Beloved (2 page)

“What great things, Chaldean?”

“The full natal chart will reveal all, my lord, but I can tell you now that your daughter will be successful in both love and war, for she is already, I can see, beloved of the gods.”

Zabaai nodded, satisfied. The Chaldean was the most respected astrologer in the East, noted not only for his accuracy, but his honesty as well.

As the old man backed out of the room Zabaai looked upon his young wife with great affection. “How shall I reward you, my little love, for this marvelous child?” he said.

“Let me name her, my lord,” Iris replied.

“Very well,” he agreed, pleased. Another woman would have asked him for jewels.

Tamar could not contain her curiosity. “What will you call her?”

“Zenobia,” came the answer.
“She who was given life by Jupiter.”

“Zenobia,” Zabaai mused. “It is a good name!”

“You must rest now,” Tamar said, taking the infant from Iris. “Let your Bab look after Zenobia while you sleep.”

Iris nodded, beginning to feel sleepy, now that the immediate excitement of the birth was over. Zabaai arose, bending a moment to kiss his young wife, and then he and Tamar left the room.

Alone, Iris sighed and stretched herself gingerly to find a more comfortable position. How beautiful the baby was! Tomorrow she would have a lamb sacrificed in the Temple of Jupiter to give thanks for her daughter. She wondered about the Chaldean’s predictions, not completely understanding them. Then as sleep began to overtake her, her anxieties faded. What did it all really matter as long as Zenobia was blessed and protected? “May you be favored by the gods all your life, my daughter,” Iris murmured softly, and then she fell asleep.

“Happy birthday, Zenobia!”

Zenobia bat Zabaai, now six, smiled happily back at her family. She was a lovely child, tall for her age, with long unruly dark hair that her mother had coaxed into ringlets for this auspicious occasion, and shining silver-gray eyes. Her simply draped white tunic with its pale blue silk rope belt set off her light golden skin.

Zabaai ben Selim swept his only daughter up into his arms, and gave her a resounding kiss. “Don’t you want to know what your presents are, my precious one?”

Zenobia giggled and looked mischievously at her adored father. “Of course I do, Papa, but Mama said I must not ask until they were offered.”

Zabaai ben Selim was unable to contain himself any longer. “Ali,” he roared, “bring in my daughter’s birthday gift!”

Into the open courtyard of the house came her father’s favorite slave leading a dainty, prancing storm-gray mare, bridled in red leather with tinkling brass bells, and wearing a small matching saddle.

Zenobia was speechless with surprise and delight. More than anything, she had wanted a fine Arab horse for her very own. She had spent the last six months hinting at it none too gently to her father. “Oh, Papa!” she finally whispered.

“Then you like her?” Zabaai ben Selim teased his beloved only daughter.

“Oh, yes! Yes, Papa! Yes!”

“Zabaai, you did not tell me!” Iris looked worried. “A horse? She is far too little.”

“Do not worry, my love. The mare has been bred for docility, I promise you.”

Tamar put a gentle hand on Iris’s shoulder, and said in a low voice, “Don’t overprotect her, Iris. You will do her no favor if you do. Bedawi women are bred to be independent.”

“I want to ride her now!” Zenobia cried, and Zabaai lifted his daughter up onto the mare’s back. She sat proudly, as if she had been born to sit there. “Come on, Akbar! I’ll race you!” Zenobia challenged her father’s heir.

“I must get to my horse,” he protested, amused.

“Well hurry!” she fussed at him, and was quickly off through the courtyard door.

In the year in which she was eleven Zenobia decided she would not go on the winter trek with her family. Palmyra had suddenly become a fascinating place to her. How she loved the city with its beautiful covered and colonnaded streets, great temples and broad marble avenues, its wonderful shops and open-air markets, each with a different and distinct smell. Leather tanning. Perfumes being blended. Wet wool being readied for weaving and dyeing. The silk-dyeing vats. The livestock. The spices. Exotic foods of all kinds. She simply couldn’t bear to leave it again!

With stubborn resolve she had secreted herself when no one was looking, and now she hugged herself gleefully, convinced she would not be found.

“Zenobia!” Tamar’s voice echoed sharply through the virtually empty house. “Zen-o-bia! Where are you, child? Come now, you cannot hide from us any longer! The trek has already begun.”

“Zenobia, you are being foolish!” Iris’s voice was becoming tinged with annoyance. “Come to us at once!”

Under the great bed in her father’s bedchamber the child crouched, chuckling softly. She would
not
spend the winter in the damned desert again this year. The gods only knew she hated it! Miles and miles and miles of endless sand. Long, boring days of blue skies, cloudless and as placid as pap. She sniffed with distaste.

Then there were the goats. While her very best friend, Julia Tullio, got to spend the whole delicious winter season in Palmyra going to the theater and to the games, she, Zenobia bat Zabaai, spent her winters herding a flock of dumb, smelly goats! It was embarrassing! The Bedawi measured a man’s wealth in the livestock he owned, which made Zenobia’s father an extremely wealthy man; but how she hated chasing those silly, temperamental goats all winter!

Only nights in the desert were interesting. She loved it when the skies grew dark, and filled with crystalline stars, some so bright and so large that they seemed almost touchable. Her father had taught her to read the stars, and she believed that as long as
she could see them she would be able to find her way back to Palmyra from Hades itself.

“Ha, Zenobia! There you are!” Tamar reached beneath the bed and pulled her out with strong fingers.

“No!” Zenobia shouted furiously, struggling. “I
will not go!
I hate the months away from Palmyra! I hate the desert!”

“Don’t be foolish,” Tamar replied patiently. “You are Bedawi, and the desert is our way. Come along now, Zenobia. There’s my good girl.” Tamar raised her up.

The child pulled defiantly away from the older woman, her strangely adult eyes flashing. “I am only half Bedawi, and even that half does not like the desert!”

Tamar had to laugh, for it was the truth and she could not really blame Zenobia. She was young, and the city was exciting. As Iris joined them, Zenobia flung herself at her pretty parent. “I don’t want to go, Mama! Why can we not just stay here? The two of us? Papa will not mind. The theater season is just beginning, and Julia says that a wonderful troupe of dancers and actors from Rome will be performing here this winter.”

“Our place is with your father, Zenobia.” Iris never raised her soft voice, but there was no arguing with her tone. She stroked her only child’s sleek dark head. What a beauty the little one was turning out to be, and how much she loved her!

“Could I not stay with Julia? Her mama says it would be all right. You don’t need me to herd the goats!” Zenobia made one last desperate try.

“No, Zenobia,” came the firm and quiet reply, but a tiny smile twitched at the corners of Iris’s mouth. Poor Zenobia, she thought. She knew just how her daughter felt, but she would say nothing, for she knew sympathy only encouraged rebellion. Iris, too, disliked the desert, but never in all the years she had been Zabaai’s wife had she ever admitted it aloud. It was part of her husband’s heritage, and when she had married him she had accepted it. She held out her hand to her daughter. “Come now, my dearest, let us go without further ado. The others are already several miles ahead of us, and you know how I dislike galloping a camel. It makes me sick if I must do it for too long. Come along.”

“Yes, Mama,” Zenobia sighed, defeated.

The three had turned to go when they heard strange footsteps on the stairs outside the bedchamber door. Tamar stiffened, sensing danger. Then, pulling Zenobia from her mother, she pushed the
girl down and back under the bed with its bright, red satin hangings.

“Stay there!” she hissed urgently, “and whatever happens do not come out until I tell you! Do you understand? Do not come out until I call you!”

The door to the bedchamber was flung open before Zenobia could protest. She could not see from her hiding place that the room had suddenly been invaded by a small party of Roman soldiers.

Tamar quickly stepped forward, saying, “Good morning, Centurion! How may I help you?”

The centurion eyed her boldly, thinking as he did so that she was a fine figure of a woman with her big, pillowy tits, and that she looked clean, and disease-free. “Whose house is this?” he demanded.

Tamar recognized his look. She prayed she could stay calm. “This is the house of Zabaai ben Selim, warrior chief of the Bedawi, Centurion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tamar bat Hammid, senior wife to Zabaai ben Selim. This other lady is my lord’s second wife, Iris bat Simon.”

“Why are you alone? Where are the servants?” The centurion’s tone was arrogant.

“I can see that you are new to Palmyra, Centurion. The Bedawi spend but half the year in Palmyra. The other half we spend in the desert. My husband left but a few minutes ago. Iris and I were checking to be sure that everything was secure. One cannot trust the slaves to see to it.” She paused a moment, hoping he would be satisfied and let them go. Seeing his intent still unchanged, she decided to attack. “May I ask why you have entered this house, Centurion? It is not the policy of the Roman Army to enter private houses within a friendly city. My husband is a well-respected citizen of this city, honored by all who know him. He holds Roman citizenship, Centurion, and is personally acquainted with the governor. I would also tell you that Zabaai ben Selim is cousin to this city’s ruler, Prince Odenathus.”

He did not look at her directly when he said, “The gates were wide open as we rode by, and since we saw that the house appeared to be deserted we came to check that robbers were not stripping the property of a Roman citizen.”

He was lying, and both of them knew it. The gates had been firmly locked behind Zabaai when he had left. Tamar was afraid, but she knew that to show fear would encourage these men in
whatever mischief they were planning. “As always,” she said, her voice heavy with sincerity, “the Romans are the keepers of the peace. I shall tell my lord Zabaai of your concern, Centurion. He will be well pleased.”

She turned to Iris, who stood nervously behind her. “Come, Iris. We must hurry to meet our lord Zabaai. Our camels are in the stable, Centurion. Would one of your men be kind enough to fetch them for us?”

“How do I know that you are who you say you are?” the centurion said. “You might be thieves for all I know, and then I should be in trouble with my commanding officer.”

The ring of men was closing in about them.

“My lord Zabaai, his wives, and his entire family are well known to the Roman governor of this city,” Tamar repeated threateningly. She was very afraid now. These, she realized, were not regular legionnaires. These were auxiliaries, barbarians recruited from Gallic and Germanic tribes, noted for being pitiless, without mercy or respect for anything—including women.

“I am sure that you are both well known in the city,” the centurion said insinuatingly, and the men with him laughed, their eyes hot. His gaze bold and cruel, he reached out and pushed Tamar aside. “I want a better look at
you
,” he said to Iris, pulling her forward.

At first she looked at him unflinchingly, her blue-gray eyes scornful, but her heart was thumping violently against her ribs. She felt as if she were staring death in the face. The centurion let his hand caress her ash-blond hair almost lingeringly. Slowly the hand wandered downward over her body, fondling her breasts.

“Centurion,” she said in a quiet, strained voice, “not only am I wife to Zabaai ben Selim, but I am the only daughter of the great banker, Simon Titus of Alexandria. Do not allow a simple rudeness to escalate into a serious crime.”