Bertrice Small - Beloved

"My thanks, Bab," Odenathus replied courteously. He instinctively liked this small round woman in her simple robe, her graying hair hidden beneath its veil. Her face was brown from the desert sun, and there were deep laugh lines carved about her black eyes and on either side of her mouth.

"You will be good for my child," the woman said with the quiet assurance of a beloved servant.

"I already love her, Bab. I want her to be happy."

"Be firm, my lord. Firm, but gentle."

"Can one be firm with Zenobia?" he teased.

Bab chuckled appreciatively, but before she could answer Zenobia entered the room. Odenathus's eyes were immediately riveted to the girl, oblivious to all else. Smiling, Bab slipped from the room and left the lovers alone.

He could scarce take his eyes from her, flushed and rosy from the bath, the faint hyacinth scent clinging to her unbound hair, her simple white tunic. For a moment he stood powerless to move. Then he heard her voice: "My lord?" The spell broken, he reached out and pulled her almost roughly into his arms. One arm held her firmly against his hungry body, the other hand tangled in her soft hair, drawing her head to his. Bending, he let his lips brush hers lightly, and was satisfied to feel a faint tremor rush through her.

"Oh, Zenobia," he murmured, kissing the corners of her mouth, her closed and fluttering eyelids. Then his lips found hers, and as his kisses deepened her arms slipped up and about his neck; her lithe young body pressed as hungrily against his. Enchanted by her budding passion, he ran his tongue over her lips, which parted instinctively. Tenderly he explored the fragrant cavity of her mouth; the hand that had earlier held her head now moved to caress her breasts.

The ache that had so mysteriously materialized the night before reappeared to taunt her. It swept over her from out of nowhere, leaving her breathless and confused. His thumb rubbed insistently against the already stiff peaks of her nipples, and she wanted to cry with the strange pleasure that it gave her. It was so new, so wonderful, this marvelous sensation that was called love.

After what seemed the briefest eternity he released her, and for a moment she swayed dangerously, but finally her head cleared and she grew steady once more. She heard his voice coming at her from what seemed a long way off, but the words were clear.

"Your father and I have signed a formal betrothal agreement, my flower; but Zabaai says you must leave the palace before the public announcement is made tomorrow. We cannot see each other until our wedding day."

"But why?!" she burst out, disappointed.

"Custom, he says."

For a minute her lips clamped shut, and then she said, "It must be as my father has decreed."

Her obedience pleased him. "I have brought you the traditional gift," he said, taking her left hand up and placing the ring upon the third finger, whose nerve it was said ran directly to the heart.

Zenobia stared down at the large round black pearl in its simple gold setting. "It is… incredible," she said softly. "I have never possessed such a ring."

"My treasurer says that it is listed in a catalogue of gifts sent from the Queen of Sheba to Solomon when he was here in Palmyra overseeing the construction of the city. I knew that it would be perfect for you, my flower. It glows against the warm apricot tint of your skin!" He turned over her hand, which he had yet to relinquish, and placed a tender kiss upon the palm, sending delighted little tingles down Zenobia's spine.

Suddenly shy, she withdrew her hand from his.

His mouth captured hers again in a swift kiss. "Oh, my Zenobia!" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "So sure of herself in everything but love. I will teach you to understand those feelings that assail you, and even frighten you a little. I will teach you to love, and be loved in return. There will be no fear or hesitation between us, my flower, and we will trust each other only." His lips caressed hers lightly once more. "I love you, Zenobia. I love you!"

She had never come so close to fainting in her entire life and, clinging to him childlike, she whispered breathlessly, "I love you also, my Hawk. I do!" Saying the words seemed to bring a strange relief.

Neither of them heard the door to the antechamber open.

"And are you ready to leave yet, my daughter?" Zabaai ben Selim stood there, smiling benignly.

Almost guiltily, they sprang apart and, blushing, Zenobia said, "I must change into my chiton, Father."

"No," Odenathus replied. "I will return you to your home in a litter. I would prefer that you did not ride with bare legs for all to see."

To Zabaai ben Selim's surprise, Zenobia bowed her head in assent, and moved to his side. "I am ready then, Father."

The Bedawi chief could only think to say, "Bab will come later with your things, my daughter," but she was already moving past him and out the door.

"I will send you word as to the date of the wedding late tonight, my cousin," the prince said, and the Bedawi chief nodded his assent as he followed his daughter from the room.

Just before sunset in the Temple of Jupiter, the high priest slaughtered a pure white lamb. After gazing at the smoking entrails, he announced that the most propitious time for the nuptials would be but ten days hence. Receiving word from the royal messenger, Zabaai ben Selim smiled to himself, wondering how large a gift Odenathus had donated to the temple in order to receive such a desirable verdict concerning the date of his marriage.

The coming celebration was announced to the public the following day, and the citizens of Palmyra rejoiced.

In the Roman governor's palace, Antonius Porcius Blandus, still the empire's representative, took the news less cheerfully. "Hades!" he said in an annoyed voice to his visitor. "I had hoped he would remain satisfied with his little Greek concubine. Had he died without a legitimate heir, Rome might have the city completely and unopposed."

"We have the city," the governor's visitor said. "As long as Palmyra has a legitimate ruler there is always a chance of uprising," Antonius Porcius retorted.

"I had been led to believe that Odenathus is totally loyal to Rome," was the reply.

"Oh, he is loyal. It is his bride that I fear. What a vixen he has picked, Marcus Alexander! Zenobia bat Zabaai; half Alexandrian Greek and Egyptian; half Bedawi savage. Some Gaulish auxiliary Alae murdered her mother four years ago, and she has hated the Romans with a passion ever since."

"Small wonder," the other man murmured.

"You do not know this girl!" the governor protested. "She sat in the midst of the men who were responsible, and for over eighteen hours she watched them die. She was but a child, and yet she sat as still and as cold as a statue as she watched their agony. There was no pity in her! A man in love is a fickle creature, and Odenathus is, I am told, totally enamored. She could influence him against us."

"I think you put too much importance on the marriage of a petty princeling and a half-caste girl, Antonius Porcius. No girl will defeat and destroy the empire. There have been men who tried, and they have all failed. Rome is, and will always be, invincible."

The governor sighed. Why was it that Romans never understood? Antonius Porcius thought bitterly. I know the East and its peoples. Unless love has softened that hard-eyed child I remember, she will bear watching.

He turned his attention to his dinner guest, Marcus Alexander Britainus, the wealthy son of a Roman patrician and his British wife. Lucius Alexander Britainus had been a Roman governor in Britain who had married a powerful local chieftain's daughter. Marcus Alexander was their eldest son. A younger son, Aulus, had already inherited his maternal grandfather's estates and responsibilities in Britain. There were two sisters, Lucia and Eusebia, who were married to prominent Romans, and already settled matrons.