Beloved (8 page)

“Ah, your dear mother would be happy with this match,” Bab commented. “It is your son who will be the next ruler of Palmyra after Odenathus.”

“At least if I do marry him,” Zenobia teased, “you will spend your declining years within a city instead of out upon the desert.”

“Declining years?”
Bab’s lined and weathered face registered instant offense. “And who is declining, I should like to know? I served your mother. I serve you, and I expect someday I shall serve your daughter. Declining years! Humph!” She bent over the cedar chest, and drew forth a soft white cotton chemise and a snow-white tunic. “You’ll wear these,” she said, holding them out.

Zenobia nodded and shrugged off the short black chiton she had been wearing. Bab took a small sea sponge and, dipping it in fragrant oil, smoothed it over her mistress’s nude body. The young girl wrinkled her nose with delight. She loved the rich hyacinth fragrance, remembering that Iris had given her a small flacon of the perfume when she was ten. Bab slipped the chemise
and then the tunic over Zenobia’s head. The tunic was made of fine linen, and Bab belted it with a length of thin leather that had been gilded with silver leaf. There were matching silver sandals for Zenobia’s slender feet.

The tunic was sleeveless and its neckline was draped low, revealing the soft perfection of her breasts. Bab sat the girl down while she brushed and brushed the long black hair, finally braiding it and looping it under once to be fastened with a pearl-and-diamond hair ornament. She then offered her young mistress a small jewel case, which Zenobia stared into for a few moments, studying the precious gems and metals. Finally she removed a carved silver bracelet, a smooth ivory one banded with silver, one of carved ivory, and another of polished blue lapis, which she slipped on one of her arms. Into her ears she fitted silver-and-lapis earrings, and upon her fingers went two rings, one a large creamy round pearl, the other a carved scarab of blue lapis that had belonged to her mother.

Bab nodded her approval of Zenobia’s choices, and took up a small brush, which she dipped in kohl. Carefully, she painted the girl’s eyes to highlight them, but Zenobia’s lips and flushed cheeks needed no artifice, having their own color. The girl reached for an ivory scent bottle and, uncorking it, daubed the exotic hyacinth fragrance on herself. She stood and, looking at herself in the mirror, said, “Well, I suppose I am as ready as I’m going to be, Bab.”

Bab chuckled. “You will ravish him, my pet.”

Zenobia smiled, but it was a smile without enthusiasm.

Zabaai ben Selim might be a Bedawi chief, but he was a man who liked his comfort. His tent was set upon a low platform that could be separated into several sections for easier transport. Inside, the floor was covered with thick wool rugs in reds, blues, golds, and creams. The tent poles were gilded, and the finest brass and silver lamps hung from the tent ceiling, burning perfumed oils. The great tent was divided into two sections, the smaller sleeping area separated from the main part of the tent by woven silk carpets from Persia. The furnishings were simple but rich: low tables of wood and brass, chests of cedar, and many colorful pillows for seats.

There were several men in the room besides the prince and her father. She saw several of her half-brothers besides Akbar. There was Hussein, and Hamid, and Selim, all full brothers to Akbar,
all Tamar’s sons. They grinned knowingly at her, causing a blush to color her cheeks, which made them chuckle indulgently. For some reason, their smug complacency drove a streak of rebellion into her heart and mind. How dare they presume that all was settled?

“Come, my daughter, and sit between us,” Zabaai commanded her gently. He had seen the fire in her eyes, and guessed that she might be feeling a bit fractious.

Zenobia sat down quietly, keeping her eyes lowered, furious with herself for suddenly feeling shy. Silent slaves began to serve the simple meal. A young kid had been roasted, and there was a dish of rice with raisins. Zenobia was delighted to find in the middle of the table an arrangement of fruits the like of which she hadn’t seen since they left Palmyra almost six months earlier. There were grapes both purple and green; figs and dates; peaches and apricots. A small smile of delight curved the corners of her mouth, and she reached out to take an apricot.

“You must thank Odenathus for such bounty, Zenobia,” her father said.

“You brought the fruit from Palmyra?” She looked up at him with her marvelous eyes, and for a moment the prince thought he was going to drown in the depths of them.

Finally he managed to find his voice. “I remembered how you dislike trekking the desert, and thought by now you must long for fresh fruit.”

“You brought it for me?”
She felt shy again.

“See what an easy woman she is to please, Odenathus?” Akbar teased. “Another woman would have asked for emeralds and rubies; but my little sister is satisfied with apricots. ’Tis an admirable trait in a wife.”

“I thank you for the fruit, my lord.” She was silent again.

Zabaai was concerned. It was not like Zenobia to be so quiet and shy. He wondered if she were ill, but then he realized that the prince, too, had said very little during the meal. Both he and Zenobia were behaving like two young animals placed in the same cage for the first time. Warily they circled each other, and sniffed the air cautiously for signs of hostility. The Bedawi chieftain smiled to himself, remembering himself in his younger days with each new girl; each girl except Iris. It had always been different with Iris. He was somewhat troubled that Zenobia seemed reluctant about young Prince Odenathus, but then she had never before been exposed to a suitor.

The meal concluded with sweet cakes made of thin layers of dough, honey, and finely chopped nuts. There had been marvelous Greek wine served all during the meal, and the men were feeling relaxed. Zenobia had drunk very little, and seemed unusually sensitive to her half-brothers’ teasing. Normally she would have bantered with them.

Finally Zabaai said in what he hoped was an offhand manner, “My daughter, the moon will not rise until quite late tonight. There is a fine display of stars. Take Odenathus and show him your knowledge of astronomy. You could put Zenobia anywhere on this earth, my Prince, and she would be able to find her way back to Palmyra by using the sky to guide her.”

“I have a fine observatory in the palace,” Odenathus replied. “I hope you will visit it someday.” He rose and, holding out his hand, helped Zenobia up.

Together they walked from the tent while behind them Zabaai quelled his sons’ ribald humor with a stern look. Silently they strolled through the encampment, and Zenobia stole looks from beneath her long lashes at the prince. He was really a very handsome young man, she had to admit. Unlike her father and half-brothers, who wore the long, enveloping robes of the Bedawi, Odenathus was dressed in a short tunic of natural-colored linen, a painted leather breastplate, and a red military cloak. Zenobia approved this plain and sensible clothing and his sturdy, practical sandals.

As they walked she noticed that his hand was callused and dry and firm. It was a good sign, she thought. “Directly above us is the planet Venus,” she said. “When I was born Venus and Mars were in conjunction. The Chaldean astronomer who was present at my birth predicted that I should be fortunate in both love and war.”

“And have you been?” he asked.

“I have always been loved by my brothers and my parents. Of war I know naught.”

“Has no young man declared his undying affection for you?”

She stopped and pondered a moment. “There have been young men who act silly around me. They behave like young goats when they are trying to attract the attention of a desirable nanny.”

“You mean they butt heads,” he teased.

Zenobia giggled. “They have done everything but that. I do not believe, however, that that is love.”

“Perhaps you have not given them a chance to offer you love,
just as you have been denying me that chance this evening.” He turned her to him and they were face to face, but she shyly turned her head away. “Look at me, Zenobia,” he commanded gently.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

“What?” He teased her once again. “A girl who can lead a mounted troupe of soldiers cannot look at the man who would love her? I will not eat you up, Zenobia—at least not yet,” he amended. “Look at me, my desert flower. Look into the eyes of the prince who would lay his heart at your feet.” His hand raised her face up, and their eyes met. Zenobia shivered in the warm night.

Tenderly, Odenathus explored her face with his elegant fingers, outlining her jaw, brushing the tips of his fingers over her high cheekbones, down her nose, across her lips. “Your skin is like the petal of a rose, my flower,” he murmured in a deep and passionate voice.

Zenobia was riveted to the ground. She thought she would faint, for she couldn’t seem to catch her breath; and when she swayed uncertainly his muscled arm reached out to sweep her next to him. She had no idea how tempting she was to the prince, her moist coral lips slightly parted, her dark gray eyes wide. Her honest innocence was the most tantalizing and provocative spur to his passions; but Odenathus maintained a firm control over his own wants. It would be so easy to make love to her this very minute, he thought. It would be easy to sink onto the sand, drawing her down. How he would enjoy teaching this lovely girl the arts of love! But some deeper instinct warned him that now was not the time.

Instead he held her firmly and said in what he hoped passed for a normal voice, “We will get to know one another, my little flower. You know that I want you for my wife, but because I care for you I want you to be happy. If being my wife would bring you sadness then it cannot be. You would do me honor if you would stay at the palace this summer. Then we may get to know each other within the protective circle of our families.”

“I … I must ask my father,” she replied softly.

“I am sure that Zabaai ben Selim will agree.” He let her go then and, taking her hand, again turned back to the encampment. Escorting her to her tent, he bowed politely and bid her a good night.

It was a bemused Zenobia who passed into her quarters. The desert night had grown cool, and Bab sat nodding by the brazier.
Zenobia was relieved, for she didn’t want to talk at this moment. She wanted time alone in the silence to think. She was quite confused. Prince Odenathus had roused something within her, but she could not be sure if it was the kind of love that grew between a man and a woman. How could she know? She had never felt that kind of love. Zenobia sighed so deeply that Bab awakened with a start.

“You are back, child?” The old woman rose slowly to her feet. “Let me help you get ready for bed. Was the evening a pleasant one for you? Did you walk with the prince? Did he kiss you?”

Zenobia laughed. “So many questions, Bab! Yes, the evening was pleasant and the prince did not kiss me, though I thought once he might.”

“You did not hit him the way you have done with the young men of the tribe?” Bab fretted.

“No, I didn’t, and had he tried to kiss me I wouldn’t have.”

The older woman nodded, satisfied. The prince obviously sought to win over her lovely child, and that was good. He was obviously a man of sensitivity, and that, too, was to be commended. Zenobia, little hornet that she was, could be won over by honeyed persuasion. Force would be fatal. Bab helped her young mistress to undress, and settled her in her bed. “Good night, my child,” she said and, bending, kissed the girl’s forehead.

“He wants me to spend the summer at the palace, Bab. Do you think Father will agree?”

“Of course he will agree! Go to sleep now, my dear, and dream beautiful dreams of your handsome prince.”

“Good night, Bab,” came the reply.

By noon the next day the camp was struck, and they were on the road back to the great oasis city. The prince rode next to Zenobia, who proved far more talkative in the saddle than she had been the previous evening. By the time the city came in sight two days later they were in the process of becoming friends. The prince left the caravan of Zabaai ben Selim at his home, and rode on to the palace to prepare for Zenobia’s visit.

He was greeted by his mother, Al-Zena, who had been a Persian princess. Al-Zena meant “the woman” in the Persian language; a feminine woman who personified beauty, love, and fidelity. Odenathus’s elegant mother was all of these things. She was petite in stature, athough quite regal. Her skin was as white as snow, her hair and eyes black as night. Al-Zena loved her son, her only
child, above all else; but she was a strong-willed woman who wanted no serious rivals for her son’s attention. She held Palmyra in contempt, forever comparing it unfavorably to her beloved Persian cities. As a consequence, she was not popular among Palmyra’s citizens, although her son, who loved and championed his city, was.

She knew that Odenathus was back within the palace before he had passed through the gates; but she waited for him to come to her. Pacing the outer chamber of her apartments, she glanced at herself in the silver mirror and was reassured by what she saw. She was still beautiful, her face still virtually unlined at forty; her midnight-black hair unsilvered; her eyes clear. She wore garments in the Parthian fashion, cherry-red trousers, a pale-pink sleeveless blouse, a long-sleeved cherry-red tunic embroidered in gold threads and small fresh-water pearls. Upon her feet were golden leather sandals. Her hair was piled high upon her head in an arrangement of braids and curls, and dressed with twinkling bits of garnet glass.

She saw the admiration in his eyes as he entered the room, and was pleased. “Odenathus, my love,” she murmured in her strangely husky voice, a voice that was in direct contrast with her very female appearance. “I have missed you,” she said, embracing him. “Where have you been these past few days?”

He smiled broadly at her, and drew her to the cushioned bench. “I have been in the desert, Mother, at the camp of my cousin, Zabaai ben Selim. I have invited his daughter, Zenobia, to spend the summer here at our palace.” Al-Zena felt a chill of premonition and, sure enough, her son continued, “I would like to marry Zenobia, but she is young, and hesitant. I thought if she spent her summer here and came to know us she would be less unsure. Although her father can order her to wed with me I should far prefer it if she wanted to do so.”