Page 24 of Beloved
“Palmyra is more than well stocked with provisions for a long siege, Aurelian, but I do not choose to play with you any longer.
Had I reached Persia I might have ended this madness quickly.
Now it is not to be.
Very well,”
and she shrugged, “I bow to the wisdom and the will of the gods.”
“Without you your son will collapse.
Once he knows that I possess the Queen of Palmyra, he will open the gates of the city and we will march triumphantly in.”
“The king will never give in.
I am ready to die for Palmyra, Aurelian, and Vaballathus knows it.
For me there can be no greater honor than to give my life for my city.”
Into his eyes crept an admiring look he could not suppress, and he said quietly, “You are too intelligent and too beautiful to die so needlessly, Zenobia of Palmyra.
I will not allow it!”
“You will not allow it?”
Her mocking laughter startled him.
“What I will, Aurelian, you cannot prevent! How can you understand? You are a peasant who has clawed his way up the ladder of the Roman military! I descend from the great Queen Cleopatra.”
“Who was beaten by the Romans,”
he reminded her.
“You will have another Masada on your hands before you take Palmyra from my son,”
she threatened.
“We won at Masada, too,”
he said quietly.
“A victory over a fortress of corpses?”
she replied scornfully.
“A victory nevertheless, Zenobia.
But enough of this! Gaius,”
he called, and instantly Gaius Cicero re-entered the tent.
“Gaius, take the queen to my sleeping tent, and see that she has a bath.”
His bold look told her what would come later.
Zenobia drew her breath in sharply.
A slow smile lit his features, and his light blue eyes danced with amusement for a moment.
“Come, Majesty.”
Gaius was at her elbow, leading her away.
She followed him down the line of tents, her mind quickly working.
Aurelian lusted after her.
She shuddered.
He would have her, she knew.
But if she must take the emperor as a lover then it would be on her terms, not his.
He would expect resistance, she knew, and instinctively she realized that resistance would give him pleasure.
Therefore she would not fight him physically, but with her mind.
She would yield her body, but nothing more.
Aurelian might be a peasant, but he was an uncommonly intelligent one. He would want all of her. He would not get it, and it would drive him mad. This was one Roman who would not betray her because he would not control any part of her mind and heart. Rather, she would control him.
Gaius Cicero stopped before a large tent and ushered her into it.
“I will send some men with water and a tub for you,”
he said, and he flushed with embarrassment.
“Be sure the water is heated,”
she said calmly.
“I dislike cold baths, and I will need warm water and soft soap to clean the desert from my hair and skin.
I assume that you have soap in your encampment, Gaius Cicero? Of course you do.
The camp followers would bathe, at least occasionally, wouldn’t they?”
“I will see what I can find,”
he muttered, turning his flushed face away from her.
“Thank you,”
was her polite reply, and he was quickly gone.
Zenobia sighed and gazed around the tent.
It was divided into two sections.
The larger section, in which she stood, was simply furnished with a low round table where, she assumed, the emperor must eat.
There were several large seating pillows strewn carelessly about it.
There were two chairs set up in another part of the tent and some trunks, but nothing more.
The wooden floor was well worn from many campaigns, and spread with several sheepskins.
There were a few brass oil lamps, nothing opulent.
All in all, it was quite plain. A soldier’s tent without a doubt.
Walking across the floor, she pulled aside the woven woolen divider.
Behind it was a rather large and comfortable sleeping couch, but other than that the smaller section was empty.
“It certainly lacks the amenities,”
Zenobia observed softly to herself.
She heard the sound of feet coming in and out of the main section of the tent, and turned to see a procession of straining legionnaires lugging large containers of water into the tent and emptying them into a round, wooden tub.
“Is there a respectable woman in this camp?”
she demanded loudly.
The legionnaires stopped, startled, at the sound of her voice.
They stared openmouthed at her for a moment, and then one, braver than the others, replied, “There are several good women, Majesty.”
“Have one sent to me then,”
she said.
“I will need help washing my hair.”
“Yes, Majesty,”
the brave legionnaire answered.
“I will fetch a woman immediately,”
and he hurried from the tent.
Zenobia hid a smile as she stood watching her water bearers.
The last of them gone, she saw a woman standing in the entry of the tent.
Zenobia waved her into the room.
“What is your name?”
she asked.
“I am called Keleos, Majesty.”
“What do you do among the Romans? Your speech is of Palmyra.”
“I am Palmyran, Majesty.”
“Then why are you not safely within the gates of the city, Keleos?”
“I am a widow, Majesty.
I live with my aged father and my son, who is a cripple, just outside the walls.
Neither my father nor my child could be moved, and so I was forced to remain in my home despite the Romans.”
“Could your neighbors not help you, Keleos?”
“Majesty, they were terrified, and could not get themselves and their valuables into the city quickly enough.
They had no time for us.
I have a small bake shop.
Normally I baked for my neighborhood, but now I am forced to sell my wares to the Romans.
I still have my father and son to support.
Please forgive me, Majesty,”
and Keleos fell on her knees, her hands outstretched in supplication.
“You are forgiven, Keleos,”
Zenobia replied.
“You did what was necessary to survive, to insure the survival of your family.”
The woman crawled the short distance between herself and the queen, and prostrating herself further kissed Zenobia’s feet.
“May the gods bless you, my Queen,”
she sobbed.
“Get up, Keleos!”
Zenobia commanded, and when the woman had scrambled to her feet the queen said, “I would like you to help me wash my hair.”
“Gladly, Majesty!”
Within minutes Keleos had everything prepared, and was washing Zenobia’s hair with some of the soap that had been brought for the queen’s bath.
They used one of the extra wooden buckets filled with warmed water that had been left.
Zenobia could feel the sandy grit of the desert as Keleos soaped it free, and with another bucket of water rinsed it away.
It took three latherings, but eventually Zenobia’s hair was clean.
Keleos wrung the queen’s long mane of excess water, and then taking a towel rubbed and rubbed.
The hair was quickly dry in the hot desert air.
Thanking the woman for her aid, Zenobia dismissed her.
Quickly she stripped her filthy clothes off, and kicking them aside sat down in the round, wooden tub, laving warmish water over her shoulders.
Taking a bit of soap, she washed herself and then settled back a moment to enjoy a small soak and the solitude.
She wondered how soon he would come and demand her surrender.
It would take everything strong within her character to give him her body without flinching.
She hated the very thought of his touch, for instinctively she knew he would demand far more than she was ever going to give, and the ensuing battle would be exhausting.
Finally she stood up, and with a little smile realized that she faced a predicament of sorts.
She could not redress in her dirty garments, and there was no large and dry towel with which to dry and wrap herself.
The small towel that had been used for her hair now lay in a sodden lump upon the floor.
Stepping from the tub, she reached for the towel and mopped herself damp.
The air would quickly dry the rest of her, but there still remained the problem of what to wear.
She looked about the room.
There was nothing.
She made a sound of annoyance, which was answered by a soft laugh.
Furious, and quite heedless of her own nudity, she whirled about to face Aurelian.
“How dare you spy on me!”
“It is my tent,”
he answered.
“You ordered me placed here,”
she snapped.
“I should as soon have had my own tent.”
He walked across the floor to where she stood and, catching her face between his two hands, looked down into her angry eyes.
“The wishes of a captive are never considered, Zenobia.”
Then, to her surprise, he released her.
Slowly he walked around her, studying her from every angle, but not yet touching her.
Finally he said, “You were once described to me as the goddess incarnate, but seeing you now I must say, with apologies to the beauteous Venus, that the gentleman was not generous enough in his praise.
If I put you on the block there is not enough gold in the entire world to secure your purchase, Zenobia.”
“Then I may assume you will not put me on the block,”
she answered him coldly.
He laughed.
“Only because I cannot gain enough for you,”
he teased.
“I did not think you were a procurer, Aurelian.
Your reputation is that of a warrior.”
He laughed again.
“You can fight like a guttersnipe, goddess, but it will avail you nothing.
I am Aurelian, and I never lose a battle.”
“You may have me, Roman, for I cannot hope to overcome your physical strength; but Palmyra’s gates will still be closed to you!”
She stood tall, glaring icily at him, totally unconcerned by her total nudity; and Aurelian was further intrigued and inflamed by Zenobia.
This is a woman, he thought admiringly.
“You are a brave creature, goddess,”
he said quietly, “but you are still just a woman as I am just a man.
My spies tell me that there has been no man in your life since Marcus Alexander Britainus left you to return to Rome.”
He was pleased to see her grow pale at the mention of Marcus’s name, and he continued.
“He was your lover, and I do not doubt that he was a magnificent one.
My niece is already with child.”
Zenobia’s eyes closed for a moment, and she clutched at the hanging divider to keep from swaying.
“You are a bastard!”
she managed to hiss at him.
He laughed pleasantly.
“You are beautiful, and I desire you, goddess.”
Now he reached out with gentle fingers to caress her creamy shoulder, stroking with a delicate touch, watching while she fought down the urge to shudder, which finally she was unable to suppress.
“Are you beginning to understand what it means to be an imperial captive, goddess?”
he asked her.
“I am not afraid,”
she said low.
“I know that,”
was his answer, “but you have caused me no end of trouble, goddess, and you must be punished for it.”
“So you will force me to be your mistress? Yes, Aurelian, that will indeed be punishment,”
she replied.
“I am accustomed to choosing my own lovers.”
Again he laughed.
“What a defiant goddess you are, Zenobia.
You were a virgin when you married Odenathus at fifteen.
Marcus Alexander Britainus has been your only lover.
You are an appallingly moral woman, goddess.
Half, nay, most of the women in Rome have had half a dozen lovers before they marry.
You have known two men, and it shall be for me as if you were a virgin.”
“Take me then!”
she cried half angrily, half fearfully.
“I will neither yield nor give you anything of myself!”
His light blue eyes glittered with anticipation, the tiny flecks of black and copper within them dancing wildly.
His fingers closed about her shoulder, and he drew her to him.
She stood perfectly still, neither resisting him nor accepting him, as his arm went tightly about her waist, molding her hard against him.
The hand that had been on her shoulder took her face between thumb and forefinger, tipping it upward as his head came slowly down to claim her mouth with his.
With frightening expertise he forced her lips apart, invading her mouth with a velvety tongue, exploring, taunting, demanding!
I will show no emotion, she thought, but it took every bit of control not to struggle, not to tear herself away from this man whose mouth was so insistent.
She wanted to run, to hide from him, for he frightened her although she would never admit it.
There was a look about him that said he would not be denied, and in her entire life she had never known that a man could be like this.
She had always been loved gently as a woman, first by Odenathus, and then by Marcus.
This man did not seek her love, he sought her very soul! She had to stop him, but without his knowing the terrible effect he was having on her.
Pulling her mouth away from his, she said coldly, “Enough! If you wish to couple with me then let us get on with it!”
If she had hit him the effect would not have been any more jolting, but then he began to chuckle, and the chuckle grew into a rumble of pleased laughter.
“Brava, goddess! Magnificent! And it almost worked, but almost is not good enough.”
He set her back from him and studied her once more.
Zenobia was shocked.
She had expected to cool his ardor by her disdain, and she had instead aroused his admiration.
The next move was up to him, so she stood silently sneaking a careful look at him from beneath her thick, black lashes while she waited.
She had to admit that he was a very handsome man in a virile, rugged sort of way.
He was at least an inch over six feet in height, with a powerfully built body.
He had a surprisingly elegant head for one of low birth, she thought.
It was oval in shape, with high, well-sculpted cheekbones, a straight patrician nose almost classic in its perfection, extremely sensuous lips, a square chin with a deep cleft that was fairly well hidden by his well-cropped, short beard.
The beard, like his close-clipped curly hair, had only faint touches of silver to mar its beautiful golden-blond color.
The well-spaced, round eyes were sky blue with their odd-colored flecks, and edged in short, sandy lashes. They were eyes that pierced, but never divulged what they thought.
He began to undress.
“Help me with this chest armor,”
he said briskly as he undid the buckles that held his protective plating.
“Call a slave,” she said.
“I am at a loss for what to do with you,”
he said slowly, pulling off the beautifully decorated breastplate and then undoing the belt that held the strips of armor that hung from his waist.
Warrior that he was, he carefully placed the armor in a small chest for safekeeping, then turned back to her.
His muscular arms pulled the short-sleeved, knee-length red tunic off, and this garment was followed by a natural-colored linen tunica interior.
He was nude except for his sandals and leg shields.
Sitting down, he held out a foot.
“Will you undo my sandals?”
“I am not your servant, Aurelian.”
“You highborn wenches aren’t good for very much at all.
You refuse to help me undress, and you kiss like a child.
I wonder if you will be worth all the trouble I am going to have to take with you.”
“Then return me to Palmyra!”
she spat at him.
“Return me, and then fight me like a man, Roman!”
He looked up at her, now free of his sandals and leg shields.
“I am going to fight you like a man, goddess, and for probably the first time in your life you are going to have to fight like a woman!”
She gasped, outraged by his words, but he continued.
“There will be no emperors or queens in this tent tonight, Zenobia, just a man and a woman waging the age-old battle between men and women!”
His eyes blazed blue fire at her, and, startled, she stepped backward.
It was all the advantage he needed.
Stepping swiftly forward, he lifted her and tossed her over his shoulder.
He had made no attempt to be gentle, leaving her helpless to struggle, for she was too busy trying to catch her breath.
Walking across the tent into his sleeping chamber, he unceremoniously dumped her upon his bed and then flung himself down atop her, trapping her face between his two hands.
“I have nothing to give you!”
she hissed.
“You will before this night is finished,”
he promised, and then yanked her head back to his.
His lips claimed hers again.
This time Zenobia struggled against Aurelian.
As his mouth ground down upon her an unreasoning fear welled up within her, destroying her intent to remain cool, increasing her panic as her heartbeat accelerated violentiy.
He quickly felt her terror, and suddenly his lips were gentle, barely brushing hers as he murmured against them, “No, goddess, don’t be afraid.
Shhh.
Shhh, I will not hurt you.”
She was unable to prevent the shudder that ripped through her.
This was worse, she thought.
She didn’t want him to be gentle.
She wanted him to assault her with violence so she might hate him even more.
With an angry cry she raised her hands and clawed at him.
Forcing her arms above her head, he held them there with one hand while the other sought to gentle her.
“No, goddess,”
he chided her, and then, “What are you afraid of, Zenobia? Give me some of the sweetness of your mouth, beloved.
There cannot be great harm in that.”
She almost wept then.
Beloved! He had called her beloved—until now only Marcus, Marcus who had betrayed her and left her to this man, had called her beloved.
Aurelian sensed the weakness, and in that instant he descended on her again, his mouth tenderly taking hers in a kiss so passionate, and yet at the same time so gentle, that she was unable to resist any longer.
Her lips softened beneath the insistent pressure of his.
Finding her tongue, he sucked a long minute upon the tempting morsel, then released her from the kiss.
Zenobia was stunned by the sense of loss she felt.
Why did she feel this way? She detested this man, and had a weapon been available she would have used it on him.
Opening her eyes, she found him looking down on her, unsmiling.
His free hand came up to caress her face.
“Your skin is like silk,”
he said softly, and then his hand began a lengthy exploration of her body.
Shifting his weight off her, he released her hands and put the arm that had imprisoned her about her shoulders, pinioning her as effectively as he had before, but allowing him the freedom he needed to caress her.
A warm hand moved down her throat, a hand, she thought, that could as easily strangle her as make love to her.
He read the thought in her gray eyes.
He dallied a moment in the soft hollow of her neck, and she could feel the blood coursing beneath his fingers.
His hand next moved down to stroke the high swell of her breasts, trailing leisurely downward between her cleavage.
A single finger teasingly encircled each nipple, shocking them, despite her best efforts to resist, to tight and tingling peaks, which he bent his head to kiss.
She could feel the cry welling up in her throat, and with a supreme surge of willpower she forced it back.
He must not know—she would not let him know that his hungry mouth now sucking on her breasts was beginning to elicit a tiny response deep inside her.
She could not understand it, and it not only puzzled her, it frightened her.
She began to tremble, and tried to draw away from that insistent mouth.
Slowly he raised his head.
His eyes were glazed with passion, and something else she could not fathom.
She turned her head away from him so he might not see her fear.
“You will not deny me, goddess,”
he said softly.
“I will possess you.”
“No,”
she managed to whisper, “my body, but nothing else!”
“I will possess all!”
he answered her.
“You will belong to me alone, goddess, for never have I been beaten in battle, and I will not be beaten in this one.”
Scalding, slow tears began to course down her cheeks, but no sound came from her throat.
This was what it had been like for her mother those long years ago; pinned beneath a Roman who demanded everything of her and took it without a care for her soul.
They had destroyed her mother, but whatever happened between Zenobia and this Roman, she would not allow him to destroy her.
“No, goddess,”
and his voice was deceptively soft.
“Don’t weep.
I will not hurt you.
I will only love you,”
and he raised himself up so he might kiss the wetness on her face.
It was too much for Zenobia.
With a wild cry she fought to escape him, but could not fight her way free, for his strength was too great.
Aurelian laughed, her confused and terrified resistance seeming to give him great pleasure.
He shifted his body once more, this time to cover hers.
She could feel his muscular thighs with their soft blond down pressing down upon hers, and to her horror she felt a great flash of heat suffuse her body.
His broad chest crushed her full breasts, his mouth again captured hers in a kiss of such blazing passion that she could feel her strength ebbing away.
Against the inside of her thigh she felt his staff lengthening and growing hard with his desire for her.
He caught at her tongue and began to suck upon the velvet of it again, sending shock waves of desire—dear Venus, it was desire!—throughout her feverish body.
With that admission to herself it was as if a dam had burst within her.
Unwillingly her arms went about him, and she felt him seeking entrance to her unwilling, yet willing body.
He thrust deep, and she cried out, her breath coming in quick pants, her long golden legs wrapping themselves about him.
Again and again he plunged himself into her burning and wet sheath, making her cry with pleasure in spite of herself.
And then with a pitiful sob she whimpered low “I do not understand! I do not understand!”
He stopped in his rutting, and with a roar of laughter he caught her frightened face in his hands.
“It is lust, Zenobia! Sweet, hot lust! How is it that you have never before experienced lust?”
He drove again into her and, bending, murmured against her ear, “I will teach you to enjoy lust, my goddess, to revel in it, to yield to it!”
His hands moved beneath her to cup her buttocks, and he squeezed them possessively.
“Do you feel it, Zenobia? Do you feel the fire coursing through you? Lust! It is lust, and you have no choice but to give in to it; give in to me! The victory will be mine, goddess, as I warned you! The victory will be mine!”
Shocked, Zenobia realized that what he was saying was true.She had no control over her body at that moment.
Ripple after ripple of pure, sensuous pleasure was starting to wash over her, and she had not the strength to resist it.
A tension was beginning to build deep within her, and the force of it was so great that it threatened either to consume or destroy her.
She would either give in to it, or die from it; and as shameful as she found her situation, she did not want to die.
The victory would be his whatever way she chose, but she would find a way to revenge herself upon him.
This was only the opening battle in the war between them.
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.”