Beloved (9 page)

Al-Zena was totally unprepared for her son’s news. She needed time to think, but first she would try the obvious. “Odenathus, there is plenty of time for you to marry. Why this haste?”

“Mother, I am twenty-five. I need heirs.”

“And what are Deliciae’s children?”

“They are my sons, but they cannot be my heirs. They are the children of a slave, a concubine. You know all of this, Mother. You know that I must marry one day.”

“But a Bedawi girl? Odenathus, surely you can do better than that?”

“Zenobia is but half Bedawi, as am I, Mother.” He smiled a
bit ruefully. He was more than well aware of her overpossessiveness, although she assumed him ignorant of her feelings. “Her mother was a direct descendant of Queen Cleopatra, and Zenobia is a beautiful and intelligent girl. I want her for my wife, and I shall have her.”

Al-Zena tried another tack, one that would give her time to think. “Of course, my son, I am only concerned for your happiness. Poor Deliciae! She will be simply heartbroken to learn that she is to be replaced in your affections.”

“Deliciae has no illusions as to her place in my life,” Odenathus said sharply. “You will see that Zenobia is made welcome, won’t you, Mother?”

“Since you are so determined to have her to wife, my son, I shall treat her as I would my own daughter,” came the sweet reply, and Odenathus rose and kissed his mother.

“I ask nothing more of you,” he said, and left her, to visit with his favorite concubine, Deliciae.

No sooner had he gone than Al-Zena picked up a porcelain vase and flung it to the floor in a fit of temper.
A wife!
By the gods she had hoped to prevent such a thing.
Heirs!
He wanted heirs for this dung heap of a city! Palmyra, for all its boast of being founded by King Solomon, couldn’t compare with her ancient Persian cities of culture and learning. This place to which she had been exiled these past twenty-six years was but a dung heap in a desert! Well, he wasn’t married yet. Perhaps if she worked on that stupid little fool, Deliciae … If Odenathus wanted the Bedawi girl, let him couple with her. But make her his wife?
Never!

Deliciae had greeted her master warmly, pressing her ripe body against his in a provocative manner, holding her face up to him for a kiss. “Welcome, my lord. I have missed you greatly, as have your sons.”

He kissed her, a fond but passionless kiss. She was a sweet girl, but he had long ago tired of her. “You have all been well?” he said.

“Oh, yes, my lord, although Vermis did fall and give his knee a bad scrape. You know how he must do everything that Linos will do even though his brother is older.” Nuzzling at his ear, she drew him over to a couch, and down with her. “The nights are long without you, my lord.” The gardenia scent of her perfume overwhelmed him, and he suddenly found it cloying.

He unwound her plump arms from about his neck and sat up.
He did not want to make love to her. He realized with surprise that he didn’t want to make love to any of the women who peopled his harem. “Deliciae,” he said, “I wanted you to know that I will soon be marrying. In a few days, Zenobia bat Zabaai, the only daughter of my cousin, will be coming to visit the palace. She will become my wife, and her children my heirs.”

“Her children your heirs? What of my sons?
Your sons!”

“Surely you knew that the children of a concubine cannot inherit the Kingdom of Palmyra.”

“Your mother said that my children were your heirs!”

“It is not for my mother to say. My mother is a Persian. When she married my father she should have become a Palmyran, but she did not. She has spent all her life here belittling my kingdom, never bothering to learn its ways. She might have made me the most hated ruler ever to govern Palmyra had I followed her example. Fortunately, I followed my father’s example, and he warned me to wed with no foreigner lest my sons be taught to hate their inheritance.

“The law is clear, Deliciae. The children of a concubine cannot inherit the kingdom of Palmyra.”

“You could change the law, my lord, could you not?”

“I will not,” he said quietly. “Your sons are good boys, but they are half Greek. Zenobia and I are both Bedawi, and our sons will be, too.”

“You are half Persian,” she accused, “and your precious bride, as I recall, had an Alexandrian Greek for a mother!”

“But we were raised here in Palmyra, and we are our father’s children. Our fathers are Bedawi.”

“By that logic
our
sons are Bedawi,” she countered.

Odenathus felt a mixture of irritation and sadness. He did not want to hurt Deliciae, but she was leaving him no choice. Silently, he damned his mother for having dared to raise her hopes. Now he fully understood why Al-Zena had encouraged his liaison with poor Deliciae, though she had always hated the women of his harem—and, he realized, feared them too. He sighed and said, “Who were your parents, Deliciae?”

“My parents? What have my parents got to do with this?”

“Answer me! Who were your parents?” His voice was sharp.

“I don’t know,” she said irritably. “I cannot remember, as I was quite young when I was taken from them.”

“Were they freedmen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me your earliest memories. Think back, and tell me what you first remember of your life.”

Her brow wrinkled, and for a few minutes she was silent. Then she said slowly, “The first thing I can remember is passing sweetmeats in an Athenian brothel. I was very small, no more than four or five. The men used to take me on their laps, and cuddle me, and call me their good and pretty little girl.”

“You were not a virgin when I bought you,” he said.

“Of course not,” she said. “My virginity was auctioned off in Damascus when I was eleven. I made my owner very rich, for no virgin ever brought him a higher price.”

“Then you had been a prostitute for three years when I bought you from the lady Rabi?”

“Yes. Why do you ask me these things? You knew what I was when you purchased me.”

“Yes, Deliciae, I did. You are not a stupid woman. Think on it. You do not know your parents, your antecedents, or even where you originally came from. Before I purchased you, you were a professional whore. You performed before the entire city of Palmyra the day I bought you. How can I make the sons of such a woman the heirs to my kingdom?

“The laws of this city are the laws of Solomon himself! My wife will be above reproach, and my sons’ antecedents documented back a hundred generations for all to know and see. There will never be any doubts. This is as it should be for the next ruler of Palmyra.”

He put an arm around her, and kissed the top of her golden head. “I know you understand, Deliciae.”

“Then you marry only for legitimate heirs?” Her voice held a note of new hope that he felt obliged to discourage.

“I marry for love, Deliciae. I have always been honest with you. I bought you to thwart the Roman governor, who would have satisfied his desires and then sent you back to the lady Rabi where you would have spent the remainder of a very short youth pleasuring many lovers each night. Instead I bought you and made you my concubine. You have all you desire in this world, and more. You are honored and safe. You are free from want, and so you shall remain until the end of your days. Unless, of course, you displease me.” The last was a gentle warning.

“What will happen to my sons?” Deliciae demanded. “If they are not your heirs, then what will happen to them?”

“They will be educated to serve Palmyra, to serve me, and to
serve my successor. They are lords of the city. Your sons are my sons, and they are safe.”

“Even from Zenobia bat Zabaai?” she said spitefully.

“Why would Zenobia want to harm your sons? You are foolish, my pet, and bitter in your disappointment; but remember that it was neither I nor Zenobia who told you that your sons would inherit my kingdom. If you are angry, Deliciae, then direct your anger toward the one who deserves it. Direct it at my mother, for it was she who misled you.”

Deliciae’s fair skin was mottled red in her anger, and she felt most put out. Odenathus was right. It was Al-Zena who had led her to believe that her children would inherit their father’s small kingdom. Deliciae was not a stupid woman, and on reflection she realized that she was indeed fortunate. Not only had she been plucked from what would have been an extremely disagreeable life, but her two sons were her guarantee of remaining in this comfortable position. What a fool she would be to ruin it all because another woman’s unborn children were to be the next rulers of Palmyra.

Her master was tired of her, she knew. Very well, Deliciae thought. I am safe, and my sons are safe. I shall even make friends with Zenobia bat Zabaai.
That
will certainly annoy Al-Zena, the old cat! She smiled to herself, her breathing beginning to even out again as the anticipated pleasure of irritating Odenathus’s mother swept over her.

“Why do you smile, my pet?”

“Because I realize that you are correct, my lord, and that I am being very foolish. With your permission I will welcome Zenobia bat Zabaai as your wife and my princess.”

Odenathus smiled back at Deliciae. “I knew, my pet, that on reflection, your intelligence and innate good sense would surface.” He stood, and once again kissed the top of her blond head. “I will see the boys later, my pet. Now I go to give orders so that all may be in readiness for Zenobia when she enters the palace tomorrow. Everything must be perfect!”

Deliciae’s beautiful eyebrows lifted delicately as she watched him retreat from her rooms. Odenathus must indeed be in love if he was bothering with household details. Zenobia bat Zabaai must have changed from the skinny, grim-eyed child who sat so dispassionately watching a man die almost four years ago. She shrugged. She was well out of the palace intrigues. Let the little Bedawi girl cope with it all.

*   *   *

In midafternoon of the following day Zenobia entered the palace grounds. Alone, she rode quietly on her camel at an hour when most people were napping in the heat. She had no wish to draw attention to her visit.

As Al-Zena watched stonily, Odenathus leapt forward to aid the cloaked figure from her mount, and her hood fell back, revealing her beautiful face.

“My lord,” Zenobia said softly, inclining her head in greeting.

“Welcome to my home, Zenobia,” he returned. “I hope you will make it your home soon, my flower.”

Zenobia blushed, peach color staining her pale-gold skin. “It will be as the gods will, my lord.”

He turned and drew Al-Zena forward. “This is my mother, Zenobia,” the prince said.

“My lady, I am honored.”

“You are welcome to the palace, my—” Al-Zena sought for the correct word. “My child. I hope your stay will be a happy one.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Zenobia said politely.

A few minutes later she was settled in a comfortable apartment, with Bab busily unpacking her things and chattering away. Bab had come to the palace ahead of her by several hours. “Now this is what a palace should be like!” Bab enthused. “It’s big, there are fine gardens, and the rooms are airy. There seem to be plenty of slaves to serve us. I hope the food is decent.”

“Hush, Bab! Your tongue runs away with your good sense.”

Bab chuckled, and continued with her unpacking, shaking out Zenobia’s garments. “I am not sure your clothing is elegant enough for the palace. We should have come later, and taken the time to make you new things.”

“You fuss too much, old woman,” the girl teased. “Either the prince likes me, or he does not, and if he does not then no amount of fine feathers will help me.”

“It is not the prince who concerns me, but his mother.” Bab lowered her voice. “I have heard that she is very unhappy that he wishes to marry. The gossip is that she hoped he would be content with the concubine, Deliciae. They say that the Princess Al-Zena is a very headstrong and possessive woman.”

“Is it me she objects to, Bab, or simply any girl?”

“It is both, my baby,” Bab replied. She and Zenobia had always been honest with each other.

Zenobia was thoughtful for a moment, then she spoke again. “The best way to handle the lady, I believe, is for me to be sweetness itself. How can she find fault with good manners and a pleasing attitude?” She chuckled.

“How will you handle the concubine, my child? You cannot live in the same palace, and not meet.”

“I have no doubt that we shall meet, but when we do I shall make her my friend.”

“Zenobia!”
Bab was shocked.

“I have no choice, Bab. If I marry Odenathus I must be a help to him, not a hindrance. How can he govern Palmyra successfully if there is strife within his household? If there is, he will first worry, and then resent me. No, I must win over both his mother and Deliciae.” She smiled at Bab. “Do not worry. I am not unmindful of what is involved, but now I should like a bath. Surely such a simple thing is available to me in this marvelous place.”

“Of course, child! All is in readiness for you. Come, come!” Bab took her mistress by the hand and led her into a tiled bath where Zenobia’s hyacinth scent already filled the air. Half a dozen black slave girls waited to attend the honored guest, who, looking at the lovely deep bathing pool, delightedly shed her dusty garments and then stepped into the tepid water. Her round, full breasts and long legs were noted by two spies placed in her apartment by Al-Zena and Deliciae.

When Zenobia had bathed, Bab wrapped her in a soft cotton robe. Then the girl lay down upon her couch to rest until the evening meal. She was tired from the tension of preparing for the visit, and not a little apprehensive. Tonight she would meet with Al-Zena, and she would probably be faced with the beautiful concubine, Deliciae. Yet despite her fears, Zenobia slept the sleep of the young and the innocent.

When she awoke she found herself alone. Rising, she walked across the room onto the open portico. Below her was a large walled garden, and beyond, the city of Palmyra was spread like a rich meal upon the table of the desert. Already the lamps were being lit as the blue dusk quickly turned to black night. A faint breeze carried the scent of something so elusive that even Zenobia’s sharp nose could not identify it. She felt relaxed, and knew that whatever happened this evening, she would be in total control.