Beloved (18 page)

The prince took the center couch, Zenobia sat to his left, and Marcus was placed on his right in the place of honor. Marcus ate automatically, not even noticing the food served to him on silver plates. He was far too busy answering the many questions Zenobia fired at him.

He spoke of different philosophies for a time, then she looked shrewdly at him, saying, “Do you believe in these things, Marcus Alexander Britainus?”

He smiled at her. “I am a realist. I believe in that which I can see.”

“I do not mean to offend. I am simply curious. There is so much I do not know of this world, and I want to learn!”

“The most beautiful woman in Palmyra,” the prince remarked, “and she is not satisfied with all she has.”

“It is not enough to be beautiful, my Hawk. If you had wanted a fluffy kitten of a wife, you would have been married long since.”

“What is it you want to know, my Princess? I will gladly share my little knowledge with you.”

The prince nodded, and Zenobia said bleakly, “Marcus Alexander
Britainus, I do not even know what the sea looks like, and that, my Roman friend, is but the beginning of my ignorance.”

He began to speak, and in his eloquence he made wonderful word pictures that allowed them to see the sea and the ships upon it. He told of Rome set upon her seven green hills; and Britain, the land of his birth, with its misty wet weather and even greener hills. He spoke of his service in Africa, that primitive land of fierce contrasts; and all the while Zenobia sat motionless, absorbing his every word like a sponge. The night darkened beyond the dining room windows, and the servants cleared away the fruit and honeyed nut cakes. The goblets were refilled with aromatic red wine, and Marcus spoke on until, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the prince yawning behind his hand.

“It is late,” he said, “and I have been droning on like a schoolmaster.”

“You have barely begun to tell me what I seek to know,” Zenobia murmured.

“Perhaps then Marcus Alexander Britainus will come again and tell us of his experiences,” the prince said politely.

“Tomorrow,” Zenobia replied.

“Tomorrow?”
Both men looked startled.

“Yes, tomorrow. You must command him, my Hawk, to come each day for an hour, and teach me of the world beyond our city.”

Odenathus seemed annoyed, and glanced somewhat irritably at the Roman. “Marcus Alexander Britainus is a busy man, my flower.”

“Is he so busy that he cannot spare an hour each day?” she protested.

Marcus could see that the prince was beginning to eye him with something akin to jealousy, yet he desperately wanted to be with Zenobia. “Perhaps,” he said, looking directly at the prince, “you would allow me to visit with her Highness twice a week, my lord. By rearranging my schedule I could manage it.”

Zenobia had risen, and now she twined herself about her husband provocatively. “I do not ask you for jewels or other baubles, my Hawk. All I seek is knowledge. How can you object? You spend your days meeting with your councillors. The slaves care for the house, and I am left to the pursuits of boredom. Of course I might visit with your dear mother, or perhaps Deliciae.” She smiled up at him with false sweetness.

“I do not want you in the company of another man,” the prince hissed.

“Surely you are not jealous, my Hawk?” Zenobia’s voice was a whisper now, but Marcus, always sharp of ear, could make out every word, and winced at her next statement. “He is practically old enough to be my father. Besides, I shall have Bab with me, and if you insist, my maidens also. I care not how many people are with me as long as I may learn!” Teasingly, she blew into his ear.
“Please.”

Marcus turned his eyes away from them. He could not bear to see her affectionate with the prince. He drew a deep breath, and made an attempt to control his emotions. Zenobia was married to Odenathus. They were obviously very much in love.

“Would you mind coming to teach my wife, Marcus Alexander Britainus?”

“No, my lord, I should consider it an honor.” He kept both his face and his voice grave.

“Very well then, so be it. And I thank you, Marcus Alexander Britainus.”

The Roman rose from the table. “I have overstayed the bounds of good hospitality,” he said. “With your Highness’s permission I shall take my leave.”

“You have my permission, Marcus Alexander Britainus.”

He bowed from his waist, and exited the room, hearing behind him Zenobia’s little cry of glee.

“Oh, my Hawk, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She flung herself upon him, and kissed him quite vigorously.

He protested faintly. “Zenobia! We are in the dining room!”

“The couch is big enough for both of us, my Hawk,” she murmured, loosening his robe and nuzzling at his nipples.

He groaned, all thoughts of the Roman driven from his mind, and wrapped his arms about her, burying his face in her soft shoulder. “Zenobia, Zenobia! What am I to do with you?”

“Make love to me, my Hawk,” she answered him boldly.

He untangled her arms from about his neck, and stood, pulling her up with him. “A fine idea, my flower, but not here for some poor slave to stumble upon us.” He brushed a kiss across her pouting mouth, and with a faint smile led her through their house and upstairs to their bedchamber. “Leave us! Go to your beds!” was his curt order to the slave girls who awaited their young mistress.

As on their wedding night two months earlier they quickly undressed each other, shivering in the cool air of a desert summer night. They stood for a few moments, and his hands caressed the
marvelous mounds of her breasts, moving downward to smooth along her firm thighs and hips. He pushed her away from him and stood back, admiring her nudity in the flickering light of the perfumed lamps.

“You are like a golden goddess, to be worshiped and adored. I never tire of looking at you,” he said.

She stood quietly, no longer afraid or shy of him, and when he knelt before her she stroked the dark head that pressed itself into her soft belly. She was beginning to feel languorous as she always did when he began to make love to her, but as always he sensed the moment when her legs began to weaken, and stood to pull her atop him as he fell back upon the bed. For a long moment their mouths met in a fiery embrace, and then Zenobia drew away. She sat upon him, and wetting her finger in her mouth began to encircle his nipple teasingly. He watched her through slitted eyes, a faint smile upon his face. In just two months the virgin he had married had become the most sensuous woman he had ever known. She was wonderfully passionate and constantly inventive. In one sense it was fortunate that her mother had died before she might pass on to her daughter those inhibitions that invariably divided a married couple’s sexual life into the acceptable and the unacceptable.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he pulled her forward and impaled her on his ready lance. Reaching out, he grasped one full breast and pulled it to his open mouth, sucking hard on the sensitive nipple while his other hand slipped under her to caress her buttocks. Zenobia moaned, and sought for the wonderful motion that always eventually brought her relief. He, however, would not allow it, holding her still between iron thighs while his mouth and hands wreaked delicious havoc and her desire became more frantic. His lips captured her in a deep kiss, his tongue driving into her mouth, his hands clutching her tightly, holding her still while her ardor mounted, until finally she was tearing her mouth away from his and begging him to give her release.

Swiftly he rolled over, pinning her beneath him, and began the thrusting motion that would give them the pure pleasure they both sought. With a wild cry Zenobia wrapped her arms and legs about her husband, and within moments was lost within a shining splendor that finally dissolved in a tumultuous, all-engulfing explosion of passion. Too quickly it was over, and they both lay exhausted and panting amid the tangled bedclothes.

“By the gods,” Odenathus half-whispered, “Venus has blessed
us both, my flower. You are all the woman a man could ever want!”

“And you all the man a woman could want, my Hawk!” she replied admiringly.

The same words were spoken that very night to Marcus Alexander by a beautiful and famed courtesan in Palmyra’s Street of the Prostitutes. He looked down on the woman, a rather magnificent amber-eyed blonde with a marvelous figure. “Do you mean in all your vast experience, Sadira, no man has pleased you as I have?” His blue gaze was somewhat disbelieving, his voice mocking.

“Why do you find that so hard to believe, Marcus?” she quickly countered him, not in the least disconcerted by his manner.

“I came to make love,” he said, “not to talk.”

He reached for her, but she eluded his grasp. “You want a whore tonight, Marcus Alexander. I am not a whore, but a courtesan. There is more to me than a pair of open legs, a ready sheath. I can see, however, that your mood is not conducive to my company.”

“I am sorry, Sadira,” he groaned. “There is a black mood upon me tonight, and I can’t seem to rid myself of it.”

“I will listen if you choose to speak, Marcus. Where were you before you came to me?”

“I had dinner at the palace,” was the answer.

“The gods! No wonder you’re in a bad mood. Having to sit through a state dinner would make anyone out of sorts. Was that old bitch, Al-Zena, there? How her nose must have been put out of joint by the prince’s marriage to that lovely little Bedawi. Our new princess has a way of holding her head that leads me to believe the prince’s mother will not rule Zenobia of Palmyra.” Sadira chuckled. “How very much in love those two are, and they make no attempt to hide their passion for each other.” Her eyes grew mellow, and then amorous. “Come, my big and passionate Roman. Let Sadira take your evil humor and turn it into one of joy.”

She pulled his head down and kissed him with superb skill. Marcus let her believe she was succeeding, but his mind had already fled back to contemplate Zenobia, Zenobia and her husband whose passion for each other could not be a secret thing.

*   *   *

No one in Palmyra was particularly surprised when their beautiful princess began to thicken about the waist and formal and official announcement was made that an heir to the desert throne was expected. A year and a day exactly after his parents’ marriage, a son, to be named Vaballathus, was born to Palmyra’s princess. A brother, Demetrius, followed but fifteen months later.

The government in Rome had been wracked with internal strife for several years; there was no real imperial family left. Soldier-emperor after soldier-emperor rose with the support of one faction of the army, only to fall when another faction raised its own choice.

The current emperor, Valerian, had been called by his troops from Raetia in Gaul. He had marched on Rome, taken the government in hand, and given it the first stability it had known in many years. He made his twenty-one-year-old son, already a tough, battle-hardened general, his co-emperor. Valerian had said it plainly. He might be a man in his sixties, but if he was assassinated as were some of his predecessors, his son, Gallienus, would not only avenge him, but take over.

The emperor then turned an eye to see where he had honest allies. To the east in the city of Palmyra, he noted, the young prince, Odenathus, was well thought of by the Roman governor, Antonius Porcius Blandus. The prince had been given command of the legion in Palmyra, and had been successfully holding the Persians at bay. He had a wife and two young sons, both possible hostages in the event he should prove difficult at a later date.

Now the Roman governor had made application for retirement, and as he had served fifteen years in Palmyra, it was a request that could not be denied. The governor suggested that no new Roman be sent out to the city, but rather that Odenathus be made king, a client king of the empire. His loyalty was certainly unquestioned, and it seemed to Valerian a perfect solution. How could he clean up matters here in Rome if he had to worry about the eastern provinces? The order went out. Odenathus Septimus was to be King of Palmyra.

The city went wild at the news, and the celebration that followed lasted nine days before the populace fell into a drunken stupor that lasted another two days. In the palace Al-Zena preened. “I am now Queen of Palmyra,” she purred.
“Queen!”

“Zenobia is Queen,” Deliciae said. “You are not Odenathus’s wife. You are his mother.”

“If the girl is Queen why should I not be? Is she worthy? No! I am worthy. Have I not served this city all these years?”

Deliciae laughed harshly.
“You?
You serve Palmyra? For almost thirty years you have done nothing but complain about Palmyra. The people hate you! Your name is a curse! The only thing you ever did for Palmyra was to birth a good king. In the three years since Odenathus married Zenobia she has produced two healthy sons for the dynasty, and worked unceasingly for the good of the city. Everyone loves her.”

“Does that include the Roman, Marcus Alexander Britainus?” Al-Zena asked slyly. “Why is he always here, and alone with her?”

“By the gods you are a wicked woman, Al-Zena! You know very well that the Roman comes but twice a week, and that Zenobia is never alone with him. She learns from him about the world outside of Palmyra.”

“And this makes her fit to be queen of this desert dung heap? Bah! It is an excuse to be with her lover.”

“Oh, you are an evil creature,” Deliciae cried. “Your son and his wife love each other deeply. Your nasty tongue will never part them, Al-Zena. Beware lest you become your own victim.”

“What a stupid creature you are, Deliciae,” the older woman said, her voice dripping with scorn. “How many Bedawi shepherds do you suppose mounted Zenobia before her marriage to my son? Even her brothers, especially the eldest, Akbar who dotes on her so, did not deny themselves, I’ll wager. Those savages do not think of incest as a sin.”

“Zenobia was a virgin, and you know it! You saw the bloody bedclothes the morning after their wedding night, as did I. I well remember your torturing me with the fact that she was purity to my filth, as you so charmingly put it, Al-Zena.”