Beloved (28 page)

He heard both the queen and the woman in the request. A daughter. He was the father of a daughter! “I will acknowledge her, beloved,” he said.

“Thank you, Marcus,” she answered him. “I know it will not be easy for you, for everyone will believe her to be Odenathus’s child.”

“May I see her?”

“Only if you will kiss me, Marcus Britainus. You see, I am really a terrible woman, for I will exact a penalty from you for what should be your right.”

A slow smile lit his features, crinkling the corners of his deep blue eyes. A large hand cupped her head, while the fingers of his
other hand tenderly re-explored her face. She sat very still as he moved over her eyelids, down the bridge of her nose, across her high cheekbones, and gently touched her petal-soft lips. As he did she kissed his fingertips. Then his head descended to cover her mouth with his own. The sweetness that flowed between them brought tears to her eyes. Feeling the wetness on her cheeks, he raised his head and gazed deeply into her eyes.

“Beloved, why do you weep?”

“Oh, Marcus, haven’t you ever known a woman to weep from pure joy? I am so happy!”

“Do you love me, Zenobia?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and without hesitation. “I love you.”

“Let me see our daughter,” he said, and she called to old Bab and to Longinus, who re-entered the room. In her arms Bab carried the sleeping infant, whom she laid at Marcus’s feet. Immediately he took the baby up into his arms, and by that simple act acknowledged Mavia as his own. Whatever happened now the baby girl was admitted to all the rights and privileges of membership in a Roman family. No one, however, should ever know this, for Mavia would be believed Odenathus’s posthumous daughter, and Princess of Palmyra.

Marcus Britainus looked down at his child, and his face softened. “She is beautiful,” he said softly so as not to awaken her. He almost trembled so great was his emotion. This tiny bit of humanity was his daughter; created by the gods as proof of his love for Zenobia. He looked up from the child and at its mother. “Marry me,” he said quietly. “Your period of mourning is almost over. We love each other.”

“I cannot,” she said quietly. “I am Queen of Palmyra, and if we married then we should endanger Vaba’s monarchy. If I remained regent there would be those who would claim that you—Rome—influenced me against Palmyran interests. More likely, however, would be my removal by the Council of Ten from the regency. I cannot trust anyone else to guide the city’s destiny for my son.”

“And when Vaba is a man, Zenobia? Will you then release the reins of power to him and live for yourself?”

“Do not quarrel with me, my love,” she said, avoiding his question. “Are you not my husband in all but the formal sense? You love me, I love you, and we have a child.”

He looked at her, and she could see the pain, the hurt, the anger, the resentment, and the resignation all swirling about in
his eyes. “So, I am to be known as the queen’s lover instead of the queen’s husband,” he said softly.

“It matters not,” she answered him as softly, “if I am your legal wife, for even if I were you should still be my lover, Marcus. Is it so terrible a thing?”

Longinus had been right, Marcus thought bitterly. The woman he loved put her duty above all. He could not have her to wife, nor could he have his own child. Still, he loved Zenobia, and if having her meant swallowing his own male pride then swallow it he would. When he thought on it he realized that her attitude to duty was actually no different from his own. “Am I your lover?” he asked.

“You will be,” she said with certainty, looking directly at him.

He felt a chill of desire sweep over him. “When?” he demanded, the smile returning to his eyes and once more crinkling the corners.

“You must give me time to recover from Mavia’s birth, my darling.”

As if recognizing her name, the infant opened her eyes and looked up at the great man who held her. Making small noises, she instantly attracted his attention, and looking down again on his daughter, Marcus was enchanted. Gently he touched her pink cheek, and Mavia turned her head, her small bud of a mouth opening.

“Give her to me,” Zenobia said. “She is already hungry. Longinus, go back to bed. We will speak in the morning. Bab, do you mind waiting in the antechamber until Mavia is ready to return to her cradle?” Reaching out for her daughter, Zenobia put her to her plump breast, not even seeing Longinus and Bab leaving. At first the baby was not certain of what to do, but the queen, all mother now, carefully forced her nipple into the baby’s mouth, and pressed gently to expel some of the clear fluid already flowing from her breasts. The second the baby tasted the nourishment, instinct took over and she began to suck, tentatively at first, more vigorously as she met with continued success and became surer.

Marcus watched, fascinated. He was enchanted by the sweetly maternal picture Zenobia presented; and yet at the same time he felt a strong tug of hot desire watching the child as she nursed. In the months since the infant’s conception he had found himself unable to enjoy the beautiful and skilled whores for which Palmyra was famous, and finally had stopped trying. Now celibate for many months, he watched as his daughter suckled on his beloved’s
plump golden breasts, and he found himself consumed by a lust that had become highly visible beneath his short interior tunic.

Transferring the baby from one breast to the other, Zenobia saw his state. “Oh, my darling,” she sympathized, “I will send a slave girl to your bed.”

“No!”
he almost shouted through gritted teeth, and the baby started, giving a little hiccough before settling back down again to nurse. “I cannot … I mean I don’t want anyone else but you.”

“Are you telling me that there has been no one since
that
night?”

“No one,” he said.

“Oh, Marcus!” The baby cradled in one arm, she reached out the other to take his hand in hers, and they stayed thus bound together until Mavia, sated at last, fell asleep against her mother’s breast.

“If I were just a woman,” Zenobia said quietly, “I should be so proud to be your wife. I could not say that while Longinus was in the room, for he would fret so. You know what he is like, my darling.”

“We could wed in secret,” he suggested.

“Marcus, there will come a day when I will marry you if you still want me. When that day comes it will be done with much pomp and public show; and you will escort me through the streets of Palmyra to your house, as befits an honest man. I will be your wife for all the world to see, and I shall not be ashamed. Until that time we will be lovers, and I shall not be ashamed of that, either. For now my duty is to the memory of Odenathus Septimius, his son—
my
son—Vaballathus, boy king of this city; and to Palmyra itself. I will not shirk my duties, Marcus. It is not my way.”

In an isolated part of the palace she set aside a private apartment where no one but old Bab and himself were permitted to enter; although he rarely saw the queen’s old nurse. It was one large, square, bright and airy room that she transformed into a retreat of sensuality where they might play with each other and be safe from prying eyes.

The floor of the room was made of great blocks of pale-gold marble, carefully fitted so that they appeared to be one piece. Near the entrance was a sunken black marble bathing pool filled with tepid scented water sprayed by the distended male organs of four mischievous gold cupids. To the left was a large, beautifully carved standing cabinet for storage, and beyond that a round table—in fact the very one of African cedar that Zenobia had bought from
Marcus many years before—with two rounded backed chairs with carved arms and legs. Bright peacock-blue silk cushions had been placed on each chair.

In the far left corner of the room was a large, square sleeping platform that sat upon a dais set up two steps. An enormous striped mattress made of coral and gold silk, and filled with the finest, purest white lambswool was placed upon the sleeping platform. The dais and the platform had been overlaid with several layers of gold leaf. Upon the mattress were spread peacock- and emerald-colored silk pillows.

On the wall opposite the sleeping platform were seven marble pillars, gold-colored, veined in red, and between them hung sheer silk curtains of palest gold shot through with gold thread, which blew gently in the soft evening breezes. On the coldest days the silk would be replaced by heavy woolen draperies of an earthy gold color.

The walls had been painted with colorful frescoes of the gods and goddesses as they played at love. Diana, chaste goddess of the hunt and the moon, was held in captive embrace by the sun god, Apollo, who boldly fondled her unclad breasts; while about them Diana’s equally chaste handmaidens were hunted by a band of rapacious satyrs. A very voluptuous Venus, goddess of love, reclined upon a couch, her pink, white, gold, and blue-eyed beauty totally nude for all to see while two very handsome and extremely well-endowed young mortal males sought to please. Juno, queen of those fortunates who resided upon Mount Olympus, lay upon her back, legs spread wide, her face a mask of ecstasy, while the blacksmith god, Vulcan, labored mightily. Jupiter, King of Olympus, was shown in both his guises: as the swan seducing the beauteous Leda, wife to Tyndareus; the King of Sparta; and as the chestnut-colored bull who abducted and seduced the virgin, Europa, daughter of Agenor, the Phoenician King of Tyre. Both ladies seemed quite pleased with the god’s attentions, however. Among the gods and goddesses nymphs and centaurs sported in various and some quite interesting attitudes of play.

Carefully studying them during his first visit to the apartment, Marcus noted somewhat wryly, “I am not sure such a thing is possible when one has a body that is half-human, half-equine.” He reclined in a chair along one of the walls.

“The ladies seem content,” Zenobia noted from the black marble pool where she was swimming. In the crystal waters of the pool her own very voluptuous form was quite visible.

“Still, I wonder …” he mused, and then he turned to face her. “Come to me, beloved. It has been more than three hundred nights since you have lain in my arms. The gods know that I have always been a patient man, but now I am no longer patient.”

Her gray eyes darkened with the remembered passion of that one night that they had had, and a soft smile curved her lips for a moment. Then she swam over to the steps of the pool and stood up. She slowly ascended the stairs as he watched with intense desire her lush golden body, the water droplets glittering like diamonds as they ran down her. Lazily she dried herself off, picked up an alabaster flask, and walked across the room to him. Handing him the flask, she purred, “Will you rub me with this cream, Marcus,” and without waiting for him to answer continued on to the sleeping platform, where she lay down upon her stomach.

Standing, he whipped the wrap of cloth from his loins, and, naked, joined her. The night was warm with early summer as he straddled her, using her bottom as a seat, and poured the fragrant, pale mauve-colored cream into one big palm. Carefully he set the flask upon one of the platform steps and, rubbing his hands together to spread the cream, he began to massage her.

“Ummmmmm,” she murmured huskily as his large hands swept up the long length of her back and over her shoulders.

He continued this way for some minutes until all the cream had disappeared into her skin, and then, reversing his position, he crouched over her facing her feet. Taking more of the mauve cream, he began to massage her buttocks with expert fingers.

“Ohhhh!” Zenobia gave a little shriek of pleasure, and he smiled to himself. She had thought to play this teasing game with him, but when he had finished with her it would be she whose fires would rage uncontrolled.

Finished with her buttocks, he began to rub each leg in its turn, and then her arms, with the scented cream. As he did so he was not averse to pressing teasing little kisses upon the back of her neck, having first pushed aside her long black hair, which had come free of its jeweled pins. It gave him great satisfaction to note that her delicious body was unable to remain still.

“Marcus!”
Her voice was somewhat strained.

“Yes, beloved?” His voice was smooth, devoid of any emotion.

“I think you can stop now.” He certainly could stop, she thought frantically. Her skin was absolutely tingling; in fact, she was tingling all over.

“Now?”
His voice had turned innocent, and he slipped his
hands beneath her to grasp her marvelous breasts. Teasingly, he pinched the nipples, very much enjoying her gasp of surprise. Covering her body with his own, his weight crushed her into the mattress as he murmured into her ear, “My beloved goddess, did you think to tease me to madness? You have succeeded!” And he gently bit at the back of her neck.

She shuddered as the flames of desire began to lick at her in earnest.
“Marcus!”

He heard the plea, and lifted himself off her to turn her over onto her back. Her beautiful breasts rose and fell in quick rhythm. His dark chestnut head lowered to capture a pert nipple, which he then caressed with his tongue, circling round and round it, until she moaned a low, keening sound that was half-pleasure, half-frustration. Lifting his head, he moved over to her other nipple while his hand kneaded the breast he had just left. Her breasts had been extremely sensitive since she had stopped nursing Mavia and given that chore to a wet-nurse.

He was going to drive her mad, Zenobia thought. Reaching down, she grasped his thick hair and pulled him from her breast. “Kiss me!” she demanded furiously, and he laughed softly for a moment before his lips took fierce possession of hers. His tongue filled her mouth, skillfully doing battle with hers, which would not be subdued but fought him with equal cunning, bringing quick liquid fire into his hot loins.

Mischievously she bit him, and he swore softly while she laughed and, moving provocatively, murmured, “Now, my darling! Now!”

“No!”
he told her. By the gods she might be Queen of Palmyra, but while she lay in his arms he would be the master! “Not yet, beloved! You are too eager.”