The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1) Read online

  ‘No,’ he said, half laughing, ‘only Persian soldiers. I have fought them when they were under the command of Shapur and his predecessor, Ardashir.’

  ‘Ardashir?’ I asked, rolling the name in my mouth, unfamiliar with it.

  ‘Shapur’s father and a man of great ambition and no mercy. It is said Shapur is even more formidable.’

  I thought of the talk amongst our soldiers, the tales they told of flaying and impaling those who fell into Persian hands.

  ‘I heard he kills mercilessly.’

  ‘He does. We have never had a messenger back alive from the Persian camp.’

  Time passed quickly as our hopes ran high with the arrival of the Romans. I thought of Aurelia constantly. She kept me warm in the waiting dark as I craved her voice, her touch, the simple fact of her presence. I was alone, I realised; Zenobia too focussed on politics, Odenathus my superior, Zabbai commanding his men, and my fellow soldiers always somewhat distant owing to the time I spent in Zenobia’s company. Aurelia wrote, but her words did little to quench my thirst. And as Zenobia’s personal guard, her companion, her cousin, I had yet to face real combat.

  We were not winning. We were not defeating our enemy.

  Two months went by and Zenobia grew pale as our prospects of protecting our people grew faint. We had Roman forces, but Shapur pushed forth his army and we slipped further and further back, losing more and more land.

  ‘Valerian will not listen,’ Odenathus said.

  We stood beside the ordered Roman legions, waiting for the Persians to advance. Eighty-five thousand against a hundred thousand; not an advantage, but we could still win. We were half-way between Zeugma, which we had lost, and Antioch, the city where Zenobia had purchased the life of the ex-senator, Mareades, and given him his freedom. There was no river and no means to confine and block and outmanoeuvre our enemy. The plain was hot and the sky burning red and I could see the faint glimpse of light reflected in the Roman armour. They stood in formation, infantry to the centre and cavalry and light troops at their wings to protect their flanks. Farther still I could see the Sassanian cavalry and their bows and fair horses. And my gut tightened and lurched as I attempted to stand on that very spot and not show fear.

  ‘You must make him listen,’ Zenobia replied.

  The emperor, mounted upon his black horse, was but twenty feet from us. He too watched his men facing the enemy.

  ‘I have told him of the Persians’ favoured tactics and what he can expect,’ Odenathus replied. ‘But watch now as he listens not to my advice, but that of his own commanders.’

  ‘He will listen to you,’ Zenobia said. ‘He will not want to, but he will listen.’

  She lied, I could sense it in her gentle tone, so unlike her usual determined voice.

  I searched the units for our own men. Beside the Roman cavalry Zabbai led the Palmyrene contingent. I prayed Zenobia was right, that Valerian would indeed listen to the advice given to him by those experienced in Syrian warfare, and our men would not be in danger. Zabbai was a level-headed man, who stood at the fore of the army. If we were to be crushed, he would be the first to fall.

  ‘You should not be here watching this, Zenobia,’ Odenathus said. ‘I dare say I fear what your father would say if he knew.’

  ‘Have you word from him?’ she asked, ignoring his words.

  ‘Not yet.’

  In the distance, enemy drums beat the daunting sound of battle, the thumping rhythm of what was to come. They had raided and raped and burned and pillaged these past two months, and they would continue to do so, and as I looked now at the men before us, their swords and spears in their hands, I prayed to Bel that we would see a certain victory this day.

  Behind us, the sound of a galloping horse.

  I turned as a rider came to a halt a few paces away.

  ‘What is it?’ Odenathus asked.

  ‘Word from the Euphrates, my Lord,’ the man said, handing the king a scroll. He turned at speed the way he had come, dust and stones churning behind.

  Odenathus loosened the tie about the scroll and unrolled it. I itched to know the words, to know what Julius wrote, whether he was alive or dead.

  ‘What does it say?’ Zenobia asked.

  Odenathus handed it to her.

  ‘Your father gives his consent and his blessing,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’ I asked, but as I spoke I realised the meaning of his words.

  ‘Zenobia,’ Odenathus said, reaching out his hand, ‘your father gives his consent, so will you now consent to become queen of Palmyra and my wife?’

  ‘It would be an honour,’ she replied.

  Her face was full of hope and a certain satisfaction. She had a place higher than any woman of Syria could dream, and yet we stood in the desert amidst the armies of Syria and the Empire waiting for the shedding of blood that would come.

  And me, I could barely control the jealousy which rose in my stomach at the sight of Odenathus taking from his own, smallest finger, an iron ring, and placing it upon Zenobia’s own, slim finger in a truly Roman way.

  ‘I cannot wait for an engagement,’ he said, ‘let this be it.’

  She kissed him then, a lingering kiss of promise, as my spite and my hatred boiled.

  When they had parted, she scanned the scroll and with a familiarity I had come to know, handed it to me.

  I looked at the handwriting I knew well, and cherished reading the words written by Julius. He always drafted his own correspondence:

  Forgive my informal address. I write in haste, for although the frontier is stable, and you have no need to worry, I join a raiding party and we are currently on the move.

  I must congratulate you on your successes. With the emperor now joining you in the east you must finally find a little rest from the constant exhaustion of Shapur’s presence. Or do you? Either way I hope you are accomplishing everything you wish for.

  And as for my daughter, it brings me great pleasure to know that you and Zenobia will be bound in Roman matrimony.

  There was once a time I feared we would not be reconciled, that the void between us was too great, and I know I am much to blame for the place we found ourselves. I confess I had hoped that Zenobia could bridge that distance, and that our family would be united as was once intended.

  Do not wait, Odenathus, for my return. We are pressed hard by the Tanukh and although I would never assume my very presence to be the key to holding the south, I cannot in all conscience risk leaving to join you in what will be a magnificent celebration.

  Give Zenobia my love and enjoy your day together. I hope to see you all one day soon.

  Your friend and soon to be father-in-law,

  Julius~

  My heart felt heavy as I read the last lines. I could not speak, nor look at Zenobia and Odenathus, as I found my eyes brimming with tears. I looked out at the men standing on the plain, flags flying crimson red over the Roman columns and in my vision. I did not think of Aurelia. I thought only of Zenobia, the knowledge that she would be irrevocably tied to Odenathus crushing my chest. I tried to breathe, but my breaths came short and shallow and hot. I am her cousin, I told myself, but it was not enough. I knew then my connection to Zenobia was more than that of a relative.

  ‘It will be a fine day if we win this battle,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed it shall,’ Odenathus replied.

  Shouts sounded and the Roman columns, our own men at their centre, moved forward, and the sound of the Persian drums became louder still. Banging and deafening. I tried to break my mind from the brief engagement I had witnessed, but for a moment I could not have cared if we saw victory or if we all fell on these sands. For me we might as well have already lost.

  The first clash echoed in the halls of the gods and woke them from their slumber as the Persian cataphract charged the Roman lines and dust billowed into the morning air and the red sun penetrated, casting an eerie glow. Today we would amuse the gods, and give them a battle they would not forget.

&nbs
p; Volleys of arrows hissed overhead hitting those behind the front lines.

  ‘Move back,’ Odenathus said to Zenobia. ‘It is time now, move back out of danger. Zabdas, go with her.’

  He motioned us back with his arm as more arrows hissed overhead, striking soldiers just feet away. Screams of agony sounded over the soft thuds and ringing strikes as the tips pierced flesh and iron.

  ‘Come, Zenobia,’ I said, remembering the promise Odenathus had asked me to keep the night before. We would be with the army until the last moment, as Zenobia wished, but would retreat when the first charge occurred, back to the safety of our camp a short distance away.

  But Zenobia would not be moved. She watched as Odenathus mounted and rode close to Valerian. Whilst the men talked the emperor motioned to messengers and commanders, a pinched look upon his face, a brow creased with worry and the decisions we all knew Valerian incapable of making.

  More arrows hissed. The whole Roman army seemed to move back a pace under the weight of the Persian cavalry. Vultures soared overhead, waiting to pick at the flesh of the dead.

  ‘Move now, Zenobia,’ I warned, angry with her, for her disobedience and for her engagement to the king and for Julius leaving and Meskenit’s disapproval of me and the nights I had spent on the wall and for ever having been a slave. I was angry with it all. Gods, I was angry and I was exhausted and I could have lain down on the sands and let the Persians trample me.

  A horn broke through the din.

  Zenobia’s eyes were wide.

  ‘The Persians sound their retreat?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  I looked across to Odenathus to see puzzlement upon his face. And shock.

  ‘They do not retreat,’ I heard him shout to the emperor. ‘Still your men.’

  But the command to pursue to the Persians came, shouted down the columns, repeated by the centurions, and the whole of the Roman army moved forward as one.

  Zenobia hung her head.

  ‘What is happening?’ I asked.

  She did not answer. The Roman lines advanced and we heard screams and shouts and horses screeching an awful, high-pitched mew of death from the Roman front. The Persian cavalry began to divide, half heading toward the right flank where Zenobia and I stood.

  The Roman advance came to a halt as Odenathus rode back to us.

  ‘Tribulus,’ he said. ‘The fucking Persians dropped iron spikes to stop our men pursuing their retreat. You need to get away from here now.’

  We three watched as thousands of mounted Persians kicked up the desert, nearing us, riding hard, camels and horses thumping across the dust.

  ‘Go,’ Odenathus ordered. ‘Ride for Antioch and I will come for you.’

  We did not ride to Antioch. We stopped a few hundred paces from the army and watched as the Persian cavalry crashed into the Romans’ right flank, causing the Roman cavalry to buckle, horses toppling their riders, spears sticking up from the dead. I looked for Odenathus but I could not see him amidst the horses and men and clashing of iron against iron and the spray of blood and sand. All across the plain Persians and Romans fell to one another’s swords and arrows and on the left flank I saw the same, the army pincered between the divided Persian force.

  Valerian, his purple pulling in a hot breeze, moved to edge back, a retreat no doubt upon his lips.

  I willed the screams of the dying to stop, but they did not. The din continued, neither side willing to succumb to the other, as Zenobia took my hand and stared ahead to where Odenathus fought with his own men, fending off the enemy, doing all he could to save them after Valerian had ordered the pursuit which now saw them caught in the middle of the Persian force.

  I thought of Herodes, ordered to another frontier, to Samosata, and realised why his father had sent him there. He could not risk his own death and that of his son in the same battle. And he must have known, too, that the further away from the emperor he was, the safer he would be.

  I gripped tight Zenobia’s hand, much tighter than I should have, more even than was comfortable, but it was all I could do. I could neither leave her there and join those losing to the enemy, nor force her back to camp or on to Antioch.

  The commotion and battle-noise eased as the Roman retreat sounded and the soldiers moved back in formation, keeping their lines together to stave the enemy pursuit. But the enemy did not come. They watched and as our armies pulled back I could see the plain littered with Persian horses, dying on the sands, riders slain. They had suffered loss, but as our lines neared, the gaping holes were evident. The dead and the dying left behind to bury another day strewn across the sands.

  Odenathus peeled away from the main force and rode to us.

  ‘Will you ever do as you are asked?’

  A bloody splatter covered his breastplate, his face and hair thick with sweat and grime, a new gash livid upon his arm.

  ‘Valerian would not listen to you?’ she countered.

  He shook his head. ‘My men suffered little, I think, but the Romans were hit hard.’

  He put an arm about Zenobia’s shoulder.

  ‘I pray this day is done.’

  We met in Odenathus’ low, black tent that night, far from the Persian army, but not far enough to still my fear of a night attack. Zenobia, Zabbai, general Pouja and I sat before the king.

  ‘You speak of the emperor of Rome,’ Odenathus reminded everyone, his tone bitter and frustrated. His position as client king tested, and Valerian’s words true; Odenathus no longer held the imperium he once had.

  ‘Something must be done,’ Pouja said. He was a short, stout man, who refused to speak with Zenobia. I sensed his disapproval of her being there, of her free tongue and command, despite her role in bringing more Roman legions to the country.

  ‘We can do nothing,’ Odenathus replied, and his face fell with despair. He always did what he believed right, but now he appeared torn more than ever; torn between the emperor’s orders and doing what was best for his realm, his people and Palmyra.

  Zenobia sat on the floor in silence, her eyes heavy with fatigue, her face pale and lined in the dim light following the aftermath of defeat. We lost more men in the early morning battle than Odenathus had first realised.

  ‘Then you sacrifice us all for your loyalty,’ Zabbai said.

  I could scarce believe it. Zabbai’s words echoed Julius’. And he was right.

  Odenathus looked up, despair replaced with shock. Then his expression turned to anger. None could truly know the situation in which he found himself. We all were our own men, or his men, but we were loyal to our own people. We did not have to show the same allegiance to Rome as Odenathus did, even now, even in the wake of defeat and the loss of so many cities. I always chose Syria and the east, even with thought of Aurelia.

  I pleaded in my mind for my friend, my cousin, to talk sense to her husband. She held more weight with him than anyone else, even Julius, and we needed her to make him understand, force him to see reality. To know that action must be taken to ensure Syria’s survival.

  ‘He is right, Odenathus,’ Zenobia said.

  ‘Do not dare talk to me of loyalty,’ Odenathus said, face contorted and voice venomous. ‘You cannot even begin to understand the situation in which we find ourselves, the politics between ourselves and Rome. How can you even begin to comprehend the workings of this army, of the Roman army? Caesar himself stands with us.’

  Zenobia looked up at Zabbai then rose to her feet.

  ‘I trust you, but you are blinded by your loyalty and your belief in mighty Rome. I tell you this, the senators in Rome bicker and squabble amongst themselves. They lie to their emperor; they care little more than lining their pockets. They are safe, Odenathus, sitting in their senate hall. Valerian can no more lead an army than I can piss like a man. Zabbai is right. They are both right. The Romans are here to aid us in protecting their frontier, not to take command—’

  ‘Sit down,’ Odenathus growled, pointing to the ground.

  ‘I suggest we�
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  ‘I said, SIT DOWN.’

  Zenobia refused to be seated. She glared at him, unmoving.

  Odenathus raised his hand as if to strike.

  ‘Stop this,’ I shouted. ‘You solve nothing.’

  Zenobia flashed Odenathus a look of contempt. ‘You would hit your wife, Odenathus? You would hit the woman carrying your child?’

  I knew then the reason for her pale features, and was shocked further to recall her standing watching the battle, so close to enemy lines, with a child in her belly.

  The king ran both hands through his hair in exasperation.

  ‘I did not mean to,’ he mumbled. ‘I do not wish to lose another unborn child.’

  ‘My father once said that Syria should not tie itself to Rome, not in this way. He was right. The time has come for us to take charge.’

  Her words hung in the air as she stooped out of the tent and into the freezing night. I followed. We walked in silence through the camp until we reached an incline from where I saw the sea on the west coast. We stopped and I watched the lapping waves and moonlight dancing on reflective waters.

  Unable to bear the awkwardness any longer, I asked, ‘Why did you never say?’

  Her chin rose a little higher as she continued to watch the water.

  ‘I lost the first child before I had chance to tell you. Or anyone.’

  ‘You could have told me.’

  She shook her head, her face harder than ever as words began tumbling out.

  ‘My body flushed it away, unwanted. But I wanted it. I could not stop the pain and the blood. And then the rest simply followed.’ She took a deep breath. This was the first time I had seen her vulnerable. Her eyes had hollowed and her face unmasked, the defeat of the day bearing down on her. ‘When I found I had conceived again, I could not tell you. I told no one, afraid that it would not last, that it would be gone before it had chance to breathe.’

  ‘Or of what the king would say?’

  Her lack of response told me I had gone too far.

  ‘Why a Roman marriage?’ I asked, thinking back on Odenathus’ words of engagement and the iron ring. I had assumed Odenathus and Zenobia husband and wife already in the Egyptian way, committed to one another and procreation, no engagement or ceremony to speak of.