Page 36 of Beloved
“Yes,”
Zenobia said, “it will please me if you come—and thank you.”
She, too, rose, and escorted her new friend to the garden gate that separated their villas.
“Good-bye, Lady Dagian,”
little Mavia piped up.
Dagian turned and, bending, kissed the child on the top of her head.
“Good-bye, little Princess,”
she said before hurrying through the gate into her own garden.
When she turned back, Zenobia and Mavia were already hurrying hand in hand across the garden toward the villa.
Dagian paused beneath a tall shade tree and breathed deeply.
She had not dreamed that she should see her granddaughter so soon.
She remembered Marcus! That was good.
Perhaps the child would be the bridge that joined her two proud and stubborn parents.
How beautiful Palmyra’s queen was, Dagian thought.
She was quite different from both Roman and British women, yet the golden skin, the blue-black hair, and the storm-gray eyes combined with her marvelously aristocratic features to make her fairer than any female Dagian could ever remember seeing.
She was intelligent, Dagian realized, and that would have attracted Marcus as well.
Zenobia, before re-entering her own villa, had looked back across the gardens.
Dagian seemed a pleasant woman, the queen mused, but was she someone whom she might trust? I need a friend, Zenobia said to herself.
She was so alone here.
“Hail, Caesar!”
Mavia lisped, and Zenobia turned to see Aurelian standing within the entry of the house.
“Go to Charmian, child,”
Zenobia ordered.
“Yes, Mama,”
was the obedient reply, and Mavia was gone.
“You never give me a chance to really know her, goddess.
Are you afraid I will corrupt her?”
“I never know what you will do, Roman,”
Zenobia said coldly.
“You are angry about the triumph,” he said.
“I was paraded the length of Rome, naked for all to see!”
“Yet I have not humbled you, have I, proud bitch?”
He reached out for her, but Zenobia skillfully evaded him and, brushing past him, gained the inner garden.
“Do not touch me, Roman! Not now! Not ever!”
Jupiter, she wanted to get away from him, but she didn’t know where to go! It was an infuriating situation.
“Oh, goddess, are we to fight again? I thought we had done with fighting.”
His voice was very patient.
“Hear me, Roman! I will be your whore because there is no other choice for me; but I will never forget your actions toward me today.”
“So you will be my whore,”
he said softly, but his narrowed glittering eyes belied the gentleness of his voice.
“You will be my whore because you have no other choice? If it is choice you desire, my beautiful goddess, let me assure you that every patrician with a pair of balls between his legs would like me to pass you on to him when I am tired of you.
I am not tired of you, but if it would please you, I can do as the Emperor Caligula once did, and indeed make a whore of you.
How would you like to spend your nights servicing every rich and randy cock in Rome?”
She looked into his eyes, and was suddenly afraid because she saw in them a terrible determination.
He would make her whore with every man in Rome if in the end she returned to him pliant and obedient; his woman, and his woman alone. “No,”
she said low.
“No, I should not like it, Roman.”
Oh, how she hated him for making her feel so helpless; she who had ruled an empire.
He delighted in it, the bastard!
“Where is your room?”
he demanded.
Zenobia looked at him, and then began to laugh.
“I do not know,”
she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks at the absurdity of the situation.
He was ready to assert his rights, in reality to rape her, and she had absolutely no idea of where her bed was.
“Haven’t you inspected the house yet?”
He was looking outraged.
“There was no time,”
she said.
“I arrived, and there was difficulty with the slaves.
I want to replace them tomorrow, Roman.
Then I went to see the gardens, and the woman in the next villa, a friend of the empress’s, came from next door.”
Zenobia shrugged helplessly.
“I have not seen the house at all.
I did not realize that you would arrive so quickly.”
“I left the games shortly after you did, goddess.
Without you they were boring.
I had to see the empress safely to the Palatine palace.”
“You should have stayed with her, Roman.
She is ill.
Even I can see she does not have a great deal of time left to live; and she loves you.
How can you leave her?”
“Ulpia is a soldier’s wife.
She is used to being without me.”
“Because she is a soldier’s wife makes it no easier to be without the man she loves.
She has accepted her lot, but how it must hurt her, Roman.
How cruel you are!”
He moved close to her, and his hands gripped her upper arms.
“I would not be cruel to you, goddess.
All I want to do is love you.
Why will you not love me, beloved?”
Beloved! She turned her head to hide the quick tears that damped her eyes.
“I have told you before, Roman, that I shall never put myself into the keeping of any man again.
Be satisfied that you have my body.
It is all I can ever give you.”
“But you never give, Zenobia”
Aurelian said.
“I must always take.
Even now you steel yourself for the assault you assume is about to come.”
He pulled her chin about so that she was forced to look at him.
“Just once, goddess, I would like your kiss to be a willing one, not sparked by lust, but rather, caring.”
“Never.”
It was said quietly.
“Then I must take what I can get from you, goddess,”
he said, and his mouth covered hers in a fierce, possessive kiss.
She shuddered wildly, and then, to the amazement of them both, Zenobia began to cry great wracking sobs of pure anguish.
Every agony of the last months shook her slender frame.
The terrible destruction of Palmyra, her separation from Vaba and Flavia, Longinus’s death, the loss of Demetrius; all of it welled up within her and poured forth, and she was unable to stop it.
She was tired of fighting, tired of responsibility, plain bone tired.
For the first time in Zenobia’s life she wanted to be free of it all; she wanted to be taken care of.
He saw it in her face, in her eyes, and knew that now if he were clever he might have her as he had always wanted her.
She was more vulnerable than he had ever seen her, than she had ever been in her entire life, he suspected.
Aurelian held her gently, and stroked her shining, dark hair.
“There, beloved,”
he soothed her, “there, my beautiful goddess.
Do not weep, my love; do not weep.”
He caught her face between his hands and, bending, kissed her mouth again, but with tenderness this time.
He kissed her shut eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, and her chin, before returning to her mouth once more; but this time his lips were more demanding, and, to his pleasure, she returned his kiss not from lust, but from need.
He gathered her up into his arms, and she nestled against his shoulder, still sobbing.
With firm steps he walked through the interior garden and into the atrium of the house.
Seeing them, Bab threw up her hands in distress, but the emperor’s stern look warned her to be silent as he made his way up the stairs to the second floor and into her bedroom at the end of the hall.
Gently he laid her upon the bed, then sat down next to her.
“I cannot bear to see you weep,”
he said low.
“Tell me what you want of me, Zenobia.
I will do anything to make you happy.”
But she only wept on, softer now, yet still she wept.
Reaching out, he ran his hand down her trembling body, and she murmured with an almost shy pleasure that intrigued him.
He carefully removed her jeweled collar, the snake bracelets, and her earrings.
Next he slowly undid and drew off her sandals, massaging her feet until she almost purred.
With a smooth, almost lingering movement he pushed the white silk kalasiris upward, revealing long golden legs, smooth thighs, sweetly rounded belly, tempting breasts.
The kalasiris slipped easily over Zenobia’s head and arms, and the emperor then dropped it carelessly by the bedside.
He bent and kissed each breast, causing her nipples to stand tall.
As he raised his head he found that she was looking at him, her eyes wide and wet, the lashes stuck together.
Her mouth quivered, and then she said so low that he had to bend to hear her, “Love me, Roman.
Please love me, and make it all better.
I can no longer bear the pain.”
“And will you love me, goddess, or will you simply take from me?”
he demanded softly of her.
“I will give,”
she replied.
“Only take the pain away.”
He stood and slowly removed his own clothing, his passionate eyes never leaving hers.
He might have fallen on her like a beast upon a helpless lamb, for his own desire was great and he feared that she might suddenly come to her senses.
Instead, he exerted his great willpower, and moved slowly and quietly.
Returning to the bed, he lay next to her and held her hand.
“I have adored you from the moment I first saw you, Zenobia.
I love you, my fair goddess, and never have I made that statement to any woman.
When Ulpia has left this world for the next you will marry me, and I shall make you Queen of the mighty Roman Empire; not just a small piece of it, but all of it, stretching from Persia to the farthest outposts of wild Britain.
You are a rare and perfect jewel, my beloved, and now you are mine alone! I will make you happy, Zenobia, I swear by all the gods.
If you will but let me, I shall make you the happiest woman alive!”
He raised himself up on one elbow and looked down upon her.
Her eyes were shut, but he knew that she heard him.
“I want you to make love to me, goddess,”
he said quietly, and then he lay back waiting.
For a few very long minutes they lay side by side, then she raised herself up and bent to touch his mouth with a sweet kiss.
He reached out and lifted her up so that she found herself sitting upon his loins.
Zenobia blushed, the blood rushing up to stain her pale-gold cheeks a soft apricot pink.
She was long past girlhood, and yet she felt untutored and shy.
She wasn’t quite sure what he expected of her.
Aurelian chuckled with amusement at her obvious chagrin.
“What, goddess? You never made love to your husband or your lover? Touch me, Zenobia.
Don’t you like it when I touch you?”
Hesitantly she reached out and put her hand upon his chest.
He held his breath.
Slowly she explored the muscles beneath her fingertips, the softness of his skin.
She sighed.
Her touch inflamed him wildly, yet he held himself in check, watching her through slitted eyes.
She was not yet roused herself, but she was curious, and perhaps a little frightened.
Reaching out, he caressed one of her marvelous breasts, taking a finger and running it sensuously around the nipple to encourage her.
“You are so beautiful,”
he crooned.
“So very, very beautiful, Zenobia.”
He felt her relax a bit more, and she shifted her weight, leaning forward to brush her breasts against his chest, matching her hardening nipples with his and rubbing against him in a provocative movement.
Stretching his arms out, he gently seized the cheeks of her bottom and drew her closer, fondling her, caressing her, beginning to stir the embers of her desire.
“Oh yes, goddess,”
he murmured against her ear, and she shivered as his warm breath touched her.
He was being so gentle, she thought, so kind.
All he wanted was to love her, for her to love him in return.
It didn’t mean that she had to trust him.
She could never really trust any man again; but he was willing to take the pain away in exchange for her devotion.
She didn’t really love him, but she could pretend.
All she had to do was stop fighting him, to relax and enjoy making love to him, to make him believe that she cared.
Her stubborn pride had brought her to this, she mused, and she was tired of hurting.
She felt his staff, hard and pushing against her, as if it had a separate life of its own.
Zenobia moved back and, raising herself carefully, caught him in her hand and guided him into her softness.
Surprised by her sudden action, he could only gasp with delight as she gently rode him.
Then he put his arms about her, rolled her over, and rode her.
Slowly he pushed himself into her sheath, slowly he withdrew himself; repeating the movement until her relaxed body began to shudder with the splendor of her orgasm.
Each movement of his weapon seemed to drive deeper, and she moaned with undiluted pleasure, straining to reach greater heights, finally falling away in a shower of stars while his body joined hers in fulfillment.
The terrible tension and ache gone from her frame, Zenobia fell into a peaceful sleep.
At her side, the emperor considered the events of the last few minutes.
She had been so sweet! So totally and incredibly sweet in her surrender.
This was how he had always dreamed she would be with him, and at last the gods had answered his prayers.
She was not broken, he knew, but he believed that she was at last his.
He need have no fear of any man, even Marcus Alexander Britainus.
Aurelian slept, secure for the first time since he had taken Zenobia for his own.
They slept for several long hours, and Zenobia awoke first.
She lay quietly, remembering her mood of several hours ago, remembering what had passed between herself and Aurelian.
She had not really promised him anything, and yet she had.
But could she love him? No.
The word slammed into her brain.
She could not.
He had taken from her almost everything that she held dear and sacred.
Still she must survive to be revenged, and Mavia must be protected.
If she suddenly scorned Rome’s emperor after he opened himself to her he would surely kill her.
“What are you thinking of, Zenobia?”
he asked her, his voice tearing at the silence.
“Of how kind you were to me last night,”
she replied.
“I love you,”
he said simply.
“I know,”
she replied, and he did not push her further than that.
The dawn was not even beginning to stain the east, yet he said, “Let us bathe.”
“The slaves are not yet up,”
she protested.
“We will wake them,”
he returned.
“No,”
she said.
“We will bathe each other, Roman.”
And she arose naked from the bed.
Turning slightly, she glanced over her shoulder at him, her look provocative, and she held out her hand to him.
“Well? Are you coming?”
He could feel his need for her stirring already, but he fought his urges back down and, taking her hand, stood up and followed her.
The bath, which was located next door to Zenobia’s chamber, was eerily silent, its oil lamps flickering and casting shadows upon the frescoed walls depicting scenes of nymphs being pursued by the usual satyrs and centaurs.
She chuckled, and pleased by the warmth of the sound, Aurelian asked, “What amuses you, my love?”
“The walls, Roman.
They are so typical.”
“One may not expect originality in a state-owned villa,”
he teased her.
“Must I remain in this villa?”
“Perhaps at a later date we can discuss a larger home for you, goddess; but for now you will stay here.”
“As you will,”
she answered him, and then reaching for the porcelain jar of soft soap, she scooped some out with three fingers and began to spread it over him.
She worked slowly, her hands smoothing the soap into a rich cream as they moved in ever-widening circles over his hard body.
He began to feel a delicious contentment at her touch, and almost fell back asleep standing in the bath.
She roused him from his reverie, rinsing him off with several jars of warmed water and the command, “Go and soak in the hot tub now, Roman.”
“Do I not get to wash you, goddess?” he asked.
“You will catch a chill standing here,”
she protested.
“I will wash you,”
he said, ending the matter, and then he took the soap from the jar and began to imitate her motions of a few moments earlier.
Turning her so that her back was to him, he rubbed soap over her belly and upward to her breasts, cupping those sweet fruits in his palms, his thumbs gently rubbing around her erect nipples.
She stood very still, barely breathing, as his hands moved with familiarity over her graceful form.
Finally he rinsed her, and together they entered the hot tub.
“What will you do here in Rome?” he asked.
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you brought me here,”
she smiled.
“I imagine, however, that I shall do what all new residents of the city do.
I shall sight-see, and I shall try to make friends.”
“There will be many only too eager to make friends with you, Zenobia,”
he answered.
“Beware of becoming involved in any political factions, goddess.
There will be those who will seek to use you, for Rome is a sewer of intrigue.”
She looked at him, somewhat amused.
“I did not rule Palmyra all those years by not being aware of what went on around me.
Rome has ever been a hotbed of conspiracy.
You change emperors with the regularity of a popular courtesan changing lovers.”
“Until now,”
he said.
“I am the new Rome, Zenobia.
I am leading my people back to the old ways, the right ways.
Thanks to me, the empire is strong again, and it will grow stronger with each passing day.
My heirs will be the new Caesars.”
“Your heirs? You have no children, Roman.
Of course there is your niece’s child, isn’t there?”
Suddenly Zenobia wondered if it had been ambition that had caused Marcus to betray her.
“My niece’s child?”
For a brief moment he was puzzled, and then he realized that she had meant Carissa.
By the gods she must not know that both Carissa and her infant had perished, and that Marcus Alexander Britainus was a free man! Suddenly Aurelian’s old insecurities rose up to haunt him, and he quickly said, “Yes, there is that child, bpt perhaps, goddess, we might have a child.
Because Ulpia has been barren all these years does not mean I might not have a son by you.”
He leaned over and placed a kiss upon her wet shoulder.
Cleopatra had had children by her Roman lovers, Zenobia thought, and those children had all met unfortunate ends at the hands of the empire, for they stood in the way of those who wanted power.
Aurelian sank his strong white teeth into her golden shoulder, and muttered, “Think of it, goddess! What a child I could get from your loins! He would rule the world!”
He was actually beginning to believe he might sire a child on this woman.
Suddenly irritated, Zenobia shook him off and climbed from the heated tub.
“I do not know if I want any more children,” she said.
“It is not your decision to make, goddess,”
he said, almost smugly.
“When Ulpia dies I shall make you my empress.
Until then I will continue to pump my seed into your belly, and I will make offerings to the gods praying for a son to come forth from your womb.”
Zenobia laughed, the sound a bitterly amused one that echoed about the tiled and frescoed walls of the bath.
“The gods have deserted me and mine, Roman.
Your prayers will be in vain.”
Then she walked from the caldarium of the bath, and he heard her splashing in the frigidarium next door.
Aurelian now stood up and came from the hot tub himself.
Looking down, he saw that his lance was hard, straight, and very ready.
He longed to move quickly into the next room and take her then and there upon the cold tiles of the bath floor; but instead, he stood quietly, breathing deeply, willing his desire away.
He wanted her as he had had her last night: warm, and willing, and pleading with him.
He was tired of the virago she could be, and he preferred her sweetness.
She was gone from the frigidarium when he entered it, and so he quickly plunged into the cool waters of the pool and refreshed himself.
Returning to their bedchamber, he found her still nude, but dry, creaming herself with a marvelously rich lotion that was scented with hyacinths.
Wordlessly he took the pale-green glass bottle from her hand, poured some of the liquid into his own hands and rubbed them together, then began to massage her slowly.
She was still stiff with her anger, and he said softly, persuasively, “Would it be such a terrible thing to give me a child, goddess? I love you so very much.”
“But I do not love you, Roman.
I am trying to please you, but I cannot will my emotions, and I will not lie to you.”
“The child will bring us closer together,”
he said as if it was already a certainty.
“When you hold our son in your arms; when you put him to your milk-filled breasts as did proper Roman matrons of old; then, Zenobia, will your heart be filled with love for me.
I know it!”
He turned her about and kissed her passionately, willing her to respond.
And suddenly Zenobia was filled with compassion for him.
Pulling her head away, she looked up into his blue eyes, and said, “Oh, Aurelian! Even you have a weakness.
I had not believed it until now.”
“Yes, Zenobia, I have a weakness.
I crave immortality, and only through my descendants may I have that immortality.
Give me a son, goddess! Give me a son!”
He swept her up then, and laid her upon their bed, sprawling near her, pushing his way between her legs to moisten with his tongue that soft and most secret of places to prepare her for his entry.
When he entered her she enfolded him within her arms, and was tender.
She was tired of hurting, of being hurt, and afterward he fell asleep upon her breasts for another few hours.
Zenobia, however, lay awake.
Emperor of the Romans, she thought, you have made me feel sorry for you, but I will still be revenged.
Revenged for Palmyra, for my sons, for myself.
You have taken almost everything that is dear from me, but I will have mine again! Her eyes strayed to the small piece of white marble set so carefully upon a nearby table.
It was the piece she had taken from amid the ruins of the great Palmyran Temple of Jupiter.
It was all she had left of her city, except for her memories, which would never die.
She felt the tears sliding down her face, but there was no sound.
“I will be revenged,”
she whispered softly, and he stirred restlessly upon her breasts.
She murmured soothingly as she might have to an infant, and he quieted.
In the weeks that followed Zenobia visited the city of Rome many times, for there were enough wealthy patricians anxious to entertain her that she need never worry about returning the miles to Tivoli come night.
Never, however, would she stay at the emperor’s residence on the Palatine Hill.
“I will not flaunt our relationship before your unfortunate, dying wife,”
she told Aurelian.
The Queen of Palmyra was impressed with Rome, but her discerning eye saw the difference between what it had been and what it was now.
She saw the great marble public buildings and temples free of graffiti, and the parks cleared of garbage.
She was shocked, however, by the thousands of healthy people who loitered and lingered about the streets, unemployed though able to work, for they were provided with food and entertainment.
In fact Zenobia suspected that Rome’s famous bread and circuses would be the eventual death of the empire.
Whatever Aurelian said, the people, used to their slothful ways for several generations now, would not tolerate being returned to the old ways of hard work and honest industry.
Patricians, she found, were a great bore on the whole.
There was one exception, however, and that was the elderly Senator Tacitus whom she had met at Aurelian’s games following the triumph.
He was a witty old gentleman, and for some reason she felt comfortable with him.
There was also her next-door neighbor, the lady Dagian.
Here, too, was someone with whom she felt at ease, and daily she walked with her in the garden, Mavia running ahead of them, around them, lingering behind to watch a butterfly.
Zenobia was touched by the way the lady Dagian had taken to her small daughter; and Mavia now adored Dagian with a singular devotion.
It was Dagian who now sewed little tunic dresses for Mavia, and sat in the grass with her weaving daisy chains and listening to her many confidences.
As they sat thus one late summer’s afternoon with the sunlight upon their bowed heads, Zenobia suddenly looked at Dagian and her daughter, and a cry escaped her lips.
The older woman looked up and, seeing Zenobia’s obvious distress, rose quickly and hurried over to her.
“Zenobia, my dear, what is it?”
she asked.
Zenobia looked into unexpectedly familiar blue eyes, deep-blue eyes, and cried, “Who are you?”
“I am Dagian,”
was the gentle answer.
“I am your friend.”
“Dagian who?”
It was then that Dagian understood what had happened, and closing her eyes a moment, she sighed softly before saying, “I am Dagian, wife to the late Lucius Alexander.”
“You are the mother of Marcus Alexander Britainus?”
Zenobia’s voice was accusing.
“I am,”
came the quiet reply.
“How could you practice such a deception on me?”
Zenobia demanded, and then, turning to her daughter, said, “Mavia, my darling, run and find Charmian.”
The child looked up to protest, but, seeing the angry look upon her mother’s face, she rose and ran off.
The Queen of Palmyra turned back to the older woman.
“Is not your son’s child enough for you? Must you steal my daughter away too?”
“Marcus has had no children here in Rome,”
Dagian replied.
“No children? The emperor says differently! Tell me, Dagian, did your traitorous offspring spawn a son or a daughter upon Aurelian’s niece?”
“Carissa died in childbirth, and her infant with her.”
“Surely the emperor has other nieces,”
Zenobia said sarcastically.
“If I did not know how badly my fool of a son had hurt you, Zenobia, I should slap you!”
Dagian said vehemently.
“Sit down now, and I will tell you the truth of the matter—unless, of course, you prefer to clutch your outrage to your bosom for the rest of your life!”
Dagian gestured impatiently toward a marble bench in a small, secluded grotto in the garden and, suddenly wordless, Zenobia sat.
Her companion settled herself next to her.
“When Marcus arrived home his father was dying.
Now knowing that Marcus had already betrothed himself to you, Lucius had arranged with the emperor that our eldest son marry Carissa.
My husband very much wanted to see his heir safely married before he died.
“Marcus, of course, told me that he could not marry the emperor’s niece; that he was betrothed to you, that he loved you.
He went immediately to Aurelian; but Aurelian refused to allow Marcus to break the contract made by my husband.
He insisted that my son marry his niece.
He threatened terrible things against our family if Marcus refused to marry Carissa.
Marcus had no choice at that point.
He had to wed Carissa.
“Immediately after they were married she told him she was pregnant with the emperor’s child.
She mocked him with the knowledge.
Carissa was a terrible creature, Zenobia! My son despised her, for she was evil incarnate.”
Zenobia was stone-faced.
“Could he not have written to me, Dagian? When he left Palmyra I sent with him an escort of my personal guard, who were to bring back messages from Marcus at each port.
The last of those messengers never returned.”
“Because he was murdered, Zenobia! After the wedding my husband died.
Marcus had planned that I should go back to Britain with my younger son, Aulus, and then he planned to leave Carissa and return to you in Palmyra.
The emperor, however, knew every move we tried to make, and stopped us at the gates of Rome.
Aurelian wanted a hostage to insure Marcus’s good behavior, and what better hostage than a man’s mother? As a last resort Marcus decided to send the final messenger back to Palmyra.
He should have done it earlier, I agree, but he was afraid of compromising the family.
When he sent for your man, our majordomo found him dead in his quarters, his throat slit while he slept.
My son was trapped, unable to communicate with you.”
A sob escaped Dagian’s lips, and she brushed away the tears of remembrance that were beginning to fall.
Instinctively Zenobia reached out and patted Dagian’s arm.
Dagian caught the younger woman’s hand and clutched it.
“My son was so terribly unhappy,”
she continued.
“Then before Aurelian left for the East he told Marcus that he might have had Carissa marry any one of a number of eligible patrician men; but that he had chosen Marcus deliberately because he was your betrothed.
He knew of your hatred for Rome because of your mother’s murder years back, and he sought to rekindle that hatred so that you would rebel.
The emperor wanted Palmyra back, not as a client kingdom, but as a province.”
As the enormity of the betrayal slammed into her, Zenobia asked in a low, tight voice,
“Are you telling me that Aurelian deliberately separated me from Marcus in order to take Palmyra from me?”
Dagian nodded.
“Then he is a bigger fool than I anticipated,”
Zenobia said coldly.
“I fully intended declaring my son Augustus of the East long before Marcus left me.
I did not, however, plan to do it until after Marcus and I were married.
The news of your son’s marriage to the emperor’s niece left me with no reason for delay, and so I made my declaration in Alexandria.”
She laughed bitterly.
“No, Dagian, I must accept full responsibility for my actions; but I will have my revenge upon Aurelian.
Already because I am his mistress he grows to trust me.
He will find in the end that that was a mistake.”
“Marcus has never stopped loving you, Zenobia,”
Dagian said quietly.
“I am no longer the woman that Marcus loved,”
Zenobia said somewhat sadly.
“Marcus loved a queen, a woman with pride and spirit.
I am no longer a queen, and I have eaten the ashes of my pride in order to survive, in order to save my children.
I can never forget that, nor can I forget the things that I must do in order to continue to survive.
As long as Aurelian lives there is no hope for Marcus and me.
I have not yet the friends nor the power to destroy him, but eventually I will.”
Dagian looked upon Zenobia with wondering eyes.
“My child, you will destroy yourself,” she said.
“If I can destroy Aurelian in the process then it will be worth it,”
Zenobia replied.
“What of Mavia?”
“She has you,”
Zenobia said, “and she has her brother in Cyrene.”
“She has her father too,”
was Dagian’s answer, “but she needs both her mother and her father, my dear.”
“It is impossible,”
was the adamant reply.
“No, it is not!”
Dagian declared.
“See Marcus! See my son!”
“Are you mad, Dagian? Where? Where will we not be seen and spied upon? Aurelian lives in terror that Marcus will reclaim me.
When I first came to the villa he even lied to me about his niece’s child, pretending that it was alive and well.
He is beginning to trust me.
He has even offered me marriage upon poor Ulpia Severina’s death.”
“You would not marry him?”
Dagian was shocked.
“I will do what I must to be revenged!”
Zenobia cried passionately, and Dagian closed her eyes in agony.
“Once,”
she said, “my son’s failure to act quickly caused a separation that has brought you both great pain.
You have been given a second chance, Zenobia.
Do not let your lust for revenge wantonly destroy what the gods have so generously given you both!”
“The gods!”
Zenobia laughed harshly.
“Do you know what I was called by my people, Dagian? I was called the beloved of the gods; beloved of my people, and of the two men who loved me.”
She laughed again, and the bitterness in the sound scalded the older woman.
“I honored the gods all my life, but they deserted me! If it appears that they have given me a second chance it is only so they may take it away!”
The tears sprang again to Dagian’s eyes.
In Zenobia’s fierce and defiant words she could hear all the pain and hurt that the beautiful queen had suffered.
Dagian wanted to reach out and clasp the younger woman to her bosom.
She wanted to soothe her, and be a mother to her, and reassure her that everything would be all right; but she could not, for Dagian was not sure herself that everything was going to be all right.
Suddenly the silence of the grotto was broken by a man’s voice.
“Mother? Ah, there you are.
I wondered where you had gotten to.”
Marcus Alexander Britainus stood within the entry of the little green hideaway.
Both women leapt from the marble bench, Dagian’s hands flying to her heart, Zenobia turning pale at the sound of his voice.
There was no escape! She tried to turn away, but Marcus’s eyes were now used to the dimness and filling themselves with her.
“No!”
His voice was hoarse with shock, and his hand reached out to turn her about.
“No, beloved, don’t turn away from me.”
Slowly he entered into the grotto, brushing past his mother as if she were not there.
Stunned, Dagian could but watch them as they devoured each other with their eyes.
Marcus gently grasped Zenobia by her upper arms, and, looking down into her face, now tear-streaked, spoke in a low but audible voice.
“I love you,”
he said.