Page 8 of Beloved
Palmyra, queen city of the Eastern Empire, lay almost halfway between the equally ancient city of Baghdad and the blue Mediterranean sea.
It was said to have been founded by Solomon, a fact of which the Palmyrans were mightily proud.
Built upon and around the great oasis where the major caravan routes between east and west crossed, it was the city through which all the riches of the world passed en route west to Europe or east to Persia, Cathay, and the Indies.
Greeks and Romans, Syrians and Jews, Arab merchants of all tribes gathered here, building great storehouses and warehouses in which safely to keep the silks, carpets, spices, ivory, jewels, grain, and dates that passed through their hands.
They built luxurious villas in which to house their families, as well as their concubines, for as all inanimate valuables arrived in Palmyra so did the choicest of the world’s slaves.
The architects of the city had a passion for columns, and all the major buildings were adorned with them.
About the central courtyard of one temple were raised three hundred seventy graceful colonnades; and upon projecting stones half way up each column stood statues of Palmyra’s most famous men.
The city’s main avenue was lined on each side with two rows of pillars, seven hundred and fifty to a side; and the Temple of Jupiter had a mile-long colonnade consisting of fifteen hundred Corinthian columns.
The city had been built for merchants by a wise king, and a thousand years later it was still firmly controlled by commercial interests.
The main business and shopping streets were all covered over, so even in the heat of a summer noon one could conduct his business in relative comfort.
Although not prone to attack due to its inaccessible location, Palmyrans had raised around the city a wall seven miles long, to discourage the boldness of desert raiders.
This was the kingdom over which Zenobia bat Zabaai would soon reign as wife to its prince.
Zabaai ben Selim was suddenly and for the first time really considering the serious responsibility he was placing upon his only daughter’s shoulders.
He sat comfortably in Odenathus’s private library, a carved alabaster goblet of fine Cyrenean wine clutched in his hand.
Behind him, a deaf-mute black slave plied a large woven palm fan, creating just enough breeze to ease the still heat of the late afternoon.
As he had come into the city today he had looked at it as if for the first time in his entire life.
When one is used to something, one sees with dulled eyes, he thought.
He had been born here on this oasis, and the city had always been a part of his life.
Today he had really looked, and what he had seen made him think.
It was not just the magnificent architecture of the city, but the marvelous parks kept green by the oasis’s underground springs that suddenly stunned Zabaai.
The intellect behind the creation of the city was overwhelming.
Zenobia, he knew, would not be content simply to be an ornament and a broodmare.
What part would she play, he wondered, in the government of this city? Palmyran princesses were famed for their beauty, not their administrative abilities.
He shook his head wearily.
Had his ambition for his beloved child outstripped his good sense?”
“Zabaai, my cousin!”
Odenathus hurried into the room, his white robes whirling about him.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
“I have been comfortable in these pleasant surroundings, my lord Prince.”
“I have asked you here so we may discuss the terms of this marriage before I call in the scribes.
What will you give as dowry?”
“I shall give a thousand pure-bred goats, five hundred white and five hundred black.
There will be two hundred and fifty fighting camels; and a hundred Arabian horses; not to mention jewelry, clothing, household goods, and the deed to her mother’s house.”
The prince was astounded by the magnificence of Zenobia’s dowry.
Never had he suspected that it would be so large; but then her father could easily afford it, for his herds were enormous.
The dowry agreement was drawn up by the prince’s scribe, who set his quill flying across the parchment as each point was stated.
A transfer of goods between the bride’s father and her husband would make Odenathus Zenobia’s legal lord according to the Bedawi laws; but the prince was Hellenized, as had been Zenobia’s mother and the bride herself.
They would be married in the atrium of Zabaai’s home, the exact date depending on the omens to be taken this very evening by the temple priests.
Al-Zena was sent for, and she and the prince’s Greek secretary witnessed the signing of the document of betrothal and the formal words in which Odenathus said to his future father-in-law, “Do you promise to give me your daughter as wife?”
“May the gods grant their blessing.
I promise,”
Zabaai said.
“May the gods grant their blessing!”
Odenathus finished.
“So,”
Al-Zena said sourly, “you are really going to do it.”
“You disapprove of this match, my Princess?”
“Do not be offended, Zabaai ben Selim.
I think your daughter a sweet child, but I cannot see the necessity for my son to many.
He already has children.”
“Palmyra has never been governed by a bastard line,”
came the sharp reply.
“Surely you must know the law.”
Odenathus hid a smile as his mother, very discomfited, replied stiffly, “You have always been most outspoken, Zabaai ben Selim.
I can only hope your daughter does not take after you.”
“Zenobia is herself.
She will be a credit to the city.”
“Indeed!”
Al-Zena snapped, and she turned and abruptly left the library.
Zabaai ben Selim smiled blandly at the prince, and said, “You will want to see Zenobia before we leave.”
It was a statement.
“Leave?”
The prince was somewhat taken aback.
“Now that the betrothal is official, my lord, Zenobia must return home.
She cannot stay here in the palace under the circumstances.
She will return on her wedding day.
You may not see each other until then.”
“But I thought we might spend this time getting to know one another better,”
he protested, disappointed.
“Alas, custom demands we be discreet,”
came the reply.
“Whose customs?”
Odenathus demanded.
“Ancient Bedawi customs, my Lord,”
was the silken answer.
“There will be plenty of time for you and my daughter to get to know one another after the wedding.”
“I will have the priests from the Temple of Jupiter sacrifice a lamb this very night to determine the date,”
the prince said.
“But first I will go to Zenobia, and bid her farewell.”
“I will await your return, my Lord.”
Settling back in his chair, Zabaai held out his goblet for the slave to refill.
He watched with dancing dark eyes as the young man hurried from the room.
How very eager he was, and a brief separation would whet his appetite even further for this marriage.
Al-Zena might carp and complain, but Zabaai wagered with himself that Odenathus’s few sweet memories of Zenobia would spur him eagerly on toward their wedding day.
Odenathus did not go directly to the apartments where Zenobia was housed.
First he stopped at his treasury; walking into the roomy jewelry vault, he carefully selected a ring that would be his betrothal gift to his future wife.
It was not a hard choice, for he had seen the ring months before when it had been discovered by his treasurer in a rotting leather bag, hidden on a back shelf.
The treasurer had been quite excited, saying that the ring was one sent to King Solomon from Sheba’s queen as a token of her affection, and was catalogued in the ancient records of the treasury.
Having made his choice, the prince hurried to find Zenobia.
He was met, however, in the apartment’s anteroom by Bab.
The older woman looked him up and down, nodding approvingly.
“She is just come from her bath, Highness.
If you will wait but a minute my lady will be fit to receive you.”
“My thanks, Bab,”
Odenathus replied courteously.
He instinctively liked this small round woman in her simple robe, her graying hair hidden beneath its veil.
Her face was brown from the desert sun, and there were deep laugh lines carved about her black eyes and on either side of her mouth.
“You will be good for my child,”
the woman said with the quiet assurance of a beloved servant.
“I already love her, Bab.
I want her to be happy.”
“Be firm, my lord.
Firm, but gentle.”
“Can one be firm with Zenobia?”
he teased.
Bab chuckled appreciatively, but before she could answer Zenobia entered the room.
Odenathus’s eyes were immediately riveted to the girl, oblivious to all else.
Smiling, Bab slipped from the room and left the lovers alone.
He could scarce take his eyes from her, flushed and rosy from the bath, the faint hyacinth scent clinging to her unbound hair, her simple white tunic.
For a moment he stood powerless to move.
Then he heard her voice: “My lord?”
The spell broken, he reached out and pulled her almost roughly into his arms.
One arm held her firmly against his hungry body, the other hand tangled in her soft hair, drawing her head to his.
Bending, he let his lips brush hers lightly, and was satisfied to feel a faint tremor rush through her.
“Oh, Zenobia,”
he murmured, kissing the corners of her mouth, her closed and fluttering eyelids.
Then his lips found hers, and as his kisses deepened her arms slipped up and about his neck; her lithe young body pressed as hungrily against his.
Enchanted by her budding passion, he ran his tongue over her lips, which parted instinctively.
Tenderly he explored the fragrant cavity of her mouth; the hand that had earlier held her head now moved to caress her breasts.
The ache that had so mysteriously materialized the night before reappeared to taunt her.
It swept over her from out of nowhere, leaving her breathless and confused.
His thumb rubbed insistently against the already stiff peaks of her nipples, and she wanted to cry with the strange pleasure that it gave her.
It was so new, so wonderful, this marvelous sensation that was called love.
After what seemed the briefest eternity he released her, and for a moment she swayed dangerously, but finally her head cleared and she grew steady once more.
She heard his voice coming at her from what seemed a long way off, but the words were clear.
“Your father and I have signed a formal betrothal agreement, my flower; but Zabaai says you must leave the palace before the public announcement is made tomorrow.
We cannot see each other until our wedding day.”
“But why?!”
she burst out, disappointed.
“Custom, he says.”
For a minute her lips clamped shut, and then she said, “It must be as my father has decreed.”
Her obedience pleased him.
“I have brought you the traditional gift,”
he said, taking her left hand up and placing the ring upon the third finger, whose nerve it was said ran directly to the heart.
Zenobia stared down at the large round black pearl in its simple gold setting.
“It is … incredible,”
she said softly.
“I have never possessed such a ring.”
“My treasurer says that it is listed in a catalogue of gifts sent from the Queen of Sheba to Solomon when he was here in Palmyra overseeing the construction of the city.
I knew that it would be perfect for you, my flower.
It glows against the warm apricot tint of your skin!”
He turned over her hand, which he had yet to relinquish, and placed a tender kiss upon the palm, sending delighted little tingles down Zenobia’s spine.
Suddenly shy, she withdrew her hand from his.
His mouth captured hers again in a swift kiss.
“Oh, my Zenobia!”
he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
“So sure of herself in everything but love.
I will teach you to understand those feelings that assail you, and even frighten you a little.
I will teach you to love, and be loved in return.
There will be no fear or hesitation between us, my flower, and we will trust each other only.”
His lips caressed hers lightly once more.
“I love you, Zenobia.
I love you!”
She had never come so close to fainting in her entire life and, clinging to him childlike, she whispered breathlessly, “I love you also, my Hawk. I do!”
Saying the words seemed to bring a strange relief.
Neither of them heard the door to the antechamber open.
“And are you ready to leave yet, my daughter?”
Zabaai ben Selim stood there, smiling benignly.
Almost guiltily, they sprang apart and, blushing, Zenobia said, “I must change into my chiton, Father.”
“No,”
Odenathus replied.
“I will return you to your home in a litter.
I would prefer that you did not ride with bare legs for all to see.”
To Zabaai ben Selim’s surprise, Zenobia bowed her head in assent, and moved to his side.
“I am ready then, Father.”
The Bedawi chief could only think to say, “Bab will come later with your things, my daughter,”
but she was already moving past him and out the door.
“I will send you word as to the date of the wedding late tonight, my cousin,”
the prince said, and the Bedawi chief nodded his assent as he followed his daughter from the room.
Just before sunset in the Temple of Jupiter, the high priest slaughtered a pure white lamb.
After gazing at the smoking entrails, he announced that the most propitious time for the nuptials would be but ten days hence.
Receiving word from the royal messenger, Zabaai ben Selim smiled to himself, wondering how large a gift Odenathus had donated to the temple in order to receive such a desirable verdict concerning the date of his marriage.
The coming celebration was announced to the public the following day, and the citizens of Palmyra rejoiced.
In the Roman governor’s palace, Antonius Porcius Blandus, still the empire’s representative, took the news less cheerfully. “Hades!”
he said in an annoyed voice to his visitor.
“I had hoped he would remain satisfied with his little Greek concubine.
Had he died without a legitimate heir, Rome might have the city completely and unopposed.”
“We have the city,”
the governor’s visitor said.
“As long as Palmyra has a legitimate ruler there is always a chance of uprising,”
Antonius Porcius retorted.
“I had been led to believe that Odenathus is totally loyal to Rome,”
was the reply.
“Oh, he is loyal.
It is his bride that I fear.
What a vixen he has picked, Marcus Alexander! Zenobia bat Zabaai; half Alexandrian Greek and Egyptian; half Bedawi savage.
Some Gaulish auxiliary Alae murdered her mother four years ago, and she has hated the Romans with a passion ever since.”
“Small wonder,”
the other man murmured.
“You do not know this girl!”
the governor protested.
“She sat in the midst of the men who were responsible, and for over eighteen hours she watched them die.
She was but a child, and yet she sat as still and as cold as a statue as she watched their agony.
There was no pity in her! A man in love is a fickle creature, and Odenathus is, I am told, totally enamored.
She could influence him against us.”
“I think you put too much importance on the marriage of a petty princeling and a half-caste girl, Antonius Porcius.
No girl will defeat and destroy the empire.
There have been men who tried, and they have all failed.
Rome is, and will always be, invincible.”
The governor sighed.
Why was it that Romans never understood? Antonius Porcius thought bitterly.
I know the East and its peoples.
Unless love has softened that hard-eyed child I remember, she will bear watching.
He turned his attention to his dinner guest, Marcus Alexander Britainus, the wealthy son of a Roman patrician and his British wife.
Lucius Alexander Britainus had been a Roman governor in Britain who had married a powerful local chieftain’s daughter.
Marcus Alexander was their eldest son.
A younger son, Aulus, had already inherited his maternal grandfather’s estates and responsibilities in Britain.
There were two sisters, Lucia and Eusebia, who were married to prominent Romans, and already settled matrons.
Marcus Alexander was not married.
He had already served in the army; and now he was coming to Palmyra to set up a trading business that would bring the goods of the East to Britain, where his younger brother would market them.
A strange business for the son of an eminent Roman.
Patricians usually amused themselves in lighter pursuits.
Still, the early Romans had been diligent and industrious.
The governor could not help but wonder if, in addition to his business, Marcus Alexander would be the government’s unofficial eyes and ears.
There had been talk of allowing Prince Odenathus to govern for Rome when he, Antonius, retired in a few years.
Although the prince still ran the city, with the exception of minor judicial matters it was all done under the governor’s direction.
The young Palmyran ruler had proved extremely friendly and trustworthy, and why not, thought Antonius Porcius.
Roman legions kept the Persians at bay.
Rome, however, was not apt to allow Odenathus totally free rein.
There would be someone sent to watch, and the governor suspected that Marcus Alexander was that person.
By the time Odenathus was given alleged control, Marcus Alexander would be a part of Palmyran life, and no one would suspect him at all.
Never in all the history of Rome—either as republic or empire—had the Alexander family been implicated in any kind of disloyalty.
They were Romans first and always.
Marcus was an attractive man, thought the governor, although he had inherited his British mother’s coloring and height.
He was tall by any standards, measuring several inches over six feet.
His hair was the warm, burnished color of a chestnut; his eyes a bright, almost startling blue, rimmed in outrageously thick lashes of the same color as his hair.
He had a firm and well-muscled body, in proportion with his great height.
He was obviously not a man who lolled about the banquet table, his only exercise the lifting of a wine goblet.
Antonius Porcius could not help but notice Marcus Alexander’s hands.
They were large and square, yet the fingers were slender and tapering.
The hands bespoke power, but at the same time gentleness.
The governor had not a moment’s doubt that the women of Palmyra would flock to the newcomer’s bed, for the attractive body was topped by a handsome face of classic elegance.
Marcus Alexander might have his British antecedents’ size and coloring, but he had his father’s features.
The face was oval with a squared-off chin and jawline.
The forehead was high, the nose pure Roman, long and aquiline; the piercing blue eyes were set well apart; the mouth was sensuously big and yet the lips were narrow, their expression faintly mocking, faintly amused.
Those lips now spoke.
“You are staring, Antonius Porcius.
Is there something amiss?”
“What? No, no, Marcus Alexander! Nothing is wrong.
I was simply thinking how like your father you are in features.
I served with him for a time in Britain.
Wretched climate, Britain! I could never get warm there.”
“And here in Palmyra I’ll wager you can never get cool,”
came the teasing reply.
The governor chuckled drily.
“These old bones of mine prefer the heat of the East to the damp of Britain and Gaul.”
Marcus Alexander swished the Falernian wine about in his goblet.
“Do you really think this marriage will be a dangerous thing for Rome?”
He paused, then said quietly, “Perhaps the girl should be eliminated before the event even takes place.”
Antonius Porcius felt an icy chill sweep over him.
He chose his words carefully.
“Zenobia bat Zabaai does not like Rome, or Romans, it is true; but I suspect that you are correct.
She is but a slip of a girl.
What real harm can she do an empire? She will be kept busy in her husband’s bed, and in the nursery for many years to come; and then she will be so busy with her grandchildren that her life will be gone before she has time to think of revenging against Rome for her mother’s death.
I am growing old, Marcus Alexander, and sometimes see shadows where none exist.”
And, thought the governor, I certainly do not want that girl’s death on my conscience.
“Better you are too cautious, than not cautious enough.
Will you be going to the wedding?”
“Oh, yes! The Palmyrans have long been Hellenized.
It will be a traditional Confarreate ceremony celebrated in the atrium of Zabaai ben Selim’s house, and after the banquet the bridal procession will wind back through the city to the bride’s new home at the palace.
It’s really no different from Rome.”
“Perhaps I shall stand with the crowd outside the bride’s house to see her when she leaves,”
was the reply.
“She is very beautiful,”
the governor said.
“Perhaps by Eastern standards,”
Marcus Alexander said.
“I, myself, prefer blondes.”
“So did Odenathus,”
Antonius Porcius said, “until he saw Zenobia.”
“Indeed?”
The governor’s guest was thoughtful.
“I shall most certainly then want to see the bride, although girls on their wedding day have a glow about them that gives beauty even to the most unattractive of females.”
“Then see her before her wedding day,”
the governor said mischievously.
“She has returned to her father’s house, and is in the habit of riding in the desert early each morning.
Perhaps if you, too, ride early you will see her.”
Marcus Alexander was curious, and so the next morning he rose before dawn and followed the caravan road a small distance into the desert.
Waiting behind a dune, he watched as the sun began to color the sky and reflect onto the vast sands.
His patience was finally rewarded, and his ears pricked at the sound of drumming hoofbeats.
Into sight came a magnificent white Arabian, galloping flat-out, along the track; and on the horse’s back, low and almost at one with it, was a rider who slowly drew the sweating animal to a halt, then straightened.
Marcus Alexander caught his breath.
It was a girl, but what a girl! Long, bare legs; full breasts; and a face that could only be described as the most beautiful he had ever seen.
He had never imagined that a woman could be that lovely.
When he moved his horse out into view from behind the dune, she turned slowly to gaze at him haughtily.
“Good morning,” he said.
Zenobia nodded silently to the giant of a man who had so suddenly materialized before her.
“I am Marcus Alexander Britainus, lately come to Palmyra.”
“I am Zenobia bat Zabaai.”
“Do you always ride alone, Zenobia bat Zabaai?”
“Don’t you, Marcus Alexander?”
was the disconcerting reply.
“I am a man.”
“So I have noted.
Good morning, Marcus Alexander.”
She urged her horse forward.