Bertrice Small - Beloved

"I possessed the body, Zenobia, but I did not possess you."

"You never will, Roman! No man ever has, nor ever will!" she lied.

"Not even Marcus Alexander Britainus?" he asked.

"Damn you, Aurelian! Damn you a thousand times over," she said in a tight voice, and she forced back the tears that threatened to begin again. "What do you want of me? Perhaps the truth will silence you once and for all. Very well, then. I loved Marcus as I have loved no other man. When he married your niece I ached not only with the loss of him, but for his betrayal, for I thought I knew him. Yes, I gave myself wholly to him, and I shall not make that mistake again. Each time you desire me you will have to force me, and perhaps you will again make me cry out a surrender of sorts, but you will never really have me. And you will never be able to use Marcus as a weapon in your war with me. You cannot hurt me." She felt drained by the speech, but, incredibly, she also felt strong again.

He had lain on his belly throughout this exchange, and now he rolled over and looked up at her. "How strangely naive you are, goddess." His blue eyes regarded her with a funny mixture of compassion and determination. Then quickly the look was gone, and his glance was once again unreadable. Calmly he arose from the bed and, turning, said to her, "Get up, goddess. I sent a message to your son last night, and this morning I will present you to the city of Palmyra as my prisoner. They will have the space of one day in which to decide their fates."

"They will not surrender," she insisted.

"Then I will destroy the city about their ears," was the reply.

They glared at each other, each immovable in intent, each sure of lightness. Finally Zenobia said sulkily, "I have nothing to wear, Roman. Surely you aren't going to make me stand naked before my own city walls?"

A wicked grin creased his mouth. "A delectable thought, goddess, but no. I rarely share with others what belongs to me. Late last night before I joined you there came into camp a querulous old woman who claims to be your servant. Your son sent her with garments and other things that a woman needs. Poor Gaius Cicero had a terrible time with her. Only when one of the Bedawi women spoke to her could she be calmed. I will send for them now."

Aurelian dressed quickly and left the tent without another word to her. Shortly afterward he returned with two women.

"The gods be praised! You are unharmed!" cried Bab, tears running down her weathered old face as she fell on Zenobia's neck.

The bed's coverlet wrapped around her, Zenobia soothed her nursemaid. "Hush, old woman! As always, you fret too much over me. Am I not the beloved of the gods?" Aurelian, however, noted the concern on the queen's face. So, he thought, her heart is not entirely cold.

"Zenobia."

She looked curiously toward the other woman, who threw back the hood of her robe. 'Tamar! Oh, Tamar, is it really you?"

"It is me, child." Tamar eyed Zenobia's garb. "Is all well with you?"

Zenobia nodded quietly. "It is as expected," she answered.

"Who are these women?" the emperor demanded.

She looked at him. "My old nursemaid, who has always cared for me. Her name is Bab, and this," she drew Tamar forward, "is Tamar bat Hammid, my father's wife."

"Then you are in good hands, and I may safely leave you," he answered. He turned to the two older women. "Prepare the queen in her finest garments." He raised Zenobia's hand to his lips and, turning it, kissed the inside of her wrist. "Until later, goddess," and he was quickly gone from the tent.

For a moment the three women stood in silence, and then Tamar said quietly, "Bab, show Zenobia what you have brought so we may choose from among her garments for something suitable."

Bab shuffled to the entry of the tent and, bending, dragged a small trunk inside. Opening it, she brought forth a diaphanous dark garment. With a ghost of a smile she held it up, saying, "I have chosen this for you, my baby."

Zenobia's own lips twitched with delight. "Are you becoming a rebel in your old age, Bab?"

The old woman cackled. "I thought it fitting under the circumstances."

"Have you gone mad?" Tamar demanded. "Black is for mourning."

"Should I not be in mourning?" Zenobia shot back. "I mourn for my virtue, torn from me last night, and I mourn for Palmyra, my beloved city. I sense that this battle with Rome will be to the death."

"Can we not win?" Tamar's voice had dropped to a whisper.

"If I were in the city instead of here, yes; but I am not within the city; and Palmyra's king, my son, is not as skilled in the art of ruling as I would wish. I fear that Aurelian will outwit Vaba, for he is a clever man."

"Then why did you turn over the full responsibility for Palmyra to Vaba before you rode for Persia?" Tamar was curious.

"If I were not to return I wanted no misunderstanding among the council as to who the king was. I can only pray that Vaba will be the king his father was; that he will hold firm even though Aurelian holds me prisoner. I shall pray to the gods, if they have not deserted me entirely, that he will be strong."

Outside they heard the trumpets call, and Bab said, "We must dress you, my baby. Soon they will come for you, and you must be ready."

A few moments later Gaius Cicero arrived with a six-man escort that he left outside to await their prisoner.

Zenobia greeted him pleasantly enough, and unable to conceal the admiration he felt, his eyes widened at the sight of her. "Are you ready, Majesty?" he inquired politely.

"I am ready, Gaius Cicero," was her calm reply.

Tamar and Bab stood at the entry to the tent and watched as the Roman centurion and his men marched Zenobia from their sight. They brought her to the edge of the camp that faced the main gates of Palmyra, and there she saw a raised platform with a small tent upon it. They led her up a small flight of steps behind the little tent and then into it, leaving her there. Within the little enclosure Aurelian awaited her. He raised one blond eyebrow at the sight of her and then he chuckled.

"Thought you to irritate me by wearing mourning, goddess? I believe your gown an excellent choice, for it implies defeat. Defeat for Palmyra."

Her heart sank. He was right, but she had not thought of it that way and neither had old Bab. She had indeed sought to annoy him by wearing a plain, black kalasiris and no jewelry other than her royal circlet of golden vine leaves atop her unbound black hair. "Will you allow me nothing, Roman?" she said low.

"It is dangerous to allow you anything, goddess. We gave you a city, and you took an empire. You are known to bite the hand that feeds you, Zenobia."

Her hand flashed out, catching him off guard as it slapped his face. Instantly rage suffused his features, and grasping her arm, he brutally forced it behind her. "Were it not necessary for me to present you publicly to your people, and your son in a few moments," he said through gritted teeth, "I should beat you. Never raise your hand to me again, goddess!"

"You are hurting me, Roman," she spat back, not daring to struggle for fear the movement would break her arm.

The anger drained from his face, and he released his hold on her. "I give only one warning, goddess," he said coldly. "Stay here and do not move. You will know when I want you."

He exited the tent, and she was left alone to listen to the sounds whose sources she could not see. She could hear the movement of many feet, the undertone of voices, and then suddenly silence followed by the flourish of trumpets, which was answered by Palmyran trumpets from atop Sie city walls. Zenobia's heart quickened. She heard Aurelian's voice in the clear air.

"People of Palmyra, I am Aurelian. Hear me well! I have now in my possession your rebel queen, Zenobia. Surrender to me, and I will spare not only her, but all of you and your city as well. I will not impose fines upon you, for the fault has not been yours but that of your overproud queen. You have until this time tomorrow to make your decision."