Page 22 of Beloved
“Yes, Vaba, they have.
I am not ashamed to admit it.
I am human as are they, and I learn from my errors.”
“If going to war against the Romans is an error, Mother, then all of Palmyra shall learn,”
he answered her.
“Rome has no business here in the East.
Your father believed it, and I believe it.”
“This war would not have happened if Marcus had returned to you,”
he accused.
“I wish to the gods that he had, for then you would have married him and I might have ruled in my own right!”
“You ungrateful little whelp!”
she hissed at him.
“You rule this city?! What a joke, Vaba, my son! What a fine joke! When your father was murdered I secured the city for you.
For six years I have ruled it for you, and what have you learned from me, my son? You have learned nothing! All you know of kingship is the bowing and scraping of your courtiers!
“The Romans are not to be trusted.
Your grandfather was loyal to Rome, and what was the result? His wife, my own sweet mother, raped and murdered by Romans! I loved Marcus Alexander more than I ever loved any man.
Aye, I even loved him more than your father; but he betrayed me to marry an emperor’s niece.
I do not deny that I am bitter, but I have not gone to war with Rome out of that rejection.
For many years your father and I planned to consolidate the Eastern Empire, and rule it ourselves.
Now I have done just that.
I have but one piece of unfinished business, and that is to defeat Rome once and for all.
I shall do it, Vaba! On your father’s memory I swear I shall do it! When I have, and there is once more stability in the region, you may rule alone and to your heart’s content.
I will have given you time to learn this business of kingship the way I have always given you time, Vaba. Do not be impatient with me, or with yourself. You will be a good king one day.”
“You loved Marcus more than my father?”
His face was a mask of shock, disbelief, and hurt.
She sighed, and wondered if he had heard anything else that she had said to him other than that.
“Your father was the only man I knew until his death.
Odenathus was chosen to be my husband.
He was a good man.
I loved him, for he was good to me, and he loved me in return; but with Marcus it was different.”
“I don’t know if I will ever understand you,”
he said softly, rising from the council table and walking to the door.
At the entry he turned.
“Good night, Mother,”
and then he was gone.
She sat for a few minutes longer, but she would not allow herself to think.
She needed to free her mind.
“Mama?”
Startled, Zenobia looked up and saw her small daughter standing in the doorway to the council chamber.
Her heart contracted at the sight, for the little girl was so like her father.
Tall for her age of five and a half, Mavia was slender with a heart-shaped face, Marcus’s startling blue eyes, and long chestnut curls.
Her skin was lighter than Zenobia’s, but still it held a golden tone.
“What is it, Mavia?”
she answered the child.
“Should you not be in your bed?”
“Mama, is it true the Romans eat little children?”
Zenobia felt anger well up within her.
Who had been frightening the child? “No, Mavia, Romans do not eat children.
Who has told you such silliness?”
“Titus says that the Romans eat little children.”
The little girl nervously twisted the side of her blue gown.
“Deliciae’s son, Titus?”
“Yes.”
Mavia’s eyes were very large and fearful.
“Come here to me, Mavia,”
her mother commanded, and the child ran across the floor on small, bare feet to climb into her lap.
Zenobia cuddled her close against her ample breasts, and felt the little girl trembling.
“Titus is a silly little boy, Mavia.
Boys his age like to tease younger children, and you have made him very happy by being afraid.
If he should attempt to frighten you again with such nonsense then tell him that the Romans particularly love to munch on nine-year-old boys.”
Mavia giggled.
“I love you, Mama,” she said.
“And I love you, my darling.
I love you best of all!”
Zenobia rose up, her daughter still in her arms.
“I am going to take you to your bed, my chick.”
She left the council room and carried her daughter through the palace corridors back to the child’s own rooms.
“You must not be afraid, Mavia,”
she said as she walked.
“The sound of battle is noisy, and can sometimes be frightening; but the Romans cannot enter Palmyra, and they will not hurt you, I promise.”
Mavia nodded, and whispered, “Yes, Mama.”
Reaching Mavia’s rooms, the queen handed her now sleepy child over to her nurse.
Kissing Mavia’s cheek, she said to the nurse, “You will remain in the palace until further notice, Charmian.
Mavia is only to be allowed to play in the inner gardens.”
“Yes, Majesty,”
the slave woman murmured.
Zenobia hurried to her own apartments, where Bab was waiting.
“I have dismissed your butterflies,”
the old woman announced.
“How well you know me, old friend,”
Zenobia said.
“I do want to be alone this night.”
“What can I bring you to eat, my baby?”
“Anything simple, and something to drink.”
“Wine?”
the old woman inquired mischievously.
“Never again!”
Zenobia said fervently.
“Fruit juice will be quite nice, thank you, Bab.”
Bab exited to return a few minutes later with a heavily laden tray, which she placed on a low ebony table.
“The gods grant you sweet repose and a clear mind, my baby,”
she said as she left the room.
The queen shrugged out of her kalasiris and crossed the room out into her private garden.
There, a pool warmed by the late-afternoon sun beckoned invitingly.
Diving in, she swam for some minutes until her body grew tired and began to relax.
Climbing out and taking a large linen towel, she began to dry herself off.
As she did so, Zenobia carefully scrutinized her body and did not find it wanting.
Her large breasts were as firm as when she had been a girl, her belly flat despite three children, her bottom rounded and not overly large.
There was nothing that should be displeasing to a man.
Why then had he left her?
“The gods!”
she swore aloud.
How deeply he had hurt her.
He had probably returned to his own world, and seeing about him all those proper Roman wives had finally desired one of his own.
He had been ready to marry and, unable to publicly claim Mavia, had longed for children of his own.
Sitting by the pool, she wondered once more why he had not written to her, and then she laughed ruefully.
How could he possibly have explained his actions to her on dry parchment after all that had passed between them? Still, to find out in the manner in which she had was cruel, and she would not have thought him a cruel man.
Dear Longinus.
It was he who had first learned of Marcus’s betrayal in a letter from his former pupil, Porphyry, who now studied in Rome with Plotinus.
Longinus did not wait for the gossip to reach her, but quickly joined her in Alexandria, leaving Prince Demetrius in the capable hands of Marius Gracchus.
Longinus, her dear and good friend, her loyal councillor, had known how devastated she would be.
Longinus, who had held her in his arms while she cried away the first hurt.
What would she ever do without Longinus? She would never have to wonder, Zenobia realized, for Longinus was the one man other than her father and her brothers upon whom she might rely.
The afternoon became desert twilight, and then, quickly, night.
The dark skies sparkled with thousands of bright stars, casting their lights upon Palmyra as they had for all the centuries since time began.
She loved them for their beauty, and she loved them because they were constant and never-changing.
Should not a relationship between lovers be a constant thing, or was she simply idealizing love?
Standing up, she flung the towel aside and walked back into her chamber where she put on a simple, long, natural-colored soft cotton gown.
She then began to examine the tray that Bab had left her.
Upon it were very thin slices of chicken breast and baby lamb alternating with equally thin slices of pomegranate.
A woven round basket, a hot stone within its bottom, held small, flat loaves of bread.
There was a salad of lettuce and tiny fresh peas that had been dressed in olive oil and herbed vinegar; and a footed silver bowl that held a small bunch of plump, green grapes and half a dozen fat apricots.
A matching tall silver pitcher was filled with cool juice.
Zenobia’s appetite had never been a poor one, and she fell upon the meal, devouring it thoroughly.
Afterward she bathed her hands in rose water, and went again out into her private garden, where she once more began to think.
The moonless night was unnaturally quiet, and she wondered if the Romans were already before her gates, or if they would choose to come by daylight.
She somehow thought the latter, and knew that she would not have long to wait.
It was a strangely comforting thought.
She would be glad to begin this confrontation—the sooner to get it over with.
The queen retired to her empty bed to sleep a dreamless sleep.
For one night she was not haunted by his face with its deep blue eyes; nor the sound of his voice promising to return to her.
In the hour just before the dawn old Bab gently shook her mistress awake and offered a goblet of sweet pomegranate juice.
Zenobia lay quietly, allowing her spirit to return to her body after its long night of roaming within the shadow realm.
Finally she asked, “Are they here yet?”
“Not a sign, my baby.”
She sipped at her juice.
“Is the city calm?”
“For the most part,”
the old woman answered.
“The people are like a virgin going to her wedding couch, a little frightened, but sure that all will be well.”
“It is natural,”
the queen said.
She put the empty goblet down.
“Today I must dress like the queen I am, Bab.
It will hearten the people, and the Romans will expect it.
I will be on the walls awaiting them, and afterward I shall roam the city to assure my people.”
Bab nodded.
“I expected you would wear your finest feathers, my baby.
All is in readiness for you this very minute.
I have personally chosen your wardrobe.
You have only to pick your jewels.”
“Show me.”
Bab clapped her hands, and instantly a slave girl appeared carefully holding out for Zenobia’s approval a kalasiris made of a cobweb-sheer linen cloth that had been interwoven with very thin strands of finely beaten gold.
The sleeveless gown had been skillfully constructed in narrow pleats from its round, high neck to the ankle-length hem.
Zenobia nodded her approval, and after bathing her face and hands in a basin held by a slave girl she rose from her bed, holding out her arms.
Swiftly Bab removed her simple sleeping gown, and taking the kalasiris from the slave dropped it over the queen’s head.
Zenobia walked across her bedchamber to stand before the enormous full-length polished silver mirror. “Adria,”
she commanded the slave, “bring my jewel caskets.”
The girl scurried off, and the queen said to Bab, “Your choice is a perfect one, old woman.”
Bab smiled broadly.
Adria returned balancing several jewel caskets in her arms.
“Fetch me the soft gold leather belt for this,”
Zenobia asked Bab as she began opening the jewel boxes.
Carefully she studied the contents of each box, removing the upper trays in order to see what lay beneath.
Swiftly she closed several lids down, and said to Adria, “Remove these boxes.
I do not choose to wear silver today.”
“Here is the belt you desire,”
Bab said, carefully fastening it about Zenobia’s slender waist.
The wide belt was made of soft kidskin overlaid with twelve layers of gold leaf over which were sewn tiny beads of fine gold and pale-pink rock quartz.
The front of the belt rose up to a narrow peak that ended just below her breasts.
The queen now began to choose her jewelry.
From one jewel box came two wide gold armbands with raised designs which Bab fastened about each of Zenobia’s upper arms.
Around her wrists the queen slipped on several gold bangles, some plain, some with blue Persian lapis, some with rose quartz.
Into her earlobes she fastened enormous diamonds, pale pink in color, which had come to her from mines located far to the south.
They dangled, sparkling, from their thin gold wires.
“Rings?”
Bab asked.
“No,”
was the reply.
“They will not be close enough to see them.”
She thought a moment as Bab made to close the ring casket.
“Wait! Perhaps just a ruby on this hand, and the matching pink diamond on the other.
If I use my hands to punctuate a point, they will sparkle and add effect.”
“Necklaces?”
Bab inquired.
“No, but I think one of those marvelous jeweled collars. Adria?”
“Majesty?”
“Do we not have a gold collar inlaid with rubies, and rose quartz, and small diamonds?”
“Yes, Majesty.
Shall I fetch it?”
Zenobia nodded, and Adria quickly complied, returning to fasten the exquisite collar about the queen’s neck.
It lay flat upon her chest, the alternating jewels just above her full breasts.
Zenobia smiled with satisfaction.
“Brush my hair out, Bab, and then let us place upon my head that elegant small circlet of beaten gold vine leaves that has the long gold ribbons sewn with brilliants.”
Bab nodded vigorously, and instructed Adria where the circlet might be found.
When Zenobia’s long black hair had been brushed silken smooth, Bab placed the wreath of golden vine leaves atop her mistress’s head, and carefully arranged the ribbons out behind her.
Then she stepped back, and nodded again.
“It is perfect, my baby.
You are a queen!”
“Come now, old woman, I must hurry.
I would be on the walls to greet our visitors.”
Giving her old nurse a quick hug, Zenobia hurried from her apartments and through the palace to its main courtyard, where her magnificent gold chariot with its four coal-black horses waited.
She could see Vaba and Flavia coming down the path from the tiny palace within the larger palace gardens.
She had given them the house that Odenathus had given her as a wedding gift those long years ago.
Since his death she had been unable to live in it again, and she believed that the newly married couple would enjoy their privacy as she and Hawk had enjoyed theirs.
Flavia, of course, had accepted the gift in the spirit in which Zenobia had intended it; but Vaba had sarcastically asked if she was attempting to keep him from his palace.
Only sweet Flavia’s quick intervention had saved the bridegroom from his furious mother.
“Good morning, Aunt Zenobia,”
Flavia said, going to the queen and giving her a loving kiss on the cheek.
Zenobia couldn’t help but smile.
Her new daughter-in-law, the child of her two friends, Antonius Porcius and his Julia, was a dear girl, and she had to admit, the perfect wife for Vaba.
“Good morning, my dearest,”
she answered Flavia.
“Good morning, Vaba.”
“Good morning, Mother.
Have the Romans been sighted yet?”
“If they have I have not been told, Vaba.
Come, my son.
Let us hurry to the walls, and be prepared to greet our guests, unwelcome though they may be.
Flavia, would you come with us?”
“May I?”
“Of course, child.
You are Palmyra’s queen.”
“Oh, no, Aunt Zenobia! You are Palmyra’s queen.
I am only Vaba’s wife, and it is all I seek to be.”
Zenobia threw her son an arch look, and then put a loving arm about Flavia.
“We are both Palmyra’s queens.”
“Let us go if we are going,”
Vaba said impatiently.
“Very well,”
his mother replied, climbing without any help up into her chariot.
“I will drive, Vaba.
Your hand is too heavy on my horses’ mouths.
Besides, I think Flavia would enjoy being held by her husband rather than clinging to the handhold for dear life.”
For once Vaba did not disagree with his mother, and Flavia colored becomingly.
Zenobia smiled to herself, remembering how it had been to ride with Odenathus’s arm tight about her.
She looked over at the pair as she started the horses off, and thought how pretty Flavia was.
She was a small girl, her delicate build belying her great strength of character.
Her eyes were a clear amber in color, her hair a lovely golden brown, her skin tones peachlike.
All of her features—a round face with well-spaced eyes, a turned-up nose, and a coral-colored, generous mouth—had combined to form a most pleasing appearance.
Her neck was slender and graceful, and she had a way of holding her head that gave her a presence usually associated with taller people.
She was intelligent, and had a kind heart, both of which Zenobia thanked the gods for, because had Vaba chosen simply a pretty but vapid girl, the results would have been disastrous.
As it was still early the broad streets of Palmyra were empty, and it was but comfortably mild in temperature.
A light wind teased at both Zenobia’s gold kalasiris and Flavia’s pale-blue tunic dress.
As they reached the walls of the city the activity increased, the military in control of the streets leading to the walls.
The populace cheered Zenobia and her family as the chariot thundered by them, and a faint proud smile touched the queen’s lips.
Reaching the walls of the city, Zenobia brought her vehicle to a halt, and leapt out without waiting for Vaba and Flavia.
Striding to the narrow steps built into the thick walls, she began climbing.
At the top she was greeted by a captain in her personal guard, and her younger son, Prince Demetrius.
“Good morning, Demi, Captain Tigranes,”
she said.
“Any sign?”
“Not yet, Mother.”
“Longinus is here?”
“Over there, Mother.”
The king had reached the ramparts with his young wife.
Zenobia moved down the ramparts to stand with Longinus.
“Here I am again rousing you early in the morning,”
the queen teased her chief councillor.
“One of the hazards of being in your employ, Majesty,”
he chuckled.
Together they stood looking out across the desert that surrounded the oasis city of Palmyra.
The wind had blown the sands into small wavelike ripples so that the city appeared to be an island amid a vast golden sea.
Behind them the sky flung out dawn streamers of scarlet and coral, mauve and pink, burnished copper and narrow bands of dark purple edged in palest green.
To the west it was yet dark with one lone and cold star gleaming ominously down upon all.
There was no wind.
All was very still.
Looking about her, Zenobia saw that the ramparts along the walls were now crowded not only with soldiers, but with Palmyra’s citizens, who had come to see the arrival of their unwelcome guests.
The sun began to spill over the horizon, and suddenly very faintly from the distance came the sound of drums and marching feet.
Zenobia turned to Longinus and her sons.
“Did I not tell you?”
she said.
“They are exactly on time—sunrise—with their booming drums and stamping feet, all calculated to put abject fear into the hearts of the citizenry.”
“You cannot blame them for lack of originality,”
Longinus said wryly.
“This has always worked for them, and the Romans are not a people easily persuaded to try something new.”
All along the walls the citizens chattered busily, not at all impressed by the distant noise, for had they not been told that this was how it would be? Now they watched curiously to catch the first glimpse of the enemy.
It was like some vast show presented in the arena.
The queen strained her eyes.
Upon the horizon she could see the sun reflecting off a veritable sea of spear tips.
Fascinated, she was unable to tear her eyes away as the spear tips became soldiers, marching soldiers, soldiers dragging great war machines and battering rams across the shifting sands of the western road, thousands of infantry urged on by officers mounted upon a variety of prancing horses.
“How many legions do you think there are?”
Longinus asked.
“I cannot tell yet,”
was the reply.
Closer and closer the Romans came to the city walls, until at last they stopped, and Zenobia breathed softly, “I count four full legions, Longinus.
Aurelian wants us very badly, but he shall not have my city.”
Boldly she stared down upon the army amassed below, and suddenly the ranks opened to allow a war chariot through.
In the chariot was a driver and one man.
The vehicle stopped before the walls, and in the great silence that followed the man in the chariot began to speak.
“People of Palmyra, I am Aurelian, Emperor of the Romans.”
“I believe the archers can get him from this distance, Mother,”
said Demetrius.
“No,”
Zenobia said.
“Let him speak.
I wish to hear what he has to say.”
“I come in peace.
I have no quarrel with the people of Palmyra.
It is the woman who calls herself your queen who has rebelled against the empire.
Give her over to me, accept my governor, and we will live in peace as we always have.”
From the ramparts of Palmyra came shouts of outrage, and almost at once the spectators began hurling the remains of their morning meal at the Romans.
The emperor’s chariot was forced to move backward.
The queen nodded to her trumpeter, and a clarion call rang in the still air, silencing everyone.
Zenobia stepped up on the walls so that she might be visible to the Roman army and its emperor.
Behind her the sun blazed, and with the blue sky above her as a background, her golden garments and jewelry sparkled and gleamed impressively.
Below, the Roman soldiers murmured superstitiously at the sudden appearance of this golden woman.
There were murmurs of “The goddess Athena!”
“Venus!”
“No, fools, ’tis Juno herself!”
“I am Zenobia of Palmyra, Queen of the East.
Aurelian of the Romans, you are unwelcome here.
Go while you still have the opportunity, else the desert become your final stop on the road to Hades.”
“Woman! You have rebelled against Rome! Give yourself over to me for judgment, and I will spare your city.”
The answer to Aurelian’s impertinence was a spear that sang swiftly through the air to bury itself in the ground before his chariot.
Startled, the horses reared, but were quickly brought under firm control by their driver.
No one, even the queen, had seen who threw the spear, but its message was far more eloquent than words.
“You have the answer, Aurelian of the Romans.
My people have spoken, and as always I am an obedient servant of my people.”
A small smile played upon his lips, and he nodded almost companionably at her.
“As am I, Zenobia of Palmyra,” he said.
“Then it is war between us,”
she answered.
“It is war,”
was the reply.
“We have the advantage, Roman, safe here behind our walls.
We are prepared to hold out for months.
Are you?” “We are.”
“Without water, Aurelian? You have no water.
I would have no innocent lives on my conscience, so I give you fair warning that the wells serving the suburbs surrounding this city have been poisoned.”
“Can you be sure, Zenobia?”
was the mocking reply.
“Do you really think that those who expect to return shortly to their homes have poisoned their own wells? What would they use for water then upon their return?”
“Unlike Romans, Palmyrans are loyal, Aurelian, and they follow orders.”
“Palmyrans are people like any other, Zenobia.
Perhaps most of your people have obeyed, but there will be some who have not, and we need only one well to survive.”
“Do you really think you can water four legions and all your livestock on one well, Aurelian? Do not be a fool! You will have not enough water, and without water you will die! Go while you still have the opportunity.
Were not all the wells at Qasr-al-Hêr destroyed?”
“They were indeed.”
“Does that not tell you something?”
she demanded.
He smiled up at her, looking a long moment upon her incredible beauty before he spoke again; and then he said quietly, “Remember Masada!”