The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1) Page 2

  I nudge Bamdad with my toe.

  ‘How much longer must we wait?’ I whisper.

  ‘Three full moons,’ he says.

  ‘Very amusing,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘I could fetch you a puzzle. Or a doll?’ His voice is dry. He does not smile, but his eyes are bright and dancing with humour.

  ‘I hear you have a doll of your own, that you take to bed with you each night,’ I say, leaning closer on my couch, eyebrows raised. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Who let slip my secret?’

  ‘I have seen you combing its hair,’ I tease.

  ‘I will cut yours off if you open your mouth again.’

  ‘Will not,’ I laugh.

  ‘Such long hair would fetch a fine sum,’ he grins.

  Ah, there it is, the familiar grin of my grandfather’s most beloved warrior.

  ‘Where is my father?’ I ask.

  The grin falls from his face.

  ‘Your grandfather will explain,’ he says.

  I know it is grave. He is injured or dead or disgraced. I wonder which is worse, to lose a limb and never walk again, to be dead and gone from this world never to embrace me again, or to have committed a deed so atrocious as to have disgraced himself beyond redemption. I know my father, and I know that all are possible.

  My grandfather enters the room, face heavy with grief, and his eyes lock on mine and I know.

  ‘Your father is dead,’ he says, no preamble or pause. He delivers the message as swiftly as he would deliver a sword blow.

  Tears threaten and I look down at my hands. Grandfather sits down on a couch opposite me, but it is Bamdad who sits beside me and rests a comforting arm around my shoulders.

  ‘Why did you not tell me when you first arrived in Tripolis?’ I ask him.

  ‘Ah, Rubetta,’ he says. ‘It was not my place to tell you. Zabdas needed to tell you himself.’

  Through tears I smile fondly at his nickname for me.

  My grandfather leans forward and places his hands over mine, awkward. He is not used to closeness. I think it has been a long time since he was truly close to anyone save those warriors he calls brother: Bamdad, my father …

  ‘How?’ I ask, and I can say little more for my voice is breaking.

  ‘Killed by the Tanukh as they tried to take the city …’ my grandfather says. He looks as if to say more, but his words fade.

  I swallow hard. ‘You do not tell the whole truth.’ My grandfather is old, and with a creased brow and tiredness and guilt troubling his features, he is older still. ‘What is it you do not tell me?

  He glances at Bamdad and I see his hesitation. I long for him to be open with me, to be honest. My father was never that. He masked his feelings, never talked of the past or his childhood. And I feel the same frustration now, as my grandfather struggles with himself and whether or not to speak.

  ‘Apologies,’ he says, ‘I should have done more to protect Vaballathus. It was not his time.’

  I do not know if the tears running down my face are anger and frustration at my grandfather keeping something from me, or because my father is dead and I will not see him again. He was kind and he was energetic. He loved openly and embraced me whenever he returned to our home in Tripolis. I knew when I left home with Bamdad that I would not feel his protection again, and I will never know it again, because my grandfather cannot be close. I have run to him and leapt into his arms as a child, and always he wraps his arms about me, but he is stiff and unsure and does not feel at ease in such moments.

  Bamdad looks at me. He is thinking. His face is as old as the wise women of our village. He is like a second grandfather, for I know no other. He must see my pain written plainly upon my face.

  ‘They sought revenge,’ he says flatly. ‘Zabdas swore an oath to take Jadhima’s life.’

  ‘And my father, he swore that same oath?’

  ‘No, your father was just a child at the time. But the revenge was his to share.’

  ‘But why? What revenge?’ I am confused by this, and also curious. They were always a puzzle to me, the men of my family, and now, suddenly, with the death of my father, I think I might discover what in life he would not utter.

  Bamdad creases his brow, looks away. Regretting perhaps his words, his revealing what my grandfather would not.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say.

  ‘It is not my place, Rubetta.’

  Honeysuckle and jasmine breathe the summer air. The late afternoon sun glows deep yellow and the skies are pale. I have wandered the gardens of the commander’s house all day, weaving the paths, thinking of my father. I have not cried fully. I feel the tears prickle but in my chest I feel the ache of a heartbeat that will not come, of a breath I cannot take. Silent tears at night have not left me exhausted of emotion. I can feel it all around me, suffocating and dark.

  My grandfather is sat writing in the shade of the colonnade, surrounded by parchment. He sets down his stylus and yawns, stretching back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. Curious, I walk across, trying to catch a glimpse of the secrets he scribbles as he surreptitiously moves a blank parchment over the others, obscuring them from view.

  ‘What do you write?’

  He looks about to lie then sighs and half laughs to himself. He rubs his face, looks up at me and says: ‘You know that Rome sacked Palmyra? You know of the history of this place and this country?’

  ‘Of course, it is known by all.’

  ‘I attempt to document it before it fades from memory entirely.’

  I am intrigued. What secrets will he divulge on the page that are not common knowledge? He was a general; what more did he know that others did not? Palmyra fell almost thirty years ago, destroyed by the Romans and rebuilt in a fog of fear by the people. They do not bother us now, the Romans. To them we are defeated and destroyed. We are no longer a threat and the Persians quiver and quail under new rule. But what story, I wonder, will my grandfather tell? What truly happened in the end?

  ‘Can I read it?’ I ask.

  He frowns. ‘It has been a long time since I spoke of the years before the fall. I had not thought to let you read it until I was gone.’

  ‘Does it tell of my father?’ I ask, wanting to know more, to explore the man lost to me. He has no life to lead now, gone from this world, but there is a whole life I feel I do not know.

  He nods. ‘It will. I have only just begun …’

  CHAPTER 2

  Zabdas - 253 AD

  Afternoon sun hammered down and the interminable heat caused the ink on my hands to run with sweat as I scribbled a calculation. Firouz, the dockside chief, loomed over me.

  ‘How much?’ he boomed.

  ‘One moment.’ Forgetting the addition, I quickly attempted to recalculate the value of the shipment.

  ‘The captain is waiting. Filth and scum, you are useless. Hurry. Be quick. This day would be good.’

  Firouz spat each word. I worked faster, the figures and sums muddled in my mind, refusing to gel and merge and form the total which my master desired.

  He stalked to where I perched on a crate of spice. I kept my head down as he kicked the crate from under me. My tablet fell from my grasp, clattered on stones and I sprawled on the floor, scrabbling and shamed as I tried to retrieve it, shrinking from the laughter of men whose shoulders were burdened with barrels of Chinese spice.

  Firouz crushed the fingers of my left hand beneath his heavy boot and I whimpered. Tears filled my eyes as I nursed my hand, and Firouz retrieved my notes.

  ‘The final figure,’ he said, prodding the tablet. ‘What is it?’

  I could move my fingers and through the subsiding pain I managed to mutter the total.

  Firouz lumbered back to where the captain of the ship waited with his companion, noting down the calculation on the tablet. The captain looked at me, his leather-tanned face impassive. Beside him, the merchant he moved goods for surveyed my master.

  ‘You have the figures?’ the merchant asked Firouz. He was much t
aller than me with a long, strong nose. Rich silks hung from a tall frame and fragrant oil smoothed black hair down his back. In a year of service to Firouz I had seen many merchants transport exotic wares. They travelled north from Yemen to Nabataea, and from there across land, either trading on route or moving directly to Rome to sell at a higher price.

  Firouz surveyed my notes and quoted a price twice that on the tablet.

  My expression dropped and the captain saw it.

  ‘Preposterous,’ he snorted.

  ‘This is correct?’ Firouz asked me, gesturing the tablet, and I knew I should agree. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  Firouz shrugged, unabashed.

  ‘I know your ways, Firouz. The price is outrageous, and you know it. You cannot possibly think …’

  ‘Youness,’ the merchant cut across the captain, his tone soft, ‘I am happy with the price. I will pay the man.’

  I could not understand why he accepted the ridiculous figure, but he was calm as he flicked a hand behind him and two men scurried off the boat carrying a small chest.

  The captain walked back to his boat, muttering of robbery as coins were counted. I knelt down and double-checked them, and confirmed them to be of adequate value. Firouz would check them himself and, if he found them short, would beat me and accuse me of stealing. It had happened before. I remember the first time he inflated the worth of grain from Ethiopia. Firouz had charged much more than its value, and I, thinking he had made an honest mistake, corrected him. His boot had hammered into my face. Again and again he kicked me. And when he had finished, my ribs were cracked and my nose broken and my body bloodied.

  The merchant said, ‘I will pay the coin you have counted for the shipment on the condition you include the boy in the sale.’

  ‘What?’ Firouz said.

  ‘I wish to purchase the boy.’

  At first I did not realise it, did not believe it, that it was about me he spoke.

  ‘Have you an objection?’ he asked.

  Firouz contemplated for a moment, then shook his head and slurred, ‘He’s not f’r sale.’

  I glanced at the slave mark upon my arm, frustration burning in my chest, and wondered if it were possible to have a better life. But I was not for sale, and it did not matter. Yet there was something in the merchant’s face I could not dismiss, a hope I had not felt for many months, a belief that my fate might change as the wheel of fortune spins.

  ‘Then I must reconsider the price I pay for the goods,’ the merchant said.

  I knew Firouz enough to know him stubborn.

  ‘The boy was never included in the price.’

  ‘And yet you yourself have shown me that he holds little value, unable to work to your satisfaction …’

  ‘Not for sale,’ Firouz grunted.

  Firouz was not interested in why the merchant wanted to purchase me. I knew the merchant was right, that I was a disappointment to Firouz, was not as productive as he would like. I was good with figures, but never quick enough. I could spin numbers and make them dance for me. I wondered what the merchant saw, what thoughts crossed his mind and urged him to secure my sale.

  ‘Youness,’ the merchant called, ‘have your men unload the cargo. There is no purchase to be made here.’

  I stood motionless. What made me think my life would be better with the merchant, I could not be sure, but his soft expression, the tone of his voice and the manner in which he conducted himself led me to believe that he might possibly provide the means of my escape. I willed him to argue further with Firouz, to claim me for himself.

  The merchant gave me a look of resolution and a curt nod of the head.

  ‘As you will,’ Firouz said. ‘This load will sell to the next ship in port and you will find no better at any dock in Syria.’

  ‘I have purchased from other tradesmen in this port,’ the merchant said. ‘Your wares are of little consequence.’

  Firouz glared a moment, then grabbed the shoulder of my tunic and shoved me forward. ‘I have enough work to last you a lifetime, boy,’ he spat. ‘No merchant dictates to me.’

  Stars shone and the moon cast shadow as I sat cross-legged in the courtyard at the back of Firouz’ house and shivered. I ate the remains of his meal: a little fruit and a few lentils. I ate using my right hand, my left numbly clutching the bowl.

  What did the merchant want with me? The question plagued, the desire to know burning constantly, and the faint promise of a master more gracious than Firouz lingered. Many trading in Yemen were regulars, returning every now and then, always wanting a better price or a higher volume, looking for the luxurious and the rare, the popular and the staple. Firouz provided everything that held a profit. Yet the merchant buying spice and silk I did not know. His face had not passed through our port before and he was unknown to any man save the captain.

  Darkness swallowed the sky as I trudged back to the dockside, my duty to ensure everything was in order. The cargo sold that day would have been loaded by now; the ships ready to leave at first light. I hurried through the dark, silent streets until I heard the gentle lapping of water and the sound of voices.

  Twenty or more men relayed barrels and crates up a gangplank and onto the ship commissioned by the merchant who had offered to purchase me. I watched, lurking in the shadows as moments passed and the warehouse was emptied of contents destined for the southern coast of Syria. Bellows of ‘Faster’ and ‘Pull your weight, we need this done before morning’ echoed across the dockside. A figure approached. My stomach lurched. I pulled back, pressed myself against the sun-warmed stone wall, and wished that it would conceal me from sight. A man strode by, tall frame and face shrouded in a thick cloak.

  Fear should not have gripped me, I had done nothing wrong. Too many beatings and the heavy hand of many men who ranked above slave gave me pause.

  ‘Are you hiding, boy?’

  The man paused, his back to me.

  Words escaped my mouth, but I could not control them.

  ‘Apologies, I will say nothing of what you do here.’

  He turned, lifted the hood from a face deep with furrows of age, growing more prominent as he smiled warmly.

  ‘You are the merchant,’ I said.

  ‘The merchant? You have met many today I suspect. Not only me.’

  ‘You were the one who wanted to buy me.’

  ‘Indeed, I did. It would appear you are more valuable to your master than he would care to admit. Please, let us not stand here in the shadows. I was in fact on my way to seek you out.’

  With a hand on my back he guided me onto the moonlit dock.

  ‘Teymour,’ he shouted.

  A moment, then a man leant over the side of the vessel.

  ‘Julius?’

  ‘Have you a moment? There is someone I wish you to meet.’

  Teymour disappeared from view.

  ‘Ah,’ breathed the merchant, ‘I have not yet introduced myself. My name is Julius Aurelius Zabdilas.’

  ‘Mine is Zabdas.’

  ‘I had hoped as much,’ he said, nodding.

  Teymour joined us on the dockside. He did not have the kind and gentle features that I saw in Julius. I trusted Julius on appearance alone, yet I felt uncomfortable in Teymour’s presence. Both men wore short clipped beards and loosely bound hair. Julius’ black curls softened his face further, yet Teymour’s straight hair served to harden his jaw and deepen his brow. They appeared as brothers, the opposites of one another.

  I looked from one man to the other. Julius smiled. In the darkness Teymour scowled as if looking up into the sun.

  ‘You know my name?’

  Julius placed a hand upon my shoulder, his mouth twitching and his eyes searching the ground, looking for words, waiting for the dust to yield. What question lingered that he could not utter?

  ‘How old are you now, Zabdas?’

  ‘Thirteen, almost fourteen.’

  ‘Are you sure he is the one?’ Teymour asked. ‘What if he is not?
’

  ‘Which one?’ I asked. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘Do you remember your parents, Zabdas?’

  ‘Khenut and Nepherites. To me they were Mother and Father, but those were their given names.’

  ‘How long have you been here, in Yemen?’ Julius asked.

  ‘Eight years.’ Fire burned in my eyes, tears hot and thick pushing forth at the thought of the years of slavery I had known. ‘I turned five a month before I was taken.’

  Teymour’s scowl lifted and he said to Julius: ‘You told me he was taken a slave five years ago, not eight.’

  Julius shook his head. ‘That is when I discovered him gone, not when it happened.’

  Two bellows echoed across the dockside and Julius startled.

  ‘I must go,’ Teymour said. ‘I need to ensure everything is loaded if we are to leave before dawn.’

  Julius nodded and Teymour strode away.

  Julius’ arm still rested upon my shoulders as he said, ‘I came to take you back with me. My apologies that it took so long to find you.’

  ‘Take me with you?’

  Julius chuckled. I frowned back and he returned an apologetic expression. ‘It is not my place to take what belongs to another man, but you were not born to slavery and no man’s slave to sell.’

  ‘What am I to you?’ I asked. What made him come here in search of me? To take me where, another house, another business, where I might be of use?

  He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again said, ‘We must continue loading. We leave at dawn. Does the man who would call himself your master expect you to return this night?’

  ‘He will. I am to report back that nothing is amiss at the dockside before he retires.’

  ‘Then you must go, I cannot risk him noticing your absence and report theft to the town’s commander, it would raise too many complications that we could well do without. I will take you with me, I promise, and I will explain everything to you on our journey.’

  My stomach plunged at the prospect of returning to Firouz’ house, and more so at the knowledge I must later attempt escape.