Page 5 of Beloved
Odenathus, Prince of Palmyra, sat his horse and watched the maneuvers of a Bedawi camel corps.
Its warriors were magnificently trained, and under the direction of their captain they performed extremely well.
The prince turned and said to his host, “Well, my cousin Zabaai, if all your troops perform this well; if all your captains are that competent; I foresee a day when I may drive the Romans from my city.”
“May the gods grant your wish, my lord Prince.
Too long has the golden yoke been about our necks, and each year the Romans take more and more of the riches that come to us from the Indies and Cathay.
We are beggared trying to feed their rapacious appetites.”
Odenathus nodded in agreement, and then said, “Will you present me to the captain of your camel corps? I should like to congratulate him on his leadership.”
Zabaai hid a smile.
“Of course, my lord.”
He raised his hand in a signal, and the camel cavalry whirled away from him, galloped down a stretch of desert, and then turned to come racing furiously back to stop just short of the two men.
“The prince would like to present his compliments, Captain,”
Zabaai said.
The leader of the corps slid from his mount and bowed smartly before the prince.
“You handle your men well, Captain.
I hope that someday we may ride together.”
“It will be an honor, my lord, although I am not used to sharing my command with anyone.”
The captain’s burnoose was tossed back, and the ruler of Palmyra found himself staring into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She laughed at his surprise, and said, “Do you not recognize me, my cousin?”
“Zenobia?”
He was astounded.
This could not be Zenobia! Zenobia was a child.
This statuesque goddess could not be the flat and leggy child he remembered.
Three and a half years had passed since he had last seen her.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“What?”
He was totally confused.
“You are staring at me, my lord.
Is something wrong?”
“You’ve changed,”
he managed to say in a somewhat strangled voice.
“I am almost fifteen, my lord.”
“Fifteen,”
he repeated foolishly.
By the gods, she was a glorious creature!
“You may go now, Zenobia,”
Zabaai dismissed her.
“We will expect you at the evening meal.”
“Yes, Father.”
Zenobia turned and, grasping her camel’s bridle, swung herself back up into the saddle.
Raising her hand as signal, she led her camel corps away as the two men re-entered Zabaai ben Selim’s tent.
“Did you or did you not propose a match between your daughter and myself several years back, Zabaai?”
the Palmyran prince demanded.
“I did.”
“The girl was to become my wife a year after she became a woman.
Is that not correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Has she now reached her maturity?”
“Yes, my lord.”
It was all that Zabaai ben Selim could do to keep from laughing.
Odenathus’s desire was so open as to be embarrassing.
“Then why is she not my wife?”
came the anguished cry.
“Nothing was formally proposed, my lord.
When you did not make formal application for my daughter’s hand I was forced to conclude that you were not seriously interested.
Besides, your devotion to your favorite, Deliciae, is well known.
She has given you two sons, has she not?”
“Deliciae is a concubine,”
Odenathus protested.
“Her sons are not my heirs.
Only my wife’s sons will hold that distinction.”
“You do not have a wife,”
Zabaai ben Selim reminded.
“Do not toy with me, cousin,”
Odenathus said.
“You know full well that I want Zenobia to wife.
You knew that the moment I saw her I would want her.
Why did you simply not present her to me? Why that silly charade with the camel corps?”
“It was no charade, my lord.
Zenobia commands her own corps, and has for two years now.
If I let you marry her it must be with the understanding that she is free to go her own way.
She is not an ornament to be housed like a fine jewel in the box of your harem.
My daughter descends from the rulers of Egypt, and she is as free as the wind.
You cannot pen the wind, Odenathus.”
“I will agree to whatever you wish, Zabaai, but I want Zenobia!”
the prince promised rashly.
“The first thing I want is that you get to know one another.
Zenobia may have the body of a woman, but she is yet a child where men are concerned.”
“She is still a virgin?”
Zabaai chuckled.
“Not that the young men of my tribe have not tried, Odenathus, but my daughter is yet a virgin.
It is very difficult to make love to a girl who can outwrestle you.
Zenobia is, as you undoubtedly noticed, quite tall for a girl.
She gets her height from her Greek-Egyptian ancestry, not the Bedawi.
She is at least as tall as you, Odenathus.
Not at all like your Deliciae, who can look up at you.
Zenobia will look you right in the eye.”
“Why did you not offer her to me again, Zabaai? The truth, my cousin.”
Zabaai ben Selim sighed.
“Because I am reluctant to give her up, Odenathus.
She is my only daughter; Iris’s child; and when she is gone from me I will miss her.
If you wed her you will find in her an interesting companion.
She will not simper at you like so many of these harem females.
She will be your friend as well as your lover.
Are you man enough to accept a woman on those terms?”
“Yes,”
came the unwavering reply.
“So be it then,”
the Bedawi chief said.
“If Zenobia has no objections after you two have grown to know one another, then you may have her to wife.”
“May I tell her?” he asked.
“No, I will tell her, my cousin, and I will tell her immediately so there will be no confusion or restraint between you.”
The two men separated then, the prince returning to his own tent, and the Bedawi chieftain to his daughter’s quarters.
He found her sponging herself with a small basin of perfumed water, grumbling as she always did over the scarcity of the precious liquid here in the desert.
Still she was careful not to waste the water, and reused it several times, storing it in a goatskin bag between her ablutions.
“Praise Jupiter that it is almost time to return to Palmyra!”
she greeted him.
“You have no idea, Father, how I long for a decent bath!”
He chuckled, and sat cross-legged on a carpet.
“Odenathus wants to marry you,”
he said, coming directly to the point.
“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted for me all along, Father?”
She took up a small linen towel, and mopped where a few drops of water had spilled on her table.
“You have to marry eventually, Zenobia, but I want you to be happy.
Odenathus is a wealthy, pleasant, and intelligent young man.
Still, if there is someone you would prefer then it shall be as you desire, my child.”
“Only one thing concerns me about the prince,”
she said.
“It distresses me that he gives in to the Romans so easily, and without a fight.
I do not understand it.”
“It is quite simple, Zenobia,”
Zabaai replied.
“Palmyra, as you know, was founded by Solomon the Great, King of Israel.
It has always been a commercial state.
We have never been interested in expansion, in taking our neighbors’ lands.
Our only interest is in making money, and because everyone needed us, and our talents, and because we are located here in the Syrian desert, no one bothered us.
We have been friends to the world, but Rome is a conqueror, and has a conqueror’s fear of her neighbors.
Palmyra is an outpost for Rome against Persia, Cathay, and the Indies.
“But because we are a nation of merchants, and not soldiers, we have never been prepared to defend ourselves.
After all, we have never needed to.
If Odenathus ever attempts to thwart Rome, they will destroy the city without a thought.
He does the next best thing—he welcomes them, and in doing so saves us all.
Do not judge him too harshly.
When the time is right he will drive them from our land, and we will once again be our own masters.”
“If I marry the prince will my children be his heirs? The gossips say he is quite fond of one of his concubines—and her children.
I will have no one else’s children supplanting mine.”
“Your children will be his legal heirs, my daughter.”
“Then I will marry him, Father.”
“Wait, my child,”
Zabaai cautioned.
“Get to know him before you agree to this match.
If you then still wish to wed him, so be it.”
“You say that eventually I must marry, Father.
The prince has asked for me, and I will agree.
If I must wed then at least it will be to a man who lives in Palmyra, so I may at last be free of your desert.”
She twinkled mischievously at him, and Zabaai chuckled indulgently.
How he loved this child.
“The prince is handsome,”
continued Zenobia.
“He has always been kind to me, and I have never heard anyone say that he is not a fair or good ruler.
There seems to be no malice in him at all.”
Zenobia knew no matter how fair her father meant to be she could not refuse the prince.
Still, she loved Zabaai all the more for pretending the choice was hers.
“You say nothing of love, my child.
For a marriage to be successful there must be love between a man and a woman.
The moment I saw your mother those long years ago in Alexandria I knew I loved her, and she knew she loved me.
Love sustains a man and woman in the hard times.”
“You and Mother were unusual, Father.
Tamar tells me that love is something that grows between a man and a woman.
I believe that, given time, I can love Odenathus, and he already loves me.
I can tell.
Did you see how foolishly he behaved today? I didn’t mean to laugh at him, but he looked so silly with his mouth open.”
She giggled with the memory.
Zabaai didn’t think that this was the time to explain to his daughter the difference between lust and love.
Let her believe that Odenathus was already in love with her.
It wouldn’t hurt to give the prince that small edge.
“Make yourself beautiful, my child,”
he said, and then in a rare show of open affection he kissed her cheek.
“You may eat with us instead of the women this evening.”
Left alone, Zenobia turned to her mirror, a round of burnished silver.
Pensively, she stared into it.
Everyone said that she was a beauty, and compared to other girls her age she was.
But would she be able to compete with the women of Palmyra? Would Odenathus think that she was beautiful? She knew all about his concubine, Deliciae, and she would have to accept the woman.
A slave girl from northern Greece, Deliciae was said to be very beautiful, fair-skinned, azure-eyed, yellow-haired.
Zenobia looked at herself with a critical eye.
Pale-gold skin, the cheeks of her oval face touched with apricot; long, thick, straight dark hair, silken to the touch, so perhaps it would be pleasing to him.
She seemed to remember that he was always caressing her head.
She looked harder at herself.
She was tall for a woman, she knew, but her body was flawless, her limbs well rounded without being fat, thanks to the active life she led.
She gently slipped her slender hands beneath her breasts, and looked at them critically.
They were round, firm, and full.
She knew the value that men put on women’s breasts, saw with satisfaction that she would not be found wanting there.
Her waist was slender, the hips slim, but pleasingly rounded.
Zenobia’s gaze moved upward again in the mirror, to her face, and she stared hard.
The cheekbones were high, the nose quite straight and classic, the lips full and generous, the chin small, square, and determined.
Her eyes, she decided, were her best feature.
Almond-shaped, topped by slender, arched, black brows and thickly fringed with black lashes, they were deep gray with tiny golden flecks, like leaves in a winter pond.
The color darkened to almost black when she was angry, remaining a deep gray at other times.
They were the kind of eyes a man couldn’t resist looking into.
Although Zenobia was too young to realize it, her eyes were the mirror of her soul, telling anyone who was wise enough to look deeply into all her secrets.
“If he does not find you the most beautiful woman in the world then he is blind in both eyes, little sister.”
Zenobia turned her eyes from the mirror.
“It is his favorite concubine I am worried about, Akbar.
Men of the desert are susceptible to fair women.”
“He has not married her,”
came the reply.
“She is a slave, Akbar.
Men do not marry their slaves.
They may love them, but they do not marry them.
What if he loves her, but marries me simply for heirs? I have been surrounded by love my whole life, Akbar.
I was conceived by a great love.
I cannot live without it! What if he does not love me?”
“You do not have to marry him, little sister.
Father has said he will not force you to it.”
“I am almost fifteen, my brother.
Most girls my age have been married for two years, and already have children.
What if I never find this love that exists between a man and a woman? If I do not marry Prince Odenathus, who will I marry, Akbar? Who will have an educated woman to wife? I often wonder if Mother and Father did not do me a great disservice educating me.
Perhaps I would have been better off if I had learned nothing but woman’s ways.”
She sighed, and flung herself on her couch.
Akbar stared at his half-sister in surprise, and then he began to laugh.
“By Jupiter, you are afraid! Never did I think to see the day when Zenobia bat Zabaai would be afraid, but you are! You are afraid that Odenathus will not like you! You are afraid of a blue-eyed, yellow-haired whore! Zenobia, my sister, the poor Prince of Palmyra is already half in love with you.
If you will be but kind to him he will be your devoted slave for the rest of your life.
All he desires is a little encouragement.
As to the concubine, Deliciae, of course he is fond of her.
She is an amiable creature, surely you cannot be afraid of that piece of fluff?”
“She is so … so womanly, and I am more at home with a weapon than a perfume bottle!”
“You are unique, my sister.”
“Would you like a woman like me, Akbar?”
The concern in her young face was so intense that he almost hurt for her.
“Too easy a conquest can be pleasant, but very boring, my sister.
Be yourself with Odenathus.
He will love you.”
Akbar walked over to where his younger half-sister lounged, and bent to kiss her head.
“Stop brooding, foolish child, and make yourself beautiful for the prince.
I will come back shortly, and escort you myself to Father’s tent for the evening meal.”
When she looked up he was gone, and Bab was entering the tent.
Dearest Bab, Zenobia thought affectionately.
How she was going to enjoy living in a civilized city again! Bab had been her mother’s servant, and had come with Iris from Alexandria.
When Iris had died she had simply taken over Zenobia, and continued on with her duties.
She was getting on in years now, thought Zenobia, and the traveling was becoming harder for her.
She watched with loving eyes as the older woman moved about the tent preparing her mistress’s clothing for the evening.
“Ah, your dear mother would be happy with this match,”
Bab commented.
“It is your son who will be the next ruler of Palmyra after Odenathus.”
“At least if I do marry him,”
Zenobia teased, “you will spend your declining years within a city instead of out upon the desert.”
“Declining years?”
Bab’s lined and weathered face registered instant offense.
“And who is declining, I should like to know? I served your mother.
I serve you, and I expect someday I shall serve your daughter.
Declining years! Humph!”
She bent over the cedar chest, and drew forth a soft white cotton chemise and a snow-white tunic.
“You’ll wear these,”
she said, holding them out.
Zenobia nodded and shrugged off the short black chiton she had been wearing.
Bab took a small sea sponge and, dipping it in fragrant oil, smoothed it over her mistress’s nude body.
The young girl wrinkled her nose with delight.
She loved the rich hyacinth fragrance, remembering that Iris had given her a small flacon of the perfume when she was ten.
Bab slipped the chemise and then the tunic over Zenobia’s head.
The tunic was made of fine linen, and Bab belted it with a length of thin leather that had been gilded with silver leaf.
There were matching silver sandals for Zenobia’s slender feet.
The tunic was sleeveless and its neckline was draped low, revealing the soft perfection of her breasts.
Bab sat the girl down while she brushed and brushed the long black hair, finally braiding it and looping it under once to be fastened with a pearl-and-diamond hair ornament.
She then offered her young mistress a small jewel case, which Zenobia stared into for a few moments, studying the precious gems and metals.
Finally she removed a carved silver bracelet, a smooth ivory one banded with silver, one of carved ivory, and another of polished blue lapis, which she slipped on one of her arms.
Into her ears she fitted silver-and-lapis earrings, and upon her fingers went two rings, one a large creamy round pearl, the other a carved scarab of blue lapis that had belonged to her mother.
Bab nodded her approval of Zenobia’s choices, and took up a small brush, which she dipped in kohl.
Carefully, she painted the girl’s eyes to highlight them, but Zenobia’s lips and flushed cheeks needed no artifice, having their own color.
The girl reached for an ivory scent bottle and, uncorking it, daubed the exotic hyacinth fragrance on herself.
She stood and, looking at herself in the mirror, said, “Well, I suppose I am as ready as I’m going to be, Bab.”
Bab chuckled.
“You will ravish him, my pet.”
Zenobia smiled, but it was a smile without enthusiasm.
Zabaai ben Selim might be a Bedawi chief, but he was a man who liked his comfort.
His tent was set upon a low platform that could be separated into several sections for easier transport.
Inside, the floor was covered with thick wool rugs in reds, blues, golds, and creams.
The tent poles were gilded, and the finest brass and silver lamps hung from the tent ceiling, burning perfumed oils.
The great tent was divided into two sections, the smaller sleeping area separated from the main part of the tent by woven silk carpets from Persia.
The furnishings were simple but rich: low tables of wood and brass, chests of cedar, and many colorful pillows for seats.
There were several men in the room besides the prince and her father.
She saw several of her half-brothers besides Akbar.
There was Hussein, and Hamid, and Selim, all full brothers to Akbar, all Tamar’s sons.
They grinned knowingly at her, causing a blush to color her cheeks, which made them chuckle indulgently.
For some reason, their smug complacency drove a streak of rebellion into her heart and mind.
How dare they presume that all was settled?
“Come, my daughter, and sit between us,”
Zabaai commanded her gently.
He had seen the fire in her eyes, and guessed that she might be feeling a bit fractious.
Zenobia sat down quietly, keeping her eyes lowered, furious with herself for suddenly feeling shy.
Silent slaves began to serve the simple meal.
A young kid had been roasted, and there was a dish of rice with raisins.
Zenobia was delighted to find in the middle of the table an arrangement of fruits the like of which she hadn’t seen since they left Palmyra almost six months earlier.
There were grapes both purple and green; figs and dates; peaches and apricots.
A small smile of delight curved the corners of her mouth, and she reached out to take an apricot.
“You must thank Odenathus for such bounty, Zenobia,”
her father said.
“You brought the fruit from Palmyra?”
She looked up at him with her marvelous eyes, and for a moment the prince thought he was going to drown in the depths of them.
Finally he managed to find his voice.
“I remembered how you dislike trekking the desert, and thought by now you must long for fresh fruit.”
“You brought it for me?”
She felt shy again.
“See what an easy woman she is to please, Odenathus?”
Akbar teased.
“Another woman would have asked for emeralds and rubies; but my little sister is satisfied with apricots.
’Tis an admirable trait in a wife.”
“I thank you for the fruit, my lord.”
She was silent again.
Zabaai was concerned.
It was not like Zenobia to be so quiet and shy.
He wondered if she were ill, but then he realized that the prince, too, had said very little during the meal.
Both he and Zenobia were behaving like two young animals placed in the same cage for the first time.
Warily they circled each other, and sniffed the air cautiously for signs of hostility.
The Bedawi chieftain smiled to himself, remembering himself in his younger days with each new girl; each girl except Iris.
It had always been different with Iris.
He was somewhat troubled that Zenobia seemed reluctant about young Prince Odenathus, but then she had never before been exposed to a suitor.
The meal concluded with sweet cakes made of thin layers of dough, honey, and finely chopped nuts.
There had been marvelous Greek wine served all during the meal, and the men were feeling relaxed.
Zenobia had drunk very little, and seemed unusually sensitive to her half-brothers’ teasing.
Normally she would have bantered with them.
Finally Zabaai said in what he hoped was an offhand manner, “My daughter, the moon will not rise until quite late tonight.
There is a fine display of stars.
Take Odenathus and show him your knowledge of astronomy.
You could put Zenobia anywhere on this earth, my Prince, and she would be able to find her way back to Palmyra by using the sky to guide her.”
“I have a fine observatory in the palace,”
Odenathus replied.
“I hope you will visit it someday.”
He rose and, holding out his hand, helped Zenobia up.
Together they walked from the tent while behind them Zabaai quelled his sons’ ribald humor with a stern look.
Silently they strolled through the encampment, and Zenobia stole looks from beneath her long lashes at the prince.
He was really a very handsome young man, she had to admit.
Unlike her father and half-brothers, who wore the long, enveloping robes of the Bedawi, Odenathus was dressed in a short tunic of natural-colored linen, a painted leather breastplate, and a red military cloak.
Zenobia approved this plain and sensible clothing and his sturdy, practical sandals.
As they walked she noticed that his hand was callused and dry and firm.
It was a good sign, she thought.
“Directly above us is the planet Venus,”
she said.
“When I was born Venus and Mars were in conjunction.
The Chaldean astronomer who was present at my birth predicted that I should be fortunate in both love and war.”
“And have you been?” he asked.
“I have always been loved by my brothers and my parents.
Of war I know naught.”
“Has no young man declared his undying affection for you?”
She stopped and pondered a moment.
“There have been young men who act silly around me.
They behave like young goats when they are trying to attract the attention of a desirable nanny.”
“You mean they butt heads,”
he teased.
Zenobia giggled.
“They have done everything but that.
I do not believe, however, that that is love.”
“Perhaps you have not given them a chance to offer you love, just as you have been denying me that chance this evening.”
He turned her to him and they were face to face, but she shyly turned her head away.
“Look at me, Zenobia,”
he commanded gently.
“I cannot,”
she whispered.
“What?”
He teased her once again.
“A girl who can lead a mounted troupe of soldiers cannot look at the man who would love her? I will not eat you up, Zenobia—at least not yet,”
he amended.
“Look at me, my desert flower.
Look into the eyes of the prince who would lay his heart at your feet.”
His hand raised her face up, and their eyes met.
Zenobia shivered in the warm night.
Tenderly, Odenathus explored her face with his elegant fingers, outlining her jaw, brushing the tips of his fingers over her high cheekbones, down her nose, across her lips.
“Your skin is like the petal of a rose, my flower,”
he murmured in a deep and passionate voice.
Zenobia was riveted to the ground.
She thought she would faint, for she couldn’t seem to catch her breath; and when she swayed uncertainly his muscled arm reached out to sweep her next to him.
She had no idea how tempting she was to the prince, her moist coral lips slightly parted, her dark gray eyes wide.
Her honest innocence was the most tantalizing and provocative spur to his passions; but Odenathus maintained a firm control over his own wants.
It would be so easy to make love to her this very minute, he thought.
It would be easy to sink onto the sand, drawing her down.
How he would enjoy teaching this lovely girl the arts of love! But some deeper instinct warned him that now was not the time.
Instead he held her firmly and said in what he hoped passed for a normal voice, “We will get to know one another, my little flower.
You know that I want you for my wife, but because I care for you I want you to be happy.
If being my wife would bring you sadness then it cannot be.
You would do me honor if you would stay at the palace this summer.
Then we may get to know each other within the protective circle of our families.”
“I … I must ask my father,”
she replied softly.
“I am sure that Zabaai ben Selim will agree.”
He let her go then and, taking her hand, again turned back to the encampment.
Escorting her to her tent, he bowed politely and bid her a good night.
It was a bemused Zenobia who passed into her quarters.
The desert night had grown cool, and Bab sat nodding by the brazier.
Zenobia was relieved, for she didn’t want to talk at this moment.
She wanted time alone in the silence to think.
She was quite confused.
Prince Odenathus had roused something within her, but she could not be sure if it was the kind of love that grew between a man and a woman.
How could she know? She had never felt that kind of love.
Zenobia sighed so deeply that Bab awakened with a start.