Page 4 of Beloved
“Will two hours be sufficient time for you to prepare the lady Tamar for her journey to justice?”
Before Zabaai ben Selim might reply Tamar said in a suddenly firm voice, “I will be ready, my lord Prince! If I live but one moment past the time I testify against those beasts it will be enough!”
Prince Odenathus embraced his cousin, then he and the Roman governor left the room.
In the upper hallway they saw the child Zenobia, who had come from her room, her mother’s servant, Bab, trailing behind her.
Odenathus stopped, greeting her in a kindly voice.
“Do you remember me, my small cousin?”
She stopped, and he was suddenly struck by her beauty.
She was but eleven, he knew, but already she showed promise of becoming an incredibly beautiful woman in a city famed for its beautiful women.
She had grown tall since he had last seen her some two years ago; but her body was still the flat and rangy one of a child.
Her long hair, loose and free of any ribboned restraint, was as black as a clear night sky.
Odenathus reached out and stroked her head as he might his favorite hunting saluki, slipping his hand down to raise up her oval heart of a face.
Her hair was soft, as was her pale-gold skin.
Her eyes were incredible.
Almond-shaped with long, thick black lashes, they were the dark gray of a thundercloud, yet within their depths he could see golden fires banked now by her grief.
She had a straight little nose, and such a lovely mouth that he had to restrain himself from bending down to kiss her lips, reminding himself sternly that she was yet a child.
Still, he thought regretfully, she was a very tempting nymph of a creature.
“I remember you, my lord Prince,”
Zenobia replied softly.
“I am sorry, Zenobia,”
he said helplessly.
It was then that the silvery thundercloud eyes flashed.
“Why do you tolerate the Roman pigs within Palmyra?”
she burst out angrily at him.
“The Romans are our friends now as they have ever been, my flower.
This has been an unfortunate incident,”
he said smoothly, aware of his companion the imperial governor.
“Friends do not rape and murder innocent women!”
she said scornfully.
“You have become one of them, my lord Prince! A mincing and perfumed fop of a Roman! I hate them! I hate them, and I hate you also for allowing them to put a yoke about our necks!”
He could see her eyes were now filled to overflowing with shining tears, but before he could say another word she turned away from him, and ran, followed by her grumbling servant woman.
“Poor little girl,”
Prince Odenathus said sadly.
“She was her mother’s only child, and they were very close, Antonius Porcius.
I can see how terribly she has been affected by this horrendous crime.”
The Roman governor looked after the fleeing child. “Yes,”
he said.
Rome had a bad habit, he thought, of making enemies.
Once the prince and the governor had returned to the city, Antonius Porcius called immediately into his presence the twelve officers who were attached to the two legions at his command.
He carefully explained the situation to them, and then asked, “Will the officers of the auxiliary legions stand by us in this matter?”
“I guarantee my Africans,”
said the tribune of the ninth legion.
“They detest the Gauls.”
His fellow officers nodded in agreement.
“I can see no reason why my Gauls should not see the justice in your punishment, Antonius Porcius,”
said the tribune of the sixth legion, somewhat stiffly.
“Assemble the entire garrison then,”
the governor commanded.
Two Roman legions, or twelve thousand foot soldiers plus two hundred forty cavalarymen, and two full auxiliary units, equal in size to the legions, assembled themselves outside Palmyra’s main gate.
Such a mighty gathering could not help but attract the curious.
As word of the soldiers’ movement flew throughout the city, the citizenry hurried outside the gates to see what was happening.
On a raised and awninged dais in the hot, late-afternoon sun sat the Roman governor, Antonius Porcius.
Resplendent in his purple-bordered white robes, with a wreath of silver-gilt laurel leaves upon his balding head, he waited with Palmyra’s princely ruler, Odenathus Septimius.
A young man of twenty-two years, the prince set more than one woman in the crowd to dreaming.
He was tall with well-formed and muscled arms and legs bronzed by the sun.
The short skirt of his white tunic was embroidered in gold.
His midnight-black hair was curly, his large eyes velvet-brown.
His mouth was wide and sensuous, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm.
He was an intelligent and educated man, who played a waiting game with the Romans.
He was not yet strong enough to overcome the invader, but he did have plans.
The child Zenobia’s angry accusation that he had become one of them had pleased him because it meant that he had succeeded with his ruse.
The Romans trusted him.
Reaching up, Odenathus adjusted the crown of Palmyra upon his head.
It was a beautiful crown, all gold, formed in the shape of the fronds of the Palmyran palms indigenous to the city.
It was, however, hot in weather like this.
He sighed, and brushed away a tiny trickle of sweat that attempted to slip down the side of his face.
The governor’s trumpeters blew a fanfare, and the noisy crowds grew silent with anticipation.
Then Antonius Porcius stood up, and walked to the edge of the dais.
Solemnly, with a politician’s flair for the dramatic, he let his gaze play over the hushed crowds.
Finally he spoke, his nasal voice surprisingly strong.
“Today the glory of Rome was tarnished.
It was tarnished not by those who are native to her, but rather by those upon whom she so graciously conferred the prize of her citizenship! Rome will not tolerate this! Rome will not permit those whom we have sworn to protect to be abused by anyone! Rome will punish those who would break her laws—and the laws of Palmyra!”
He paused a moment to allow his words to sink in, and then he continued.
“This morning, a wife of Zabaai ben Selim, great chief of the Bedawi, was viciously raped and slain within her very home! Another of this loyal man’s wives was also attacked and left for dead!”
A collective gasp arose from the assembled citizens of Palmyra, followed by a low ominous muttering.
Antonius Porcius held up his hands to quiet the anger of Palmyra.
“There is more!”
he cried loudly, and the crowd grew silent again.
“The woman who survived has pushed her shame aside and has come forth to identify those who assaulted her and the poor slain one!”
His words had barely died out when the crowds of Palmyran citizens began to part to allow the camels of Zabaai ben Selim through to the official dais.
The sight was both frightening and impressive.
The Bedawi chieftain led the group from atop his own black racing camel.
Behind him rode his forty sons from the eldest, Akbar ben Zabaai, to the youngest, a boy of six who sat his own camel proudly and unafraid.
Behind the Bedawi chief and his sons rode the other men of his tribe, followed by the walking and mourning women, who wailed a cadence of sorrow.
The camels stopped at the foot of the dais, and knelt in the warm sand to allow their riders to dismount.
To everyone’s surprise, one of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim turned out to be his only daughter, the beloved child, Zenobia.
Flanked on either side by her father and Akbar ben Zabaai, she stood straight and stony-eyed before the Roman governor and Prince Odenathus.
“We have come for Roman justice, Antonius Porcius,”
Zabaai ben Selim cried.
His voice rang clear in the still afternoon.
“Rome hears your plea, and will answer you fairly, Zabaai ben Selim,”
came the governor’s reply.
“Lucius Octavius!”
“Sir?”
The commanding tribune of the sixth legion stepped forward.
“Assemble your Alae!”
“Yes, sir!”
came the brisk reply, and the tribune turned, shouting his commands as he did so.
“Gaulish Alae to the front, ho!”
The one hundred twenty men of the cavalry from the Gallic provinces moved slowly forward, finally stopping and lining up in ten rows of twelve men each.
Their horses shifted edgily, feeling the men’s nervousness.
Zabaai ben Selim walked back to where the women of his tribe now stood silent, and led forth his chief wife, Tamar.
Together, they moved along the rows of Roman horsemen, and Tamar’s strong voice was soon heard as she pointed a short brown finger at the guilty ones.
“That one! And that one! These two!”
Legionnaires of the sixth legion dragged the accused men down from their shying horses, and then before the governor.
At the very end of the rows of cavalry Tamar stopped, and Zabaai felt a bone-shattering shudder go through her.
Looking up, he encountered a pair of the coldest blue eyes he had ever seen, and a thin, cruel mouth that drew back in a mocking smile.
“It is he, my husband.
It is the centurion who raped and killed Iris.”
Zabaai, looking into the knowing eyes of the Gaul, understood for a brief minute the terror and the shame that his sweet favorite wife must have felt in her last minutes.
A fierce rage welled up within his breast, and with a wild cry of fury he pulled the centurion from his mount.
In an instant his knife was at the man’s neck, edging a thin red line across his throat.
Only Tamar’s insistent voice was able to stop her attacker’s immediate execution.
“No, my husband! He must suffer as our Iris suffered! Do not, I beg you, grant him the blessing of a quick death! He does not deserve it.”
Through the red mists of his anger Zabaai felt a hand on his hand, heard the plea of his wife, and lowered his weapon.
His black eyes were suddenly filled with tears, and he turned away to hide them, using his sleeve to wipe the evidence of this weakness away so others might not see it.
“Is that all of them, Tamar?”
he asked her gruffly.
“Yes, my lord,”
she answered him softly, wanting to take him into her arms and comfort him.
If it had been a terrible ordeal for her, so had it been for him.
He had lost the thing dearest to him in the entire world.
He had lost sweet Iris, and Tamar knew that he would never again be the same.
That, more than anything else, saddened her, for she loved him.
She slipped her hand into his and together they walked to the foot of the dais, where Zabaai said quietly, “My wife says that these are all of the guilty ones, Antonius Porcius.”
The Roman governor rose from his carved chair and came forward to the edge of the platform.
His voice rang out over the crowd.
“These men stand accused by their victim, whom they left for dead.
Can one of them deny his part?”
The governor looked at the guilty eight, who hung their heads, unable to face either Tamar or the others.
Antonius Porcius spoke again.
“My judgment is final.
These beasts will be crucified.
Their centurion is now to be given to the Bedawi for torture and execution.
The Roman Peace has prevailed.”
A dutiful round of cheers rose from the ranks, a greater cheer from the Palmyrans.
Then several legionnaires of the sixth legion dragged forward the wooden crosses that had been brought to the site in anticipation of the punishment to be meted out.
The guilty men were divested of their uniforms and stripped naked.
They were then bound upon their crosses, which were lifted high and held by one group of soldiers as others pounded them into the sandy ground from atop ladders that had been raised to aid them.
The heat of the late afternoon was barely tolerable, but if the Gauls survived to noon the following day their agony would be exquisite, for spending a morning in the broiling sun of the Syrian desert would swell their tongues black.
The wet rawhide strips binding their arms and their legs to the wooden crosses would dry, shrink, and then cut into their flesh, stopping the circulation of blood and bringing incredible pain as, unable to help themselves, the men would sag with their own great weight.
Depending upon how physically fit they were, they would begin dying, and they would die by inches.
The cries of their centurion, Vinctus Sextus, would follow them into Hell, as he would be kept carefully alive until all of his men were gone.
Before their frightened eyes he was even now being stripped preparatory to his torture.
It began simply enough.
A stake was driven into the ground, and he was bound to it, his face against the wood, his back to the crowd.
Zabaai ben Selim, a slender whip of horsehair in his hand, administered the first five blows.
They were not heavy blows, but rather sharp, cutting lashes that gave exquisite pain.
Tamar, weakened though she still was, was able to give the prisoner five blows.
Then each of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim struck the Roman once.
The last five blows were delivered by Zenobia, who wielded the whip surprisingly well for a child, it was thought by the crowd.
In all, fifty-five stripes crossed Vinctus Sextus’s back, but the Gaul was a tough one, and not once did he cry out, although he remained conscious the entire time.
Zabaai ben Selim smiled grimly.
There would be plenty of time for cries, and the Gaul would eventually beg for mercy just as Zabaai’s sweet Iris had been forced to beg.
It would be many, many hours before Vinctus Sextus expired, and he would wish for death a thousand times before death finally came.
The beating over, the centurion was cut down and dragged across the hot sand to where a block had been set up.
Beside the block of marble an open pot bubbled over a neat, leaping fire.
Forced to kneel, Vinctus Sextus watched with the first dawning of horror as his hands were swiftly severed from his body before his cry of protest had faded away in the hot afternoon.
“Not my hands!”
he shrieked.
“I am a soldier! I need my hands!”
The wolfish faces of his captors grinned mockingly at him, and he realized that even if they should let him live he would be too maimed ever to do battle again.
He watched fascinated as the blood from his severed arteries arced red into the golden sand; but then he was dragged across the small distance to the boiling pot, and his severed stumps were plunged into the bubbling pitch to prevent his death from blood loss.
His first real scream of agony tore through the spectators, who sighed with one breath, relieved that the centurion was finally feeling the pain he deserved.
A son of Zabaai gathered up from the sand the two hands, their fingers outstretched in protest, and the chief of the Bedawi smiled once again.
“Never will those hands again be able to give pain, Gaul,”
he said.
“We will take them into the desert where we will feed them to the jackals.”
Vinctus Sextus shuddered.
The greatest fear of the men of his northern tribe was to be buried maimed.
Without his hands he would be forced to wander in a netherworld that was neither earth nor the paradise of his own woodland gods.
He was already condemned by the loss of his hands, yet he still fought on.
He was dragged back across the sand and staked flat upon his back, spread-eagle wide.
Two women from the Street of the Prostitutes pushed through the crowd and presented themselves to Zabaai.
One of them spoke.
“We will help you, chief to the Bedawi, and we will ask nothing in return.
Since coming to Palmyra, this man has injured several of our sisterhood, and until now we have had no recourse to justice.”
The woman was a tall brunette of mature years, and quite skillfully painted.
The beautiful young girl who had come forth with her was no more than fourteen, a blue-eyed golden blonde from northern Greece.
With no pretense of modesty the girl stripped off her pale-pink silk robe, and stood naked before the crowd.
Her youthful body was pure perfection with marvelous globe-shaped white breasts, a slender waist, and generously shaped hips and thighs.
A sigh rippled through the crowd.
With deliberate slowness the girl moved to stand behind Vinctus Sextus’s head.
Gracefully she knelt and bent to brush his face first with one of her full breasts, then with the other.
The man groaned with pure frustration as Zabaai’s deep voice taunted him, “What magnificent fruits, eh Gaul?”
Vinctus Sextus felt his fingers ache and twitch to grasp the tempting flesh rubbing against his face.
Instinctively he struggled to move his bound arms.
Too late he remembered that he no longer had any hands, and a curse rose to his lips.
Zabaai ben Selim’s youngest son, the six-year-old Hassan, had possession of the Gaul’s severed hands, and he danced mischievously about the bound man waving his trophies.
Taking the hands, he placed them on the prostitute’s plump breasts, rubbing them lewdly while the crowd roared with laughter at the boy’s impishness.
The centurion reverted to his native tongue, screaming, and it was obvious that he cursed the crowd, his fate, and anything else that came into his mind.
“He should be in appalling pain,”
Antonius Porcius said to Prince Odenathus.
“Why is he not?”
“The boiling pitch is mixed with a painkilling narcotic,”
the prince replied.
“They did not wish him to die of the pain, and so they have eased it considerably.”
The governor nodded.
“They are skillful torturers, the Bedawi.
Should I ever need such men, I shall call upon them.”
The crowd ohed and ahed at each subtle torture.
Fathers held their children on their shoulders for a better look.
The two Roman legions and their auxiliaries stood silent, and at attention, but there were many white faces among them, especially those nearest the unfortunate Gaul.
Antonius Porcius had already vomited discreetly into a silver basin held by his personal body servant.
As a final torture, Vinctus Sextus was tenderly bathed in warmed water that had been sweetened with honey and orange.
Then each of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim emptied a small dish of black ants upon his helpless form.
It was too much for even the hardened Gaul.
He began to scream frantically, begging for mercy, begging that they kill him now.
His big body writhed desperately in an effort to remove the tiny insects feeding upon his sweet-drenched body.
Soon his screams grew weaker.
Realizing that the show was now over, the citizens of Palmyra stayed just long enough to see the Roman soldiers break the legs of the eight men who had been crucified, then began straggling back into the city proper, followed by the marching legions.
The men of the sixth, and the ninth would consume a great deal of wine in the next several hours in a concerted effort to forget this afternoon.
His legs somewhat shaky, the Roman governor made his way from the dais and walked over to where Zabaai ben Selim stood with his sons and the girl child Zenobia.
“Are you satisfied with Roman justice, Chief of the Bedawi?”
he demanded.
“I am satisfied.
It will not return my sweet Iris to me, but at least she will be avenged with the deaths of these men.”
“Will you now leave on your winter trek?”
“We will stay here until the criminals are finally dead,”
came the quiet reply.
“Only then will justice be done.
Their bodies will then accompany us into the desert to become carrion for the jackals and the vultures.”
“So be it,”
said Antonius Porcius, relieved to have the whole messy affair over with.
Well, he thought to himself, one good thing came from this.
That young blond prostitute was the loveliest creature he had seen in months.
He intended buying her from her owners, for he was tired of his current mistress, the wife of a rich Palmyran merchant.
Impatiently he signaled to his litter bearers.
“The gods go with you this winter, Zabaai ben Selim.
We shall be happy to see you back in Palmyra come the spring.”
The Roman governor then climbed into the litter and commanded his bearers to hurry back into the city.
Prince Odenathus watched him go, and then he smiled a mischievous smile.
“He is as transparent as a crystal vase, our Roman friend,”
he said to Zabaai ben Selim.
“His desire for the blond whore was quite apparent, but he shall not have her.
Such a brave girl deserves better than our fat Roman governor.”
“She is, I take it, already on her way to the palace,”
was Zabaai ben Selim’s amused reply.
“Of course, my cousin! The couch of a Bedawi prince is far preferable to that of a mere Roman.”
Zabaai ben Selim could not help but smile at his younger cousin.
The Prince of Palmyra was a charming young man with not only an intelligent mind, but a keen sense of humor.
But like many others in Palmyra, Zabaai still worried that Odenathus was not yet married, and had no heir, for Palmyran law dictated that no illegitimate child might inherit the throne.
He looked closely at Odenathus, and asked, “When are you going to wed, my Prince?”
“You sound like my council.
It is a question they ask daily.”
He sighed.
“Life’s garden is filled with many beautiful flowers, my cousin.
I have yet, however, to find one sweet bud that attracts me enough to make my princess. Perhaps,”
he chuckled, “I shall wait for your little Zenobia to grow up, Zabaai.”
It had been said in jest, but no sooner were the words out of Prince Odenathus’s mouth than Zabaai ben Selim realized that it was the very solution to his problem of a husband for his daughter.
It was something that both he and Iris had worried about, for none of the young men of his tribe would have been suitable for their daughter.
There was simply no getting around the fact that Zenobia was different from other girls.
Not only was she far more beautiful than the ordinary Bedawi girl, but she was highly educated, fearless, and quite outgoing.
She could ride and race both camel and horse as well as any man.
Because she had begged him to do so, he had let her take arms training with her younger brothers, and he was forced to admit that she was the best pupil he had taught in years, even better than her eldest brother, Akbar.
She had a natural grace, and a flair with weapons that was surprising for someone so young.
Strangely, no one gave a second thought to the unconventional things she did, for she was Zenobia, and unlike any girl his tribe had ever produced.
He was proud of his daughter.
Still no young male Bedawi wanted a wife who not only rode better than he, but could surpass him in handling a sword, a spear, and a sling.
A woman needed to know how to cook, how to birth children, how to herd animals, and sew.
Zenobia was definitely not the kind of wife a man of his tribe could love and cherish, but Odenathus was a different type of man.
Bedawi in his heritage on his father’s side, he was yet a man of the city, and men of the city preferred their women more educated.
Zabaai ben Selim looked at his young cousin, and said, “Would you actually consider Zenobia for a wife, Odenathus? My daughter would make you a magnificent wife, my cousin! You could have no better.
She is more than well born enough for you, for on my side you share the same great-grandfather, and on her mother’s side she descends from Cleopatra, the last queen of Egypt.
She is not yet a woman, but in a few years she will be of marriageable age.
I will only give her as a wife, not a concubine, and it must be agreed that her sons be your heirs.”
Prince Odenathus was thoughtful for a long moment.
It was certainly not a bad idea, and would solve his problem as well.
Zenobia bat Zabaai was dynastically a good match for him.
She was also an educated and intelligent girl from what he had seen of her.
If a man was to have intelligent sons then he must marry an intelligent wife, Odenathus thought.
She might be an interesting woman someday.
“How soon after Zenobia becomes a woman would you be willing to give her to me, Zabaai?” he asked.
“A year at the very least,”
came the reply.
“I will not even broach this matter with her until she has begun her show of blood, and then she will need time to adjust to the idea of marriage.
She has lived all her life in the simple surroundings of the tribe, but my daughter is not just any girl, Odenathus.
She is a pearl without price.”
Palmyra’s young ruler looked across the sand to where the girl child Zenobia sat cross-legged upon the desert floor, watching with strangely dispassionate eyes the agony of her mother’s killer.
She sat very straight, and very still, seemingly carved out of some inanimate material.
He had seen young rabbits sit just that way.
She seemed not even to be breathing.
He shook his head in wonder.
The Gaul was suffering horribly, and yet the child showed no signs of compassion, or even of revulsion.
A man could breed up strong sons on the loins of such a woman as this child would one day become; but he wondered fleetingly if such a woman would recognize in her husband a master? Perhaps if he took her to wife early enough, and molded her woman’s character himself, it would be possible.
Odenathus found that he was willing to take a chance.
He found himself inexplicably drawn to Zenobia, for her very strength of character intrigued him greatly.
He smiled at himself.
He would not, however, give Zabaai ben Selim too great an advantage, and so he said in what he hoped was a slightly bored and jaded tone, “A match between Zenobia and myself is a possibility, my cousin.
Do not give her to anyone else yet, and let us talk on it again when the child becomes a woman if my heart has not become engaged elsewhere.”
Zabaai smiled toothily.
“It will be as you have said, my lord Prince, and my cousin,”
he replied smoothly.
He was not for one moment fooled by Odenathus’s cool attitude, or his nonchalance.
He had seen the genuine look of interest in the young man’s warm brown eyes when he had gazed so long and so thoughtfully at Zenobia.
“Will you bid my daughter farewell, my Prince?”
he asked.
“We will not re-enter the city again until late spring.
Once the soldiers have died, we will go on our way into the desert as we have planned.”
Odenathus nodded, and bade Zabaai ben Selim a safe trip.
Then he walked across the desert floor to where Zenobia sat.
Seating himself beside her, he took her little hand in his own.
It was cold, and instinctively he sought to warm it, holding it tightly in his own.
“The Roman dies well,”
she said, acknowledging his presence, “but it is early yet, and he will in the end cry to his gods for mercy.”
“It is important to you, that he beg for mercy?”
“Yes!”
She spat the word out vehemently, and he could see that she was once more going to withdraw into her private thoughts.
She hated well for one so young and, until today, so sheltered.
More and more this child fascinated him.
“I would bid you good-bye, Zenobia,”
he said, piercing again into her self-absorption.
Zenobia looked up.
How handsome he is, she thought.
If only he hadn’t given in to the Romans so easily.
If only he weren’t such a weakling.
“Farewell, my lord Prince,”
she said coldly, and then she turned back to contemplate the dying man.
“Good-bye, Zenobia,”
he said softly, lightly touching her soft dark hair with his hand; but she didn’t notice.
He stood up and walked away.
The sun was close to setting now, and had turned the white marble towers and porticos of Palmyra scarlet and gold with its clear light; but Zenobia saw none of it.
Campfires sprang up on the desert floor as she sat silently watching her mother’s despoiler.
About her the Bedawi went about their own business of the evening.
They understood, and waited patiently for the child’s thirst for vengeance to be satisfied.
Vinctus Sextus had been unconscious for some time, but then he began to revive slightly, roused by the waves of pain that ate into his body and his soul as the painkillers given him earlier wore off.
That he wasn’t already in Hades surprised him.
Slowly he forced his eyes open to find a slender girl child sitting by his head, contemplating his misery.
“W-who … are … you?”
he managed to ask through parched and cracked lips.
“I am Zenobia bat Zabaai,”
the child answered him in a Latin far purer than any he had been able to learn.
“It was my mother that you slaughtered, pig!”
“Give … me … a drink,”
he said weakly.
“We do not waste water here in the desert, Roman.
You are a dying man.
To give you water would be to waste it.”
Her eyes were gray stones and totally without feeling as they stared at him.
“You … have … no … mercy?”
He was curious.
“Did you show my sweet mother mercy?”
The child’s eyes blazed intense hatred at him.
“You showed her none, and I will show you no mercy, pig! None!”
He managed a wolfish parody of a grin at her, and they understood each other.
He had shown her blond beauty of a mother no kindness or mercy.
He wondered if, having been given a glimpse of his fate, he would do it all over again, and decided that he would.
Death was death, and the blonde had been more than worth it.
Men had died for less.
He blinked rapidly several times to clear the fog over his blue eyes so he might see the child better.
She was a little beauty facially, but she yet had the flat, unformed body of a child.
“All women … beg … when beneath a man.
Didn’t … your mother … ever … tell you … that?”
Zenobia looked away from him and across the desert, not quite understanding his words.
The sun had now set, and the night had come swiftly.
About her, the golden campfires blazed merrily, while the stars stared down in their silvery silence.
“You will die slowly, Roman,”
she said quietly, “and I will stay to see it all.”
Vinctus Sextus nodded his head slightly.
He could certainly understand vengeance.
The child was one to be proud of even if she was only a girl.
“I will do … my best … to oblige you,”
he said with a scornful and defiant sneer.
Then he drifted into unconsciousness.
When he opened his eyes again it was pitch black but for the light of the campfires that darted across the sand.
The child still sat motionless and totally alert by his side.
He drifted off again, returning as dawn came.
He watched it creep across the desert floor with tiny slim fingers of violet and apricot and crimson.
He could still feel the pain, worse now than it had ever been, and he knew death was near to him.
The narrow stripes upon his back had festered in the night; the thousand ant bites on his body stung and burned unbearably.
The rawhide bindings on his arms and legs had now dried, and were cutting painfully into his ankles and his wrists.
His throat was so parched that even the simple act of swallowing hurt him.
Above, the sun rose higher and higher until it blinded him even when he closed his eyes.
He could hear his surviving companions moaning and crying out to their own gods, to their mothers, as they hung upon their crosses.
He tried turning his head to look at them, but he could not.
He was stretched wide, and tight.
Movement was now quite impossible.
“Five are already dead,”
the child said brutally.
“You Romans are not very strong.
A Bedawi could last at least three days.”
Soon the groans stopped, and the child announced, “You alone are left, Roman, but I can tell that you will not last a great deal longer.
Your eyes have a milky haze over them, and your breathing is rough.”
He knew that she was right, for already he felt his spirit attempting to leave his body.
He closed his eyes wearily, and suddenly he was back in the forests of his native Gaul.
The tall trees soared green and graceful toward the sky, their branches waving in the gentle breeze.
Ahead was a beautiful and cool blue lake.
He almost cried aloud with joy, and then his lips formed the word, “Water!”
“No water!”
the child’s voice cut ruthlessly into his pleasure, and he opened his eyes to face the broiling, blazing sun.
It was too much! By the gods it was too much!
Vinctus Sextus opened his mouth, and howled with frustrated outrage and pain.
The sound of the child’s triumphant laughter was the last thing he heard.
It mocked him straight into Hell as he fell back dead upon the desert floor.
Zenobia arose swaying, for her legs were stiff.
She had sat by Vinctus Sextus for over eighteen hours, and in all that time she had neither eaten nor drunk anything.
Suddenly she was swept up in a pair of strong arms, and she looked into the admiring face of her eldest half-brother, Akbar.
His white teeth flashed in his sun-browned face.
“You are Bedawi!”
he said.
“I am proud of you, my little sister.
You are as tough as any warrior! I would fight by your side anytime.”
His words gave her pleasure, but she only said, “Where is Father?”
Her voice was suddenly very adult.
“Our father has gone to bury your mother with the honor and the dignity she deserves.
She will be put in the tomb in the garden of the house.”
Zenobia nodded, satisfied, and then said, “He begged, Akbar.
In the end he begged the same way that he forced my mother to beg.”
She paused as if considering that, and then she said softly, “I will never beg, Akbar! Whatever happens to me in my lifetime, I will never beg! Never!”
Akbar hugged the child to his breast.
“Never say never, Zenobia,”
he warned her gently.
“Life often plays odd tricks upon us, for the gods are known to be capricious, and not always kind to us mortals.”
“I will never beg,”
she repeated firmly.
Then she smiled sweetly at her brother.
“Besides, am I not the beloved of the gods, Akbar? They will defend me always!”