Beloved (40 page)

“I only need three days, Akbar! Three days!”

“You will be lucky to get twelve hours. Then may the gods
make your camels swift, for they will be after you! The Bedawi can make up a rear guard. Should the Romans get too close, they can slay your pursuers.”

“Your brother is right, Majesty. I, for one, am grateful for the extra protection,” Rufus Curius said.

“Very well,” Zenobia replied. “I agree. Let us go now!”

Without another word Akbar led them out of the tent and to the edge of the encampment where his men and the camels awaited. “This is my sister,” he said, “and her aide, Rufus Curius. Obey her, for she is far wiser in the ways of the desert than any of you. Should you be pursued protect her with your lives. Her mission is to get to Shapur of Persia, and gain his aid. Without it the Romans will again control this region, and we do not want that, my friends.”

Zenobia mounted her camel and, leaning back in her saddle, kicked it into a standing position. “Thank you, Akbar,” she said.

“The gods go with you, my sister.”

The other men had mounted their beasts, and the little party left the Bedawi camp, traveling east toward the Euphrates River. Once they had crossed it they would be in Persia. Although the Palmyrans had beaten Persia in battle, there had been peace between the two lands for several years now. Zenobia thought that despite their past differences Shapur would aid them, for he hated the Romans. Besides, there were several valuable trade concessions she would give him in return for his aid.

The night began to give way to a gray dawn, and dawn in its turn to a rainbow-colored sunrise and a magnificent day. The sun slowly climbed up into the cloudless blue sky while across the seemingly endless desert the seven camels plodded onward. Finally, at two hours past noon, they stopped in the shelter of some tall dunes. The sun beat mercilessly down upon them as the camels knelt to allow their riders to dismount. It had been a long time since Zenobia had ridden across the desert under a midday sun. She longed to throw off her enveloping cloak, but to do so would be to risk severe sunburn, and dehydration. Instead, she made a small hollow for herself in the sand within the shadow of one of the dunes, and settled down to rest. After a bit she accepted some lukewarm water offered her by Rufus Curius and, digging her hand into a leather pouch hanging from her belt, she drew out some dates and two figs, which she began to slowly eat. Her hunger and thirst both satisfied, the Queen of Palmyra slept for the next several hours.

“It is time to go, my Queen,” Rufus Curius’s voice penetrated her wild and formless dreams.

Zenobia opened her eyes, suddenly aware of where she was. “I hear you, Rufus. Give me but a moment, and I will be ready.” He offered her another drink, which she accepted, and then she rose and mounted the kneeling camel. Irritably the beast stood, swung his head around, and attempted to bite her foot. Quickly she escaped him, administering a smart slap to the camel’s nose with her reins at the same time. “They are the most irascible creatures,” she muttered to Rufus Curius, who then warily mounted his own camel.

It was late afternoon and still quite hot, but quickly night descended upon the desert, and Zenobia was glad for her long black wool cloak. During the long night they made but one short stop to rest the camels and to relieve themselves. The second day was an imitation of the first, but when they prepared to travel on the third night, one of the Bedawi announced, “We are being followed.”

“How do you know?” demanded Rufus Curius, anxiously scanning the horizon and seeing nothing.

“I know,” was the reply.

Rufus Curius nodded. “How far behind us?”

“Several hours,” was the answer.

“Can we make the river before they catch up to us?” Zenobia spoke.

“With the gods’ blessing, Majesty,” the Bedawi said.

“Let us go then, Hussein, and pray that the gods are not fickle toward me now at the crucial moment.” She clambered up onto her camel.

Throughout the night they rode relentlessly on toward the Euphrates, eventually exiting the desert and riding along through the lush farmland that was the great river’s heritage. Ahead of them the skies began to grow gray with light, spreading slowly westward until they found themselves riding in a dove-colored gloom that allowed them to see the green of the land and the black outlines of occasional farmsteads and small villages.

The horizon was soon edged in gold, and slashes of crimson also spread westward as the great round of the blazing sun pulled itself slowly over the edge of the world and began to rise upward into the sky. The camels were tiring, but ahead of them they could just begin to make out the wide, greenish-brown ribbon of the
Euphrates as it wound through the great and ancient plain of Sumer and Akkad.

Safety, thought Zenobia, heaving a sigh. Once they had crossed the river they were safe, for the Romans would not cross into Persia. Closer and closer they came to the river, and then suddenly Hussein turned and shouted, “Behind us! The Romans!”

Zenobia turned in her saddle, and saw with horror a troop of mounted men gaining on them. She glanced over at Rufus Curius, and heard him say, “Too many for us!”

“Can we reach the river?” she shouted to him.

“Possibly,” came the reply.

“Stay with me,” she commanded him.

“I will, Majesty!”

Zenobia leaned forward, and kicked her reluctant camel into a gallop. The poor beast was exhausted after the night’s travel, and she had intended to rest him on the other side of the river for several long hours. Now the tired beast was forced to expend what little energies he had left. Bred for toughness, however, he responded, and the river came even closer. Behind her the Bedawi warriors dropped back to cover her flight, and soon she could hear the fierce sounds of a short battle. She knew the five tribesmen who had accompanied her would die in that battle. They were pledged to defend her, and there would be neither surrender nor quarter given. The few minutes that they would give her, though, could mean the difference between escape and capture.

Then they were at the river bank, and flinging themselves from their mounts. The Euphrates stretched wide, and in midstream a small boat with a fisherman floated. Rufus Curius called to the boatman. “A gold piece if you will ferry us across! Hurry, man, we are pursued by the Romans!” He held the shiny coin up so the fisherman might see it and know he told the truth. The man began to pole quickly toward the shore. “Wade out as far as you can go, Majesty,” Rufus Curius commanded. “We can’t waste time.”

“You aren’t coming with me?”

“I must cover your retreat, Majesty. Now even the moments count. I will come if I can.”

She looked searchingly at him. “Rufus Curius, I thank you.”

“It has never been hard to serve you, or to serve Palmyra, my Queen.”

Zenobia hoisted her cloak up and tied it about her middle before she began to wade out into the river. The water was sun-warmed, the bottom at first sandy, then muddy, squishing through her toes.
She looked toward the fisherman, shading her eyes with her hand, and saw that he was getting closer. Suddenly behind her on the bank she heard shouts, and Rufus Curius’s voice cried out, “Swim, Majesty! Swim!” Turning, she saw him surrounded by almost a dozen men, and then she saw him no more.

Frantically Zenobia flung herself into the water, and began swimming toward the fishing boat. Behind her she heard splashing, and knew she was being pursued.
Venus! Mars! Jupiter for whom I was named! Help me now! Help me to escape them!
she prayed silently, her arms moving rhythmically as she swam as quickly as she could. Ahead of her she could see the fisherman had stopped poling, and was watching curiously. Then suddenly a hand grasped her ankle. Furiously she struggled to escape, kicking out, but she quickly found herself surrounded by Roman legionnaires, and weighed down by her heavy, wet cloak she was powerless. They hauled her none too gently back toward the shore, and when it was possible to stand again they closed in about her, their hands moving roughly over her body in a “search” for weapons; but their real intent was quite clear. The sodden cloak was pulled away and her short tunic was torn from her; she was weaponless, powerless. One of the men shoved her backward onto the sandy beach, loosening his own clothing. In that terrible and short moment Zenobia remembered her mother. I will not beg, she thought. I will not beg!

“Halt, you men!” The centurion of the unit came hurrying forward, and taking off his long red cloak put it around Zenobia, who had quickly struggled to her feet. “I offer my apologies, Majesty,” he said quietly, and then swung around to the men who had captured Zenobia. “This woman is the Queen of Palmyra, and a great warrior. She is entitled to the same respect as any male adversary of equal rank. She is not to be touched by any of you. Those are the emperor’s orders. Do you understand?”

Grumbling, the soldiers nodded, and the centurion spoke again to Zenobia. “I am Gaius Cicero, Majesty, personal aide to the Emperor Aurelian. You are now a prisoner of the state.”

She wrapped the cloak tightly around her and lifted her head proudly. She would not beg! “Where are my men?” she demanded in a voice that required a reply.

“I regret, Majesty, that it was necessary to kill them. They were all valiant fighters.”

“I want to bury them,” she said tonelessly. “I will not leave
them to be picked clean by the vultures and the jackals. They were brave men, and deserve that courtesy.”

“We cannot take the time, Majesty.”

“You cannot begin your return immediately, Gaius Cicero. You, too, have been traveling all night, and need to rest your mounts. This place is far more hospitable than the desert, which we must cross again. Ask your men to bring me the bodies of my people and give me a digging tool. I will bury them myself.”

“You cannot …” he began.

“I can!”
she replied fiercely, and he saw that she was not a woman to be dissuaded.

She was correct. They needed to rest after the three-day pursuit, and the fertile river bank was most pleasant. “Lucillus,” he called to one of his men. “Bring the bodies of the slain tribesmen here for burial; and send several men to that nearby village to buy food.”

“Thank you,” Zenobia said.

“I will have my men help you,” he said.

“No! Those who protected me are my responsibility, Gaius Cicero. It is my duty as Queen of Palmyra to help them to their final resting place. Never have I shirked my duty. I will not do so now.”

He understood, and he admired her for such strength of character. Now more than ever he understood Marcus Alexander’s great love for this woman. He didn’t think that this was a particularly good moment to deliver her a message from him, and so he simply found a spade among their equipment, and gave it to her. Wordlessly Zenobia began digging, heedless of the long cloak that opened with her efforts, displaying her nudity to all. Desperately Gaius Cicero looked for the queen’s tunic, but upon finding it saw that it was ripped beyond repair. There had to be an extra one among his hundred legionnaires that would fit her. He set off to find it, posting a guard near the queen, forbidding all others to come near her.

Methodically Zenobia dug one grave after another in the soft earth. She was tired but worked on, despite the blisters now swelling up on her hands. At first the legionnaires watching from a distance had been scornful and even amused by her efforts, but now as she completed the fifth grave their admiration was open.

The last grave was dug, and Zenobia stood over the bodies of her slain companions. Suddenly she looked up, and her gaze was fierce. “Who among you robbed these men?” she demanded
furiously. “Come forth now, and return them their property. They will have little enough to take with them into the Underworld.”

After a moment the shamefaced culprits came slowly forward and, checking the bodies themselves, returned what they had taken from the dead.

Again Zenobia spoke. “Tell Gaius Cicero I want six coppers. Charon will not ferry them across the Styx without payment.”

A legionnaire detached himself from the crowd and ran to find Gaius Cicero. Returning a few moments later, he bowed politely to Zenobia and gave her the coins. Taking them, she placed one between the teeth of each corpse. Suddenly a legionnaire was at her side.

“I would consider it a privilege if you would let me help you to lower the bodies into their graves, and cover them, Majesty,” he said.

Their eyes met, and she was touched to see in his honest sympathy, not for her plight but for the sorrow he knew she must be feeling over her fallen comrades. She graciously accepted his help.

At last the task was done and Zenobia stood just a moment, offering her silent prayers to the gods for Rufus Curius, and the Bedawi who had fallen in her defense. Suddenly Gaius Cicero was at her side, gently taking her arm and drawing her away to a secluded spot. Without speaking he handed her a linen tunic, turning his back as she removed his long cloak and put it on.

“I lost my sandals in the river,” she said quietly.

“I will see if I can find you a pair,” he promised. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head in the negative. “No, just very tired, Gaius Cicero. I am suddenly very tired.”

“We will camp here until nightfall, Majesty. You may sleep in safety. No harm will come to you while you are in my charge.”

“Where do you want me?” she asked him tonelessly.

“Here would be satisfactory,” he replied, “but before you rest I would speak to you. I bear a message to you from an old friend in Rome.”

“I have no friends in Rome,” she answered.

“I speak of Marcus Alexander Britainus,” Gaius Cicero said.

“Don’t!”
was her sharp reply. “I do not want to hear even the mention of his name, Centurion.”

“He did not betray you, Majesty.”

Zenobia looked directly at Gaius Cicero. “Romans always betray
those who trust them. I am your prisoner, but I do not believe I must listen to the pretty lies you have been told to tell me. I will never forgive Marcus.
Never!
Now speak no more to me of it.”