Page 25 of Beloved

She felt drained by the speech, but, incredibly, she also felt strong again.

He had lain on his belly throughout this exchange, and now he rolled over and looked up at her.

“How strangely naive you are, goddess.”

His blue eyes regarded her with a funny mixture of compassion and determination.

Then quickly the look was gone, and his glance was once again unreadable.

Calmly he arose from the bed and, turning, said to her, “Get up, goddess.

I sent a message to your son last night, and this morning I will present you to the city of Palmyra as my prisoner.

They will have the space of one day in which to decide their fates.”

“They will not surrender,”

she insisted.

“Then I will destroy the city about their ears,”

was the reply.

They glared at each other, each immovable in intent, each sure of lightness.

Finally Zenobia said sulkily, “I have nothing to wear, Roman.

Surely you aren’t going to make me stand naked before my own city walls?”

A wicked grin creased his mouth.

“A delectable thought, goddess, but no.

I rarely share with others what belongs to me.

Late last night before I joined you there came into camp a querulous old woman who claims to be your servant.

Your son sent her with garments and other things that a woman needs.

Poor Gaius Cicero had a terrible time with her.

Only when one of the Bedawi women spoke to her could she be calmed.

I will send for them now.”

Aurelian dressed quickly and left the tent without another word to her.

Shortly afterward he returned with two women.

“The gods be praised! You are unharmed!”

cried Bab, tears running down her weathered old face as she fell on Zenobia’s neck.

The bed’s coverlet wrapped around her, Zenobia soothed her nursemaid.

“Hush, old woman! As always, you fret too much over me.

Am I not the beloved of the gods?”

Aurelian, however, noted the concern on the queen’s face.

So, he thought, her heart is not entirely cold.

“Zenobia.”

She looked curiously toward the other woman, who threw back the hood of her robe.

“Tamar! Oh, Tamar, is it really you?”

“It is me, child.”

Tamar eyed Zenobia’s garb.

“Is all well with you?”

Zenobia nodded quietly.

“It is as expected,”

she answered.

“Who are these women?”

the emperor demanded.

She looked at him.

“My old nursemaid, who has always cared for me.

Her name is Bab, and this,”

she drew Tamar forward, “is Tamar bat Hammid, my father’s wife.”

“Then you are in good hands, and I may safely leave you,”

he answered.

He turned to the two older women.

“Prepare the queen in her finest garments.”

He raised Zenobia’s hand to his lips and, turning it, kissed the inside of her wrist.

“Until later, goddess,”

and he was quickly gone from the tent.

For a moment the three women stood in silence, and then Tamar said quietly, “Bab, show Zenobia what you have brought so we may choose from among her garments for something suitable.”

Bab shuffled to the entry of the tent and, bending, dragged a small trunk inside.

Opening it, she brought forth a diaphanous dark garment.

With a ghost of a smile she held it up, saying, “I have chosen this for you, my baby.”

Zenobia’s own lips twitched with delight.

“Are you becoming a rebel in your old age, Bab?”

The old woman cackled.

“I thought it fitting under the circumstances.”

“Have you gone mad?”

Tamar demanded.

“Black is for mourning.”

“Should I not be in mourning?”

Zenobia shot back.

“I mourn for my virtue, torn from me last night, and I mourn for Palmyra, my beloved city.

I sense that this battle with Rome will be to the death.”

“Can we not win?”

Tamar’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“If I were in the city instead of here, yes; but I am not within the city; and Palmyra’s king, my son, is not as skilled in the art of ruling as I would wish.

I fear that Aurelian will outwit Vaba, for he is a clever man.”

“Then why did you turn over the full responsibility for Palmyra to Vaba before you rode for Persia?”

Tamar was curious.

“If I were not to return I wanted no misunderstanding among the council as to who the king was.

I can only pray that Vaba will be the king his father was; that he will hold firm even though Aurelian holds me prisoner.

I shall pray to the gods, if they have not deserted me entirely, that he will be strong.”

Outside they heard the trumpets call, and Bab said, “We must dress you, my baby.

Soon they will come for you, and you must be ready.”

A few moments later Gaius Cicero arrived with a six-man escort that he left outside to await their prisoner.

Zenobia greeted him pleasantly enough, and unable to conceal the admiration he felt, his eyes widened at the sight of her.

“Are you ready, Majesty?”

he inquired politely.

“I am ready, Gaius Cicero,”

was her calm reply.

Tamar and Bab stood at the entry to the tent and watched as the Roman centurion and his men marched Zenobia from their sight.

They brought her to the edge of the camp that faced the main gates of Palmyra, and there she saw a raised platform with a small tent upon it.

They led her up a small flight of steps behind the little tent and then into it, leaving her there.

Within the little enclosure Aurelian awaited her.

He raised one blond eyebrow at the sight of her and then he chuckled.

“Thought you to irritate me by wearing mourning, goddess? I believe your gown an excellent choice, for it implies defeat.

Defeat for Palmyra.”

Her heart sank.

He was right, but she had not thought of it that way and neither had old Bab.

She had indeed sought to annoy him by wearing a plain, black kalasiris and no jewelry other than her royal circlet of golden vine leaves atop her unbound black hair.

“Will you allow me nothing, Roman?”

she said low.

“It is dangerous to allow you anything, goddess.

We gave you a city, and you took an empire.

You are known to bite the hand that feeds you, Zenobia.”

Her hand flashed out, catching him off guard as it slapped his face.

Instantly rage suffused his features, and grasping her arm, he brutally forced it behind her.

“Were it not necessary for me to present you publicly to your people, and your son in a few moments,”

he said through gritted teeth, “I should beat you.

Never raise your hand to me again, goddess!”

“You are hurting me, Roman,”

she spat back, not daring to struggle for fear the movement would break her arm.

The anger drained from his face, and he released his hold on her.

“I give only one warning, goddess,”

he said coldly.

“Stay here and do not move.

You will know when I want you.”

He exited the tent, and she was left alone to listen to the sounds whose sources she could not see.

She could hear the movement of many feet, the undertone of voices, and then suddenly silence followed by the flourish of trumpets, which was answered by Palmyran trumpets from atop the city walls.

Zenobia’s heart quickened.

She heard Aurelian’s voice in the clear air.

“People of Palmyra, I am Aurelian.

Hear me well! I have now in my possession your rebel queen, Zenobia.

Surrender to me, and I will spare not only her, but all of you and your city as well.

I will not impose fines upon you, for the fault has not been yours but that of your overproud queen.

You have until this time tomorrow to make your decision.”

Zenobia felt her anger rise.

The cheek of the Roman! Overproud, indeed! Then she heard the voice of Cassius Longinus.

“You say you will spare the queen, Emperor of the Romans, but surely you will not leave her here to rule in her city.

What say you?”

“Who is that man?”

Zenobia heard Aurelian demand of Gaius Cicero.

“His name is Cassius Longinus.

He is the queen’s chief councillor.”

“Not the king’s?”

“I do not know.

He came to Palmyra from Athens many years ago to serve Zenobia.

Possibly he also advises the young king.

I can see the boy standing near him.

You could answer him without losing your dignity, Caesar.”

“Your queen, Cassius Longinus,”

Aurelian said, “will not be allowed to rule Palmyra ever again.

She is now a prisoner of the empire.

She will go to Rome to be marched in my triumph.

Afterward, I do not know.

It will be up to the senate, but if the citizens of Palmyra are once again loyal citizens of Rome the senate could be merciful.”

“And who will rule Palmyra, Roman?”

was Longinus’s next query.

“Will our king be allowed to keep his place if we surrender to you?”

“Possibly,”

Aurelian replied.

“King Vaballathus has never shown disloyalty to Rome, only his mother has.”

Liar! Zenobia thought furiously.

I know exactly what you mean to do.

Oh, Jupiter father, hear my prayer! Do not let my people be swayed by the silken tongue of this Roman Minerva, great wise one, grant my son the wisdom to see the truth.

“You claim to have our queen, Aurelian,”

came Longinus’s voice once more, “but how do we know that you speak the truth? Show us Zenobia of Palmyra so we may know for certain.”

Suddenly the tent top above her was pulled away and the body of the small enclosure fell away to reveal Zenobia to all those who stood upon Palmyra’s walls.

“Here is your queen!”

Aurelian declared dramatically.

Zenobia knew that she would have but one chance, and so at the top of her lungs she cried out for all to hear, “Do not surrender, my son! I die gladly for Palmyra!”

At Aurelian’s signal a legionnaire leapt forward to silence her by placing one arm about her waist while a hand was clamped firmly over her mouth.

Zenobia did not bother to struggle.

She had said what she had to say, and it had had its effect.

Upon the walls of the great oasis city the populace began to chant her name softly at first, and then louder, and louder until it became a roar of defiance.

“Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia! Zenobia!”

“Take her back to my tent,”

the Roman emperor commanded angrily.

Zenobia pulled away from the offending hand over her mouth, and laughed mockingly at Aurelian.

“We are even now, Roman.

You won last night’s battle by brute force, but I have won this morning’s by better tactics.”

Then she easily shook off the legionnaire’s grip.

“Let go of me, pig! I am capable of returning to my quarters without your aid.”

To prove her point she walked swiftly away.

Gaius Cicero looked at the emperor.

“Will they surrender, I wonder?”

he said quietly.

“You see how she holds the populace within the palm of her hand.”

“The decision isn’t theirs, but rather the young king’s,”

the emperor returned irritably.

“He will surrender if for no other reason than his mother told him not to.

My spies tell me that he resents the queen and very much wants to be his own man.

He will open the gates tomorrow.

Wait and see if I am not right, Gaius.”

“The men are restless, Caesar.

What will your orders be for today?”

“I think it best that they drill for several hours beneath this charming sun.

It will take the meanness from them.

Afterward they will return to their quarters, where they will spend the rest of the day polishing their gear for tomorrow’s triumphal entry into Palmyra.

Only when they have completed these tasks may they have some time to themselves.

Encourage them to visit the whores, for I want no rape tomorrow when we enter Palmyra.

A city of resentful rebels is not to our best interests.

“I want to remove the government and replace it with our own people; but other than that it will be business as usual in Palmyra.”

Gaius Cicero saluted the emperor.

“It will be as Caesar commands,”

he said and, turning, hurried off to give the order.

Aurelian sat down, his legs swinging over the platform’s edge.

The hot sun felt good on his body, which might be lean and hard but was nonetheless the body of a man in his late-middle years.

He chuckled to himself, remembering the old men in his Illyrian village sitting and gossiping together in the winter sunshine.

Was he getting to be like them? he wondered.

In his lifetime neither generals nor emperors were particularly noted for long lives, and so perhaps he would not have the time to find out.

He chuckled again.

What strange thoughts he was having today.

It was truly a sign of old age.

Here he was on the day before his greatest triumph, and he sat like an old turtle atop a rock in midpond, philosophizing in the sunshine.

He looked up at the walls of Palmyra, but the white-marble barriers told him nothing of the beauties that lay hidden behind them.

It was said to be the Rome of the East; and there were some who said it was lovelier.

Well, tomorrow he would find out.

A wolfish smile lit his features.

Zenobia was going to be very angry at the boy.

Now the young king of Palmyra would be making his first serious royal decision, and that decision was going to cost him his throne.

Yes, Zenobia was going to be very angry, and he could not blame her, for as a ruler himself he understood.

She and her late husband had worked hard to rebuild the Eastern Empire, and now he would take it.

Aurelian pushed himself off the platform and walked back into the heart of the encampment, noting as he went that the centurions were already drilling smartly.

It was not to his sleeping tent that he returned.

Rather, Aurelian hurried to his main tent, where the business of the empire awaited him.

Durantis, his secretary, was already hard at work opening the dispatches and separating them into piles according to their importance.

“Good morning, Durantis.

Any emergencies?”

“No, Caesar.

Nothing serious.”

“Anything personal?”

“A letter from the Empress Ulpia.

She writes that although she is well, your niece, Carissa, is not.

The late months of the young lady’s pregnancy do not seem to agree with her.”

“Any mention of my niece’s husband, Marcus Alexander?”

“No, Caesar.”

“Well, let us get to work then on the correspondence,”

the emperor said.

“I have plans for the afternoon hours.”

He settled himself in a chair and began to dictate rapidly to the wheezing scribe who sat at a side table, while Durantis murmured small asides and reminders into his ear.

In Aurelian’s sleeping tent Zenobia was busily talking to Bab and Tamar.

“What was his state of mind when you left him, Bab?”

she demanded of her old nursemaid.

“He was very distressed by your capture, Majesty, and quite worried as to what he should do.

The lady Flavia never left his side.”

“Good for Flavia,”

Zenobia remarked.

“She is stronger than her sweet appearance would tell.

He must not surrender.”

“He is not you, my dear,”

Tamar said with an air of finality, “and he is not Odenathus, either.

If he does not surrender your life could be forfeit.

Palmyrans would follow you anywhere, Zenobia.

They would starve themselves to death and murder their children to please you; but you have not the right to ask them, my dear.

You cannot repay their loyalty with death and destruction.

You have lost this war.

Do not drag Palmyra and all its peoples into the war you wage within yourself.”

Old Bab drew her breath in sharply.

Tamar’s words had been a truth that no one else had ever spoken to Zenobia, but the beautiful queen tossed her dark head angrily and replied, “My only war is with Rome.

From the day that they killed my mother Rome has been my enemy.

If Vaba opens the gates to them he is no son of mine.

I will fight the Romans till my death!”

“Is there no reasoning with you, Zenobia? Since you learned of Marcus’s marriage this hatred of yours has been a burning spur to drive you onward toward your own destruction.

No, do not glower at me.

Everyone but you sees it.

I am here with Bab because your father asked it of me.

He will not live much longer, Zenobia, and his greatest fear is that you will ruin all that Odenathus worked so hard for, and by your own impetuous and stubborn acts steal Vaba’s heritage from him.

You are his favorite child, my dear, and all Zabaai ever wanted for his daughter was that she be happy.”

“Happiness?”

Zenobia’s laugh was harsh.

“There is no such thing, Tamar! There is survival, which goes to the victorious, to the wisest, the wealthy, the clever, the strong! With survival one may gain a measure of peace, but that is all.”

“Do not be cynical with me,”

Tamar snapped, her good nature and patience coming to an end.

“You are a disciplined woman.

Use that self-discipline now, if not for your own sake then for the sake of those who love and care for you.”

She put a loving arm about Zenobia, and for a brief moment it was as it had been so long ago in that other time when everything had been so simple and there was no Marcus Alexander Britainus.

Then Zenobia shook Tamar’s arm from her shoulders and said, “I can promise nothing, Tamar.

Go back to my father and tell him that I love him.

It is the best I can offer.”

With a sigh Tamar kissed Zenobia upon the forehead, and with Bab to escort her safely through the encampment back to the tents of her son, Akbar, she left the queen to her solitude.

Furious, Zenobia looked for something to throw, but Aurelian’s spare quarters offered nothing, frustrating her further, and she burst into tears.

She was horrified at her own actions, but she could not stop the copious flow that poured from her eyes and down her cheeks, streaking them with hot salt.

It was as if all the sorrow, the pain, and the disappointment of the last months was finally purging itself.

In the heat of the afternoon Aurelian returned to his own quarters with the idea of pleasuring himself once again with his beautiful captive.

He was hardly prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Zenobia lay upon her back on the couch; her exquisite golden body gleaming temptingly through the sheer black silk of her kalasiris; one arm flung protectively over her eyes, the other by her side, the hand curled into a fist.

One leg was up, the other stretched straight.

The evidence of weeping was plain upon her face, and for the briefest moment Aurelian felt pity for the brave queen she had been, but this was a woman as he liked them: pliant and helpless.

He sat beside her.

She opened her silvery eyes with their black and gold flecks, and the hatred leapt forth to scald him.

“What do you want?”

she hissed venomously.

In an instant Aurelian’s compassion vanished, and reaching forward to hook his fingers into the neck of her gown, he ripped it in two with a swift motion.

“I wouldn’t think after last night, goddess, that you would have to ask me that question,”

he replied mockingly; and when she attempted to rise he held her down, a cruel arm across her throat, effectively pinning her while his other hand began a leisurely exploration of her magnificent breasts.

She lay mutinous, her fury quite evident, while he played with the full silken orbs.

Zenobia’s nipples had always been sensitive, and now she quivered as he rolled first one and then the other between his thumb and his forefinger.

“You will soon bore me if you are so quick to passion, goddess,”

he mocked her, and then he laughed, for if looks could slay then he knew he should lie this minute cold and lifeless upon the floor of his tent.

“Pig of a peasant,”

she snarled at him.

“Is force the only way you can have a woman?”

“You were quick enough to beg for release last night,”

he countered, looking down into her angry eyes.

“Did you not teach me that it was lust, Roman?”

He chuckled.

“Lust may generate your desire, goddess, but the results are the same as if you loved me.

You yield!”

With a shriek of outrage she began a struggle against him.

Quickly he removed his arm from across her throat, and catching her hands, yanked them above her head as he bent to kiss her.

She tried to bite him, but he only laughed, and bent again to kiss her passionately, his warm lips pressing hungrily upon hers, and forcing them apart so that he could run his tongue across her clenched teeth and murmur against her mouth soft entreaties all the while seductively fondling her breasts.

She fought, desperately trying to avoid the tingle deep within her that now began to fight its way to the surface of her consciousness regardless of her struggle to avoid it.

She fought, desperate to avoid this strange emotion that he called lust, an emotion that seemed to control her very thoughts.

He was enjoying their battle, for he understood the war that she now fought within herself.

He knew that he had simply to persevere, for she was by nature an extremely passionate woman; and she would not give up at the first breach in her defenses.

She would fight on until he plunged deep within her warm, wet body; until she climaxed beneath him, a curse upon her lips for him.

And strangely, the prospect excited him more than if she had yielded to him without a struggle.

He would never really tame her, he knew now; but eventually she would stop resisting him.

Beneath him, Zenobia fought to free one of her hands.

If she could just get one arm loose she might use it in her defense.

His big, hard body pressed down upon her, forcing the breath from her until, tearing her head from him, she gasped for precious air.

He used the opportunity to release her arms and catch her face between his two hands.

“Look at me!”

he demanded of her in a voice she found she was powerless to resist.

Her anger-blackened eyes confronted his sky-blue ones.

His knee forced itself none too gently between her thighs, and then he was slowly, deliberately entering her.

With a gasp of shock, and a terrible fear she could not explain rising up almost to suffocate her, she attempted to turn away. “No!”

His voice whipcracked sharply.

“I want you to look into my eyes when I enter into your body.”

“No!”

Her voice had become a desperate whisper.

“Yes!”

His hands held her head so tightly that she thought he might easily crush her skull.

She trembled, mesmerized like a small bird caught before a snake, unable to look away as he slowly pushed himself into her helpless body.

With deliberate and provocative movement he took her.

His blue eyes bore deep into her soul, and the last thought Zenobia had before she fainted dead away was that he was somehow taking over her entire being and she had not even the strength to protest.

Instead, she gave way to the rich, warm darkness that enfolded her and took away all need for thought.

“Zenobia! Zenobiar!”

Through the mists she could hear someone calling her name, and with a small protest she struggled to return to the sweet darkness; but the voice persisted.

“Zenobia! Open your eyes, goddess! Open them!”

Still protesting, she finally opened her eyes, although the effort was a mighty one, for her eyelids felt heavy.

Before her foggy gaze Aurelian’s face loomed, and to her surprise he appeared worried.

Now as she focused and he became clearer, she could see relief etched upon his handsome face, even tenderness.

“I hate you,”

she managed to say weakly, and he laughed, elated.

“I thought I had killed you,”

he said, “and a dead queen is of no value to me.”

She struck at him futilely, and with a growl of delight he gathered her into his arms and held her close.

“Be quiet, goddess.

I’m not going to hurt you.

Just be quiet now.”

Because she was too ravaged to do anything more she lay quiet within his embrace; then reluctantly she began to relax.

Soon she was dozing against his chest, and a lovely warmth began to penetrate her chilled frame.

When she awoke she knew that several hours had passed, for she could tell through a loose place in the tent that it was night.

Carefully she eased herself out of his embrace.

Her body ached in every joint.

More than anything else in the world she longed for a hot bath, sweet-scented and soothing to ease her tired and sore mucles.

With a sigh she knew that it would have to wait.

She looked over at Aurelian.

He lay quiet, his breathing soft and even.

Zenobia studied the emperor carefully.

Her first brief impression of rugged handsomeness still held.

He was surprisingly youthful-looking despite the fact that she knew him to be in late midlife.

About his eyes and very gently etched into the skin on his upper cheekbones were the telltale signs of aging.

Still, she thought, a touch bitterly, he was a damned satyr below the waist.

He hadn’t bothered to remove his short red military tunic during this last assault upon her, so she could see little of his body, but where the tunic rode high she could see the beginnings of a scar along his left thigh.

From the width of it she suspected it was probably a spear wound. There were several other smaller scars upon his legs and arms, enough to show he had done his battle time, but not enough to say he was careless.

Even in sleep the line of his mouth indicated that he was a tough, stubborn man rarely given to softness or compassion.

She shuddered remembering their battle of that afternoon.

Never had she felt so … so possessed, or less in control of her own body and mind.

When he had forced her to look at him she had come totally under his control, and she knew that he had reveled in her weakness.

Zenobia vowed that she would not let that happen again.

The next time he demanded she look into his eyes, she would appear to give her complete concentration, but in reality she would unfocus her eyes.

Quietly she rose from the bed and stretched slowly, easing some of the tension from her battered body.

She was unaware that he watched her through slitted eyes, for not once had his breathing altered to warn her that he was awake.

She had a fine body, he thought, despite the fact that she was over thirty.

He liked her long legs, sleek flanks, barely rounded belly, and particularly her full but firm breasts.

He liked women with big breasts, but often with age those fine breasts sagged.

Ulpia’s certainly had.

As he watched Zenobia raise the lid on her small trunk and pull forth a robe in which to clothe herself, he wondered about Carissa.

She would have had her child by now.

Was it the male child she had been so sure she carried? He also wondered whose child it actually was.

Oh, there was always the possibility that he had finally fathered a child, but he seriously doubted it.

People liked to believe that his lack of sons was poor Ulpia’s fault, but he knew that it was not.

Before his marriage he had occasionally kept a mistress, and none had ever presented him with a bastard child.

Since his marriage he had kept a steady stream of minor courtesans, and certainly none of them had borne him children.

Only Carissa had ever claimed that he had fathered her child.

He was dubious, but since he had never intended divorcing Ulpia to many his venal little niece, he did not argue with her.

Possibly the child was his.

He had to admit that he was curious.

Aurelian opened his blue eyes and watched Zenobia as a cat watches its prey.

He certainly felt sorry for Marcus Alexander, but then to the victor belonged the spoils, and he, Aurelian, was the victor.