Beloved (24 page)

Marcus Britainus waited for he knew not what. Zenobia had never mentioned or even vaguely referred to the incident in the desert when they had both come so close to indiscretion. When they had returned to Palmyra that day he had sought out the beautiful courtesan, Sadira, and used her almost savagely.

“It is obvious that you love a woman you cannot have, Marcus Alexander,” Sadira had said, “but I cannot suffer each time you visit me because I am not that woman. Do not return to me unless you exorcise the devils within you.”

Marcus might have bought himself a beautiful slave girl in Palmyra’s famous slave markets, but he wanted no woman if he could not have Zenobia. Often his thoughts were black, but these thoughts he kept to himself. Sometimes in the night he would awaken and wonder what would happen if Odenathus were killed in battle. Then he would despise himself for having fallen so low in his desperate love for Zenobia that he wished the king, his friend, dead. With an eye to marriage, he made a serious effort to look over the available women within his class, but no one captured his heart. He reconciled himself to bachelorhood.

He saw Zenobia frequently, for from the beginning he had always been included in her social life. He and Longinus were her frequent escorts whenever Odenathus was away. They would stand on either side of her at the games, or at the theater, or amuse her with witty conversation at dull state dinners. It was not a great deal, he thought, somewhat sadly, but at least he was with her. Despite his family’s constant pleas from Rome, he could not marry. True, most marriages were things of convenience, but Marcus Alexander Britainus would not marry without love. And there would never be anyone for him but Zenobia of Palmyra, wife to Odenathus.

*   *   *

The Persians were finally beaten, and Odenathus would at last be home for good, barring another war. Palmyra had never been so prosperous, so strong, so invincible. It had a warrior king, a wise and beautiful queen, and two healthy princes, Vaballathus who would soon be twelve, and his younger brother, Demetrius, now almost eleven. There was great celebration in honor of the royal family.

The city was filled to overflowing with dignitaries from as far east as Cathay and the lands beyond the Indus River. There wasn’t a family whose house didn’t accommodate relatives and other guests. Antonius Porcius and his wife, Julia, were playing hosts to Rufus Curius, Deliciae, and their children. In addition to Linos and Vernus, they had produced six children in the ten years of their marriage.

Julia and Deliciae had both become plump with age. Both were dedicated wives and mothers. The pampered daughter of one of Palmyra’s most distinguished families and the former concubine of nameless parentage found that they had a great deal in common, and were fast friends.

Rufus Curius had been a good foster father to Deliciae’s two oldest sons. He had never favored his own sons over them, offering equal love and equal discipline to all the children in his family. Unfortunately, Al-Zena had rooted the bitter seed of discontent deep within their hearts, and although they outwardly seemed to adjust to their new life, Linos and Vernus never forgot that they were Odenathus’s older sons. Intelligent, they eagerly learned the arts of warfare from their foster father, and it was expected that they would join the army when they returned to Qasr-al-Hêr.

The Palmyran celebration was to last six days, with all entertainments free and open to everyone. Food and drink were available to all, courtesy of the royal council. Certain prisoners were released in honor of the king’s victory over the Persians. Others would have the opportunity to win their freedom in gladitorial combat in the great Palmyran amphitheater.

The games held in Palmyra were probably the most humane in the entire empire. The Palmyrans did not have the lust for blood that the citizens of Rome did. The gladitorial combat was therefore with blunt weapons, and a man put down by his opponent was subject to the crowd’s judgment. A thumb turned upward meant he was allowed to get up and continue; a downward thumb meant the contest was immediately awarded to his opponent. Unlike Rome, Palmyra did not allow man and animal to fight; nor did women battle dwarfs.

Palmyra’s open-air theater, which dated from before the Roman occupation, was offering comedies each morning, and its ten thousand seats were always filled. There were no women performers, young boys whose voices were still high played the female parts. Zenobia in particular enjoyed the earthy, ribald humor.

Each night after the celebrations, the rulers of Palmyra held a banquet to which the rich and famous were invited; but on the final day their banquet was limited to their family and close friends. It was not as elaborate a meal as the previous nights, beginning with silver platters of boiled, peeled eggs with a piquant dipping sauce, artichokes in wine vinegar and olive oil, thin slices of onion, and salted fish. The second course offered baby lamb garnished with tiny onions which had been roasted with it and sprinkled with fresh mint, antelope with asparagus and beets, an enormous haunch of beef, chickens roasted with lemon sauce, bowls of beans, peas, and cabbage, platters of cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, and radishes, black and green olives in glass bowls, and round loaves of fine white bread. Mulsum, a drink made of four parts wine and one part honey, was drunk with the first course, and meal wine, a mixture of water and wine, was served with the second course because straight wine was considered harmful to the stomach until it had been well filled.

The last course offered fresh fruits: peaches, apricots, green and red grapes, pomegranates, cherries, oranges, figs, and plums. There were honey cakes rolled in poppy or sesame seeds, in chopped almonds or pistachios. There were large dates stuffed with walnuts, and at last the goblets were filled with rich and heady dark red wine. There was entertainments with the final course; a jongleur who delighted the children by being able to handle six oranges at one time; and a clever elderly man from Cathay with a troupe of dancing dogs. The older boys enjoyed the acrobats, the gentlemen the dancing girls from Egypt.

It was a warm and friendly gathering with Cassius Longinus and Marcus Britainus joining Zenobia, Odenathus, and their children; Al-Zena; Antonius Porcius, his Julia, and their children; Rufus Curius, Deliciae, and their children; Linos and Vermis; now elderly Zabaai ben Selim, Tamar, Zenobia’s favorite brother Akbar ben Zabaai, and even old Bab. Odenathus stood, raising a fresh goblet of wine to toast them all.

“To Palmyra,” he said. “To my beloved wife, Zenobia, and to my sons. To all of you!” He gestured with the goblet, “My family,
my friends.” Then he spilled a portion of the goblet. “To the gods!” he toasted, and quickly quaffed the wine down.

All stood, and raised their own goblets to him in salute preparatory to drinking; but suddenly a terrible look came over Odenathus’s face, and he doubled over, his voice barely a whisper, but clearly heard by them all.

“Don’t drink! I have been poisoned!” Then he fell back onto the couch.

Al-Zena screamed in horror, her hand going to her mouth as Zenobia shot her a quelling look.

“Fetch the doctor! Hurry!” the queen cried to the servants.

A servant ran from the room as Julia quickly gathered up the small children, and herded them out along with the king’s weeping mother. Fortunately they had seen little, and understood nothing.

“Do not fear, my Hawk,” Zenobia whispered, “the doctor is coming.”

Odenathus shook his head. “I am a dead man, my flower,” and he grimaced as a burning pain tore through his guts. “You must rule Palmyra until Vaba is of age, Zenobia.” Painfully he raised himself so they might all see him. “Prince Vaballathus is my choice, my heir, the next King of Palmyra. Zenobia is to rule in his place until he is of age.” As he fell back he cried out, “Promise me!”

The men gathered about the king, and said with one voice, “We will protect Prince Vaballathus’s rights, Majesty.”

“Where is the doctor!” Zenobia’s voice was edged with hysteria.

“Zenobia!”
His voice was weaker now, as if, having settled the succession, little was left for him. “Give me your hand, my flower.” She took his slender hand, icy now with approaching death. Her eyes were filled with tears that she could not control. “Ah,” he said softly. “How I have loved you!” and then he was dead.

For a moment, silence. Then Zenobia said in a strained voice, “I want to know who did this.
I want to know!”

The royal physician ran into the room, saw Odenathus, and flung himself on the floor before the queen. “Take my life, Majesty, for what use am I to you by being too late,” he cried.

“No, Apollodorus, it is not your fault; but take the other goblets of wine, being careful to mark each one, and tell me if they, too, were poisoned.”

The physician stood and, moving to the table, quickly began
lifting each goblet and sniffing carefully at it. When he had checked every goblet in the room he looked at Zenobia and said, “It is not necessary for me to make a further study, my Queen. Every goblet but two was poisoned. All in this room but two would have died had they drunk.”

Zenobia looked to Odenathus’s oldest sons. “Why?” she asked, knowing they were the quiet ones.

It was Linos who answered. “Because I should be the next king. I was the eldest son, not Vaba. Odenathus was going to formally invest Vaba as his heir tomorrow.”

“But why everyone, Linos?”

“If you were all dead the people would have to accept me. Besides, the emperor promised that he would support me.”

“Gallienus?” Zenobia was shocked.

“He always secretly held my father responsible for Valerian’s death at the hands of King Shapur.”

“Valerian was responsible for his own death, the fool!” was the sharp reply. Then Zenobia turned to Rufus Curius, and said quietly, “Take your wife from the room, Rufus Curius.”

The commander of Qasr-al-Hêr led his numb and sobbing wife out. Whether Deliciae wept for Odenathus or her sons even she did not know.

Zenobia drew her older son forward, and Longinus lifted the boy up onto the dining table. “The king is dead,” Zenobia said in a strangely strong voice. “Long live the king!”

“Long life to King Vaballathus!” the men in the room took up the cry.

“No!”
Linos shouted, but it was his last word. Akbar ben Zabaai moved quickly behind the young man and slit his throat. Vernus screamed but one word—
“Marnar!”
—then the blade silenced him forever.

“Take them out into the desert and leave their bodies for carrion,” commanded the high-pitched voice of the new king. “They have killed our father, and do not deserve the honor of a burial.” His young voice was strong, but he looked to his mother for corroboration. Her nod was barely perceptible.

“I think that the king and his brother had best be taken to bed now, Majesty,” Longinus said. “It is necessary that we call the council together immediately. A check must be made to ascertain if anyone else was involved in the plot against the royal family. The city must be secured against possible uprising or outside
attack. The people should be informed, then assured that all is well.”

Zenobia nodded. “So be it. See to finding the council, and send my guard to me. Tell Rufus Curius to return immediately.” She turned to face the others in the room. “I must ask everyone here to please remain.”

As she continued to give detailed instructions to Longinus, Antonius Porcius moved next to Marcus Britainus and said softly, “What do you know of this?”

Marcus’s face was grim. “Nothing,” he answered. “I have always avoided being involved in imperial politics. I can only suppose that the weak fool, Gallienus, made wild accusations in one of his drunken moods; but how he managed to involve Linos and Vernus, I do not know.”

“It is obvious that there is an imperial spy here in Palmyra,” was the reply.

Marcus looked at Antonius Porcius in surprise. “I am not an imperial spy,” he said.

Al-Zena chose that moment to re-enter the room. She walked slowly over to the fallen body of her son and gently smoothed his brow. Odenathus’s face was peaceful in death, and although he was but thirty-eight, he looked much younger. Sorrow had etched deep lines in his mother’s once proud face, and she who so valued her appearance was oblivious to the fact that her face was dirty with tears. Sadly she shook her head. “I had him such a little time,” she said.

Zenobia moved over to her mother-in-law and, in the first gesture of affection that she had ever shown the woman, put her arm about her shoulders. “I do not understand it,” she said to Al-Zena, “but surely it is the will of the gods. Why else would this man be taken from us?” Gently she led the grieving woman back to the door, calling to old Bab, who had been in the dining room all along. “Take her to Ala, and stay if you are needed.”

Bab nodded and, putting an arm around Al-Zena’s waist, led the woman off down the corridor.

Rufus Curius re-entered the room. Turning to him, Zenobia said, “Rufus Curius, I am placing the king and his brother in your charge. See to their safety.”

“You can trust me after what happened?” The centurion’s eyes misted.

“I do not blame you, Rufus Curius. The damage was done to Linos and Vernus before you became their foster father. I know
you did your best, and I thank the gods you have your own children, that Deliciae has something to live for despite this tragedy. Please now, escort my sons to their quarters and arrange that some of the men of my guard watch over them. Then see to your wife, for I know tonight’s events have left her devastated.”

Rufus Curius saluted his queen, and then bowed to the young king and his brother. “If your Majesty will allow me I will escort you and Prince Demetrius to your apartments.”

Demi hurled himself into his mother’s arms, weeping, and Zenobia soothed him as best she could, kissing away his tears and chiding him gently that his father would want him to be brave. Firmly she disengaged his hold about her neck, and placed his small hand into the centurion’s big one. Young Vaba bowed in a courtly way before his mother, his face grave. “Good night, Mother.”