The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1) Page 11

  ‘Zenobia, go with Worod. He will ensure you have a suitable escort to Rome. I want at least a hundred men with her, Commander. Zabbai, get some rest. We will talk more in the morning.’

  Zabbai nodded, a furrow to his brow, unrest in his eyes. He was a broken man. Friends lost to Persian swords and nothing to be done. Odenathus sent him to Rome to escape, I thought. He left, and Zenobia and Worod followed, leaving me alone with the king.

  The king might have designed this, to threaten or to warn, his affections for Zenobia perhaps rendering him jealous of other men, be they cousins or not. Unlikely, I had been ordered to accompany her to Rome.

  He called for a slave.

  ‘I need the city’s taxation records. And food and drink.’

  The slave hurried to fulfil his request.

  ‘The records are sent to Rome, but I always have a copy kept here for our own use.’

  Two slaves returned, one carrying a jug and cups, the other a platter of food. They placed them upon the table and Odenathus accepted a cup of wine. I followed suit as he helped himself to grapes.

  ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Julius spoke fondly of you. A shepherd boy turned slave, turned soldier. What next?’ he smiled, a genuine, large smile.

  Errand boy to Rome, I thought.

  An old man hurried in, scrolls in his arms, several slaves bearing more scrolls in his wake.

  ‘Kouros,’ Odenathus acknowledged him.

  ‘My Lord,’ the man replied, and attempted to bow.

  He put the scrolls down on a table to one side of the room. We moved across. Pillars shadowed us and slaves hurried over with lamps.

  ‘Kouros is my record keeper,’ Odenathus said. ‘Without him, the city’s records would be in chaos. Births, deaths, marriages, taxes, levies, land. Rome requires everything to be recorded and kept safe. Now, Zabdas, I know you are a man of some mathematical skill, of log-keeping yourself. You work on the army’s records, I am told, so you will have an understanding of such documents?’

  I peered at the scrolls. Took one, unrolled it and squinted in the candlelight. They were not records, but catalogues of records.

  ‘They make sense to me.’

  ‘Good. We must extract everything that can be of use.’

  ‘What are we looking for, my Lord?’ I asked.

  Kouros nodded in a bid for clarification.

  ‘This, gentlemen, is our means of locating every tribe in the province. If a man trades, he is recorded. If he does not trade through Palmyra, he does not trade at all.’

  I read and we searched, back and forth through scrolls and years. We searched and more men came to assist. I requested blank scrolls and began drawing up an endless list of candidates who could raise arms. We found corresponding records, obtained locations and wrote them down.

  I did not think of Rome as we worked. I did not think of Zenobia. The task consumed us. Worod returned in the early hours, unrolling scroll after scroll, enthused by the notion that more fighting men might be found. Odenathus himself was not idle, sending messengers, despatching orders, tirelessly reading and writing and searching, as we all did, for precious information.

  Hours passed and morning light drove through window gaps. My eyes were tired, but reading became easier. Roman-drawn maps of Syria were laid on the floor and every tribe marked upon them. Hundreds. Odenathus finally saw the enormity of our task. Many days travel would be required to seek the tribes, many more to persuade them, and even then, they may not come.

  I left at midday and went to my palace rooms. Nothing had changed. They were the same rooms I had slept in whilst Julius was here. Bright light lit dust in the air. I walked through it, disturbing the particles, and looked out of the window to a rare view. People milled about their business, their night one of sleep where mine was not.

  I turned back, surveying the empty space. I wished then I had stayed, slept in this bed, in the room beside Zenobia.

  She was in her own room, bright light illuminating her hair and olive skin.

  ‘Zabdas.’ She smiled. ‘When my father told us of Rome, I did not think we would travel there, to the centre of the Empire, you and I together. I am glad we have the chance to spend time with one another.’

  I yawned and rubbed my face. My mind returned to the night before, of standing on the city wall, keeping watch, my tiredness. That weariness evaporated with all the commotion, but now it returned ten-fold.

  ‘I am glad also,’ I said, though I could not be sure I meant it. ‘You were about to tell me news of your father earlier?’

  She paused. Worry cracked her unreadable mask.

  My own stomach lurched, dread filling the unknown.

  ‘Teymour has been injured in battle. He may not live.’

  A moment of relief that it was Teymour and not Julius.

  ‘What has happened?’

  She pulled out the note from layers of robes, unfolded and handed it to me.

  ‘The Tanukh tried to take the Euphrates. My father commandeered a number of vessels and blocked the river to stop them raiding the north. There was a night attack. Two boats were boarded by the enemy and as they struggled for command Teymour was stabbed in the belly. My father’s men still hold the river, but his letter is dated three weeks ago.’

  I crossed the room and embraced her. We had not seen Teymour in two years, but he had written as often as Julius with news, and Zenobia had always passed it on. I knew by her face she worried for him.

  I tightened my embrace. Whispered, ‘The gods will not forsake him. He will live.’

  Damn the gods. I would have gone south in that moment, with or without the king’s permission, accepting whatever punishment I might face, but we had orders now; and Zenobia a task that had come full circle. The same task that was once Julius’: to travel to Rome and plead for more troops, to describe the horrors of the east and tell of the grave blade-edge upon which we balanced. To stand before the most powerful men in the Empire; the greatest men in the world, and give them news foretold for centuries.

  The east was about to crumble under a new ruler.

  CHAPTER 10

  Zabdas - 257 AD

  No further news came from the frontier. Not east or south. I thought of Teymour bleeding life from his wounds, wondered if we would see him once more.

  Zenobia, Zabbai and I left Palmyra with more than a hundred men, Rome our destination; the land where fineries of the east concluded their journey, to witness the very heart of the greatest empire, and leave behind the frontier, besieged with enemies, clamouring for a scrap of Rome’s vast, incomprehensible wealth.

  Each night we erected long, low, black tents of goat and camel hair; easy to assemble and disassemble, quick to move should we need to. Each night I slept inside the entrance of Zenobia’s tent. Our Bedouin escort with their swords and light armour deterred those who might cause us harm, yet we stayed no more than a night in one place.

  Zabbai led our path, though Zenobia held a certain power. The men sensed her closeness to the king, noted Zabbai glance to her for permission or reassurance. Respect, I thought at first, then I wondered did they fear her, but I could not see it.

  Without the cargo that burdened trade caravans we made a fine pace. Still it took longer than we wanted to reach the west. The landscape changed as we moved onward, subtle differences in architecture and climate. Syria could be warm even with winds, and only the darkness brought an icy chill. Further west the temperature dropped, yet we were not in the coldest months. We wore thick cloaks, two at night, and Zenobia braved the conditions without discontent.

  We had travelled by land to Antioch on the west coast of Syria, then across the Mediterranean. Ianuanius, as the Romans have it, saw us in to a new year, but Februarius arrived and conditions became colder still. Constant drizzle and occasional snow flecked our cloaks; an icy reminder we were no longer home.

  I longed to see Rome, even bearing our grave message. Zenobia was unmoved by my eagerness to fulfil our mission and return east. But Zabbai,
so patient and methodical, appeared anxious. These lands were unknown to him, far from home. Zenobia said we were a part of them, of the great and mighty Empire, just as the cities and towns of Hispaniae and Britanniae were in the west. Why should we be afraid?

  Zabbai pondered the diversion of forces from Thraciae. They must suffer the Goth enemy too, he said. Food shortages would be common, farms further north raided. No, he surmised, Rome could not spare those soldiers.

  We clung to the southern lands, far from the enemy. Yet they suffered piracy from their own kind.

  Would Rome listen? I heard talk of the Empire’s options. Rome could cut off its territory at Byzantium, where the land became a bottleneck, and could be more easily defended. They would forfeit the whole of Anatolia, Asiana and Syria, and grain from Egypt would cease; a whole third of the Empire’s grain supply each year. And Palmyrene trade would end.

  We secured passage across the waters, and met no resistance the morning we saw Italia on the horizon. Sunlight shone on calm waters. I felt the familiarity of Zenobia by my side. Memories warmed me; of standing next to Julius, gazing at the shores of Syria, seeing the place that became home.

  ‘I received a note,’ I said, thoughts spurring words, ‘from your mother, just over a year ago.’

  ‘What did it contain?’

  ‘It was about a slave-girl of your house. Farva.’

  ‘I know the one. My sister wrote she died in childbirth,’ Zenobia said with indifference. ‘She had a boy.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘I have seen him when I travelled home. He grows strong. What do you want to know, Zabdas?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, afraid, unable to speak.

  ‘Of course you must. You touched upon this subject.’

  ‘Your mother wrote that the girl claimed him mine.’

  On the edge of my vision I saw her incline her head.

  ‘I never lay with her,’ I explained. ‘She propositioned, but I did not accept.’

  Zenobia half smiled. ‘Then you have nothing to concern yourself with.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘But it does not sit well with you? I hear you do not join fellow soldiers in brothel activities. That you have a fear of women.’

  ‘Do I fear you?’ I said, and laughed, a hollow, forced sound.

  ‘I did not say I believed the talk. I think perhaps you are afraid of being a free man.’

  We said no more. I reflected on the irony of the claim Farva had made; I was a soldier now, learning to defend and kill. To end life, rather than give. No, not to end, to protect. And I wondered vaguely if Zenobia had lain with Odenathus. Put it from my mind. I could not think of it.

  We drifted toward land. My breath misted on the air and I wrapped my cloak tighter about my shoulders. Zenobia threw back her head, eyes closed, and breathed deeply before returning a hungry gaze on our destination.

  On land, days went by with no trace of the city. Markers gave indication of distance, but bore no relevance to my aching limbs.

  ‘It is possible they know of the Persian victories already,’ Zabbai said.

  ‘No one could have journeyed faster than us,’ I replied. ‘If they have, are we wasting our time?’

  ‘The Roman commanders in Syria will have sent flag messages back. But we are not wasting our time,’ he said. ‘If Rome is aware that the Persians have pressed further into Syria, it is our task to discover their intentions and inform Odenathus and the Syrian army as soon as possible. If Rome sits back, then we plead our case.’

  ‘We must exaggerate our weak position,’ Zenobia said. ‘Shapur could have taken Palmyra and be marching into Anatolia before we even reach Rome.’

  Our position could be weaker still. I felt sick, my stomach rolling, the fear of what we would return to unsettling.

  ‘Do you think the Persians have moved further?’ I said.

  Zabbai glanced at Zenobia before saying, ‘I have seen his army, Zabdas. I watched the Persians take Nisibis. If unchecked, the whole of Rome could fall. They are a plague and their leader is a ruthless man who knows how to conqueror. He knows Rome is weak.’

  ‘Rome cannot decline when the Persians rip a path into the heart of their empire.’ I said.

  Zabbai shrugged. ‘We will see.’

  Zenobia said nothing, her mind working.

  Two days later, Rome was in sight.

  We arrived at an entrance on the outer limits of the city, and our hundred strong escort was refused entry.

  ‘No soldiers inside the city,’ Zabbai said.

  They set up camp on the outskirts whilst Zenobia, Zabbai and I negotiated access. We represented the Syrian government, we said, and had lodgings arranged within.

  Buildings taller than I had known reached for the sky, larger even than the temples of Palmyra. Floors were constructed within buildings, Zabbai said, the poorer dwelling in compact apartments. Marble and mosaic were in abundance, and dull mortar made houses and roads everywhere. Republican buildings of great mastery dotted the grey scene. Magnificent, tall, dominating. Yet everything had been washed of colour, grey and hints of pale, defiant hues stroked here and there, nonetheless worn and faded. Streets rang with the sound of chariots. Instead of a bustling sound, of traders selling wares and soldiers keeping peace, an overwhelming noise rang, inescapable.

  Every street forced me to look up to see the sky. No greenery present. How could anyone live here and find peace? The people were unfriendly; many a man caught my shoulder in passing, without apology or acknowledgment. Syrian women bore sumptuous dark skin of olive tones; here they were intriguing and pale, and many sported hair of pale gold and looked upon you with sea-blue eyes.

  Rome was so full of people and wonders and buildings that I could not breathe. I wanted to return to Syria, to escape the noise and the traffic and the desperate, unstoppable rhythm.

  I was not the only one unimpressed. Zenobia gazed without acknowledgment or comment. When asked her opinion she said, ‘The greatest things in this world are rarely the most beautiful.’ I agreed. This city might have been large, sophisticated and advanced, yet it lacked identity, as if every beautiful thing of ingenious design had been mixed in a pot and poured out onto seven hills. Rome was every exquisite culture imaginable, covered in a hard-setting grey slush.

  Zenobia’s Latin was extensive. She spoke to the guards at the city entrance, then to errand boys. Zabbai and I waited as she murmured to them, passed them coins, then gestured we follow one.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ I asked.

  ‘To see an old friend of my father’s. A man named Regulus. Let us hope he can secure an audience with the emperor.’

  Slaves brushed doorsteps. A man’s voice shouted, drunk and obscene as servants with bowed heads crossed our path carrying messages from one house to another, and togas whipped in and out of sight.

  I felt as if we had crossed the entire city when the boy came to a halt and gestured a door.

  ‘Gratitude,’ Zenobia said, dropping more coins into the boy’s outstretched hand.

  Zabbai stepped forward and tapped on the door.

  ‘How does Julius know him?’ I asked.

  ‘My father stayed here many times when in Rome.’ She glanced skyward. ‘It is getting late.’

  The door creaked open. Two bright-blue eyes peered at us.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I seek Regulus,’ Zenobia said. ‘It is a matter of importance.’

  The soft slap of sandals.

  ‘Who calls?’ Another voice, older and more croak-like than the first.

  The girl opened the door. A man with greying hair and a stick to aid him walked toward us.

  ‘Who are you and how I can help?’

  ‘You are Regulus?’ Zenobia asked.

  ‘I am. And you are?’

  ‘You know my father,’ Zenobia replied. ‘Zabdilas.’

  Eyes alert, the old man checked himself, leant further on his stick to peer at Zenobia. He studied her, but she did not
flinch. Lines of age changed shape, moulding to a grin, and misty-yellow eyes filled with joy.

  ‘Tell me I am not deceived? If I were to have laid a bet on who knocked at my door, I would be missing a small fortune. Tell me you are Zenobia, daughter of Julius Zabdilas?’

  Zenobia smiled back and I reflected she had not done fully in months.

  ‘My father talked of you often.’

  Regulus’ cane clattered to the floor. He beckoned Zenobia with both arms. She held him, comfortable and relaxed in his embrace, his soft beard resting against her black hair.

  ‘My dear girl, tell me how your father is? It has been a long time since he last wrote.’ He glanced to Zabbai and me. He said in Aramaic, ‘Forgive my rudeness. I should not have assumed you understood everything.’

  I had understood, but smiled nonetheless.

  ‘Goodness, what has hospitality come to? Come in, come in. My house is modest but the least I can do is let you sit down.’

  The girl who answered the door led us down the hallway to a sitting room, where furniture was intimately arranged and scrolls lined the walls. From Cicero to Ptolemy, Aristotle to Aurelius, great philosophers had their place on the shelves. No statues stood atop pedestals, but models of unknown devices, made of metals bent and twisted.

  ‘Please, sit,’ Regulus said, beaming. ‘I still cannot believe you are here, Zenobia, in Rome! How frightful it must seem, compared to Palmyra, a desert oasis. I have longed to visit, but alas I think I may now be too old for the journey.’

  Servants appeared with trays of refreshments.

  ‘You may leave us now, Aurelia,’ Regulus said, and to us: ‘A student. Or ward, rather. The bastard daughter of a general, no less. Her mother was an old friend of mine, but there was little I could do to help her when she fell ill, except to agree to put a roof over her daughter’s head when the end came.’ He flicked a hand as though it was nothing. ‘I have made my enemies over the years, but I should not wish one of a woman close to death. So, you must tell me of Julius?’

  Zenobia’s smile faded and hard resolve returned.

  ‘Odenathus sent my father to fight the Tanukh tribe in southern Syria.’