrown with a flowering vine. “What is this room?” he asked her, pushing past her to look inside it. His blue eyes widened at the magnificent, but very graphic paintings he saw upon the walls.

“Why have I never seen this room, goddess?” he demanded. “It is a room for lovemaking.”

“I had it walled up last year,” she replied in a stony voice. “In the palace corridor its door lies beneath the fine fresco of fruits upon the wall. I do not know why I did not have this entry walled over, too.”

“Perhaps you wanted to remember after all, goddess,” he said with unusual insight.

Zenobia stepped out into the sunlight of the garden once more. “Do you approve of my costume, Roman?” she demanded, quite obviously changing the subject.

Following her, he eyed her approvingly. “You are every inch the queen, goddess.”

“You do not mind that I wear the Palmyran crown?”

“I do not mind,” was his answer.

“Then let us go, Roman,” she said impatientiy. “I no longer belong in Palmyra, and I certainly do not belong in your Rome. I am anxious to find out where I do belong.”

“You belong with me, goddess,” he said, and taking her arm he led her off to the main courtyard where the procession was forming.

She was to walk behind Aurelian’s chariot, and this time the streets of Palmyra would be full to overflowing with its citizens bidding their beloved queen farewell. She had been dressed in a cloth-of-silver kalasiris with its round neck and very short sleeves. The kalasiris was smooth and molded her body, making it appear as if she had been dipped in silver. She wore a magnificent necklace of deep-purple topazes with equally gorgeous earrings, both set in bright yellow gold. A cape, lined in cloth of gold, its outer layer done in alternating strips of gold and silver, was fastened to each shoulder of her gown by a carved purple scarab beetle set in gold. Her sandals were a mix of silver and gold.

With a polite apology Gaius Cicero fastened a pair of gold manacles about her delicate wrists. The manacles were fastened together by a length of gold chain between them, and in the chain’s center another length of chain stretched forth a final link attached to a special ring on the emperor’s own belt. “The emperor has promised to release you when we are clear of the city,” Gaius Cicero said.

“Caesar is too kind,” Zenobia said sarcastically. “Where is my daughter?”

“She is already outside the city with your servants, awaiting us. The emperor did not want her involved in this procession.”

Zenobia nodded but remarked bitterly, “He also did not want my daughter’s people to see her a final time. The king, he sent from the city like a thief in the night, and now my little girl.”

“You have another son,” Gaius Cicero reminded, “and he, it appears, will remain behind to remind Palmyra of Odenathus’s dynasty.”

“Demetrius is impetuous.”

“His impetuosity will cost the boy his life.”

“You have not caught him yet, Gaius Cicero.”

Zenobia turned her head away from the emperor’s aide, and said nothing further. The procession began, and there was no more time to think. If she did not keep up with the pace of Aurelian’s horses she was in danger of being injured.

She looked back at her palace only once as they passed through its main gates, and she remembered the first time she had entered into its courtyard. It had been almost twenty years ago, and she was barely more than a child. She remembered Al-Zena’s frosty welcome, and the lovely Deliciae of whom she had been so fearful and jealous. Poor Deliciae, now widowed with her six children to care for, although between Odenathus and Rufus Curius, she would certainly have no financial problems.

The queen stumbled, then quickly brought herself back to where she was and what she was doing. They were just entering Palmyra’s great main avenue, and the colonnaded streets were a sea of spectators. The emperor’s own Illyrian legion led the procession, its mounted officers coming first, followed by a vast sea of legionnaires, all marching smartly, their short red military capes flowing in the gentle breeze, the sun gleaming off their polished breastplates. Behind them came Aurelian in his chariot, followed by Zenobia, the captive Queen of Palmyra, and, behind her, representatives of the other three legions. There were no slaves, nor
booty carts, for Rome’s emperor had been merciful to the people of Palmyra. Only their government had suffered his wrath.

At the sight of their beautiful queen, manacled and chained to the Roman emperor, the people of Palmyra began to sing patriotic songs of freedom and hymns to Palmyra’s past triumphs. They flung white flowers before and upon their queen, some of the delicate blossoms catching in her long, flowing black hair, and in the delicate golden wreath of vine leaves that crowned her. Finally the populace began to chant their beloved queen’s name; and the emperor’s horses danced nervously as the rhythmic sound rose in volume until the entire city echoed with one word:
Zenobia!

The queen felt her heart swell with pride at her people’s tribute, and unbidden tears slid down her face. Proudly she walked behind Aurelian’s chariot, her beautiful head held high. She had given most of her life to this city, this great and wonderful city, and she regretted nothing but the fact she had lost the final battle with Rome.
Someday
, she thought to herself, someday as the great gods Mars and Venus are witness, I
will right this wrong!

Finally the Triumphal Arch of Odenathus loomed before her. Zenobia passed beneath it, and out of the city of Palmyra onto the western road. After they had gone a mile or so along the highway, and the people were no more, Aurelian stopped his chariot, stepped down from it, and came over to his captive queen, freeing her wrists. Wordlessly he rubbed them, for the manacles had chafed her skin. “I apologize, goddess. I will have these manacles lined in lamb’s wool before my Roman triumph. I did not mean that you should be injured.”

“I never even noticed,” she said wonderingly.

He nodded. “Your people’s farewell was indeed impressive. I wish that I were capable of commanding such loyalty and love. I do not understand why, with so much, you risked all to rebel against us. Had you not, I might never have deposed you.”

“It is quite simple, Roman,” she answered him. “We were tired of answering to foreigners across a sea who knew nothing of us but our wealth. We believed that we could rule the Eastern Empire, a place that we knew far better than you Romans could. We could have too, but alas, you were stronger.”

“We will always be stronger, goddess,” he answered her, and then he lifted her up to his chariot and, climbing up beside her, drove off once more.

*   *   *

In three weeks they had reached Antioch, and here Aurelian decided to pause for a few days to enjoy the pleasures of the city before moving onward. Antioch would be the last truly great city they saw before reaching Rome several months hence. Strangely Zenobia was more relaxed now with Aurelian than she had ever been. Away from her city with all its familiar sights and memories, and plunged into this new and fascinating environment, her natural curiosity reared its head, and to his amusement she kept Rome’s emperor quite busy sightseeing.

The night before their departure, however, all that changed. At dinner with the city’s Roman governor they were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a messenger from Palmyra. The legionnaire, dried blood still evident upon his body even after several days, exhausted and bleary-eyed, stumbled into the room, and croaked, “Hail Caesar!” Zenobia felt a frightening chill of premonition.

“Speak!” Aurelian commanded.

“Palmyra has revolted,” the legionnaire said. “The governor and the entire garrison massacred.”

“When?” Aurelian’s voice was a whipcrack.

“Nine days ago, Caesar. The governor saw at once we were outnumbered. Toward the end my tribune chose me from among the survivors, and I made my way from the city, stole a horse, and followed you.”

“Nooo!”
Zenobia’s voice was anguished.

“Who led the revolt?” the emperor asked, but they both knew the answer.

“Prince Demetrius.”

Aurelian turned to Zenobia, and his eyes were icy with his anger. “Better the boy had died in your womb,” he said. He rose from the table and left the room.

Zenobia quickly followed him. “I am coming with you,” she said.

“I have no time for women and their fripperies.”

“Do not speak to me as if I am only some sort of decoration for your pleasure, Roman!” she snapped at him. “I am Zenobia, the Queen of Palmyra! I have led my armies into battle enough times to be worthy of your respect. Remember, you captured me as I sought help for my beleaguered city.
You never defeated me! Never!”

He swung around to face her, and his stern face was terrible to behold. “Hear me, goddess. Whether you come with me or not
will be your decision, but be warned. I show no further mercy to Palmyra.”

“What will you do?” Her face was pale with anguish.

“I will destroy the city, and all in it, Zenobia. Your foolish son has left me no choice. I forgave Palmyra its sins once because of you. I will not forgive it now.”

“Please!”
She held out her hands to him in a gesture of supplication.

“No! I cannot overlook this. If I allow Palmyra to escape imperial wrath this time, how many other cities will rebel and slaughter their Roman masters? I swore to rebuild the empire, and by the gods I will keep that vow!”

“I would still go with you,” she whispered.

“We leave in half an hour, and you will have to fend for yourself. There will be no servants.”

She nodded her understanding and hurried to change her clothes.

During the next few days Zenobia understood why the Roman Army had gained its fame. The disciplined soldiers moved out of Antioch and quickly back across the desert in less than a third of the time it had taken them to reach the city. Once more, Rome’s mighty military forces stood before Palmyra’s closed gates, but this time there were no negotiations.

When they had rested on their journey the emperor had never once come near Zenobia. Only now, when they were outside of the city’s walls and preparing to give siege, did she attempt to reason with him, imploring him to offer her people mercy, to spare the great and ancient city.

“No,” he said coldly, “and you know my reasoning is sound. I will discuss it with you no further.”