Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

Unexpectedly, for Odenathus had expected them to be taken to the palace of the Kings of Petra, they turned and climbed the steps leading up into the temple. At the top of the steps their escort paused, a constantly moving ring of Arabs in long cloaks, and the wall-captain-that great-shouldered bowman-spoke with the commander of the watch. After a moment they were allowed within, entering first a portico of fat-bellied pillars in shades of red, and then a vaulted hall lined with statues of men in regal garb. At the end of the hall of statues was a square room with many tables. Behind the tables a great statue rose up, but it was covered in cloth from head to toe. At the largest table, leaning his chin on his fist, was a man of middle years with startling white streaks running through his beard. His face was dominated by a scar, a strong nose, and brilliant dark eyes. The man looked up as they approached, and gestured for the servants lurking about in the corners of the room to leave.

"I am Mohammed, Lord of the City."

Odenathus started, as he had expected the rough, uncultured voice of a barbarian chieftain, but this man spoke Greek like a philosopher of Alexandria or Antioch. "Welcome to Petra. Please, sit and take some tea."

Odenathus accepted a chair, as did Zamanes and Zoe, though the woman was staring fixedly at the desert chieftain. Servants hurried back, carrying trays of beaten gold that held cups of porcelain and a kettle of steaming water.

"I do not imbibe wine," the desert chieftain continued as he took a small yellow cup from the tray. "Nor do my men. Tea, therefore, is in short supply among us. But, please, drink. Are you hungry?"

In answer, Odenathus' stomach growled. Rations had been short since they had left the fertile valleys around Damascus. Even adding the Bostrans to their number, with the support of the tribes that followed Zamanes, had not eased the logistical problems they faced. This was a barren country, not suited for the movement of armies that did not own the cities and towns. Mohammed grinned and rattled off an order to the nearest servant.

"Soon there will be food, my guests. Now, I know you well, Prince Zamanes, but you-young lady and young man-you are new to me. What are your names?"

Zamanes stiffened, cocking his head toward the chieftain with a perplexed look on his face. "You know me, Lord Mohammed? Where have we met?"

Mohammed laughed, a short, sharp bark. He fingered the white in his beard. "Most like you thought me dead, Prince Zamanes. My men and I held your left on the field at Emesa, before the cowardice of that Palmyrene cur Zabda lost us the day."

Odenathus was standing, a snarl on his lips and his sword half drawn before the words fully registered in his mind. The desert men behind him reacted swiftly, and he found the point of a spear at his throat. Zamanes had also risen, his face wreathed in shock, but now he too froze.

"If you impugn the name of Zabda," snapped Odenathus, "Lord Mohammed, you insult all Palmyra. You insult me and my house, for that noble lord was my father."

Mohammed turned, his eyes hard and the line of his mouth grim. "You seem a likely lad, and if you hail from fair Palmyra I would call you friend. But the Queen herself cursed his name on that black day and bade him never set foot within the city again. We were inches from victory over the damnable Persians before his caution threw it all away." The desert chieftain's voice rapped like a chisel on stone.

Odenathus flushed beet red, and his heart hammered. The news of his father's death, delivered in a leaden voice by his own mother, had been very hard to take. This was harder still-his family disgraced by cowardice on the field of battle. The young man struggled with his temper and then slid the gladius back into its sheath with an audible click. "Your pardon, Lord Mohammed. I am your guest and spoke out of turn." Odenathus sat down.

"I thought you dead when we saw your banner fall…" Zamanes plucked nervously at his beard. "My men and I only fought free at great cost and scattered to the south. We heard that the Queen escaped with some portion of her army, but the Persians filled the countryside."

"It was very close," Mohammed said, a fingertip touching a scar on his neck and face. "But the Queen held us together. I woke in a litter on the road to Palmyra." He put the thought away and turned again to Zoe and Odenathus. "What are your names, children of that city?"

"I am Odenathus, son of Zabda." Odenathus rose, slowly, mindful of the guards close at hand, and bowed, touching his fingers to his forehead. "Now captain of the host of Palmyra, such that it be."

Mohammed bowed in turn, returning the salute. His dark eyes turned to Zoe, who had said nothing, sitting like a stone in her chair, hands clasped in her lap.

"And you, lady? What is your name?" His voice gentled as he took in the dark shadows around her eyes and the thin, wasted look in her face.

"I am Zoe," she said at last. "Regent for the Queen, Zenobia Septima. These men command in my name and hers in war."

"Regent?" Mohammed was puzzled, and he looked first to Zamanes and then to Odenathus. They could not meet his eyes, and at last he looked back to Zoe. "What do you mean, Lady Zoe? I saw the Queen laid in her tomb myself; with my own hand I carved the blessing on her resting place."

Zoe looked up, her face filled with fear and loss. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and thick. "The Queen does not lie dead, Lord Mohammed. She but sleeps, waiting to awaken. She rides with us. Even now she is without the city, patient, resting that she may enter in splendor."

Zoe stood, one thin, white hand on her stomach, the other trembling on the tabletop. "Did you see her fall, so wounded that she lay as in death? Were you there, on that last day?"

Mohammed stepped back, seeing madness burning in the young woman's eyes. "Yes," he said slowly, eyes searching the face of this apparition. He could see, now that he looked past the lines of sorrow and pain, the echo of Zenobia's smile and laugh and smooth white cheek. This must be-not a daughter, for he knew from his time with her that Zenobia had borne no living children-but her sister's daughter. "I was there on the last day. I saw the sorcerer come forth and raise his hand against us…"

Odenathus listened, his heart sick and torn, as the desert chieftain related the tale of the fall of the city in his deep, carrying voice. With each word, the Palmyrene felt anew the pain of his city's death. His sorrow and loss were renewed, and with it, his resolve to bring down the powers that had wreaked such betrayal and slaughter.

– |"…so it was that I have come into Roman lands again with a host of men."

A litter of plates and cups lay on the table. Servants had come and gone, and Odenathus had eaten his fill. Zamanes had done his appetite proud, as well, and even Zoe had picked at the grouse and hen and sliced fruit that the kitchens had conjured up. During the course of the tale, many of the Arabs had also joined them, coming quietly and sitting on the floor around the table. Looking at their faces, Odenathus realized that many of them had never heard the full story before.

Mohammed took a long drink of water and sighed. The room was quiet, save for the hiss of the little oil lamps.

"What do you intend?" Zoe's voice, still hoarse, broke the silence. "Will you pit your strength against Rome, or against Persia?"

Mohammed leaned forward, his face partially in shadow as he moved. "The Persians killed my dear friends and put the torch to your city, but they came against us in open battle. The great and merciful God weighs all men in the scales of His justice, and I know that the Persians traffic in dark arts. The God who speaks in the wasteland will see to them. Even now Persia is in disarray, shattered by civil war. Rome… Rome has taken a faithless course, betraying states and peoples that have stood by it for six hundred years. On this day, Rome is my foe… more, Emperor Heraclius himself is my enemy."