The Rise of Zenobia (Overlord Book 1) Page 3

  ‘I beg you, take me now.’

  ‘You are of great value to him, it seems, and he knows of my desire to purchase you. He will not let our ship sail if he suspects you are on board. No, we must wait until the last moment before you board.’

  I knew him to be right. I turned to go then paused.

  ‘You would have bought me, if you could?’

  ‘I would have paid a high price to take you away from here. Instead we must resort to other measures. I will not leave you here, I give you my word.’

  He turned and walked back to the ship. Darkness swamped their work and torches choked in the night.

  I trudged back to Firouz’ house, my limbs trembling and the thought of never returning here spurring me forward. For years I had thought of my past, not my future. Now my mind skidded and slipped over visions of a life as a citizen, no longer a slave.

  CHAPTER 3

  Zabdas - 253 AD

  Firouz leant back on a couch, his eyes closed, an occasional grunt escaping his lips, and his arm resting over his belly. Hundreds of gold coins lay scattered across a low table beside him. I thought to take one, a handful, perhaps more, to repay Julius for his troubles and to give me worth. With a sickening realisation I acknowledged the thought of theft had presented itself.

  I am a better man, I told myself; I will not take what does not belong to me.

  I did not sleep nor feel the cold bite, but felt the warmth of hope as I listened for any sign of Firouz’ awakening. I thought of my father, a cool man, who could not share his feelings nor console my bruised knees. ‘Come now, lad,’ he would say, ‘it is not as bad as that. Pick yourself up.’ Fond memories of my running to greet him, of his abrupt ruffle of my black hair, and of my mother kissing his cheek in greeting. My mother’s face flitted into view and I witnessed her gentle smile, reliving my short childhood. She was kind, a farmer’s wife, following my father as he tended his flock and making the food we ate herself. We were a carefree family, with no home save the hills in which we took shelter and the insides of our tents.

  She once told me that fortune did not offer itself to those who lived simply but contentedly, those for whom it was enough to be happy. Fortune’s wheel had a cruel edge, and rotated and sometimes paused, but would never cease turning. I do not remember stepping on fortune’s wheel, but it found me and it turned.

  Firouz did not wake. He slept still as I ventured out into the early morning, or the late night, I could not be sure at first. Then I saw the sky, blue-black, broken by a smattering of stars and a crescent moon. Excitement, not fear, stole over me as I raced along the deserted streets, the soft slap of my sandals disturbing hunting cats.

  I felt elation as I neared the dockside, punctured briefly by the thought that the merchant’s ship might have already departed, a fear allayed as I heard the voices of sailors and the last of the cargo being loaded. The merchant stood on board the ship.

  ‘Zabdilas!’ I called.

  He turned, smile broad upon his face, and raised a hand. But his smile evaporated and his hand fell as he looked beyond me.

  My senses yelped. I sank to my knees behind crates and fishing nets and barrels and sacks, my mouth turning dry and my heart beating in my throat.

  I heard Firouz bellow my name, saw Julius begin to walk down from the ship. I could not see Firouz, but I knew his face well, and would bet my life the expression it would have. He must know I had left and did not intend returning to his house.

  Heated words distorted on the breeze. I must move, to hide or to run I did not know. My back to a wall I recalled a doorway to one of the warehouses, and with a small movement, I slid the latch and slipped inside.

  Shafts of moonlight fell through the open doorway between clusters of barrels, crates and sacks. I pulled the door closed and waited, unsure whether to pick a path through them, knowing that if I did there would be no leaving should Firouz enter. No other escape beyond the wares.

  I heard a sound, a clatter, outside. Resolved myself to hiding deeper, concealed better, and squeezed my way to where I knew empty barrels stood. I found them with ease, rolled one to join those heavy with goods, slipped inside, and lowered the lid. My limbs complained as I crouched in the dark, breathing like a dead man.

  Moments passed. My actions had freed me because I had gone from Firouz without his bidding. Caught, I would be known a disobedient slave and whipped until my blood coated the hot and dusty dock. I thought of that as I crouched, knew that it mattered not if I died then. My resolve was found, I would die liberated.

  ‘I will find the boy,’ I heard Firouz slur. ‘No man takes what is mine. Thievery. I will have you before the city commander!’

  ‘Apologies, but we are only taking what we have been instructed to,’ said another. ‘It is a misunderstanding.’

  Firouz muttered inaudible words. Silence fell. I tried to think, the scent of ingrained spice intoxicating me, my head swimming until blackness followed. I lost myself in hard images of beatings endured, mines I had worked in, the whippings received, raw flesh and the sting of many a tongue. My heart thumped but my eyes refused to open, my mind could not be stirred. Limbs slackened and trembled.

  At Firouz’ voice I wrenched myself back.

  ‘No ship will leave this dock until I find him.’

  ‘I am happy for you to search the ship, if you wish, I have nothing to hide. Your slave boy is not there.’

  ‘And here? You guarantee that too? Your word is nothing. My man saw someone come in here.’

  ‘My men are in and out. Look, you see them now?’

  ‘You mock me?’

  ‘I state a fact, Firouz. I bought goods from many merchants in this dock. That my purchase with yourself was not successful does not trouble me, and should not you.’

  I heard Firouz grunt. My legs were numb. I shuffled, restoring flow of blood, and found a tiny crack between the strips of wood. Pressing my eye to it, I saw my master.

  ‘Open them,’ he said.

  ‘This is not your cargo, and you have no right to delay my departure. By all means you can search my ship and you can check my inventory, but you cannot open crates of precious spice and risk spoilage. They do not belong to you. And if you persist, I will call the dock commander myself.’

  Firouz moved aside and revealed the second person. Teymour.

  ‘The commander is in my pay. Open them,’ Firouz demanded again.

  In the darkness of the store, Teymour’s features were harsher than before. He turned his back on Firouz, shouted a command. More footsteps sounded and two men entered.

  Julius sighed, as if tiring of the game. He gestured with his hand to proceed.

  The two men moved forward. Panic rose and my bladder contracted. I pulled back from the crack in the barrel, breathing rapidly, afraid of what would come, of Firouz finding me. I did not want to be discovered. More than that, I did not want to lose the hope I had found since the merchant’s arrival, I wanted to pursue it, to be more than a free man. I wanted to know what the future might hold.

  Splintering wood ricocheted. Splitting, cracking, tendons snapping.

  I pressed my eye to the crack once more. Firouz looked on, arms folded across his chest, drooping eyelids betraying the effects of mead. Fresh scratches rose in welts on his left cheek, laced with crusted blood.

  More crates ripped and wood torn. Julius looked on, calm, no intimidation showing. My own heart hammered.

  ‘Enough,’ Teymour said. ‘You have seen enough. Or are we to stand here all night whilst you check every last piece of cargo? It is imperative we catch the morning tide. We need to load. I insist you leave us be.’

  ‘My men will stay. I will kill him when I find him.’

  Heavy footsteps moved away.

  ‘Move the rest of this cargo,’ Teymour snapped. Then, more quietly, ‘Where is he, Julius?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Teymour.’

  I wanted to shout that I hid feet from them, that I was safe and would join them, but Firouz’
men remained, and I could not risk it.

  The two men lifted barrels onto their shoulders and carried them out of the warehouse. Teymour and Julius’ footsteps did not follow. Had they gone? I thought they had, then a heartbeat later Julius’ voice sounded so close I suspect he breathed on the barrel.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  Sick with fear I waited for another murmured word. Nothing. Goods were loaded onto the ship and the passage of feet lulled me. My eyes became accustomed to the dark, and the sound of my breathing gave me comfort. Firouz had not found me, and as time passed I grew confident that he would not.

  I tired. My eyes closed and I passed into fitful slumber.

  I woke with a start as the barrel jolted, my bearing gone. I drew deep breaths as the air changed from humid and warm to cool and fresh. A thud as the barrel hit the floor, then another next to mine, and another, and another, all the while I wondered what had happened, where I was, whether Firouz had found me.

  Senses alert, I crouched, darkness swaying, contemplating what I could do with freedom if it became mine. I could be a merchant, a seaman, a scribe or a philosopher, perhaps farm and raise my own livestock. I was excited by the choices, but I was also scared. I did not know what a freeman could do, how he should act, what choices he could make, and wondered if a man could go from slavery to freedom and find happiness, whether it was possible to have a life of my own.

  I dared not lift the barrel lid. Exhausted, I slipped once again into uneasy slumber, dreaming of a land where buildings were tall and made of gold, and people wore vivid colours which pinched your eyes.

  I woke once more, not knowing whether it was day or night or where I was. I listened. Silence. Clothes clung hot and damp. I rubbed my face, sniffed the scent of sweat and piss.

  The silence did not break. Time ran by, it could be morning but I was not sure. I lifted the barrel lid just enough to survey the space around me. Compact cargo. The ship’s hold? Netting secured barrels and the smell of rancid saltwater overpowered. Alone, I levered myself out, took a knife from my pocket and scored the wooden lid with two parallel lines, then replaced the knife. I clambered over crates and barrels until I found a set of steps and a hatch in the ceiling.

  It opened with ease and I glanced around, saw nothing, and climbed out. The corridors swayed and I used the walls to steady myself. A lean man dressed in rags appeared, his jittery body full of haste. I leapt back as he dashed past, his movement in time with the rocking ship. He did not acknowledge me and I collected myself and continued on.

  Whose ship was I on? The merchant’s? Another?

  Clunking footsteps sounded above and below. Salt air filled my lungs, the sound of water sloshing against the ship constant. A lantern swayed ahead of me, the only light in the passage, and water ran along the planks beneath my feet. The conditions became rough, as if we had moved further out to sea, and I struggled to keep my footing. Somewhere, voices cried out.

  ‘I wondered when you would appear.’

  I turned to face Teymour.

  ‘Julius waits for you in the captain’s cabin.’

  He moved ahead of me, a lantern in his hand. Without a word, I followed. We emerged onto the deck to find it was no longer night. The sun broke above the hills to our left; a golden glow on a black sea. A mild breeze promised a warm day inland.

  And in that moment I felt safe, far out from the shore, the dock no longer in sight. I took my first breath of air as a truly free man. Tears sprang. I could not beat them, could not keep them at bay. The ship had not been called back to port, we had left, and Firouz would never find me. I took a breath of the warm air and tasted only freedom.

  Gods, but that sun looked different, the paleness of it, the slight yellow tint, the fresh lemon colour. Wisps of cloud breathed and the sea reached up to meet them. Why had I not seen this before?

  I hurried to keep up with Teymour’s giant stride. Watched with keen eyes as men carried sacks, hauled ropes or peered out on the horizon. Teymour came to an abrupt halt before a cabin door and knocked. A muffled voice spoke and Teymour opened the door and we entered.

  Dozens of candles contributed to a warm enticing glow and a voice said: ‘Come, sit with me.’

  Julius reclined on a couch and gestured me to take up an embroidered cushion opposite. The man Julius had been talking to bade him goodnight and left.

  ‘There will be nothing else, Teymour,’ Julius said.

  Teymour gave a curt nod and he too left the cabin.

  Julius took a grape from a bowl in front of him.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Gratitude.’

  ‘It is I who owe you gratitude, Zabdas. And my sincere apologies. Your presence eases my conscience greatly. There have been many times I have thought of you and what became of you. I should never have let this happen, never allowed you to be taken as a slave. We thought you were safe.’

  Did he mean Teymour? I understood Julius’ guilt as little as I understood what had become of me, of the night that had just passed and the future I would see.

  ‘How do you know who I am?’

  ‘I knew your mother and father well.’

  I stared at Julius, attempted to take in the words that seemed to roll with the deck.

  Julius steepled his fingers and gave a short nod.

  ‘As I said, Zabdas, you were not born a slave, and when your parents died …’ He shook his head. ‘I should have come for you sooner. Your mother and father always moved, farming and living the lands. You must have felt a great sadness when they died.’

  A sharp stab of pain at their loss punctured. I had not felt it for a long time because I had not allowed myself to think of them.

  ‘They were murdered,’ I spat. I thought to feel and appear angry, but I felt only empty.

  ‘I know,’ Julius said, nodding.

  I found myself unable to form words. Julius appeared to be waiting for me to say more.

  ‘How did Teymour know I hid in the warehouse?’ I asked.

  ‘Our cargo was marked. The barrel in which you hid was not. And because Teymour saw you enter the warehouse.’

  Julius rose from his seat and from a tankard filled two cups with wine. I surveyed the cabin. Small and furnished, with rich swathes of fabrics and inlaid wooden chests.

  Julius returned to his seat, swaying with the roll of the ship.

  ‘When I first heard of your parents’ death, I came immediately to Egypt. It was already too late. Years had passed and trace of your fate had grown colder than a desert night. I stayed two months before I had to return to Syria. I spoke to everyone who could possibly know of your whereabouts, and when I heard nothing, I feared you were dead.’

  ‘You searched?’

  ‘Of course. You are beloved of the house of Zabdilas. I searched five long years for you, my boy, and I would have gladly searched eight had I known of your fate sooner.’

  He looked down at the cup in his hands, lost in thought. A tide of confusion swam around me but I could not find the question to ask, my mind blank, the need to know my past evaporating with the prospect of a future. I too looked into my cup, wondering what Julius saw in the liquid. I took a sip of the wine, rich and sweet; most unlike the watered-wine Firouz kept.

  ‘Who am I to you?’ I asked.

  Julius studied me, smiled. I wondered what thought lurked in the pleasure I sensed, the turn of his mouth and satisfaction in his eye. This man had found me after years of searching, and suddenly that realisation warmed me. For a moment I looked at him and saw my father. Could it be him, returned to me? I tried to recall his face, his expression, the lie of hair and build of muscle, the image hazy and changing, I could not fix it and dared not ask.

  ‘You are my nephew by marriage, Zabdas. Your mother and my wife are sisters.’

  My heart sank a little.

  ‘Then I am not related to you by blood?’

  Julius’ brow creased, his look concerned.

  ‘As good as. You are family. We are
your guardians now. It is our responsibility to care for you.’ His words were careful, as if realising that my escape from slavery was not the end of my troubles, and that my mind would still be haunted and the brand upon my arm unchanged.

  We sat in easy silence a time. I drank more than the wine. I soaked the rich surroundings, the strangeness of sitting upon a cushioned couch, eating foods that were not scattered remains. I ate as a free man ate, as Julius ate, and knew the pleasure of it in the sigh of my muscles and the contrast of the rich room against the rags hanging from me.

  ‘Are you a merchant?’ I asked.

  ‘I am. My trade dealings have become vast these last years. The king of Palmyra has made my occupation very profitable. Syria does well from the tax revenue, as does Rome, of course. But you will know this, will you not? You have seen the goods passing through Yemen.’

  ‘The dockside was a busy place,’ I confirmed.

  ‘You were a good mathematician, it would seem,’ he said.

  ‘I was … I am.’

  ‘And Firouz valued you for it.’

  ‘He …’ I tried to find the phrase. ‘He collected: slaves, obscure items that passed through the dock.’

  Julius raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Busts of aristocracy, precious stones, rare spices. He could not bring himself to sell them on and so kept them, secreted away, with no purpose, for no reason.’

  ‘I see. Come, Zabdas, I must tend to my men. I will see you in the morning. I will have someone find you a cabin.’

  And with that he left.

  In his absence I walked out onto the deck, to a rising sun illuminating the sea a deep blue-green, flecked with white like stars. I breathed fresh sea air, thought of my new life in Palmyra, a city renowned for its prosperous men. What could I make of myself when I arrived? What could I become? The horizon blurred. It was not a sad blur, but one of promise.

  CHAPTER 4

  Zabdas - 253 AD

  Winds whipped and the sea writhed as we travelled north. We brushed the shore east and west, land never far away, stopping only for fresh water and supplies, Julius intent on reaching Syria soon. Days vanished in a salt spray and rich food and the crew’s banter was our rhythm. I should have craved Egypt, yet I yearned for Julius’ home. To see it, hear it, smell it. To experience the life he knew. I wanted to know Palmyra.