Beloved

1

"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 Tuilio, 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. "/ 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 comers 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."

"You lie," he said pleasantly. "You are a whore of Palmyra."

"Centurion, do not do this thing," Iris said, her voice now trembling. "Do you not have a wife, or a sister? Would you like it if someone did this thing to them?"

He looked at her dispassionately, and she saw no pity or mercy in his ice-blue eyes. "It has been a long time since I have had a fair woman," he said, and then he pushed her back onto the bed.

Her instinct for survival made her attempt to rise, but he shoved her back brutally, and Iris's control left her. She screamed, totally terrified. The centurion slapped her viciously with one hand, while ripping her gown and pushing it up to her belly with the other. His knee jammed between her resisting thighs while she fought him, clawing at his face with her nails, maddened with fear, already ashamed of what was happening to her. She had known no man but her loving, gentle husband. She had known nothing but tenderness and kindness at his hands. Iris had never imagined that a man could do this to a woman. Even knowing it was useless, she continued to fight him because something deep within her refused to accept this horror; and the centurion in his fury at being thwarted, continued to strike her into submission. Both her eyes were almost swollen shut when she felt him gain the advantage, and thrust with a cruel, burning pain into her resisting body. Her reason finally left her as he pounded against her again and again, conscious only of his own pleasure in subduing the woman.

"By the gods," he grunted, "this is the best piece of cunt I've fucked in months!"

Beneath the bed, hidden by the coverings, the child Zenobia squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was terrified by the strange sounds above, trembling and confused at hearing her mother begging in such a frightened voice. Then her mother screamed, and she could no longer hear women's voices, only men's rough laughter, and words she didn't comprehend.

Iris never heard them. She never knew that she was mounted by not only the centurion, but half a dozen other men who patiently waited their turn to violate her now still body. In the end the centurion raped her a second time, cursing when he came too quickly. In his pique he cut her throat as one would butcher a helpless lamb, swiftly, bloodlessly.

Tamar, pulled down onto her back on the cool tile floor, her garments yanked over her head, fared little better than Iris; but Tamar knew enough not to fight back. They left her still body for dead when the last man had finished sodomizing her, not even bothering to use the knife on her. She lay barely breathing while the soldiers stripped the room of the few things left in it for most of its furnishings had gone with Zabaai ben Selim as they always did. Terrified, she held her breath when they ripped the hangings from the bed, along with its coverlets. She prayed to every god she could think of that in their greedy and lustful haste they would not see the child Zenobia. Those fervent prayers were answered. Her eyes met the terrified ones of the girl, and they warned Iris's daughter not to move, to be as silent as the tomb.

It seemed like an eternity that she lay there upon her stomach on the cool tiles, her violated body aching unbearably. She dared not even groan for fear they would realize that she was alive. Finally, after searching through every room for valuables, the soldiers left the house of Zabaai ben Selim. She heard their horses clattering noisily in the courtyard, and wondered why she had not heard them before. Probably because they had led the animals in quietly so as not to surprise anyone left in the house. At least she now knew that they were cavalry, and that would narrow her husband's search for the guilty ones.

Certain that they were now alone, she moaned with pain and tried to sit up. Zenobia scrambled from beneath the bed, her young face wet with tears, as she helped Tamar. The child was pale, and still shaking. She carefully avoided looking at the bed. "Is my mother dead?"

Tamar nodded. "Don't look, child."

"Why, Tamar? Why did they do it? You told them who you were? Why did they hurt you? Why did they kill my mother?"

Tamar spat out a broken tooth. "You cannot tell the Romans anything," she said contemptuously, finally managing to sit up with Zenobia's aid, her back against the bed. Suddenly embarrassed by her disarray, she pulled down the skirts of her dalmatica, which were now ripped, torn, and stained by the soldiers' leavings. "I do not believe that they stole the camels, child. Go to the stables, get one, and ride like the wind to your father. Tell him what has happened! I cannot go, Zenobia. I must wait here."

"It is my fault," said Zenobia, tears welling up in her silvery eyes. "My mother is dead! If I had not been such a child, if I had been ready to leave when everyone else was ready instead of hiding like a brat." She began to weep piteously.

Tamar sighed deeply. She ached in every joint, and she wanted to scream at Zenobia that it was indeed her fault for delaying them so that the soldiers caught them unprotected. Then she looked at the child's face, woebegone at the loss of her mother. "No, child," she said firmly, suddenly even believing it, "you must not blame yourself. It was fate, the will of the gods. Go now, and fetch your father."

"Will you be all right?" Zenobia sniffed anxiously.

"Bring me a pitcher of water, and I will survive. Then you must go, but be careful."

"I will leave by the back gate," Zenobia promised.

Tamar nodded wearily. She suddenly felt very tired, and very, very old. She would survive, if only to see those who had done this to her, and so wantonly murdered Iris, punished. She sat in the midday heat after Zenobia left her, watching almost dispassionately as two large horseflies buzzed about Iris's brutalized body.

Zenobia left the house, going by way of the kitchen garden to the stables where three impatient and cranky camels waited, chewing their cuds. She felt nothing. Neither grief, nor anger, nor fear. She was numb with shock remembering her mother's pleas for mercy. Never had Zenobia heard Iris's voice as it had sounded this day-begging and terrified. The echo of it still rang in her ears, and she believed it would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Absently, she patted her own camel, an unusually mild-tempered blond beast. Mounting it, she guided the animal through the back gate of her father's house, after leaning down to unlatch the lock, and out onto the desert road. The camel moved swiftly, taking bigger and bigger strides until it seemed to be flying just above the road.

Zenobia sat atop its back and firmly settled into the red leather saddle, her white linen chiton pulled up to leave her golden legs free to manipulate her mount, her agile mind racing. Why had the men hurt her mother? She did not really understand at all, for she had never known anything but kindness and indulgence from the men in her life. Her father and all of her older brothers spoiled her terribly, as did their close friends. She knew that men sometimes beat their wives, for she was not entirely sheltered; but that was within the realm of the respectable. Everyone said that a woman needed correction occasionally. Still, she had never seen her father beat his wives, and her mother did not even know the men who had attacked her. If Iris did not know them then why were they angry with her, and why did they hurt her, kill her? She simply could not understand.

Was brutality then a trait particular to the Romans alone? Was it some peculiar form of madness that afflicted them that made them turn on innocent strangers?

She goaded the camel to greater speed with her little heels, for ahead she could see the dust of her father's caravan. Soon she was passing the groups of families who made up their tribe. All waved and called out to her in greeting as her camel galloped by them. Their smiles were indulgent, for she was a great favorite with everyone in the tribe, and not simply because she was their leader's daughter. Zenobia bat Zabaai had always been a merry, kindly child. At the head of the group she could see her father, and her eldest brother, Akbar. She began to wave at them, to call out frantically, her young voice sounding hollow in her ears.

"Hola, little one!" Akbar called in a teasing voice. "Want to race that flea-bitten old nag against my champion?" Then he saw her pinched and pale little face, and turning to his father cried out, "Father, something is wrong!"

The entire caravan was stopped and, dismounting his own camel, Zabaai lifted his young daughter down from hers. A crowd began to gather about them.

"What is it, my flower?" the chief of the Bedawi asked. "Where are your mother and Tamar?"

"The Romans," Zenobia began. "The Romans came, and Mother is dead, and Tamar is grievously hurt!"

"What?! What is it you say, Zenobia? The Romans are our friends."

"The Romans have killed my mother!" she screamed at him, her control finally gone, the hot tears beginning to pour in dirty runnels down her small face. 'Tamar hid me beneath the bed. I could not see them, but I could hear them. They did something to my mother that made her scream, and cry, and beg them for mercy! / never heard my mother beg! I never heard my mother beg, but they made her beg, and then they killed her! Tamar is so fearfully hurt she cannot even rise from the floor. You must come home, Father! You must come home!“

Zabaai ben Selim felt his legs go weak beneath him. He knew what had been done to his wives even if his innocent young daughter did not. His only question was why? With a howl of outrage, pain, and grief he began to tear at his beard and his clothes. Then, when the first onslaught of his anguish passed he began to give orders, and the caravan was quickly turned about. However, Zabaai ben Selim, his elder sons, and his daughter did not wait for the others. Remounting their camels, they quickly rode back along the desert road to the outskirts of Palmyra, where his house stood in the bright midday sun. They rode so hard that the following caravan met their dust, which still hovered in the air, turning it yellow in the heat.

Tamar was but half-conscious when they arrived, and now Zenobia finally dared to look upon her mother's violated body, gasping with horrified shock at what she saw. Iris's body was sprawled grotesquely upon the bed, her pale-blue dalmatic and her snowy interior tunic ripped away to expose her lovely breasts, which were bruised and bleeding. There were great purple blotches on the insides of her milk-white thighs. Her beautiful sweet face with the gray-blue eyes blackened and tightly shut in death, the tender, red mouth viciously savaged and bitten, was barely recognizable. Those who had known her would have been horrified to see how battered her beauty was now.

"Mama!” It was a cry torn from deep within Zenobia. She stared in sorrow at her mother's murdered body, unable to fully comprehend, now that she had looked, unwilling to believe that Iris was really dead.

'Take the child out," Zabaai commanded tersely to no one in particular. "She should not have seen this! Take her away!"

"No!" Zenobia whirled to defy her father, but she was shaking with shock and grief. "I had to see, and now I will never forget! I will remember what the Romans did!"

Akbar didn't even argue with his small sister. He picked her up with a strong arm, and carried her weeping from the room. She nestled deeply into his arms as if trying to escape the truth, and her bitter sobs tore at his own heart. Wearily, he sat down on the stairs leading to the lower level of the house, and rocked his little half-sister.

Iris had been several years younger than he was when his father had brought her back from Egypt those long years ago. He had imagined himself in love with her for a brief time. He suspected that she had known, but she had never embarrassed him, or played the flirt. She had treated him with respect. A tight sob escaped his own throat.

Zenobia's voice shattered his memories. "Why did they kill her, Akbar? Why?" She was looking up at him now, her little heart-shaped face dirty and wet with her tears.

"They killed her because they are Roman pigs," he said angrily. "Everyone not born a Roman they call a barbarian, but it is they who are the real barbarians. They say that Rome was founded by two orphan brothers left on a hillside to die, but rescued and suckled by a she-wolf. I believe it! They are wild animals to this day!"

"What did they do to my mother, Akbar?" she asked fearfully.

He hesitated, not sure he should answer her. She was yet a child. She could even be his own daughter. He had a boy her age. He wasn't sure how much she knew of men and women. Still, he knew from past experience, Zenobia would not be put off.

"Do you know, little flower, how a child is conceived?"

"Yes." she said softly. "Mother had been telling me of these things, for she said that I would one day be a woman in my own body. When a man makes love to his woman a child is the natural result of their union. It is good, my mother said."

"That is correct," he answered her.

He did not elaborate. She understood enough that he might explain, and so he said, "The Romans forced your mother to make love with them, Zenobia. When a woman is forced it is called rape. The Romans raped your mother, dishonoring her, dishonoring our father, our family, and the Bedawi. When they had finished with her they then cut her throat so there would be no witnesses against them. My mother they assumed dead without the knife."

Zenobia was silent a moment, and men she said. "Was Tamar raped, too?"

"Yes," he said in a tight voice. "My mother was also raped."

"Is that why she hid me, Akbar?" Zenobia asked. "She did not want me to be raped?"

"Had you been raped, my sister, the dishonor would have been the worst of all, for you are a maiden, and have never known a man. Part of your value to your future bridegroom will be in your virginity. A man marrying a maiden does not like to travel a road already well traveled by others," Akbar said solemnly.

She became silent again, and snuggled deeper into his lap. She understood now why her mother had cried, and begged the Romans. She had been attempting to save her virtue, and her husband's honor. What awful beasts the Romans were! Zenobia wanted vengeance!

From her father's bedchamber came the sound of wailing. The other members of the tribe had arrived, and the women going into the room sobbed with sadness, sympathy, and shame. Zabaai ben Selim came out from his room, and said curtly to his eldest son, "Bring Zenobia to her own chamber, Akbar. I would question her."

Akbar arose, and carried his sister to her room in the woman's part of the house. Setting her down upon her bed, he patted her reassuringly and gave her a small smile. Zabaai's own face was grim and forbidding. He looked sternly at his young daughter. "I have heard Tamar's tale, now I want to hear it from your lips."

She gulped, and then told him the story from her child's viewpoint, blaming herself for causing me two women to be delayed. He said nothing. Whatever anger he felt toward his young daughter melted in the face of their shared grief. The Romans would pay! Oh yes! They would pay! A dozen of his sons had already been dispatched into the city with orders to bring the Roman governor back to him, along with Palmyra's young ruler, Prince Odenathus. Only when they saw the horror done his wives would he remove Iris's body from his bedchamber, and bury it with the honor it deserved.

His arm went tenderly around Zenobia and hugged her. "You are not responsible, my child. Rest now, and I will send Bab to you. I regret that you must tell your story a final time to the governor."

Zabaai left the room, his anger now beginning to surface over the shock and the sadness. He had been a citizen of Palmyra for his entire life. He also held Roman citizenship, as did all Palmyrans. It was incredible that imperial soldiers were allowed to get out of hand in a peaceful and nonhostile client city. Suddenly he wanted to be alone so that he might grieve, but it was not yet time for that. First he must beard the Romans, and demand his rightful vengeance.

Returning to the dressing room off his bedchamber he washed the desert dust from his face and changed robes. The slaves removed the basin of rose water that they had brought him. Then they perfumed and combed his beard. He was yet a fine figure of a man, of medium height with his full dark-black beard just beginning to be sprinkled with silver. Only his dark eyes, dull with their pain, betrayed his feelings.

His son entered the room. "They are here, Father."

Zabaai nodded and went out to greet his guests. "Peace be with you, my lord Prince, and you also, Antonius Porcius. You are welcome in my house, though it be a house of sorrow."

"Peace be with you also, my cousin," the prince replied, but before he might say more the Roman governor spoke irritably.

"What is this urgency?" he demanded, his manners gone in the face of his annoyance and the heat headache that pounded in his temples. "I am pulled from my couch by these bearded ruffian sons of yours, Zabaai ben Selim, and forced to come along without explanation! I remind you, chief of the Bedawi, that I am the emperor's governor in Palmyra, and as such I am to be treated with respect!"

"It is in that very capacity, Antonius Porcius, that I have summoned you here."

"You? You have summoned me?" Antonius Porcius's voice was an outraged squeak. His small double chin quivered angrily.

"Yes!" came the thunderous reply. "/, Zabaai ben Selim, ruler of the Bedawi, have summoned you! You would do well to listen carefully, my lord Governor, to what I am about to tell you. This morning my people and I departed Palmyra for our annual winter trek into the desert. As you well know, we leave this time each year, during the rainy season in the desert, to graze our herds outside Palmyra's boundaries.

'Two of my wives were forced to remain behind, for my only daughter, Zenobia, dislikes this winter wandering, and with a child's logic believed if she hid we would have to leave her in Palmyra. Of course, her mother and Tamar found her. As the women made to leave they heard unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs leading to my bedchamber, and with incredible foresight Tamar hid my little daughter beneath a bed. Praise the gods that she did!

"Roman soldiers had broken into my house, Antonius Porcius. Led by their centurion, they attacked my two wives, raping them, leaving Tamar for dead, cutting my poor Iris's throat. All the while, hidden beneath the bed, my poor little girl cowered, terrified!

"Those men were Roman auxiliaries, Antonius Porcius! Auxiliaries of the Alae! It should not be hard for you to track them down. I want them punished! I will accept nothing less than then-deaths, Imperial Governor! Nothing less!"

Prince Odenathus looked distressed at his elder cousin's words. "Your lovely Iris, dead? Zabaai, what can I say to you? How can I comfort you for such a loss?" Then in a sympathetic gesture he tore his robe. "What of the child, your daughter Zenobia? She was untouched?"

"Yes, the gods be praised! The soldiers did not suspect that my innocent little daughter was also within the room. Had they found my precious child I have no doubt whatsoever that she too would have been viciously attacked! What kind of men are you allowing into the legions these days, Antonius Porcius? Palmyra is not a newly captured city where Romans may rape and loot at will. We are a client kingdom whose citizens are proud to possess Roman citizenship!"

Antonius Porcius, a man in his early middle years, was shocked by what Zabaai ben Selim had told him. He was a fair man who loved Palmyra-indeed, had lived in it most of his adult life. Still he was Rome's governor, and he had to be sure that the Bedawi spoke the truth. "How do I know what you say is true, Zabaai ben Selim? Where are these women you say were attacked? Can they identify their attackers?"

"Come with me!" Zabaai led the way into his bedchamber, where Iris's battered body still lay amid the tangle of her shredded clothing. Tamar, in shock, still sat on the floor, her back against the bed, her eyes staring vacantly. The smell of blood in the hot, closed-up room was now quite apparent, and the flies buzzed noisily about the dead body.

The Roman governor, a small, plump man, looked upon Iris with open horror. He had met her on several occasions and remembered her as beautiful and gracious. The bile rose in his throat, and he gagged it back uncomfortably, ashamed of his entire sex in the face of this tragedy. "Your evidence is irrefutable," he said sadly. "Rome is not at war with Palmyra and her loyal citizens. We are the keepers of the peace. The men involved in this terrible incident will be found immediately, tried, and punished as quickly as possible."

'Today," came the harsh reply. "The sun must not go down upon those criminals unpunished. The soul of my sweet Iris cries out for justice, Antonius Porcius!"

"Be reasonable, Zabaai ben Selim," pleaded Antonius Porcius.

"/ am being reasonable!" thundered the Bedawi chieftain. "I have not sent my men into the city to cut the throats of every Roman soldier they happen upon. That is being reasonable, my lord Governor!"

Suddenly Tamar's eyes refocused, and she spoke. "I can identify the centurion involved, and his men, my lord Governor. I shall never forget his hellish eyes, for they were like blue glass. There was no feeling in them at all. None. They were blank. He had eight men with him, and their faces will haunt my dreams forever. I shall never forget!"

Antonius Porcius turned away, embarrassed. He was often a pompous man, but he was also a good man. The evidence before his shocked eyes was sickening. "My lady Tamar," he said gently, turning back to the woman on the floor. "You say that the men were auxiliaries, and of the Alae. How do you know this?"

"They were quite tall," Tamar said, "and very fair with yellow hair, eyes as blue as the skies above, and skin, where it was not brown from the sun, as white as marble. They spoke in guttural accents, as if Latin were not familiar, or easy for them, and they went upon horses, my lord Governor. Their clothing was the clothing of the legions. I am not mistaken, nor am I confused by my ordeal. I remember! I will always remember!"

He nodded, and then asked once more in a gentle tone, "You are quite sure that they understood fully who you were?"

"Both Iris and I explained carefully, slowly, several times. They were bent on mischief, my lord Governor. The centurion said Iris lied, that she was a-a-" Fearfully Tamar glanced toward her husband.

"A what?" demanded Zabaai ben Selim.

"A whore of Palmyra," Tamar whispered. Zabaai ben Selim howled his outrage at her words.

Antonius Porcius shuddered. "I must ask you this, my lady Tamar," he said apologetically with a glance of worry toward Zabaai ben Selim. "Who killed the lady Iris? Do you know, or can you remember?"

Beginning to shake with the shock once more, Tamar said, "Iris was taken by the centurion twice. It was he who killed her after he had finished the second time. I pretended to have expired from their attacks, and so they left me for dead."

"What could the child see?" the governor asked.

"She saw nothing, praise the gods!" Tamar replied. "However, she heard everything. The bed coverlets hid her from their lusting eyes. I shall always remember the confused look in little Zenobia's eyes. Those eyes asked a thousand questions I could not answer. What will this have done to her, Antonius Porcius? She has never known anything but kindness from this world."

The governor turned to Zabaai ben Selim. "Can the lady Tamar be made ready to travel? I will have the entire garrison assembled before the city walls. It will not be hard to find the guilty ones with such a witness. Only one of the auxiliary legions is from Gaul. The other one comes from Africa, and its men are as black as ebony."

"I want the centurion," Zabaai said quietly. "Do what you will with his men, but I want the centurion!"

Antonius Porcius agreed quickly, saying, "Only if you punish and execute him before the entire garrison. I want a severe lesson made of him so this will never happen again. We are better off without such scum!"

"I agree," Zabaai ben Selim replied.

"I will accompany the governor back into the city, my good cousin," the young prince said. "Will two hours be sufficient time for you to prepare the lady Tamar for her journey to justice?"

Before Zabaai ben Selim might reply Tamar said in a suddenly firm voice, "I will be ready, my lord Prince! If I live but one moment past the time I testify against those beasts it will be enough!"

Prince Odenathus embraced his cousin, then he and the Roman governor left the room. In the upper hallway they saw the child Zenobia, who had come from tier room, her mother's servant, Bab, trailing behind her. Odenathus stopped, greeting her in a kindly voice.

"Do you remember me, my small cousin?"

She stopped, and he was suddenly struck by her beauty. She was but eleven, he knew, but already she showed promise of becoming an incredibly beautiful woman in a city famed for its beautiful women. She had grown tall since he had last seen her some two years ago; but her body was still the flat and rangy one of a child. Her long hair, loose and free of any ribboned restraint, was as black as a clear night sky.

Odenathus reached out and stroked her head as he might his favorite hunting saluki, slipping his hand down to raise up her oval heart of a face. Her hair was soft, as was her pale-gold skin. Her eyes were incredible. Almond-shaped with long, thick black lashes, they were the dark gray of a thundercloud, yet within their depths he could see golden fires banked now by her grief. She had a straight little nose, and such a lovely mouth that he had to restrain himself from bending down to kiss her lips, reminding himself sternly that she was yet a child. Still, he thought regretfully, she was a very tempting nymph of a creature.

"I remember you, my lord Prince," Zenobia replied softly.

"I am sorry, Zenobia," he said helplessly.

It was then that the silvery thundercloud eyes flashed. "Why do you tolerate the Roman pigs within Palmyra?" she burst out angrily at him.

"The Romans are our friends now as they have ever been, my flower. This has been an unfortunate incident," he said smoothly, aware of his companion the imperial governor.

"Friends do not rape and murder innocent women!" she said scornfully. "You have become one of them, my lord Prince! A mincing and perfumed fop of a Roman! / hate them! I hate them, and I hate you also for allowing them to put a yoke about our necks!"

He could see her eyes were now filled to overflowing with shining tears, but before he could say another word she turned away fromhim, and ran, followed by her grumbling servant woman.

"Poor little girl," Prince Odenathus said sadly. "She was her mother's only child, and they were very close, Antonius Porcius. I can see how terribly she has been affected by this horrendous crime."

The Roman governor looked after the fleeing child. "Yes," he said. Rome had a bad habit, he thought, of making enemies.

Once the prince and the governor had returned to the city, Antonius Porcius called immediately into his presence the twelve officers who were attached to the two legions at his command. He carefully explained the situation to them, and then asked, "Will the officers of the auxiliary legions stand by us in this matter?"

"I guarantee my Africans," said the tribune of the ninth legion. "They detest the Gauls." His fellow officers nodded in agreement.

"I can see no reason why my Gauls should not see the justice in your punishment, Antonius Porcius," said the tribune of the sixth legion, somewhat stiffly.

"Assemble the entire garrison then," the governor commanded.

Two Roman legions, or twelve thousand foot soldiers plus two hundred forty cavalarymen, and two full auxiliary units, equal in size to the legions, assembled themselves outside Palmyra's main gate. Such a mighty gathering could not help but attract the curious. As word of the soldiers' movement flew throughout the city, the citizenry hurried outside the gates to see what was happening.

On a raised and awninged dais in the hot, late-afternoon sun sat the Roman governor, Antonius Porcius. Resplendent in his purple-bordered white robes, with a wreath of silver-gilt laurel leaves upon his balding head, he waited with Palmyra's princely ruler, Odenathus Septimius. A young man of twenty-two years, the prince set more than one woman in the crowd to dreaming. He was tall with well-formed and muscled arms and legs bronzed by the sun. The short skirt of his white tunic was embroidered in gold. His midnight-black hair was curly, his large eyes velvet-brown. His mouth was wide and sensuous, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm.

He was an intelligent and educated man, who played a waiting game with the Romans. He was not yet strong enough to overcome the invader, but he did have plans. The child Zenobia's angry accusation that he had become one of them had pleased him because it meant that he had succeeded with his ruse. The Romans trusted him.

Reaching up, Odenathus adjusted the crown of Palmyra upon his head. It was a beautiful crown, all gold, formed in the shape of the fronds of the Palmyran palms indigenous to the city. It was, however, hot in weather like this. He sighed, and brushed away a tiny trickle of sweat that attempted to slip down the side of his face.

The governor's trumpeters blew a fanfare, and the noisy crowds grew silent with anticipation. Then Antonius Porcius stood up, and walked to the edge of the dais. Solemnly, with a politician's flair for the dramatic, he let his gaze play over the hushed crowds. Finally he spoke, his nasal voice surprisingly strong.

'Today the glory of Rome was tarnished. It was tarnished not by those who are native to her, but rather by those upon whom she so graciously conferred the prize of her citizenship! Rome will not tolerate this! Rome will not permit those whom we have sworn to protect to be abused by anyone! Rome will punish those who would break her laws-and the laws of Palmyra!"

He paused a moment to allow his words to sink in, and then he continued. "This morning, a wife of Zabaai ben Selim, great chief of the Bedawi, was viciously raped and slain within her very home! Another of this loyal man's wives was also attacked and left for dead!"

A collective gasp arose from the assembled citizens of Palmyra, followed by a low ominous muttering.

Antonius Porcius held up his hands to quiet the anger of Palmyra. "There is more!" he cried loudly, and the crowd grew silent again. "The woman who survived has pushed her shame aside and has come forth to identify those who assaulted her and the poor slain one!"

His words had barely died out when the crowds of Palmyran citizens began to part to allow the camels of Zabaai ben Selim through to the official dais. The sight was both frightening and impressive.

The Bedawi chieftain led the group from atop his own black racing camel. Behind him rode his forty sons from the eldest, Akbar ben Zabaai, to the youngest, a boy of six who sat his own camel proudly and unafraid. Behind the Bedawi chief and his sons rode the other men of his tribe, followed by the walking and mourning women, who wailed a cadence of sorrow.

The camels stopped at the foot of the dais, and knelt in the warm sand to allow their riders to dismount. To everyone's surprise, one of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim turned out to be his only daughter, the beloved child, Zenobia. Flanked on either side by her father and Akbar ben Zabaai, she stood straight and stony-eyed before the Roman governor and Prince Odenathus.

"We have come for Roman justice, Antonius Porcius," Zabaai ben Selim cried. His voice rang clear in the still afternoon.

"Rome hears your plea, and will answer you fairly, Zabaai ben Selim," came the governor's reply. "Lucius Octavius!"

"Sir?" The commanding tribune of the sixth legion stepped forward.

"Assemble your Alae!"

"Yes, sir!" came the brisk reply, and the tribune turned, shouting his commands as he did so. "Gaulish Alae to the front, ho!"

The one hundred twenty men of the cavalry from the Gallic provinces moved slowly forward, finally stopping and lining up in tenrows of twelve men each. Their horses shifted edgily, feeling the men's nervousness. Zabaai ben Selim walked back to where the women of his tribe now stood silent, and led forth his chief wife, Tamar. Together, they moved along the rows of Roman horsemen, and Tamar's strong voice was soon heard as she pointed a short brown finger at the guilty ones.

"That one! And that one! These two!"

Legionnaires of the sixth legion dragged the accused men down from their shying horses, and then before the governor. At the very end of the rows of cavalry Tamar stopped, and Zabaai felt a bone-shattering shudder go through her. Looking up, he encountered a pair of the coldest blue eyes he had ever seen, and a thin, cruel mouth that drew back in a mocking smile.

"It is he, my husband. It is the centurion who raped and killed Iris."

Zabaai, looking into the knowing eyes of the Gaul, understood for a brief minute the terror and the shame that his sweet favorite wife must have felt in her last minutes. A fierce rage welled up within his breast, and with a wild cry of fury he pulled the centurion from his mount. In an instant his knife was at the man's neck, edging a thin red line across his throat. Only Tamar's insistent voice was able to stop her attacker's immediate execution.

"No, my husband! He must suffer as our Iris suffered! Do not, I beg you, grant him the blessing of a quick death! He does not deserve it."

Through the red mists of his anger Zabaai felt a hand on his hand, heard the plea of his wife, and lowered his weapon. His black eyes were suddenly filled with tears, and he turned away to hide them, using his sleeve to wipe the evidence of this weakness away so others might not see it. "Is that all of them, Tamar?" he asked her gruffly.

"Yes, my lord," she answered him softly, wanting to take him into her arms and comfort him. If it had been a terrible ordeal for her, so had it been for him. He had lost the thing dearest to him in the entire world. He had lost sweet Iris, and Tamar knew that he would never again be the same. That, more than anything else, saddened her, for she loved him.

She slipped her hand into his and together they walked to the foot of the dais, where Zabaai said quietly, "My wife says that these are all of the guilty ones, Antonius Porcius."

The Roman governor rose from his carved chair and came forward to the edge of the platform. His voice rang out over the crowd. "These men stand accused by their victim, whom they left for dead. Can one of them deny his part?" The governor looked at the guilty eight, who hung their heads, unable to face either Tamar or the others.

Antonius Porcius spoke again. "My judgment is final. These beasts will be crucified. Their centurion is now to be given to the Bedawi for torture and execution. The Roman Peace has prevailed."

A dutiful round of cheers rose from the ranks, a greater cheer from the Palmyrans. Then several legionnaires of the sixth legion dragged forward the wooden crosses that had been brought to the site in anticipation of the punishment to be meted out. The guilty men were divested of their uniforms and stripped naked. They were then bound upon their crosses, which were lifted high and held by one group of soldiers as others pounded them into the sandy ground from atop ladders that had been raised to aid them.

The heat of the late afternoon was barely tolerable, but if the Gauls survived to noon the following day their agony would be exquisite, for spending a morning in the broiling sun of the Syrian desert would swell their tongues black. The wet rawhide strips binding their arms and their legs to the wooden crosses would dry, shrink, and then cut into their flesh, stopping the circulation of blood and bringing incredible pain as, unable to help themselves, the men would sag with their own great weight. Depending upon how physically fit they were, they would begin dying, and they would die by inches.

The cries of their centurion, Vinctus Sextus, would follow them into Hell, as he would be kept carefully alive until all of his men were gone. Before their frightened eyes he was even now being stripped preparatory to his torture.

It began simply enough. A stake was driven into the ground, and he was bound to it, his face against the wood, his back to the crowd. Zabaai ben Selim, a slender whip of horsehair in his hand, administered the first five blows. They were not heavy blows, but rather sharp, cutting lashes that gave exquisite pain. Tamar, weakened though she still was, was able to give the prisoner five blows. Then each of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim struck the Roman once. The last five blows were delivered by Zenobia, who wielded the whip surprisingly well for a child, it was thought by the crowd. In all, fifty-five stripes crossed Vinctus Sextus's back, but the Gaul was a tough one, and not once did he cry out, although he remained conscious the entire time.

Zabaai ben Selim smiled grimly. There would be plenty of time for cries, and the Gaul would eventually beg for mercy just as Zabaai's sweet Iris had been forced to beg. It would be many, many hours before Vinctus Sextus expired, and he would wish for death a thousand times before death finally came.

The beating over, the centurion was cut down and dragged across the hot sand to where a block had been set up. Beside the block of marble an open pot bubbled over a neat, leaping fire. Forced to kneel, Vinctus Sextus watched with the first dawning of horror as his hands were swiftly severed from his body before his cry of protest had faded away in the hot afternoon. "Not my hands!" he shrieked. "I am a soldier! I need my hands!" The wolfish faces of his captors grinned mockingly at him, and he realized that even if they should let him live he would be too maimed ever to do battle again.

He watched fascinated as the blood from his severed arteries arced red into the golden sand; but then he was dragged across the small distance to the boiling pot, and his severed stumps were plunged into the bubbling pitch to prevent his death from blood loss. His first real scream of agony tore through the spectators, who sighed with one breath, relieved that the centurion was finally feeling the pain he deserved.

A son of Zabaai gathered up from the sand the two hands, their fingers outstretched in protest, and the chief of the Bedawi smiled once again. "Never will those hands again be able to give pain, Gaul," he said. "We will take them into the desert where we will feed them to the jackals."

Vinctus Sextus shuddered. The greatest fear of the men of his northern tribe was to be buried maimed. Without his hands he would be forced to wander in a netherworld that was neither earth nor the paradise of his own woodland gods. He was already condemned by the loss of his hands, yet he still fought on.

He was dragged back across the sand and staked flat upon his back, spread-eagle wide. Two women from the Street of the Prostitutes pushed through the crowd and presented themselves to Zabaai. One of them spoke. "We will help you, chief to the Bedawi, and we will ask nothing in return. Since coming to Palmyra, this man has injured several of our sisterhood, and until now we have had no recourse to justice."

The woman was a tall brunette of mature years, and quite skillfully painted. The beautiful young girl who had come forth with her was no more than fourteen, a blue-eyed golden blonde from northern Greece. With no pretense of modesty the girl stripped off her pale-pink silk robe, and stood naked before the crowd. Her youthful body was pure perfection with marvelous globe-shaped white breasts, a slender waist, and generously shaped hips and thighs. A sigh rippled through the crowd.

With deliberate slowness the girl moved to stand behind Vinctus Sextus's head. Gracefully she knelt and bent to brush his face first with one of her full breasts, then with the other. The man groaned with pure frustration as Zabaai's deep voice taunted him, "What magnificent fruits, eh Gaul?"

Vinctus Sextus felt his fingers ache and twitch to grasp the tempting flesh rubbing against his face. Instinctively he struggled to move his bound arms. Too late he remembered that he no longer had any hands, and a curse rose to his lips.

Zabaai ben Selim's youngest son, the six-year-old Hassan, had possession of the Gaul's severed hands, and he danced mischievously about the bound man waving his trophies. Taking the hands, he placed them on the prostitute's plump breasts, rubbing them lewdly while the crowd roared with laughter at the boy's impishness. The centurion reverted to his native tongue, screaming, and it was obvious that he cursed the crowd, his fate, and anything else that came into his mind.

"He should be in appalling pain," Antonius Porcius said to Prince Odenathus. "Why is he not?"

"The boiling pitch is mixed with a painkilling narcotic," the prince replied. "They did not wish him to die of the pain, and so they have eased it considerably."

The governor nodded. "They are skillful torturers, the Bedawi. Should I ever need such men, I shall call upon them."

The crowd ohed and ahed at each subtle torture. Fathers held their children on their shoulders for a better look. The two Roman legions and their auxiliaries stood silent, and at attention, but there were many white faces among them, especially those nearest the unfortunate Gaul. Antonius Porcius had already vomited discreetly into a silver basin held by his personal body servant.

As a final torture, Vinctus Sextus was tenderly bathed in warmed water that had been sweetened with honey and orange. Then each of the sons of Zabaai ben Selim emptied a small dish of black ants upon his helpless form. It was too much for even the hardened Gaul. He began to scream frantically, begging for mercy, begging that they kill him now. His big body writhed desperately in an effort to remove the tiny insects feeding upon his sweet-drenched body. Soon his screams grew weaker.

Realizing that the show was now over, the citizens of Palmyra stayed just long enough to see the Roman soldiers break the legs of the eight men who had been crucified, then began straggling back into the city proper, followed by the marching legions. The men of the sixth, and the ninth would consume a great deal of wine in the next several hours in a concerted effort to forget this afternoon.

His legs somewhat shaky, the Roman governor made his way from the dais and walked over to where Zabaai ben Selim stood with his sons and the girl child Zenobia.

"Are you satisfied with Roman justice, Chief of the Bedawi?" he demanded.

"I am satisfied. It will not return my sweet Iris to me, but at least she will be avenged with the deaths of these men."

"Will you now leave on your winter trek?"

"We will stay here until the criminals are finally dead," came the quiet reply. "Only then will justice be done. Their bodies will then accompany us into the desert to become carrion for the jackals and the vultures."

"So be it," said Antonius Porcius, relieved to have the whole messy affair over with. Well, he thought to himself, one good thing came from this. That young blond prostitute was the loveliest creature he had seen in months. He intended buying her from her owners, for he was tired of his current mistress, the wife of a rich Palmyran merchant. Impatiently he signaled to his litter bearers.

'The gods go with you this winter, Zabaai ben Selim. We shall be happy to see you back in Palmyra come the spring." The Roman governor then climbed into the litter and commanded his bearers to hurry back into the city.

Prince Odenathus watched him go, and then he smiled a mischievous smile. "He is as transparent as a crystal vase, our Roman friend," he said to Zabaai ben Selim. "His desire for the blond whore was quite apparent, but he shall not have her. Such a brave girl deserves better than our fat Roman governor."

"She is, I take it, already on her way to the palace," was Zabaai ben Selim's amused reply.

"Of course, my cousin! The couch of a Bedawi prince is far preferable to that of a mere Roman."

Zabaai ben Selim could not help but smile at his younger cousin. The Prince of Palmyra was a charming young man with not only an intelligent mind, but a keen sense of humor. But like many others in Palmyra, Zabaai still worried that Odenathus was not yet married, and had no heir, for Palmyran law dictated that no illegitimate child might inherit the throne. He looked closely at Odenathus, and asked, "When are you going to wed, my Prince?"

"You sound like my council. It is a question they ask daily." He signed. "Life's garden is filled with many beautiful flowers, my cousin. I have yet, however, to find one sweet bud that attracts me enough to make my princess. Perhaps," he chuckled, "I shall wait for your little Zenobia to grow up, Zabaai."

It had been said in jest, but no sooner were the words out of Prince Odenathus's mouth than Zabaai ben Selim realized that it was the very solution to his problem of a husband for his daughter. It was something that both he and Iris had worried about, for none of the young men of his tribe would have been suitable for their daughter. There was simply no getting around the fact that Zenobia was different from other girls. Not only was she far more beautiful than the ordinary Bedawi girl, but she was highly educated, fearless, and quite outgoing.

She could ride and race both camel and horse as well as any man. Because she had begged him to do so, he had let her take aims training with her younger brothers, and he was forced to admit that she was the best pupil he had taught in years, even better than her eldest brother, Akbar. She had a natural grace, and a flair with weapons that was surprising for someone so young. Strangely, no one gave a second thought to the unconventional things she did, for she was Zenobia, and unlike any girl his tribe had ever produced. He was proud of his daughter.

Still no young male Bedawi wanted a wife who not only rode better than he, but could surpass him in handling a sword, a spear, and a sling. A woman needed to know how to cook, how to birth children, how to herd animals, and sew. Zenobia was definitely not the kind of wife a man of his tribe could love and cherish, but Odenathus was a different type of man. Bedawi in his heritage on his father's side, he was yet a man of the city, and men of the city preferred their women more educated.

Zabaai ben Selim looked at his young cousin, and said, "Would you actually consider Zenobia for a wife, Odenathus? My daughter would make you a magnificent wife, my cousin! You could have no better. She is more than well born enough for you, for on my side you share the same great-grandfather, and on her mother's side she descends from Cleopatra, the last queen of Egypt. She is not yet a woman, but in a few years she will be of marriageable age. I will only give her as a wife, not a concubine, and it must be agreed that her sons be your heirs."

Prince Odenathus was thoughtful for a long moment. It was certainly not a bad idea, and would solve his problem as well. Zenobia bat Zabaai was dynastically a good match for him. She was also an educated and intelligent girl from what he had seen of her. If a man was to have intelligent sons then he must marry an intelligent wife, Odenathus thought. She might be an interesting woman someday.

"How soon after Zenobia becomes a woman would you be willing to give her to me, Zabaai?" he asked.

"A year at the very least," came the reply. "I will not even broach this matter with her until she has begun her show of blood, and men she will need time to adjust to the idea of marriage. She has lived all her life in the simple surroundings of the tribe, but my daughter is not just any girl, Odenathus. She is a pearl without price."

Palmyra's young ruler looked across the sand to where the girl child Zenobia sat cross-legged upon the desert floor, watching with strangely dispassionate eyes the agony of her mother's killer. She sat very straight, and very still, seemingly carved out of some inanimate material. He had seen young rabbits sit just that way. She seemed not even to be breathing.

He shook his head in wonder. The Gaul was suffering horribly, and yet the child showed no signs of compassion, or even of revulsion. A man could breed up strong sons on the loins of such a woman as this child would one day become; but he wondered fleetingly if such a woman would recognize in her husband a master? Perhaps if he took her to wife early enough, and molded her woman's character himself, it would be possible. Odenathus found that he was willing to take a chance. He found himself inexplicably drawn to Zenobia, for her very strength of character intrigued him greatly.

He smiled at himself. He would not, however, give Zabaai ben Selim too great an advantage, and so he said in what he hoped was a slightly bored and jaded tone, "A match between Zenobia and myself is a possibility, my cousin. Do not give her to anyone else yet, and let us talk on it again when the child becomes a woman if my heart has not become engaged elsewhere."

Zabaai smiled toothily. "It will be as you have said, my lord Prince, and my cousin," he replied smoothly. He was not for one moment fooled by Odenathus's cool attitude, or his nonchalance. He had seen the genuine look of interest in the young man's warm brown eyes when he had gazed so long and so thoughtfully at Zenobia.

"Will you bid my daughter farewell, my Prince?" he asked. "We will not re-enter the city again until late spring. Once the soldiers have died, we will go on our way into the desert as we have planned."

Odenathus nodded, and bade Zabaai ben Selim a safe trip. Then he walked across the desert floor to where Zenobia sat. Seating himself beside her, he took her little hand in his own. It was cold, and instinctively he sought to warm it, holding it rightly in his own.

"The Roman dies well," she said, acknowledging his presence, "but it is early yet, and he will in the end cry to his gods for mercy."

"It is important to you, that he beg for mercy?"

"Yes!" She spat the word out vehemently, and he could see that she was once more going to withdraw into her private thoughts. She hated well for one so young and, until today, so sheltered. More and more this child fascinated him.

"I would bid you good-bye, Zenobia," he said, piercing again into her self-absorption.

Zenobia looked up. How handsome he is, she thought. If only he hadn't given in to the Romans so easily. If only he weren't such a weakling.

"Farewell, my lord Prince," she said coldly, and then she turned back to contemplate the dying man.

"Good-bye, Zenobia," he said softly, lightly touching her soft dark hair with his hand; but she didn't notice. He stood up and walked away.

The sun was close to setting now, and had turned the white marble towers and porticos of Palmyra scarlet and gold with its clear light; but Zenobia saw none of it. Campfires sprang up on the desert floor as she sat silently watching her mother's despoiler. About her the Bedawi went about their own business of the evening. They understood, and waited patiently for the child's thirst for vengeance to be satisfied.

Vinctus Sextus had been unconscious for some time, but then he began to revive slightly, roused by the waves of pain that ate into his body and his soul as the painkillers given him earlier wore off. That he wasn't already in Hades surprised him. Slowly he forced his eyes open to find a slender girl child sitting by his head, contemplating his misery.

"W-who… are… you?" he managed to ask through parched and cracked lips.

"I am Zenobia bat Zabaai," the child answered him in a Latin far purer than any he had been able to learn. "It was my mother that you slaughtered, pig!"

"Give… me… a drink," he said weakly.

"We do not waste water here in the desert, Roman. You are a dying man. To give you water would be to waste it." Her eyes were gray stones and totally without feeling as they stared at him.

"You… have… no… mercy?" He was curious.

"Did you show my sweet mother mercy?" The child's eyes blazed intense hatred at him. "You showed her none, and I will show you no mercy, pig! None!"

He managed a wolfish parody of a grin at her, and they understood each other. He had shown her blond beauty of a mother no kindness or mercy. He wondered if, having been given a glimpse of his fate, he would do it all over again, and decided that he would. Death was death, and the blonde had been more than worth it. Men had died for less. He blinked rapidly several times to clear the fog over his blue eyes so he might see the child better. She was a little beauty facially, but she yet had the flat, unformed body of a child.

"All women… beg… when beneath a man. Didn't… your mother… ever… tell you… that?"

Zenobia looked away from him and across the desert, not quite understanding his words. The sun had now set, and the night had come swiftly. About her, the golden campfires blazed merrily, while the stars stared down in their silvery silence. "You will die slowly, Roman," she said quietly, "and I will stay to see it all."

Vinctus Sextus nodded his head slightly. He could certainly understand vengeance. The child was one to be proud of even if she was only a girl. "I will do… my best… to oblige you," he said with a scornful and defiant sneer. Then he drifted into unconsciousness.

When he opened his eyes again it was pitch black but for the light of the campfires that darted across the sand. The child still sat motionless and totally alert by his side. He drifted off again, returning as dawn came. He watched it creep across the desert floor with tiny slim fingers of violet and apricot and crimson. He could still feel the pain, worse now than it had ever been, and he knew death was near to him.

The narrow stripes upon his back had festered in the night; the thousand ant bites on his body stung and burned unbearably. The rawhide bindings on his arms and legs had now dried, and were cutting painfully into his ankles and his wrists. His throat was so parched that even the simple act of swallowing hurt him. Above, the sun rose higher and higher until it blinded him even when he closed his eyes. He could hear his surviving companions moaning and crying out to their own gods, to their mothers, as they hung upon their crosses. He tried turning his head to look at them, but he could not. He was stretched wide, and tight. Movement was now quite impossible.

"Five are already dead," the child said brutally. "You Romans are not very strong. A Bedawi could last at least three days."

Soon the groans stopped, and the child announced, "You alone are left, Roman, but I can tell that you will not last a great deal longer. Your eyes have a milky haze over them, and your breathing is rough."

He knew that she was right, for already he felt his spirit attempting to leave his body. He closed his eyes wearily, and suddenly he was back in the forests of his native Gaul. The tall trees soared green and graceful toward the sky, their branches waving in the gentle breeze. Ahead was a beautiful and cool blue lake. He almost cried aloud with joy, and then his lips formed the word, "Water!"

"No water!” the child's voice cut ruthlessly into his pleasure, and he opened his eyes to face the broiling, blazing sun. It was too much! By the gods it was too much!

Vinctus Sextus opened his mouth, and howled with frustrated outrage and pain. The sound of the child's triumphant laughter was the last thing he heard. It mocked him straight into Hell as he fell back dead upon the desert floor.

Zenobia arose swaying, for her legs were stiff. She had sat by Vinctus Sextus for over eighteen hours, and in all that time she had neither eaten nor drunk anything. Suddenly she was swept up in a pair of strong arms, and she looked into the admiring face of her eldest half-brother, Akbar. His white teeth flashed in his sun-browned face.

"You are Bedawi!" he said. "I am proud of you, my little sister. You are as tough as any warrior! I would fight by your side anytime."

His words gave her pleasure, but she only said, "Where is Father?" Her voice was suddenly very adult.

"Our father has gone to bury your mother with the honor and the dignity she deserves. She will be put in the tomb in the garden of the house."

Zenobia nodded, satisfied, and then said, "He begged, Akbar. In the end he begged the same way that he forced my mother to beg." She paused as if considering that, and then she said softly, "I will never beg, Akbar! Whatever happens to me in my lifetime, I will never beg! Never!"

Akbar hugged the child to his breast. "Never say never, Zenobia," he warned her gently. "Life often plays odd tricks upon us, for the gods are known to be capricious, and not always kind to us mortals."

"/ will never beg," she repeated firmly. Then she smiled sweetly at her brother. "Besides, am I not the beloved of the gods, Akbar? They will defend me always!"

2

Odenathus, Prince of Palmyra, sat his horse and watched the maneuvers of a Bedawi camel corps. Its warriors were magnificently trained, and under the direction of their captain they performed extremely well. The prince turned and said to his host, "Well, my cousin Zabaai, if all your troops perform this well; if all your captains are that competent; I foresee a day when I may drive the Romans from my city."

"May the gods grant your wish, my lord Prince. Too long has the golden yoke been about our necks, and each year the Romans take more and more of the riches that come to us from the Indies and Cathay. We are beggared trying to feed their rapacious appetites."

Odenathus nodded in agreement, and then said, "Will you present me to the captain of your camel corps? I should like to congratulate him on his leadership."

Zabaai hid a smile. "Of course, my lord." He raised his hand in a signal, and the camel cavalry whirled away from him, galloped down a stretch of desert, and then turned to come racing furiously back to stop just short of the two men. "The prince would like to present his compliments, Captain," Zabaai said.

The leader of the corps slid from his mount and bowed smartly -before the prince.

"You handle your men well, Captain. I hope that someday we may ride together."

"It will be an honor, my lord, although I am not used to sharing my command with anyone." The captain's burnoose was tossed back, and the ruler of Palmyra found himself staring into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She laughed at his surprise, and said, "Do you not recognize me, my cousin?"

"Zenobia?" He was astounded. This could not be Zenobia! Zenobia was a child. This statuesque goddess could not be the flat and leggy child he remembered. Three and a half years had passed since he had last seen her.

"You're staring," she said.

"What?" He was totally confused.

"You are staring at me, my lord. Is something wrong?"

"You've changed," he managed to say in a somewhat strangled voice.

"I am almost fifteen, my lord."

"Fifteen," he repeated foolishly. By the gods, she was a glorious creature!

"You may go now, Zenobia," Zabaai dismissed her. "We will expect you at the evening meal."

"Yes, Father." Zenobia turned and, grasping her camel's bridle, swung herself back up into the saddle. Raising her hand as signal, she led her camel corps away as the two men re-entered Zabaai ben Selim's tent.

"Did you or did you not propose a match between your daughter and myself several years back, Zabaai?" the Palmyran prince demanded.

"I did."

"The girl was to become my wife a year after she became a woman. Is that not correct?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Has she now reached her maturity?"

"Yes, my lord." It was all that Zabaai ben Selim could do to keep from laughing. Odenathus's desire was so open as to be embarrassing.

"Then why is she not my wife?" came the anguished cry.

"Nothing was formally proposed, my lord. When you did not make formal application for my daughter's hand I was forced to conclude that you were not seriously interested. Besides, your devotion to your favorite, Deliciae, is well known. She has given you two sons, has she not?"

"Deliciae is a concubine," Odenathus protested. "Her sons are not my heirs. Only my wife's sons will hold that distinction."

"You do not have a wife," Zabaai ben Selim reminded.

"Do not toy with me, cousin," Odenathus said. "You know full well that I want Zenobia to wife. You knew that the moment I saw her I would want her. Why did you simply not present her to me? Why that silly charade with the camel corps?"

"It was no charade, my lord. Zenobia commands her own corps, and has for two years now. If I let you marry her it must be with the understanding that she is free to go her own way. She is not an ornament to be housed like a fine jewel in the box of your harem. My daughter descends from the rulers of Egypt, and she is as free as the wind. You cannot pen the wind, Odenathus."

"I will agree to whatever you wish, Zabaai, but I want Zenobia!" the prince promised rashly.

"The first thing I want is that you get to know one another. Zenobia may have the body of a woman, but she is yet a child where men are concerned."

"She is still a virgin?"

Zabaai chuckled. "Not that the young men of my tribe have not tried, Odenathus, but my daughter is yet a virgin. It is very difficult to make love to a girl who can outwrestle you. Zenobia is, as you undoubtedly noticed, quite tall for a girl. She gets her height from her Greek-Egyptian ancestry, not the Bedawi. She is at least as tall as you, Odenathus. Not at all like your Deliciae, who can look up at you. Zenobia will look you right in the eye."

"Why did you not offer her to me again, Zabaai? The truth, my cousin."

Zabaai ben Selim sighed. "Because I am reluctant to give her up, Odenathus. She is my only daughter; Iris's child; and when she is gone from me I will miss her. If you wed her you will find in her an interesting companion. She will not simper at you like so many of these harem females. She will be your friend as well as your lover. Are you man enough to accept a woman on those terms?"

"Yes," came the unwavering reply.

"So be it then," the Bedawi chief said. "If Zenobia has no objections after you two have grown to know one another, then you may have her to wife."

"May I tell her?" he asked.

"No, I will tell her, my cousin, and I will tell her immediately so there will be no confusion or restraint between you."

The two men separated men, the prince returning to his own tent, and the Bedawi chieftain to his daughter's quarters. He found her sponging herself with a small basin of perfumed water, grumbling as she always did over the scarcity of the precious liquid here in the desert. Still she was careful not to waste the water, and reused it several times, storing it in a goatskin bag between her ablutions.

"Praise Jupiter that it is almost time to return to Palmyra!" she greeted him. "You have no idea, Father, how I long for a decent bath!"

He chuckled, and sat cross-legged on a carpet. "Odenathus wants to marry you," he said, coming directly to the point.

"Isn't that what you've wanted for me all along, Father?" She took up a small linen towel, and mopped where a few drops of water had spilled on her table.

"You have to marry eventually, Zenobia, but I want you to be happy. Odenathus is a wealthy, pleasant, and intelligent young man. Still, if there is someone you would prefer then it shall be as you desire, my child."

"Only one thing concerns me about the prince," she said. "It distresses me that he gives in to the Romans so easily, and without a fight. I do not understand it."

"It is quite simple, Zenobia," Zabaai replied. "Palmyra, as you know, was founded by Solomon the Great, King of Israel. It has always been a commercial state. We have never been interested in expansion, in taking our neighbors' lands. Our only interest is in making money, and because everyone needed us, and our talents, and because we are located here in the Syrian desert, no one bothered us. We have been friends to the world, but Rome is a conqueror, and has a conqueror's fear of her neighbors. Palmyra is an outpost for Rome against Persia, Cathay, and the Indies.

"But because we are a nation of merchants, and not soldiers, we have never been prepared to defend ourselves. After all, we have never needed to. If Odenathus ever attempts to thwart Rome, they will destroy the city without a thought. He does the next best thing-he welcomes them, and in doing so saves us all. Do not judge him too harshly. When the time is right he will drive them from our land, and we will once again be our own masters."

"If I marry the prince will my children be his heirs? The gossips say he is quite fond of one of his concubines-and her children. I will have no one else's children supplanting mine."

"Your children will be his legal heirs, my daughter."

"Then I will marry him, Father."

"Wait, my child," Zabaai cautioned. "Get to know him before you agree to this match. If you then still wish to wed him, so be it."

"You say that eventually I must marry, Father. The prince has asked for me, and I will agree. If I must wed then at least it will be to a man who lives in Palmyra, so I may at last be free of your desert." She twinkled mischievously at him, and Zabaai chuckled indulgently. How he loved this child. "The prince is handsome," continued Zenobia. "He has always been kind to me, and I have never heard anyone say that he is not a fair or good ruler. There seems to be no malice in him at all." Zenobia knew no matter how fair her father meant to be she could not refuse the prince. Still, she loved Zabaai all the more for pretending the choice was hers.

"You say nothing of love, my child. For a marriage to be successful mere must be love between a man and a woman. The moment I saw your mother those long years ago in Alexandria I knew I loved her, and she knew she loved me. Love sustains a man and woman in the hard times."

"You and Mother were unusual, Father. Tamar tells me that love is something that grows between a man and a woman. I believe that, given time, I can love Odenathus, and he already loves me. I can tell. Did you see how foolishly he behaved today? I didn't mean to laugh at him, but he looked so silly with his mouth open." She giggled with the memory.

Zabaai didn't think that this was the time to explain to his daughter the difference between lust and love. Let her believe that Odenathus was already in love with her. It wouldn't hurt to give the prince that small edge. "Make yourself beautiful, my child," he said, and then in a rare show of open affection he kissed her cheek. "You may eat with us instead of the women this evening."

Left alone, Zenobia turned to her mirror, a round of burnished silver. Pensively, she stared into it. Everyone said that she was a beauty, and compared to other girls her age she was. But would she be able to compete with the women of Palmyra? Would Odenathus think that she was beautiful? She knew all about his concubine, Deliciae, and she would have to accept the woman. A slave girl from northern Greece, Deliciae was said to be very beautiful, fair-skinned, azure-eyed, yellow-haired.

Zenobia looked at herself with a critical eye. Pale-gold skin, the cheeks of her oval face touched with apricot; long, thick, straight dark hair, silken to the touch, so perhaps it would be pleasing to him. She seemed to remember that he was always caressing her head.

She looked harder at herself. She was tall for a woman, she knew, but her body was flawless, her limbs well rounded without being fat, thanks to the active life she led. She gently slipped her slender hands beneath her breasts, and looked at them critically. They were round, firm, and full. She knew the value that men put on women's breasts, saw with satisfaction that she would not be found wanting there. Her waist was slender, the hips slim, but pleasingly rounded. Zenobia's gaze moved upward again in the mirror, to her face, and she stared hard.

The cheekbones were high, the nose quite straight and classic, the lips full and generous, the chin small, square, and determined. Her eyes, she decided, were her best feature. Almond-shaped, topped by slender, arched, black brows and thickly fringed with black lashes, they were deep gray with tiny golden flecks, like leaves in a winter pond. The color darkened to almost black when she was angry, remaining a deep gray at other times. They were the kind of eyes a man couldn't resist looking into. Although Zenobia was too young to realize it, her eyes were the mirror of her soul, telling anyone who was wise enough to look deeply into all her secrets.

"If he does not find you the most beautiful woman in the world then he is blind in both eyes, little sister."

Zenobia turned her eyes from the mirror. "It is his favorite concubine I am worried about, Akbar. Men of the desert are susceptible to fair women."

"He has not married her," came the reply.

"She is a slave, Akbar. Men do not marry their slaves. They may love them, but they do not marry them. What if he loves her, but marries me simply for heirs? I have been surrounded by love my whole life, Akbar. I was conceived by a great love. I cannot live without it! What if he does not love me?"

"You do not have to marry him, little sister. Father has said he will not force you to it."

"I am almost fifteen, my brother. Most girls my age have been married for two years, and already have children. What if I never find this love that exists between a man and a woman? If I do not marry Prince Odenathus, who will I marry, Akbar? Who will have an educated woman to wife? I often wonder if Mother and Father did not do me a great disservice educating me. Perhaps I would have been better off if I had learned nothing but woman's ways." She sighed, and flung herself on her couch.

Akbar stared at his half-sister in surprise, and then he began to laugh. "By Jupiter, you are afraid! Never did I think to see the day when Zenobia bat Zabaai would be afraid, but you are! You are afraid that Odenathus will not like you! You are afraid of a blue-eyed, yellow-haired whore! Zenobia, my sister, the poor Prince of Palmyra is already half in love with you. If you will be but kind to him he will be your devoted slave for the rest of your life. All he desires is a little encouragement. As to the concubine, Deliciae, of course he is fond of her. She is an amiable creature, surely you cannot be afraid of that piece of fluff?"

"She is so… so womanly, and I am more at home with a weapon than a perfume bottle!"

"You are unique, my sister."

"Would you like a woman like me, Akbar?" The concern in her young face was so intense that he almost hurt for her.

'Too easy a conquest can be pleasant, but very boring, my sister. Be yourself with Odenathus. He will love you." Akbar walked over to where his younger half-sister lounged, and bent to kiss her head. "Stop brooding, foolish child, and make yourself beautiful for the prince. I will come back shortly, and escort you myself to Father's tent for the evening meal."

When she looked up he was gone, and Bab was entering the tent. Dearest Bab, Zenobia thought affectionately. How she was going to enjoy living in a civilized city again! Bab had been her mother's servant, and had come with Iris from Alexandria. When Iris had died she had simply taken over Zenobia, and continued on with her duties. She was getting on in years now, thought Zenobia, and the traveling was becoming harder for her. She watched with loving eyes as the older woman moved about the tent preparing her mistress's clothing for the evening.

"Ah, your dear mother would be happy with this match," Bab commented. "It is your son who will be the next ruler of Palmyra after Odenathus."

"At least if I do marry him," Zenobia teased, "you will spend your declining years within a city instead of out upon the desert."

"Declining years?" Bab's lined and weathered face registered instant offense. "And who is declining, I should like to know? I served your mother. I serve you, and I expect someday I shall serve your daughter. Declining years! Humph!" She bent over the cedar chest, and drew forth a soft white cotton chemise and a snow-white tunic. "You'll wear these," she said, holding them out.

Zenobia nodded and shrugged off the short black chiton she had been wearing. Bab took a small sea sponge and, dipping it in fragrant oil, smoothed it over her mistress's nude body. The young girl wrinkled her nose with delight. She loved the rich hyacinth fragrance, remembering that Iris had given her a small flacon of the perfume when she was ten. Bab slipped the chemise and then the tunic over Zenobia's head. The tunic was made of fine linen, and Bab belted it with a length of thin leather that had been gilded with silver leaf. There were matching silver sandals for Zenobia's slender feet.

The tunic was sleeveless and its neckline was draped low, revealing the soft perfection of her breasts. Bab sat the girl down while she brushed and brushed the long black hair, finally braiding it and looping it under once to be fastened with a pearl-and-diamond hair ornament. She then offered her young mistress a small jewel case, which Zenobia stared into for a few moments, studying the precious gems and metals. Finally she removed a carved silver bracelet, a smooth ivory one banded with silver, one of carved ivory, and another of polished blue lapis, which she slipped on one of her arms. Into her ears she fitted silver-and-lapis earrings, and upon her fingers went two rings, one a large creamy round pearl, the other a carved scarab of blue lapis that had belonged to her mother.

Bab nodded her approval of Zenobia's choices, and took up a small brush, which she dipped in kohl. Carefully, she painted the girl's eyes to highlight them, but Zenobia's lips and flushed cheeks needed no artifice, having their own color. The girl reached for an ivory scent bottle and, uncorking it, daubed the exotic hyacinth fragrance on herself. She stood and, looking at herself in the mirror, said, "Well, I suppose I am as ready as I'm going to be, Bab."

Bab chuckled. "You will ravish him, my pet."

Zenobia smiled, but it was a smile without enthusiasm.

Zabaai ben Selim might be a Bedawi chief, but he was a man who liked his comfort. His tent was set upon a low platform that could be separated into several sections for easier transport. Inside, the floor was covered with thick wool rugs in reds, blues, golds, and creams. The tent poles were gilded, and the finest brass and silver lamps hung from the tent ceiling, burning perfumed oils. The great tent was divided into two sections, the smaller sleeping area separated from the main part of the tent by woven silk carpets from Persia. The furnishings were simple but rich: low tables of wood and brass, chests of cedar, and many colorful pillows for seats.

There were several men in the room besides the prince and her father. She saw several of her half-brothers besides Akbar. There was Hussein, and Hamid, and Selim, all full brothers to Akbar, all Tamar's sons. They grinned knowingly at her, causing a blush to color her cheeks, which made them chuckle indulgently. For some reason, their smug complacency drove a streak of rebellion into her heart and mind. How dare they presume that all was settled?

"Come, my daughter, and sit between us," Zabaai commanded her gendy. He had seen the fire in her eyes, and guessed that she might be feeling a bit fractious.

Zenobia sat down quietly, keeping her eyes lowered, furious with herself for suddenly feeling shy. Silent slaves began to serve the simple meal. A young kid had been roasted, and there was a dish of rice with raisins. Zenobia was delighted to find in the middle of the table an arrangement of fruits the like of which she hadn't seen since they left Palmyra almost six months earlier. There were grapes both purple and green; figs and dates; peaches and apricots. A small smile of delight curved the corners of her mouth, and she reached out to take an apricot.

"You must thank Odenathus for such bounty, Zenobia," her father said.

"You brought the fruit from Palmyra?" She looked up at him with her marvelous eyes, and for a moment the prince thought he was going to drown in the depths of them.

Finally he managed to find his voice. "I remembered how you dislike trekking the desert, and thought by now you must long for fresh fruit."

"You brought it for me?" She felt shy again.

"See what an easy woman she is to please, Odenathus?" Akbar teased. "Another woman would have asked for emeralds and rubies; but my little sister is satisfied with apricots. 'Tis an admirable trait in a wife."

"I thank you for the fruit, my lord." She was silent again.

Zabaai was concerned. It was not like Zenobia to be so quiet and shy. He wondered if she were ill, but then he realized that the prince, too, had said very little during the meal. Both he and Zenobia were behaving like two young animals placed in the same cage for the first time. Warily they circled each other, and sniffed the air cautiously for signs of hostility. The Bedawi chieftain smiled to himself, remembering himself in his younger days with each new girl; each girl except Iris. It had always been different with Iris. He was somewhat troubled that Zenobia seemed reluctant about young Prince Odenathus, but then she had never before been exposed to a suitor.

The meal concluded with sweet cakes made of thin layers of dough, honey, and finely chopped nuts. There had been marvelous Greek wine served all during the meal, and the men were feeling relaxed. Zenobia had drunk very little, and seemed unusually sensitive to her half-brothers' teasing. Normally she would have bantered with them.

Finally Zabaai said in what he hoped was an offhand manner, "My daughter, the moon will not rise until quite late tonight. There is a fine display of stars. Take Odenathus and show him your knowledge of astronomy. You could put Zenobia anywhere on this earth, my Prince, and she would be able to find her way back to Palmyra by using the sky to guide her."

"I have a fine observatory in the palace," Odenathus replied. "I hope you will visit it someday." He rose and, holding out his hand, helped Zenobia up.

Together they walked from the tent while behind them Zabaai quelled his sons' ribald humor with a stern look. Silently they strolled through the encampment, and Zenobia stole looks from beneath her long lashes at the prince. He was really a very handsome young man, she had to admit. Unlike her father and half-brothers, who wore the long, enveloping robes of the Bedawi, Odenathus was dressed in a short tunic of natural-colored linen, a painted leather breastplate, and a red military cloak. Zenobia approved this plain and sensible clothing and his sturdy, practical sandals.

As they walked she noticed that his hand was callused and dry and firm. It was a good sign, she thought. "Directly above us is the planet Venus," she said. "When I was born Venus and Mars were in conjunction. The Chaldean astronomer who was present at my birth predicted that I should be fortunate in both love and war."

"And have you been?" he asked.

"I have always been loved by my brothers and my parents. Of war I know naught."

"Has no young man declared his undying affection for you?"

She stopped and pondered a moment. "There have been young men who act silly around me. They behave like young goats when they are trying to attract the attention of a desirable nanny."

"You mean they butt heads," he teased.

Zenobia giggled. 'They have done everything but that. I do not believe, however, that that is love."

"Perhaps you have not given them a chance to offer you love, just as you have been denying me that chance this evening." He turned her to him and they were face to face, but she shyly turned her head away. "Look at me, Zenobia," he commanded gently.

"I cannot," she whispered.

"What?" He teased her once again. "A girl who can lead a mounted troupe of soldiers cannot look at the man who would love her? I will not eat you up, Zenobia-at least not yet," he amended. "Look at me, my desert flower. Look into the eyes of the prince who would lay his heart at your feet." His hand raised her face up, and their eyes met. Zenobia shivered in the warm night.

Tenderly, Odenathus explored her face with his elegant fingers, outlining her jaw, brushing the tips of his fingers over her high cheekbones, down her nose, across her lips. "Your skin is like the petal of a rose, my flower," he murmured in a deep and passionate voice.

Zenobia was riveted to the ground. She thought she would faint, for she couldn't seem to catch her breath; and when she swayed uncertainly his muscled arm reached out to sweep her next to him. She had no idea how tempting she was to the prince, her moist coral lips slightly parted, her dark gray eyes wide. Her honest innocence was the most tantalizing and provocative spur to his passions; but Odenathus maintained a firm control over his own wants. It would be so easy to make love to her this very minute, he thought. It would be easy to sink onto the sand, drawing her down. How he would enjoy teaching this lovely girl the arts of love! But some deeper instinct warned him that now was not the time.

Instead he held her firmly and said in what he hoped passed for a normal voice, "We will get to know one another, my little flower. You know that I want you for my wife, but because I care for you I want you to be happy. If being my wife would bring you sadness then it cannot be. You would do me honor if you would stay at the palace this summer. Then we may get to know each other within the protective circle of our families."

"I… I must ask my father," she replied softly.

"I am sure that Zabaai ben Selim will agree." He let her go then and, taking her hand, again turned back to the encampment. Escorting her to her tent, he bowed politely and bid her a good night.

It was a bemused Zenobia who passed into her quarters. The desert night had grown cool, and Bab sat nodding by the brazier. Zenobia was relieved, for she didn't want to talk at this moment. She wanted time alone in the silence to think. She was quite confused. Prince Odenathus had roused something within her, but she could not be sure if it was the kind of love that grew between a man and a woman. How could she know? She had never felt that kind of love. Zenobia sighed so deeply that Bab awakened with a start.

"You are back, child?" The old woman rose slowly to her feet. "Let me help you get ready for bed. Was the evening a pleasant one for you? Did you walk with the prince? Did he kiss you?"

Zenobia laughed. "So many questions, Bab! Yes, the evening was pleasant and the prince did not kiss me, though I thought once he might."

"You did not hit him the way you have done with the young men of the tribe?" Bab fretted.

"No, I didn't, and had he tried to kiss me I wouldn't have."

The older woman nodded, satisfied. The prince obviously sought to win over her lovely child, and that was good. He was obviously a man of sensitivity, and that, too, was to be commended. Zenobia, little hornet that she was, could be won over by honeyed persuasion. Force would be fatal. Bab helped her young mistress to undress, and settled her in her bed. "Good night, my child," she said and, bending, kissed the girl's forehead.

"He wants me to spend the summer at the palace, Bab. Do you think Father will agree?"

"Of course he will agree! Go to sleep now, my dear, and dream beautiful dreams of your handsome prince."

"Good night, Bab," came the reply.

By noon the next day the camp was struck, and they were on the road back to the great oasis city. The prince rode next to Zenobia, who proved far more talkative in the saddle than she had been the previous evening. By the time the city came in sight two days later they were in the process of becoming friends. The prince left the caravan of Zabaai ben Selim at his home, and rode on to the palace to prepare for Zenobia's visit.

He was greeted by his mother, Al-Zena, who had been a Persian princess. Al-Zena meant "the woman" in the Persian language; a feminine woman who personified beauty, love, and fidelity. Odenathus's elegant mother was all of these things. She was petite in stature, athough quite regal. Her skin was as white as snow, her hair and eyes black as night. Al-Zena loved her son, her only child, above all else; but she was a strong-willed woman who wanted no serious rivals for her son's attention. She held Palmyra in contempt, forever comparing it unfavorably to her beloved Persian cities. As a consequence, she was not popular among Palmyra's citizens, although her son, who loved and championed his city, was.

She knew that Odenathus was back within the palace before he had passed through the gates; but she waited for him to come to her. Pacing the outer chamber of her apartments, she glanced at herself in the silver mirror and was reassured by what she saw. She was still beautiful, her face still virtually unlined at forty; her midnight-black hair unsilvered; her eyes clear. She wore garments in the Parthian fashion, cherry-red trousers, a pale-pink sleeveless blouse, a long-sleeved cherry-red tunic embroidered in gold threads and small fresh-water pearls. Upon her feet were golden leather sandals. Her hair was piled high upon her head in an arrangement of braids and curls, and dressed with twinkling bits of garnet glass.

She saw the admiration in his eyes as he entered the room, and was pleased. "Odenathus, my love," she murmured in her strangely husky voice, a voice that was in direct contrast with her very female appearance. "I have missed you," she said, embracing him. "Where have you been these past few days?"

He smiled broadly at her, and drew her to the cushioned bench. "I have been in the desert, Mother, at the camp of my cousin, Zabaai ben Selim. I have invited his daughter, Zenobia, to spend the summer here at our palace." Al-Zena felt a chill of premonition and, sure enough, her son continued, "I would like to marry Zenobia, but she is young, and hesitant. I thought if she spent her summer here and came to know us she would be less unsure. Although her father can order her to wed with me I should far prefer it if she wanted to do so."

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 Vernus 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 war; 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 midaftemoon 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.

"You are awake?"

Zenobia turned and walked back into the room. "I am awake, Bab."

"You should have called," the older woman grumbled.

"I wanted a moment alone."

"Humph," came the reply, but Bab understood.

Zenobia's sleeveless white tunica with its draped low neckline was a simple garment. She smiled a secret smile. By the very innocence of her dress she would point up the difference between herself and Odenathus's mother. "Leave my hair loose," she said, and Bab nodded, brushing the long thick tresses, containing them only with a simple white ribbon band embroidered with tiny seed pearls.

Zenobia reached for her jewel case. From it she removed a single large cream-gold teardrop-shaped pearl on a thin golden chain. Fastened about her neck, it nestled between her young breasts, a temptation between twin temptations. Matching clusters of pearls on gold wires dangled from her ears; arm bangles of carved pink coral and thin gold wires with pearl bangles braceleted her arms. A single round pearl set in gold adorned one hand, drawing attention to her long, tapering fingers with their polished nails.

Bab nodded her approval as Zenobia daubed on her perfume. "It is perfect, my baby. You will outshine the old witch and the Greek concubine!"

The words were scarce out of Bab's mouth when one of the black slave girls hurried in to announce, "A eunuch is here to escort the lady to the banquet hall."

With a faint nod to Bab, Zenobia followed the girl and then the eunuch, hurrying through the vast palace so quickly that she scarce had time to note a thing along her way. The slave girl had been wrong, however, for it was not the banquet hall to which they went, but rather a small family dining room. Dressed in greens and golds, Al-Zena was already there, reclining on a dining sofa. Next to her was an exquisite fair-skinned blonde, dressed also in Parthian fashion; but her colors were sky blue embroidered in silver.

"Zenobia, my child," Al-Zena purred, "this is the lady Deliciae."

"Good evening to you," Zenobia replied sweetly.

Al-Zena was somewhat disconcerted, for the girl showed neither distress nor anger at Deliciae's presence. She was either totally unfeeling, very stupid, or very clever, and the fact that Al-Zena couldn't determine which gave her pause. She eyed Zenobia suspiciously as the girl settled herself upon the dining couch marked for her, then turned to Deliciae, saying, "I understand that you have two sons. How fortunate you are! I hope I shall one day be the mother of sons."

Al-Zena choked on her wine, spilling some of it on her gown, and sending a servant scuttling for water and a cloth. Zenobia cooed solicitously, "Oh, you have spilled your wine. I do hope it will not stain your tunic."

Deliciae eyed Odenathus's prospective wife from beneath her heavily mascaraed lashes, and forced back a chuckle. The little Bedawi girl was wise to Al-Zena, and ready to do battle with her, although Deliciae could see that Al-Zena was not quite sure yet as to the girl's character and intelligence. She took the opportunity to gauge her rival, and sighed. The girl was positively beautiful. She makes me look insipid, thought Deliciae.

A slave was rubbing frantically at Al-Zena's tunic as the Prince of Palmyra walked into the room. His glance swept over the three women, and then he said sharply, "Deliciae, what do you do here?"

"Did you not invite me, my lord? Your mother said that I was to come to supper tonight."

"You were not invited," came the icy reply. "Please return to your quarters."

Deliciae rose, stricken, and Zenobia instantly realized that Odenathus's mother was using the woman as a pawn. "Please, my lord Prince," she said, "do not send the lady Deliciae away. I was so enjoying her company."

"It does not distress you, my flower? I would not have you unhappy."

"Deliciae and I are of an age. We will quickly become friends, I know." Zenobia put a hand on his arm. "Please, my lord Prince." Her glance was melting, and Odenathus felt his heartbeat quicken.

"If it pleases you, my flower, Deliciae may remain," he said gruffly, wishing to the gods as he said it that neither Deliciae nor his mother were in the room so he might kiss that adorable mouth that pleaded so prettily with him. Instead he signaled impatiently to a slave to fill his goblet with wine.

"Thank you, my lord Prince," Zenobia said softly.

Al-Zena almost gnashed her teeth with frustration. He was in love! The gods be cursed! Her son was in love, and there would be no reasoning with him. Still, if she could show up the chit for the unsuitable creature she was, then perhaps Odenathus would see reason. A Bedawi girl Princess of Palmyra? Never!

The meal was fairly plain, beginning with artichokes in olive oil and tarragon vinegar; followed by baby lamb, broiled thrush on asparagus, green beans, and cabbage sprouts; and finished with a silver bowl of peaches and green grapes. The prince could hardly take his eyes from Zenobia, much to his mother's consternation and Deliciae's resignation. Zenobia ate heartily of the beautifully cooked meal, while the others could only eat sparingly.

After the last of the dishes had been cleared away and the wine goblets refilled, a troupe of dancing girls and a jongleur entertained. Deliciae saw how desperately Odenathus longed to be with the beautiful girl he desired for a wife, and so as the dancing girls ran from the dining room she rose, saying, "Would you permit me to withdraw, my lord? I find I am quite fatigued."

The prince smiled gratefully at her, and nodded as Deliciae bowed to Al-Zena and Zenobia and departed the room. For a few more minutes they reclined in silence, Odenathus waiting for his mother to withdraw. When it finally became apparent that she was not going to do so, he stood and, holding his hand out to Zenobia, said "Come! My gardens are justly famous. You will excuse us, Mother? I expect you will want to retire now, for it is quite late."

Zenobia put her hand in the prince's and rose. "I should very much like to see your gardens, my lord Prince."

Without a backward glance at Al-Zena, Odenathus swept Zenobia outdoors into a vast and darkened garden. Here and there torches blazed along the paths, but it was virtually impossible to see. Zenobia could not resist a chuckle. "I hope you know where you are going," she teased him. "I should hate to end up in a fish pond."

He stopped and, swinging her around, looked into her face. "I want to kiss you," he said fiercely. How beautiful she looked with the torchlight flickering molten gold across her features.

"What?" Her heart began to hammer wildly, and she felt almost afraid. Looking into his handsome face, her gray eyes widened slightly with surprise.

"I want to kiss you," he repeated. "If you were any other girl I should not even ask."

"Oh!” Her voice was suddenly very small, and as he looked at her a slow smile crossed Odenathus's face.

"You are like the fresh breeze that blows across the city at sunset, my flower." One hand moved from her shoulders to encircle her slender waist; to draw her hard against him. The other scalded up her neck and face to tangle in the jet silk of her hair. His dark head dipped, his mouth brushing lightly and swiftly across hers, sending small shock waves racing through her body as she desperately struggled with herself to regain control over her emotions. "Zenobia." His voice caressed her name, and she shivered. What was he doing to her? How could the sound of his voice saying her name render her breathless. "Zenobia!" Her legs felt weak, and she fell back slightly against the encircling brace of his arm. His head was poised above hers for a brief moment, and then it came swiftly down and his lips closed over hers.

His mouth was warm, and smooth and hard, but Zenobia, innocent as she was to kisses, felt his restraint. He kissed her gently with great tenderness, his lips drawing the very essence of her from her untutored body. Deep within her core she felt the ache begin. She longed for something, but she knew not what, and when, after what seemed an eternity, he finally lifted his lips from hers she murmured, "More!"

He looked upon her, his brown eyes almost liquid with his passion. "Oh, Zenobia, you have intoxicated me!" he said softly, and then he kissed her again. This time his kiss was less gentle, but she felt no fear, only a desperate longing to know more. He parted her lips, his tongue seeking, learning the velvet softness of her mouth. She wanted-she wanted she knew not what; only that she didn't want him to stop. She shivered deliciously as he sucked for a moment on her little tongue; and then she nestled closer against him, her young breasts taut.

With a groan of impatience he thrust her away from him. "You are so young, my flower," he said softly. It was almost a reproach.

"Have I displeased you?"

She was distressed, he could see. "Come!" He took her hand, and they began to walk again through the darkened garden. "You do not displease me, Zenobia. In fact you please me mightily. At this moment I very much want to make love to you."

"Then let us make love," she said simply. "I have never been with a man before, but both Tamar and Bab say it is a natural and good thing between a man and woman. I am not afraid, my lord Prince."

He smiled in the darkness. "No woman, I believe, should make love to a man for whom she doesn't care, for whom she has no feelings. That, my flower, is immoral. I have never made love to a woman who did not love me a little. Tonight you have barely been awakened to the sensual side of your nature, and you long to know more. You do not yet know me, Zenobia. There is time for us, I promise you."

"You make me feel like a child," she pouted.

"You are a child," he said. "But there will come a night when you and I care for one another, and then, Zenobia, I shall make you a woman, fully aware of her passionate powers."

She sighed. "I must be content with your judgment then, my lord Prince, for I know naught of such matters."

Odenathus laughed softly. "I think I shall enjoy this small submission, for I suspect that you seldom defer to anyone."

"I know that I am not like other women," she said defensively. "If you truly want me, my lord Prince, then you must accept me as I am. I do not know if I can change, nor if I choose to do so."

"I want you as you are, even if I suspect that my desert flower has thorns." He stopped for a moment, tipped her face to his, and kissed her again, sending a pleasurable thrill through her. "Please learn to love me, Zenobia. I ache to love you."

"Love me?" she said. "Or make love to me?"

"Both," he admitted.

She gave him a quick kiss in return. "You are an honest man," she said. "I believe that we can be friends, and friends, I have been told, make the best lovers."

Odenathus was amused. She was quite serious, and he had never met a female who was so delightfully interesting. "Why do you not use my name, Zenobia?" he asked. "You call me 'my lord Prince,' but you never say my name."

"You have not given me permission to use your name, my lord Prince. I may be naught but a Bedawi girl, but I have manners." She paused, and in the dark he could not see the twinkle in her eyes. "Besides, I do not like your name."

"You do not like my name?" He was astounded.

"It is a very serious, almost pompous name, my lord Prince."

"If we are to be married you cannot keep calling me 'my lord Prince."'

"It is not settled that we are to be married," she said calmly. "Besides, I do not think of you as Odenathus Septimius, my lord Prince."

He could hear the teasing laughter in her voice, and with the same spirit he entered into her little game. "We will be married, my flower, never fear. I am going to teach you to like me, to love me, and to call me by my name." He paused. "If you cannot call me Odenathus, then what will you call me?"

"In public I shall call you 'my lord Prince,' but in private you shall be Hawk, for you look like that bird to me with your long straight nose and your piercing, dark gaze."

He was flattered beyond measure, as she had known he would be. "So I am Hawk to you." He chuckled. "Do you fancy to tame this wild bird, my flower?"

"One should never tame wild things, my Hawk. One should gain their trust and respect, become their friend, as you and I shall do."

Once again she had surprised him, and he grinned to himself. "Hawk I shall be if it pleases you, Zenobia, but now it is late. Come, and I will return you to your quarters."

Taking her hand, he moved through the dark gardens with the surefootedness of a camel traveling a familiar trail. They entered the palace, and she followed him up an almost hidden staircase and found herself in the hallway outside her own rooms. They stopped before the large double doors.

"Can you ride a horse?" he said.

"Yes."

"Be ready at dawn," he said and, turning, strode off down the corridor.

For a moment she watched him go, and then his figure in its long white tunic disappeared around a corner. Zenobia sighed, and stood for a moment before her door. Then one of the soldiers guarding her apartment leaned over and opened the door. With a blush she hurried into her rooms, and closed the door behind her as Bab hurried forward. "It went well, my baby?"

For the first time in her life Zenobia did not want to talk to her dearest servant. What had been between herself and the prince was something she did not choose to share with anyone. "It went well, Bab."

"Good! Good!" the older woman approved.

Sensing that if she did not give Bab something more the servant would continue to pry, Zenobia said, "I am to go riding at dawn with the prince."

Bab was successfully diverted. "Dawn?"

"Yes." Zenobia feigned a yawn.

Within minutes Zenobia found herself undressed and in bed. To her delight, she was alone, for Bab had been allocated a separate small room off her antechamber. She stretched out in the comfortable bed, wiggling her toes in delight beneath the fine silk coverlet, her mind busy with thoughts.

Everyone said she had a choice about this marriage, but the truth was that it was a choice already made. Marriage to Palmyra's prince would make her a woman of property and a person of importance. All she had to do was produce the next ruler of Palmyra. He was a gentle man, the prince. Like her father, he seemed to genuinely care what she felt and what she thought. There was no real choice, and yet was it that terrible a fate? She turned restlessly in her bed, remembering his kisses-and what they had done to her.

In a way those kisses had frightened her, for they had rendered her so helpless. She hadn't known what was expected of her. She had never allowed a man to kiss her before. The young men of her tribe had wanted to often enough, seeking to catch her alone, or entrap her in a tight place; but she had always escaped their seeking mouths, their eager hands, using violence if necessary, for she was no man's toy, and never would be. He had held her gently, tasting of her lips just enough to arouse her curiosity, which, she suspected, was exactly what he had intended. He had touched her nowhere else, and yet she knew from Bab and Tamar's prattle that a man liked to fondle a woman's body. Why hadn't he touched her? Was there something wrong or displeasing about her body?

Wide awake again, Zenobia rose from her bed and walked out onto the portico overlooking the garden and the city. Distracted, she paced back and forth for some minutes. What was wrong with her? To her complete surprise, she was near to tears. Where was her Hawk now? Had he left her at her door only to go to Deliciae's arms? Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away furiously. Why should she care what he did?

"Zenobia?" His voice sounded in her ear and, startled, she cried out. Strong arms wrapped around her, and to her horror she burst into tears, sobbing wildly against his bare chest. He let her cry, and when at last her weeping began to abate he lifted her up in his arms and carried her back into her bedchamber. Sitting on the edge of her couch, he cradled her against him.

"Why do you cry, my little flower? Are you homesick?"

"N-no."

"What is it, then?"

"I thought you had gone to Deliciae."

"I have not sought Deliciae's bed for months. I go to her apartments to see our children. Do not tell on me, though, Zenobia, or you shall ruin my reputation." He was close to laughter-joyous laughter. She cared! She cared enough to weep when she thought him with another woman! Still, he must not press her too closely, though her slim hand caressing the back of his neck was maddening.

"Where did you come from?" she asked him.

"My chambers are next to yours, my flower," came the reply. "The portico is mine to walk upon, too, and I also found it difficult to sleep."

She was suddenly aware of his bare chest, of the fact that he wore nothing but a wrap of cloth about his loins; of the fact that she was practically naked herself in her sheer white cotton chemise. It was something that had not escaped the prince's notice, and he could feel his manhood rising to meet the challenge of her beautiful body. He moved to put her away, but her arms tightened about his neck.

"Zenobia!" His voice held a plea.

"Love me a litde," she said softly.

He shuddered. "Zenobia, my flower, have mercy. I am only a man."

"Love me a little, Hawk," she repeated, and then she moved her body in such a way that her chemise fell open. She shrugged the flimsy garment off her shoulders and it fell to her waist, baring her round full breasts.

The sight was a glorious one, and for a moment he closed his eyes and invoked the gods to aid him. He ached to possess this lovely girl who taunted him so. His hands itched to caress her, but he tried to practice restraint in the face of incredible temptation. Then her hand reached down, caught at one of his, and lifted it up to one of her breasts. "Zenobia!" he groaned. "Zenobia!" But his hand was already responding to the soft, warm flesh beneath it.

"Oh, Hawk," she murmured against his ear, "do you not want me? Even a little?"

"Do you want me?" he managed to gasp. Her breasts were like young pomegranates, firm and full in his hand.

"I hurt," she responded. "Inside of me mere is an awful ache, and I do not understand."

"It is desire you feel, my flower." He let his eyes stray down, catching his bream as he saw me full glory of her breasts. The nipples were large and round, the color of dark honey. He longed to taste me sweetness of her flesh, but now was not the time. He had been quite serious when he had told her he had never made love to a woman who did not care for him.

She would be his wife, but he would give her time to adjust, time to learn to love him. He wanted that love, for he knew that Zenobia had never given her heart, let alone her body, to any man. She was yet a child for all her voluptuousness of form and facility of mind; and it was the woman he looked forward to knowing, a woman that he would help to shape and mold.

He held the girl child, his own desires successfully under control now as he gently caressed her, crooning soft words of comfort in her little ear. His tenderness had the proper effect, and she quieted, soon falling asleep against his shoulder. When her breathing was calm and even he stood and, turning carefully, placed her upon her bed, drawing the silken coverlet over her. He stood for a long minute looking down on her, drinking in her loveliness, and then with a sigh of regret he blew out the lamp and left the room.

He stood out on the portico, gripping the balustrade, his eyes sightless, not even aware that the desert night had grown cool. How long would he have to wait? He wanted this girl by his side. He wanted to share his whole life with her, the burdens as well as the good things. He somehow believed that Zenobia's shoulders were strong enough to bear some of his load. Treading a path between the Romans and his warlike Persian neighbors to the east was not an easy task, especially when he also had his own commercial community to satisfy. It was up to Palmyra to keep the caravans safe.

Then, too, there was the other woman in his life, his mother. The prince grimaced. The only favor Al-Zena had ever done him was to give him life, and even that had been done grudgingly. He had heard the stories of his birth, and how she had fought against becoming a mother right up to the last minute. It had been said that if she had cooperated his birth would have been an easy one; but she had not, and consequently had injured herself, making it impossible to ever have another child. His father had never forgiven her, but then neither of his parents had loved the other. Theirs had been a political marriage, and it was said his mother had resisted the match, being in love with a prince at the Persian court. It was also said that his father had been forced to rape her on their wedding night, and that he had been conceived then.

Both his parents had loved him, but his father had not allowed him much time with Al-Zena. It was not until his father's death that he had come to know her better, but by then he was eighteen, and a man grown. Still, he had recognized her unhappiness; seen what havoc a loveless marriage could bring; and vowed that never would he touch an unwilling woman.

He had even tried to make friends with her, but she became possessive, and even destructive. Consequently he gave lip service to his filial duty, and kept his own counsel. He was clever, though, and so openly solicitous of his mother that she believed she had won him over, and was constantly advising him, attempting to interfere in the government of Palmyra, a task for which she was singularly unsuited. The hardest part of it all was that he had no one to talk to; to share this burden.

The sudden sound of the water clock dripping the minutes away reminded him of the lateness of the hour. Turning, he walked back into his own bedchamber, lay down, and with habit born of great discipline fell quickly asleep.

When the desert dawn came, reaching across the sands with fingers of molten flame, tinting the land apricot and gold, two figures rode from the city, black silhouettes against the colorful morning sky. Odenathus had personally chosen a spirited Arab mare for Zenobia. The mare was white, as was his own big stallion, and newly broken. Zenobia was her first mistress.

"What is her name?" the girl asked as they rode from Palmyra.

"She has none as yet, my flower. It will be up to you to name her, as she is my first gift to you."

"She is mine?" Her voice was incredulous with delight.

"She is yours," he repeated, letting his eyes stray to her long legs, bare beneath her short chiton. He was going to have to do something about that, for he wanted no man ogling those lovely legs.

"I am going to call her Al-ula," Zenobia said happily.

He smiled, and nodded his approval. Al-ula meant "the first" in the Arabic tongue. "It is a good name, and you're clever to think of it, my flower."

"What is your stallion called?"

"Ashur, the warlike one," he replied.

"And is he warlike?"

"I am unable to keep any other stallions in my stables. He has already killed two. Now I keep but geldings and mares."

"I'll race you," she challenged him.

"Not today, my flower. Al-ula is but newly broken, and will need time to become used to you. Besides, I must return, for I have a full schedule today."

"May I come with you? It will be far more interesting than chatting with the women. I am not used to sitting about doing nothing but painting my toenails and soaking in a perfumed tub."

He chuckled sympathetically. "When you are my wife you may come with me, Zenobia."

"Hades!" She realized she would be forced to remain in the women's quarters, caught between Al-Zena and Deliciae.

He read her thoughts, and chuckled at her discomfiture. "Ah, my poor flower, caught between the wasp and the butterfly."

"How did you know what I was thinking?" she demanded.

"The look on your face was stronger than any words you could have spoken," he replied. "If you become my wife, Zenobia, I will not pen you in a harem, I promise you. You will be free to come and go as you please, for I will do what no Prince of Palmyra has ever done for his princess. I will make you my equal."

"I don't want to live in the women's quarters," she said suddenly. "If I become your wife, I want my own house within the palace. I would choose my own servants, and purchase my own slaves. I want no spies in my household."

She drew her mare to a halt. The sun was now risen, and the sky was bright blue and cloudless for as far as the eye could see. Following her lead, he stopped his stallion, and turned to face her.

"I am unschooled at playing games, Hawk," she said quietly. "Let us be frank with each other. You wish to marry me, and my father has agreed to it, but how soon depends on me for both you and my father have understood my need to accept this marriage. My father believes that you are the right man for me, and because of the great love he bore my mother he would have me happy. I am fortunate. Not many men would understand my feelings.

"I am also fortunate in his choice of a husband for me, for you, too, understand that I cannot be fettered. I must be free! You have been kind to me, and I believe that I am beginning to care for you. The things that I shall ask of you will not be difficult."

"I understand," he answered her, "and you may have anything that is within my power to give you, Zenobia."

"Ah, Hawk, you make very rash promises," she teased. "One should never agree to anything until one has heard all the terms."

"Would you teach me, my flower?"

"Can you not learn from a woman?" came the sharp retort.

"Do you love me a little?" he demanded.

"Do you love me, Hawk?"

"I think I fell in love with you on the day your mother was killed. You were so confused, and hurt and frightened. I wanted to reach out then, and hold you in my arms; but I was Prince of Palmyra, and you but the child of my cousin. It was not meet that I comfort you greatly, though I wanted to, Zenobia."

She was very surprised by this confession, and quite pleased as well. Still, he must not be allowed to become sure of her. Both Tamar and Bab said that a woman should never allow a man to become too confident. "I hope you are not going to tell me you spent the three and a half years since my mother's death pining for me, for I shall not believe you, Hawk."

"I forgot completely about you, my flower," he said bluntly, pleased with the outraged gasp that followed his statement. The little minx was suddenly too sure of herself; and had his father not warned him never to let a woman become too confident?

"Then how can you say you love me?!"

"I loved the child that day, and when I saw the lovely girl she had become, I fell in love all over again. I will never lie to you, Zenobia. I love you." He reached out and took her hand in his. "Oh, my flower, I do love you. Have pity on this poor prince who would lay his heart and his kingdom at your feet! When are we to wed?"

"Just a little time," she pleaded.

"I cannot wait long, Zenobia. I am a lonely man, and I long to have you by my side to love, to talk with, to share with."

He could have said nothing more calculated to win her over. "I will marry you as soon as the priests permit," she answered him, and when his eyebrows lifted in surprise at her sudden decision, she smiled. "You need me, my Hawk. Have you not just said it? Our marriage has been a fact since you and my father agreed upon it. Only the date has remained in doubt. Logic tells me if I was distressed by the thought of your being with Deliciae last night, then I must love you a little, even if I cannot admit it to my self yet."

"Oh, Zenobia," he said, "I wonder at the woman you will become!"

"Why should you wonder?" she laughed. "You will be here to see.

He, too, laughed. "So I shall, my flower. So I shall!" Then, turning his horse back toward the city, he said, "It is time we returned, Zenobia. I will not race you, but let us gallop a way so Al-ula may show you her paces."

Before his words had died on the wind she wheeled the mare about and was off. Surprised-she was always surprising him- he put spurs to Ashur and followed her. Together they thundered down the barely visible desert road leading back to Palmyra, the horses' hooves stirring up tiny puffs of yellow dust. He watched her, bent low over her mount, tendrils of her wind-loosened hair blowing about her face. What a glorious creature she was! This girl-woman who was so soon to be his wife.

As they came through the main entry into the large courtyard, the guards at the palace gates were hard pressed not to grin at one another in pure delight. Leaping lightly from her mount, Zenobia cried out triumphantly, "I beat you!"

"We weren't racing," he replied.

"Weren't we?" Her gaze was mocking, but then she turned and, again laughing a soft provocative laugh, ran into the building.

He felt a quickening in his loins, and then he chuckled. Their wedding day could not come soon enough to suit him. Despite his crowded day, he intended seeing Zabaai ben Selim before the sun set, and settling with him the details of his betrothal to Zenobia. A public announcement would be made the next day, and then the little minx would be committed. Purposefully he strode across the courtyard to his own section of the palace. Soon, he thought, soon my flower, and then neither of us shall ever be lonely again, for we shall have each other forever. Forever. He liked the sound of the word.

3

Palmyra, queen city of the Eastern Empire, lay almost halfway between the equally ancient city of Baghdad and the blue Mediterranean sea. It was said to have been founded by Solomon, a fact of which the Palmyrans were mightily proud. Built upon and around the great oasis where the major caravan routes between east and west crossed, it was the city through which all the riches of the world passed en route west to Europe or east to Persia, Cathay, and the Indies. Greeks and Romans, Syrians and Jews, Arab merchants of all tribes gathered here, building great storehouses and warehouses in which safely to keep the silks, carpets, spices, ivory, jewels, grain, and dates that passed through their hands. They built luxurious villas in which to house their families, as well as their concubines, for as all inanimate valuables arrived in Palmyra so did the choicest of the world's slaves.

The architects of the city had a passion for columns, and all the major buildings were adorned with them. About the central courtyard of one temple were raised three hundred seventy graceful colonnades; and upon projecting stones half way up each column stood statues of Palmyra's most famous men. The city's main avenue was lined on each side with two rows of pillars, seven hundred and fifty to a side; and the Temple of Jupiter had a mile-long colonnade consisting of fifteen hundred Corinthian columns.

The city had been built for merchants by a wise king, and a thousand years later it was still firmly controlled by commercial interests. The main business and shopping streets were all covered over, so even in the heat of a summer noon one could conduct his business in relative comfort. Although not prone to attack due to its inaccessible location, Palmyrans had raised around the city a wall seven miles long, to discourage the boldness of desert raiders.

This was the kingdom over which Zenobia bat Zabaai would soon reign as wife to its prince. Zabaai ben Selim was suddenly and for the first time really considering the serious responsibility he was placing upon his only daughter's shoulders. He sat comfortably in Odenathus's private library, a carved alabaster goblet of fine Cyrenean wine clutched in his hand. Behind him, a deaf-mute black slave plied a large woven palm fan, creating just enough breeze to ease the still heat of the late afternoon.

As he had come into the city today he had looked at it as if for the first time in his entire life. When one is used to something, one sees with dulled eyes, he thought. He had been born here on this oasis, and the city had always been a part of his life. Today he had really looked, and what he had seen made him think. It was not just the magnificent architecture of the city, but the marvelous parks kept green by the oasis's underground springs that suddenly stunned Zabaai. The intellect behind the creation of the city was overwhelming.

Zenobia, he knew, would not be content simply to be an ornament and a broodmare. What part would she play, he wondered, in the government of this city? Palmyran princesses were famed for their beauty, not their administrative abilities. He shook his head wearily. Had his ambition for his beloved child outstripped his good sense?"

"Zabaai, my cousin!" Odenathus hurried into the room, his white robes whirling about him. "Forgive me for keeping you waiting."

"I have been comfortable in these pleasant surroundings, my lord Prince."

"I have asked you here so we may discuss the terms of this marriage before I call in the scribes. What will you give as dowry?"

"I shall give a thousand pure-bred goats, five hundred white and five hundred black. There will be two hundred and fifty fighting camels; and a hundred Arabian horses; not to mention jewelry, clothing, household goods, and the deed to her mother's house."

The prince was astounded by the magnificence of Zenobia's dowry. Never had he suspected that it would be so large; but then her father could easily afford it, for his herds were enormous.

The dowry agreement was drawn up by the prince's scribe, who set his quill flying across the parchment as each point was stated. A transfer of goods between the bride's father and her husband would make Odenathus Zenobia's legal lord according to the Bedawi laws; but the prince was Hellenized, as had been Zenobia's mother and the bride herself. They would be married in the atrium of Zabaai's home, the exact date depending on the omens to be taken this very evening by the temple priests.

Al-Zena was sent for, and she and the prince's Greek secretary witnessed the signing of the document of betrothal and the formal words in which Odenathus said to his future father-in-law, "Do you promise to give me your daughter as wife?"

"May the gods grant their blessing. I promise," Zabaai said.

"May the gods grant their blessing!" Odenathus finished.

"So," Al-Zena said sourly, "you are really going to do it."

"You disapprove of this match, my Princess?"

"Do not be offended, Zabaai ben Selim. I think your daughter a sweet child, but I cannot see the necessity for my son to marry. He already has children."

"Palmyra has never been governed by a bastard line," came the sharp reply. "Surely you must know the law."

Odenathus hid a smile as his mother, very discomfited, replied stiffly, "You have always been most outspoken, Zabaai ben Selim. I can only hope your daughter does not take after you."

"Zenobia is herself. She will be a credit to the city."

"Indeed!" Al-Zena snapped, and she turned and abruptly left the library.

Zabaai ben Selim smiled blandly at the prince, and said, "You will want to see Zenobia before we leave." It was a statement.

"Leave?" The prince was somewhat taken aback.

"Now that the betrothal is official, my lord, Zenobia must return home. She cannot stay here in the palace under the circumstances. She will return on her wedding day. You may not see each other until then."

"But I thought we might spend this time getting to know one another better," he protested, disappointed.

"Alas, custom demands we be discreet," came the reply.

"Whose customs?" Odenathus demanded.

"Ancient Bedawi customs, my Lord," was the silken answer. "There will be plenty of time for you and my daughter to get to know one another after the wedding."

"I will have the priests from the Temple of Jupiter sacrifice a lamb this very night to determine the date," the prince said. "But first I will go to Zenobia, and bid her farewell."

"I will await your return, my Lord." Settling back in his chair, Zabaai held out his goblet for the slave to refill. He watched with dancing dark eyes as the young man hurried from the room. How very eager he was, and a brief separation would whet his appetite even further for this marriage. Al-Zena might carp and complain, but Zabaai wagered with himself that Odenathus's few sweet memories of Zenobia would spur him eagerly on toward their wedding day.

Odenathus did not go directly to the apartments where Zenobia was housed. First he stopped at his treasury; walking into the roomy jewelry vault, he carefully selected a ring that would be his betrothal gift to his future wife. It was not a hard choice, for he had seen the ring months before when it had been discovered by his treasurer in a rotting leather bag, hidden on a back shelf. The treasurer had been quite excited, saying that the ring was one sent to King Solomon from Sheba's queen as a token of her affection, and was catalogued in the ancient records of the treasury.

Having made his choice, the prince hurried to find Zenobia. He was met, however, in the apartment's anteroom by Bab. The older woman looked him up and down, nodding approvingly. "She is just come from her bath, Highness. If you will wait but a minute my lady will be fit to receive you."

"My thanks, Bab," Odenathus replied courteously. He instinctively liked this small round woman in her simple robe, her graying hair hidden beneath its veil. Her face was brown from the desert sun, and there were deep laugh lines carved about her black eyes and on either side of her mouth.

"You will be good for my child," the woman said with the quiet assurance of a beloved servant.

"I already love her, Bab. I want her to be happy."

"Be firm, my lord. Firm, but gentle."

"Can one be firm with Zenobia?" he teased.

Bab chuckled appreciatively, but before she could answer Zenobia entered the room. Odenathus's eyes were immediately riveted to the girl, oblivious to all else. Smiling, Bab slipped from the room and left the lovers alone.

He could scarce take his eyes from her, flushed and rosy from the bath, the faint hyacinth scent clinging to her unbound hair, her simple white tunic. For a moment he stood powerless to move. Then he heard her voice: "My lord?" The spell broken, he reached out and pulled her almost roughly into his arms. One arm held her firmly against his hungry body, the other hand tangled in her soft hair, drawing her head to his. Bending, he let his lips brush hers lightly, and was satisfied to feel a faint tremor rush through her.

"Oh, Zenobia," he murmured, kissing the corners of her mouth, her closed and fluttering eyelids. Then his lips found hers, and as his kisses deepened her arms slipped up and about his neck; her lithe young body pressed as hungrily against his. Enchanted by her budding passion, he ran his tongue over her lips, which parted instinctively. Tenderly he explored the fragrant cavity of her mouth; the hand that had earlier held her head now moved to caress her breasts.

The ache that had so mysteriously materialized the night before reappeared to taunt her. It swept over her from out of nowhere, leaving her breathless and confused. His thumb rubbed insistently against the already stiff peaks of her nipples, and she wanted to cry with the strange pleasure that it gave her. It was so new, so wonderful, this marvelous sensation that was called love.

After what seemed the briefest eternity he released her, and for a moment she swayed dangerously, but finally her head cleared and she grew steady once more. She heard his voice coming at her from what seemed a long way off, but the words were clear.

"Your father and I have signed a formal betrothal agreement, my flower; but Zabaai says you must leave the palace before the public announcement is made tomorrow. We cannot see each other until our wedding day."

"But why?!" she burst out, disappointed.

"Custom, he says."

For a minute her lips clamped shut, and then she said, "It must be as my father has decreed."

Her obedience pleased him. "I have brought you the traditional gift," he said, taking her left hand up and placing the ring upon the third finger, whose nerve it was said ran directly to the heart.

Zenobia stared down at the large round black pearl in its simple gold setting. "It is… incredible," she said softly. "I have never possessed such a ring."

"My treasurer says that it is listed in a catalogue of gifts sent from the Queen of Sheba to Solomon when he was here in Palmyra overseeing the construction of the city. I knew that it would be perfect for you, my flower. It glows against the warm apricot tint of your skin!" He turned over her hand, which he had yet to relinquish, and placed a tender kiss upon the palm, sending delighted little tingles down Zenobia's spine.

Suddenly shy, she withdrew her hand from his.

His mouth captured hers again in a swift kiss. "Oh, my Zenobia!" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "So sure of herself in everything but love. I will teach you to understand those feelings that assail you, and even frighten you a little. I will teach you to love, and be loved in return. There will be no fear or hesitation between us, my flower, and we will trust each other only." His lips caressed hers lightly once more. "I love you, Zenobia. I love you!"

She had never come so close to fainting in her entire life and, clinging to him childlike, she whispered breathlessly, "I love you also, my Hawk. I do!" Saying the words seemed to bring a strange relief.

Neither of them heard the door to the antechamber open.

"And are you ready to leave yet, my daughter?" Zabaai ben Selim stood there, smiling benignly.

Almost guiltily, they sprang apart and, blushing, Zenobia said, "I must change into my chiton, Father."

"No," Odenathus replied. "I will return you to your home in a litter. I would prefer that you did not ride with bare legs for all to see."

To Zabaai ben Selim's surprise, Zenobia bowed her head in assent, and moved to his side. "I am ready then, Father."

The Bedawi chief could only think to say, "Bab will come later with your things, my daughter," but she was already moving past him and out the door.

"I will send you word as to the date of the wedding late tonight, my cousin," the prince said, and the Bedawi chief nodded his assent as he followed his daughter from the room.

Just before sunset in the Temple of Jupiter, the high priest slaughtered a pure white lamb. After gazing at the smoking entrails, he announced that the most propitious time for the nuptials would be but ten days hence. Receiving word from the royal messenger, Zabaai ben Selim smiled to himself, wondering how large a gift Odenathus had donated to the temple in order to receive such a desirable verdict concerning the date of his marriage.

The coming celebration was announced to the public the following day, and the citizens of Palmyra rejoiced.

In the Roman governor's palace, Antonius Porcius Blandus, still the empire's representative, took the news less cheerfully. "Hades!" he said in an annoyed voice to his visitor. "I had hoped he would remain satisfied with his little Greek concubine. Had he died without a legitimate heir, Rome might have the city completely and unopposed."

"We have the city," the governor's visitor said. "As long as Palmyra has a legitimate ruler there is always a chance of uprising," Antonius Porcius retorted.

"I had been led to believe that Odenathus is totally loyal to Rome," was the reply.

"Oh, he is loyal. It is his bride that I fear. What a vixen he has picked, Marcus Alexander! Zenobia bat Zabaai; half Alexandrian Greek and Egyptian; half Bedawi savage. Some Gaulish auxiliary Alae murdered her mother four years ago, and she has hated the Romans with a passion ever since."

"Small wonder," the other man murmured.

"You do not know this girl!" the governor protested. "She sat in the midst of the men who were responsible, and for over eighteen hours she watched them die. She was but a child, and yet she sat as still and as cold as a statue as she watched their agony. There was no pity in her! A man in love is a fickle creature, and Odenathus is, I am told, totally enamored. She could influence him against us."

"I think you put too much importance on the marriage of a petty princeling and a half-caste girl, Antonius Porcius. No girl will defeat and destroy the empire. There have been men who tried, and they have all failed. Rome is, and will always be, invincible."

The governor sighed. Why was it that Romans never understood? Antonius Porcius thought bitterly. I know the East and its peoples. Unless love has softened that hard-eyed child I remember, she will bear watching.

He turned his attention to his dinner guest, Marcus Alexander Britainus, the wealthy son of a Roman patrician and his British wife. Lucius Alexander Britainus had been a Roman governor in Britain who had married a powerful local chieftain's daughter. Marcus Alexander was their eldest son. A younger son, Aulus, had already inherited his maternal grandfather's estates and responsibilities in Britain. There were two sisters, Lucia and Eusebia, who were married to prominent Romans, and already settled matrons.

Marcus Alexander was not married. He had already served in the army; and now he was coming to Palmyra to set up a trading business that would bring the goods of the East to Britain, where his younger brother would market them. A strange business for the son of an eminent Roman. Patricians usually amused themselves in lighter pursuits. Still, the early Romans had been diligent and industrious. The governor could not help but wonder if, in addition to his business, Marcus Alexander would be the government's unofficial eyes and ears.

There had been talk of allowing Prince Odenathus to govern for Rome when he, Antonius, retired in a few years. Although the prince still ran the city, with the exception of minor judicial matters it was all done under the governor's direction. The young Palmyran ruler had proved extremely friendly and trustworthy, and why not, thought Antonius Porcius. Roman legions kept the Persians at bay. Rome, however, was not apt to allow Odenathus totally free rein. There would be someone sent to watch, and the governor suspected that Marcus Alexander was that person. By the time Odenathus was given alleged control, Marcus Alexander would be a part of Palmyran life, and no one would suspect him at all. Never in all the history of Rome-either as republic or empire-had the Alexander family been implicated in any kind of disloyalty. They were Romans first and always.

Marcus was an attractive man, thought the governor, although he had inherited his British mother's coloring and height. He was tall by any standards, measuring several inches over six feet. His hair was the warm, burnished color of a chestnut; his eyes a bright, almost startling blue, rimmed in outrageously thick lashes of the same color as his hair. He had a firm and well-muscled body, in proportion with his great height. He was obviously not a man who lolled about the banquet table, his only exercise the lifting of a wine goblet. Antonius Porcius could not help but notice Marcus Alexander's hands. They were large and square, yet the fingers were slender and tapering. The hands bespoke power, but at the same time gentleness.

The governor had not a moment's doubt that the women of Palmyra would flock to the newcomer's bed, for the attractive body was topped by a handsome face of classic elegance. Marcus Alexander might have his British antecedents' size and coloring, but he had his father's features. The face was oval with a squared-off chin and jawline. The forehead was high, the nose pure Roman, long and aquiline; the piercing blue eyes were set well apart; the mouth was sensuously big and yet the lips were narrow, then-expression faintly mocking, faintly amused.

Those lips now spoke. "You are staring, Antonius Porcius. Is there something amiss?"

"What? No, no, Marcus Alexander! Nothing is wrong. I was simply thinking how like your father you are in features. I served with him for a time in Britain. Wretched climate, Britain! I could never get warm there."

"And here in Palmyra I'll wager you can never get cool," came the teasing reply.

The governor chuckled drily. "These old bones of mine prefer the heat of the East to the damp of Britain and Gaul."

Marcus Alexander swished the Falernian wine about in his goblet. "Do you really think this marriage will be a dangerous thing for Rome?" He paused, then said quietly, "Perhaps the girl should be eliminated before the event even takes place."

Antonius Porcius felt an icy chill sweep over him. He chose his words carefully. "Zenobia bat Zabaai does not like Rome, or Romans, it is true; but I suspect that you are correct. She is but a slip of a girl. What real harm can she do an empire? She will be kept busy in her husband's bed, and in the nursery for many years to come; and then she will be so busy with her grandchildren that her life will be gone before she has time to think of revenging against Rome for her mother's death. I am growing old, Marcus Alexander, and sometimes see shadows where none exist." And, thought the governor, I certainly do not want that girl's death on my conscience.

"Better you are too cautious, than not cautious enough. Will you be going to the wedding?"

"Oh, yes! The Palmyrans have long been Hellenized. It will be a traditional Confarreate ceremony celebrated in the atrium of Zabaai ben Selim's house, and after the banquet the bridal procession will wind back through the city to the bride's new home at the palace. It's really no different from Rome."

"Perhaps I shall stand with the crowd outside the bride's house to see her when she leaves," was the reply.

"She is very beautiful," the governor said.

"Perhaps by Eastern standards," Marcus Alexander said. "I, myself, prefer blondes."

"So did Odenathus," Antonius Porcius said, "until he saw Zenobia."

"Indeed?" The governor's guest was thoughtful. "I shall most certainly then want to see the bride, although girls on their wedding day have a glow about them that gives beauty even to the most unattractive of females."

"Then see her before her wedding day," the governor said mischievously. "She has returned to her father's house, and is in the habit of riding in the desert early each morning. Perhaps if you, too, ride early you will see her."

Marcus Alexander was curious, and so the next morning he rose before dawn and followed the caravan road a small distance into the desert. Waiting behind a dune, he watched as the sun began to color the sky and reflect onto the vast sands. His patience was finally rewarded, and his ears pricked at the sound of drumming hoofbeats. Into sight came a magnificent white Arabian, galloping flat-out, along the track; and on the horse's back, low and almost at one with it, was a rider who slowly drew the sweating animal to a halt, then straightened.

Marcus Alexander caught his breath. It was a girl, but what a girl! Long, bare legs; full breasts; and a face that could only be described as the most beautiful he had ever seen. He had never imagined that a woman could be that lovely. When he moved his horse out into view from behind the dune, she turned slowly to gaze at him haughtily. "Good morning," he said.

Zenobia nodded silently to the giant of a man who had so suddenly materialized before her.

"I am Marcus Alexander Britainus, lateiy come to Palmyra."

"I am Zenobia bat Zabaai."

"Do you always ride alone, Zenobia bat Zabaai?"

"Don't you, Marcus Alexander?" was the disconcerting reply.

"I am a man."

"So I have noted. Good morning, Marcus Alexander." She urged her horse forward.

"Wait!" he caught at the white mare's bridle, but Zenobia was faster, and yanked the horse's head away, causing the animal to rear up.

Bringing her mount under control, Zenobia turned her full attention on the man before her. Her gray eyes were almost black in their fury, and her voice, though controlled, was filled with anger. "Never touch an animal I'm riding again, Marcus Alexander! Never! You greeted me, and the laws of hospitality demanded that I do so in return; but I do not like Romans. I especially do not like blue-eyed Romans. Blue-eyed Romans murdered my mother four years ago after they had broken into our home and used her for their pleasure. I ride alone through choice. Now, get out of my way! I wish to ride on."

"Your pardon, Zenobia bat Zabaai. I regret that my personal appearance brings back painful memories for you. I meant no offense, but I am new to Palmyra and, although I enjoy riding, I am not certain I would not get lost in your desert. I merely sought the privilege of riding with you so I might grow familiar with the track."

She felt guilty for her outburst, but she had no intention of either backing down from her stand, or of letting the Roman know that her conscience had been pricked. "It is best that you not ride in the desert without an escort, Marcus Alexander. There are always marauding Persians, or a renegade Bedawi or two looking for a foolish traveler to rob and murder. They do not distinguish between Romans and other peoples, for it makes no difference to them whose throat they slit or whose purse they cut." As she sat stiffly, proudly staring at him, the thought flitted through her mind that he was a very attractive man, perhaps the most handsome man she'd ever seen. Instantly she felt contrite. It was her Hawk who was the most handsome man in the world.

Marcus Alexander had the most incredible urge to lift Zenobia from her horse and kiss that scornful mouth until it softened, but he did not. He could not jeopardize his position in Palmyra, and making love to the prince's bride-to-be would certainly do that. Instead he nodded, and said, "You are probably correct, Zenobia bat Zabaai. I would do well to return to the city immediately." And then, because he could not resist it, he said, "For all I know you are one of those women used to lure the unsuspecting traveler to his doom." It gave him great satisfaction to hear the furious gasp of outrage behind him as he rode off.

A beautiful girl, he thought; a bitter girl-but who could blame her? Antonius Porcius had simply said that Zenobia's mother had been killed by Roman legionnaires. He had said nothing of rape. Poor girl. This was certainly not the time to explain the differences to her between renegade Gauls and Romanized Britons like himself.

He rode a short distance, then turned his head to look back. She had whipped her horse into a gallop, and was tearing across the desert at an incredible speed. Marcus Alexander chuckled to himself. He liked a woman with real spirit.

He worked hard during the next few days, driven by the ex-slave who was to be his right-hand man. Severus had been his tutor as a boy, but when his father offered to free the man, Severus had asked to remain in the service of the Alexander family. It was a request they could not deny, and from that day on, Severus had learned from Lucius Alexander the ways of business. He had arrived in Palmyra two months before Marcus Alexander to purchase a villa and warehouse.

Now Marcus Alexander had to take the reins. Though he strove to concentrate, his mind was constantly being interrupted by visions of a long-legged girl as spirited as the white mare she rode. It came as something of a shock to him to realize that he wanted her, because he could not have her. Marcus Alexander, son of Lucius, wealthy, handsome, and since birth denied nothing within reason, had fallen in love seriously for the first time in his twenty-five years.

As the appointed day for the wedding grew closer, the excitement within the house of Zabaai ben Selim rose to a fever pitch. Though none of Zabaai's women except Tamar had ever paid the slightest attention to Zenobia, all now wanted to help, wanted to take the place of the bride's mother. Each advised her as many times daily as they could get near her; each attempted to choose her manner of dress; and each bitterly resented the interference of the others. Zenobia became as a choice piece of meat to be haggled over by the women in the market. She was finally forced to beg her father to tell his women that she wanted only Tamar to help her. Tamar, who was her friend, would be the bride's mother, and no other. Zenobia was finally left in peace.

On the evening before the marriage Zenobia took the small locket that her mother had given her when she was born, and laid it on the altar of the household gods. These gods had watched over her childhood, but tomorrow that childhood would be gone, never to return, and so she laid upon the altar in solemn sacrifice the last vestige of her early years. Had she been younger she would also have brought her toys, but those had long since been discarded. As she stood quietly in the little family garden that enclosed the altar she prayed for her mother, and wished that by some miracle known only to the gods themselves that Iris would be by her side tomorrow.

Tamar and Bab were both so good to her that she almost felt guilty, but for the first time in many months she missed her mother terribly. It was not so much Iris's golden beauty she recalled, but rather the sweet smell of her perfume; the gentle touch of her hand; the swish of her long skirts when she left Zenobia's room at night. She remembered the beautiful woman who always had time to explain, who hugged easily and without the least hint of embarrassment, who laughed happily to see her daughter and her husband together playing. A tear slipped down Zenobia's cheek, and then another, until her face was wet with sorrow.

Across the garden Bab saw the girl's shoulders shaking with her grief, and made to go to her; but Tamar held her back. "No," said Zabaai ben Selim's surviving wife. "She has never really cried since Iris's death, and she needs to weep. Let her leave her sorrow behind with the rest of her childhood things."

Bab nodded. "You are right, of course, but how I hate to see her hurt. If I could I would shield her from all the evil in life."

"You would do her no favor then, Bab. Zenobia must face everything that comes her way by herself. If she does not know evil when she encounters it, how will she deal with it?"

"I know, I know. Besides, I babble foolishness. Who has ever been able to shield Zenobia from anything?" Bab replied.

"Let us go inside," Tamar replied. "Soon our child will come to try on her wedding garment for luck. She must not know that we have observed her in a private moment."

The two women returned to their quarters and awaited the girl whom they both loved, so they might share this traditional time with her that her own mother could not. Both believed, however, that Iris watched from the paradise within the underworld to which the just are confined.

Sleep was elusive for Zenobia that night. Like any young bride-to-be, she was both fearful and excited about the morrow's events. The tantalizing moments that she had had with the prince those two weeks back had only increased her curiosity. When she finally dozed it was only to awaken with a start, remembering a confused jumble of a dream in which a Roman had gazed upon her with mocking blue eyes. Zenobia sat up trembling, wondering if the shade of her mother's murderer had come to haunt her on this the night before her marriage. Then she remembered the Roman, Marcus Alexander Britainus, whom she had met in the desert a few days earlier. He had been the man in her dream. Puzzled, she wondered why she had dreamed of him. With a confused little shake of her head she lay back down to rest, and fell into a light sleep.

In the hour before dawn the public augur arrived, and a young ewe was sacrificed. The omens were considered most favorable. The house of Zabaai ben Selim was decorated with a multitude of flowers; the boughs of palm trees; colorful bands of wool that had been entwined about the pillars; and exquisite tapestries hung all about the atrium, where the ceremony would take place. Before first light, the guests began arriving.

In her bedchamber, aided by Tamar and Bab, Zenobia completed the final preparations. She had already bathed and washed her lovely black hair, which was now divided into six locks with a spear-shaped comb. This was an ancient custom dating from the time when marriage by capture was the rule rather than the exception. These locks were carefully coiled, and held in place with ribbons of silver lamé.

The wedding gown was a white tunic of gossamer silk, woven by Tamar and Bab. The straight garment was made from a single piece of cloth, and fell to Zenobia's feet which were shod in silver sandals. The tunic was fastened around the waist with a band of wool tied in the knot of Hercules, for Hercules was the guardian of wedded life. When he became Zenobia's husband only Odenathus would be privileged to untie this knot. Over her tunic the bride wore a flame-colored veil; atop her head was a wreath of sweet, white freesia.

Downstairs, the groom had arrived with his mother and friends. He wore a silver-bordered white toga, and was given a wreath of white freesia, matching his bride's, for his head. The augur formally pronounced the omens as favorable, the wedding was ready to begin.

Zenobia was brought forward by Tamar, who had been chosen as pronuba for the ceremony. Zabaai's wife then joined the bride and groom's hands before the guests, and Zenobia spoke the words of her consent to this marriage. She spoke them three times, once in Latin, once in Greek, and once in the Aramaic dialect of her tribe, so that everyone in the room might understand:

"When and where you are Gaius; I then and there am Gaia."

Now the high priest from the Temple of Jupiter led the couple to the left of the household altar and, facing it, they were seated on stools covered with the skin of the sheep sacrificed earlier. Then a bloodless offering of a wheat cake was made to Jupiter by the high priest. A second cake was eaten by the bride and groom. Next the high priest recited prayers to Juno, goddess of marriage, and to the gods of the countryside and its fruits. The utensils necessary for the offering were carried in a covered basket by a boy called a camillus, whose parents were both living. Zenobia had chosen for this important role her young nephew, Zabaai ben Akbar.

As the ceremony concluded the guests cried "Feliciter!” meaning good luck and happiness. Odenathus turned Zenobia to face him. Seeing him for the first time since she had left the palace almost two weeks ago, she felt shy and blushed. There was a hum of approval by those close enough to see.

Gently he kissed her on the forehead. "I have missed you, my flower," he said so only she might hear.

"I have missed you, Hawk."

It was the only private moment they would get for many hours to come. A lavish wedding feast had been planned, and it would last until evening. Knowing what was expected of her, Zenobia took her new husband's hand, and together they led the guests into Zabaai's magnificent outdoor dining room in the back garden of the villa. Here, dining couches and tables had been set up around a tiled court with a center fountain that shot a spray of water from the mouth of a marvelous golden sea dragon who writhed in the center of the fountain. The bride and groom shared a couch at the center table while the other guests were seated according to the order of their importance.

The meal was divided into three parts. The appetizers consisted of asparagus in oil and vinegar, tuna and sliced egg on beds of lettuce, oysters that had been brought overland packed in snow, and thrushes, roasted a golden brown and set upon beds of cress, all on silver platters decorated with apricots and ripe olives. The second course offered loin of goat, legs of baby lamb, roasted chickens, ducks both domestic and wild, hare, great bowls of vegetables such as green beans, young cabbage sprouts, cauliflower imported from Europe, lettuce and onions, radishes and cucumbers, olives both green and ripe. There were loaves of bread, round and hot from the ovens.

When the main part of the meal had been cleared away crystal bowls of almonds and pistachios were set upon all the tables along with platters of green and golden pears, red and purple plums, peaches, apricots, cherries, pomegranates, grapes black, purple, and green. There were sticky honey cakes shaped like butterflies and wrapped about chopped nuts and poppy seeds. A wedding cake filled with raisins and currants was served, and pieces of this cake were distributed to all the guests to take home for luck.

Throughout the meal a mixture of water and wine had been served, but as the desserts were being offered rich red wine was poured and repoured into eager goblets. As the diners became more boisterous the entertainers appeared. There were wrestlers, jugglers, dancing dogs, and dancing girls who were very well received indeed. The late morning had melted into afternoon, and now suddenly evening had come. The most important part of the wedding was about to take place. It was essential to the validity of a marriage that the bride be escorted publicly to her husband's house with much ceremony and pomp.

All afternoon the crowds had been gathering outside of Zabaai ben Selim's house, and along the route that would be taken by the couple on their way back to the prince's palace. Now with the arrival of the torchbearers and the flute players the procession began to form. Bab had already gone on ahead to the palace, and Zenobia had earlier bid the rest of her father's household a proper farewell. The marriage hymn was sung by all the guests, and Odenathus pretended to take Zenobia by force from Tamar's protective embrace. The bride then took her place of honor in the procession, attended by her three youngest brothers, two of whom walked beside her, holding her hands. The eldest of the three lit the way ahead with the wedding torch of hawthorn.

Before the procession moved off into the street Zabaai ben Selim spoke low to his daughter: "Remember we are your family. If you need us, Zenobia, you have but to call."

She smiled a radiant smile at him. "I will remember, and pray the gods I never have need of your offer, my father."

"It is best to be prepared," was his reply.

"Come, my flower." Odenathus was by her side, smiling. She smiled back happily, and the procession was off. Across the street in the crowd of well-wishers Marcus Alexander watched as Zenobia moved away. She was as beautiful as he had remembered, and for the first time in his life he felt envy for another man, envy for the Prince of Palmyra who would soon untie the knot of Hercules on Zenobia's wedding dress and then spend the rest of the night making love to that exquisite creature. Would he be gentle, or would he fall on the girl like a beast and frighten her? He sighed. He would be gentle. He would caress that softer-than-silk skin- somehow Marcus Alexander knew Zenobia's skin would be soft- until a fire raged within that beautiful body. A fire to be possessed, and to possess.

Seeing the look of longing on Marcus Alexander's face, Severus realized with shock that his master had fallen in love with the new Princess of Palmyra.

There was no time to ponder it, for the crowd was joining in the procession, already beginning to sing songs full of coarse jests and double entendres as they accompanied the bride through the city to her new home. It was the same everywhere, Severus thought, not at all shocked. Princess, patrician, or commoner were all escorted with the same vulgar songs. At the first crossroads they came to, Zenobia dropped a coin in offering to the gods of that place. A second coin she presented to Odenathus as symbol of the dowry she brought him, and a third she kept to put upon the altar of her new home's household gods. As they moved along, the crowds scrambled to obtain some of the sweetmeats, sesame cakes, and nuts that the prince scattered along his route, a traditional prayer for his wife's fertility.

It seemed as if the entire city had joined in the procession by the time they reached the palace. At the main gate Zenobia stopped and wound the doorposts with wool, symbol of her duties as mistress of the house; and anointed the door with oil and fat, emblems of plenty. Odenathus then picked her up and carefully carried her across the threshold, gently setting her back on her feet within the great atrium of the palace. A final time Zenobia said, "When and where you are Gaius; I then and there am Gaia." The doors were then closed.

Before the invited guests, Odenathus offered Zenobia fire and water in token of their new life together. Taking the marriage torch from him, Zenobia put it to the wood laid upon the atrium hearth, and then tossed the now dead torch among her guests, who scrambled eagerly for the lucky item. She then recited a prayer to the gods thanking them for her good fortune, and begging them that she be fruitful. Tamar, still in her role as pronuba, led Zenobia to the marriage couch, an ornamental piece of furniture that was always placed in the atrium on the night of the marriage and remained there afterward. This was the signal for all guests to leave, and shortly the bridal couple were alone.

For a few moments they stood in silence. Then the prince said, "Are you tired, my flower?"

"Yes."

"Then we shall go to bed."

"Here?" He heard the panic in her voice as her gaze swept the large, open atrium, finally lighting on the large and gilded marriage couch.

"No, not here, Zenobia." He kept his voice steady and even to reassure her. "You have your own house within the palace grounds. We will go there now, for it is there you and I shall live together."

"Is Bab there?"

“Not tonight, my flower. Tonight we will be alone."

"Oh." Her voice was very small, and her hand very cold when he took it to lead her off.

"I hope you will be pleased with your house, my flower. It is not overly large, for I did not think you would want a large home. Every workman, craftsman, and artisan in the city has worked for the last two weeks to build you your house."

"It is new? Oh, Hawk! I did not mean for you to go to so much trouble."

"I wanted you to have a house that was your very own, my love. The structure is of sun-dried brick sheathed on the outside with white marble. It is a simple house, but it is two stories. There is an atrium in the front so you may receive guests, a library for me to work in, a dining room facing south that we will use in winter, and one facing north for the summer. We need no banquet hall, for the palace has several of those. There is also a kitchen on the main floor, and one good-sized room I thought you might enjoy using for yourself as well as a comfortable chamber for Bab. I thought she might enjoy being on the ground floor with not so many stairs to climb.

"The bedchambers are on the second floor along with the baths. I have chosen only a minimum amount of furniture because I thought that you might enjoy choosing your own things from the bazaars. As for slaves, you will choose your own; but for the next few days it is only necessary that Bab serve us."

They had exited the main palace, and now walked through vast gardens, already moonlit and filled with small night creatures tuning up with song. They turned onto a graveled path lined in Palmyran palms, and at its end she saw a lovely small palace. As they reached its open doors he once more picked her up, and carried her over the threshold. But once inside, he did not put her down. Instead he walked through the atrium to the passageway that hid the stairs, and carried her up to a bedchamber, where he deposited her in the middle of the floor.

"Help me with this damned toga," he said quietly. Surprised, she obeyed. "I hate togas, but high state occasions demand I wear them."

Silently she took the garment and laid it carefully on a chair, as she was unfamiliar with the room and did not know where the storage chests were kept. He sat down and bent to unlace his sandals. Quickly she hurried over, and knelt to aid him, sliding the sandals off, quietly admiring his graceful feet. She started at the touch of his hand on her head.

"You don't have to take my sandals off, my flower."

"I want to," she replied. "I will not always be the sort of wife you want, my Hawk, but these small things I will do for you, and as long as I do, you will know that I love you."

His hand reached down to cup her chin and raise her head up. For a long moment he stared into those beautiful, calm gray eyes, and then his lips but brushed hers, sending a little tingle through her. She lowered her eyes shyly only to become suddenly aware that he now wore only a short tunica interior. Zenobia stared fascinated at her husband's muscled and shapely legs. They were long and smooth and tanned. Amused, he watched her for a moment. He could almost sense that she wanted to touch him, but was yet afraid.

He stood up, drawing her with him, his hands going to the knot of Hercules that was tied about the waist of her wedding dress. For several moments he struggled with it, muttering under his breath as the knot's puzzle eluded him, "Who in Hades tied this thing?"

Zenobia giggled. "Tamar."

"She obviously didn't want me to unfasten it. Ah, mere!" He drew the wool band off, and the tunic hung loose. Wordlessly he drew it over her head, and put it on the same chair that held his toga, adding her tunica interior before she realized he was taking it. She stood, stunned, as he knelt and drew off her silver sandals. Standing back up, he carefully undid the ribbons that held her long curls, reaching out to take up her brush, which lay set out on a nearby table. He turned her about, and slowly brushed her hair free of its tangles, admiring its sheen and its length, which ended at the base of her spine.

Turning her about again, he set her back from him and stood gazing upon her nude beauty. Surprised by his firm action, and stunned to find herself naked before a man, Zenobia stood quietly under his inspection for several long moments. She had absolutely no idea what he expected of her-if indeed he expected anything other than compliance. Having studied her quite thoroughly from the front, the prince walked slowly around his new wife, viewing her from every possible angle.

"My lord," Zenobia whispered, half-afraid. "What do you want of me?"

Roused from his reverie, he realized her discomfort and gently drew her into his arms. "Zenobia," he said softly, his voice strangely thick to her ear, "I have seen many beautiful women in my time, but never have I seen a woman as perfect, as flawless as you, my flower."

"Then you want me?"

"Want you?! The words were almost strangled in his throat. "I have wanted you for weeks now, you little idiot!"

"I think I want you," she said softly, and he laughed.

"How can you know what you want, my little virgin bride? I am the only man who has ever touched you, but you liked it, Zenobia. Oh yes, my flower, you liked it. Just now when you knelt to take my sandals off you wanted to touch me."

She blushed. "How could you know that?"

"Because I am a man, and I know women." He smoothed his hand down her back beneath her hair to caress and fondle a buttock. Surprised, she jumped, and he murmured against her ear, "No, my flower, don't be frightened. I know how innocent you are, and we will go slowly. There should never be haste between a man and a woman, only time to enjoy." His hand tipped her face up to his, and he tenderly kissed her. "I love you, Zenobia, Princess of Palmyra." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I love your pride and your independence." He kissed her eyelids, which had closed at his first sweet assault. "I love your beauty and your innocence, but most of all I love just you, my little desert flower. I should not have married you had I not loved you." Bending slightly, he swung her up in his arms and carried her across the room to lay her on their marriage bed.

Her heart was hammering wildly in her ears and her eyes were shut tight; but she heard his voice teasingly say, "I have studied you most carefully, my darling, and now I offer you the same opportunity." She heard the rustle of cloth as he drew off his interior tunic. "Open your eyes, Zenobia," he commanded her, and there was laughter in his voice. "A man's body is nothing to fear. If anything it is amusing, for it has not the beauty of form that a woman's has. I, however, think I am rather pretty as far as men go."

A small giggle escaped her, but her eyes remained closed.

"Zenobia!" His voice was mock-stern. "Open your eyes! I command it!"

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. "I will not be commanded, Hawk!" And then her gray eyes widened, and she gasped. "Ohh!"

Mischievously he grinned down at her. "Am I not pleasing to your eye, my flower?" He posed himself, parodying the athletes in the arena.

She was unable to take her eyes from his body. He was an inch or two taller than she was, and he was beautifully formed. His legs were long, the calves and thighs firm and shapely. He had a narrow waist that fanned upward into a broad chest and wide shoulders. His arms were long and muscled and he had slender hands and long fingers. His body was tanned and smooth, and looking at it now, she was again overcome by the desire to caress him as he had caressed her two weeks earlier. She had carefully kept her eyes averted from his sex, but now she let her eyes slide downward, color flooding her cheeks at her daring. To her surprise, the beast she had been half fearful of was nothing more than a gentle creature nestling small and soft upon its dark, furred bed.

Again he sensed her thoughts. "It only grows large when I desire you."

"You said you wanted me!" she accused.

"I do want you, my flower, but wanting and desiring are two different things. The wanting is in my head and my heart. The desire comes from my body."

He stretched out next to her on the bed. "There has been no time for desire this day." Reaching out, he drew her to him. "No time until now, Zenobia," and then his mouth was covering hers, tasting and possessing until with a great shudder she gave herself up to his building passion.

She had never expected a man's mouth to be so tender. It gently commanded her, and she obeyed, parting her lips to receive his velvety tongue, which stroked hers until suddenly she felt a fire beginning to build deep within her. Pulling her head away from his, she tried to clear the dizziness with several breaths of air, but he only laughed and captured her mouth again in a torrid embrace. Finally satisfied that her sweet lips had received their due, his mouth scorched a path down the side of her face, his slender fingers moving ahead along her slim neck. Pressing a hot kiss against her ear, he murmured, "Can you feel your own desire rising, my love?" and he gently bit on her earlobe, before moving on to the soft curve of her silken throat.

Zenobia was beginning to tremble, and when her husband's hands found her round full breasts she gasped softly with longing. She wanted his touch! She craved it, for men perhaps the terrible ache that was filling her entire being would dissolve and go away. Reverently he fondled each tender globe, and then without warning his head dipped down to capture within his warm mouth a quivering and already taut nipple. Hungrily he drew on her virgin breast, and she cried out, surprised not only by his action but the corresponding tightness in the hidden place between her legs.

He raised his head, and his voice soothed her. "Don't be afraid, my flower. Is it not sweet?"

Her answer was to draw his head back down to her breasts, where he resumed his pleasing dalliance; but soon he sought to explore further. One arm encircled her waist, while his other hand brushed across her belly, which fluttered wildly beneath his touch. His head dipped and his tongue teased her navel, causing her to writhe beneath him. The hand moved lower yet, to her smoothly plucked Venus mound, and now he could feel her beginning to resist him. She tensed beneath his fingers, and he could hear the nervousness in her voice.

"Please, Hawk! Please, no!"

"Why are you suddenly afraid of me?" He sought to touch her again, but she caught defensively at his hand.

"Please!”

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she did not know the way between a man and a woman. "Did Tamar tell you how it should be between us, between a husband and his wife?" he asked her.

"No," came the reply, "but I know it is the same as with the animals. The male mounts the female; is that not correct?"

"People are not animals, Zenobia. Animals feel need and they satisfy that need without any thought. A man with a woman is a different thing, my flower." He firmly moved her hand away, and gently caressed her. "I have always believed that the gods created woman to be worshiped by her lover. When I touch you with love I worship at the shrine of your perfection. You must not be afraid of me, or of my touch."

"I have never been touched there before," she said low, trembling beneath his fingers.

In answer he kissed her again, murmuring against her mouth, "Don't be afraid, my darling. Don't be afraid," and she felt him very carefully exploring her more intimately.

A strange languor was spreading over her, leaving her limbs weak and helpless. He was her husband, and yet should he be touching her like that? His finger gently penetrated her body, and she cried out, struggling to escape him, but the prince quickly shifted her so she lay completely beneath him. Atop her, he whispered soft love words into her ear. "No, Zenobia, no, my darling. Don't be afraid. Don't fight me, my flower."

She could feel every inch of his very masculine body. His smooth chest pressed against her full breasts; his flat belly pushed against her gently rounded one; his thighs met hers with a heat that brought a moan to her lips. All this time her hands had never sought to touch him, but now she could no longer control the wild desire that he was awakening in her. When he buried his face in her soft throat, his kisses seemingly endless, her arms wound about his neck and then, palms flat, she caressed the line of his back, ending as she cupped his hard buttocks in a gentle grasp.

"Oh, Hawk," she whispered, "your skin is so soft for a man."

"What do you know of men, Zenobia?" was the reply. His voice was strangely harsh, his lips burning against the tender flesh of her throat.

"I know nothing but what you would teach me, my husband," came the soft reply, and her hands moved back up again to clasp about his neck.

"I would teach you to be a woman, my flower. Are you brave enough?" he demanded, his dark eyes burning into hers.

She trembled against him, but her gaze was unwavering as she said, "Yes, my Hawk, yes, I am brave enough now."

His mouth covered hers in a sweet kiss, and she felt him slide his hands beneath her to raise her hips up just a little. Her blood was racing wildly through her veins and she couldn't control her trembling. Now, suddenly, she felt something hard probing insistently between her shaking thighs. "Hawk! Oh, my lord, I want to be a woman, but I am afraid again!" She squirmed away from him, and huddled in a comer of the bed.

The prince groaned with frustration. He had never wanted any woman so desperately in his life. He was tempted to force her beneath him, and take what he wanted of her. She would forgive him afterward; but when he lifted his head up she was staring with large, terrified eyes at his manhood.

"You cannot!" she cried. "You will tear me asunder!"

For a moment he enjoyed the flattery of her innocence. "You will birth our children there, my darling," he explained patiently. "If a whole baby can fit, then I can." Wordlessly she shook her head in the negative, but he drew her firmly back into his arms, kissing her tenderly, gently stroking her until the firestorm began to build within her again.

She felt so strange, as she had never felt before. Her body was honeyed fire that leapt and flowed under his orchestration; the pleasure-pain building until she believed she could bear it no longer. She was vaguely aware that he was once more covering her burning flesh with his own, but suddenly it didn't matter. She wanted it! She wanted him!

He felt her body relax beneath him, and in that instant his shaft entered the portals of her femininity, gently easing into her incredibly tight sheath. Her virginity was tightly lodged, and he stopped a moment, kissing her closed eyelids, tenderly brushing back a stray lock of hair from her forehead. She whimpered, a half-passionate, half-fearful sound, and he could feel her heart pounding beneath his chest.

Zenobia felt as if he was tearing her apart. His manhood filled her, gorged her, and the pain was fierce. She tried to he still, keeping her eyes tightly shut so he might not know and have his pleasure spoiled. When he stopped momentarily, lying atop her, attempting to soothe her, she felt a slight relief; but then he drew back and plunged swiftly through her maiden barrier. She shrieked with the hurt, and fought to escape him, but he was firmly in control, pushing deeper into her resisting sweetness.

"No! No!" she sobbed, the tears beginning to come, and then suddenly she became aware that his manhood, which just moments ago had seemed like a red-hot poker, was suddenly the source of the most marvelous sweetness; yet the ache was increasing. She no longer seemed able to fight him off. His shaft moved back and forth within her, and the world about her seemed to pulse and spin with a myriad of sensations. Zenobia had never imagined that anything could be as magnificent as this joining of bodies. She was as lost within him as he was in her. The pleasure built higher until the ache dissolved without warning, and she was falling, falling into a warm and welcoming blackness.

She clung to him, lost within her private world, and the prince was ravished by her response to his passion. Tenderly he gathered her into his arms, so that when once more she became herself, she would feel cherished-for indeed she was. Pressing soft little kisses upon her face, he murmured reassuringly to her, "I love you, my darling! My adorable wife, I love you so!" He said the words over and over until she finally opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"Oh, my Hawk, I love you too! I want to please you, but will it always hurt like that?"

"Never again," he promised her. "It was only because you were a virgin, Zenobia. I cannot understand Tamar not telling you."

"Tamar has had only sons," Zenobia replied, "and perhaps she did not wish to frighten me."

"Then why not your Bab?"

"It was not Bab's place to tell me those things," she said primly.

Odenathus sighed with exasperation. "Then I suppose it must be my place to school you, my flower."

"Yes, my lord," came the demure reply.

He looked sharply at her, then laughed, for her eyes were mischievous. "Do you laugh at me, my wife?" he demanded in a teasingly threatening tone.

"Yes, my lord." Her look was melting.

He could feel his desire rising once more, and wondered if he dare take her again. It had been a hard breach of her maidenhead, and he had not a doubt that she was sore.

"I want you again, my Hawk." She punctuated her remark by turning her head to gently bite at his forearm.

A shiver ran through him as he realized that his bride was a passionate woman. Reaching out, he rubbed her nipple until it stood tall, a tough little soldier upon the rise of her delicious flesh. She pulled his head down, kissing his mouth, whispering against his lips, 'Take me now, my darling! I bum!"

Mounting her, he slipped into her sweet sheath, feeling her wince slightly. Slowly he moved within her, pushing deep, then pulling himself completely out, only to plunge once again into her burning body. He felt her nails rake his back, and heard her cry, "No! I want the sweetness, my Hawk! Do not deny me the sweetness!"

He laughed as he sat straddling her. "Do not be in a hurry, my flower. There is much pleasure to be gained by taking time to enjoy each other," and then he commenced a tantalizingly slow movement that would drive her to the brink of madness.

Zenobia found herself helpless before the delicious sensations that began to assail her. There had been pain the first time, but then it had been good, and she had liked it. Now, though here had been a moment's discomfort when he had begun again, it was different, yet still good. She didn't believe it could be any better, but each moment brought new delights until she was spinning away, lost in time and not caring. All she could think was that she had been a fool to fear him. Above her the prince groaned with his own pleasure, falling across her breasts, but Zenobia was totally unaware.

Both fell into a deep sleep, but with the resilience of a healthy young animal Zenobia awoke after a few hours. It was the middle of the night, black and so very still. The lamps still burned, for neither she nor the prince had thought to snuff them out. A slight wind came through the portico and the lamps flickered, casting odd, red-gold shadows against the wall. She lay on her back, quietly observing the room in which she had become a woman. It was, she realized, a woman's room; it was her room, the room in which she would share tender, sweet intimacies with Hawk; the room in which she would birth her children; the room in which as an old woman, she would probably breathe her last.

It was a simple place, she thought as her eyes slowly swept the chamber; but then he had said that it had not been decorated because he thought she might enjoy planning the decor of their home. Here was something new and challenging.

"Are you awake?" His voice tore at the stillness.

"Yes."

"What are you pondering, my flower?"

An honest reply sprang to her lips only to be swallowed back. He would hardly think it complimentary that on their wedding night she was thinking of how to decorate their home. "I was thinking of you, Hawk," she said.

"What were you thinking?"

"That I love you," she replied.

He raised himself up on his elbow, and looked down into her face, smiling. "We will be friends as well as lovers, as well as husband and wife. Oh, Zenobia, I am so glad that I have you! I have been so alone since my father died. Neither my mother nor Deliciae can be a friend to me, for they do not understand my feelings for Palmyra; but you understand, my flower, don't you? This is a great city, and we shall make it greater so that our son will be an even greater lord than his father and grandfather!"

"How can we be great as long as the Romans rule us?" she demanded.

"Soon Antonius Porcius will retire," he explained to her, "and he has told me that the emperor will send no one to take his place. The Romans trust us, Zenobia. I will shortly rule the city in my own right as the princes of Palmyra did before me."

"How can you rule in your own right when the Romans still garrison troops within our city?" Zenobia demanded.

"My wedding gift from the emperor is command of those troops, my beautiful wife!"

She sat up, startled. "You are to command Roman troops?"

"I am. Now what do you think, my flower?"

"I wonder why, after years of occupation, the Romans suddenly decided to let you rule without a Roman governor. I wonder why you have been put in charge of their troops."

"Because the Romans know that they can trust me, Zenobia."

"And once you have total control will you overthrow them?" Her gray eyes shone with pride.

"No, Zenobia. I need Rome's soldiers for Palmyra. The world is no longer what it once was. We are surrounded by dangers not even dreamed of in my grandfather's time. I need an army to protect this city."

"Why Romans?!"

"Rome is the central power in the world. If I use her troops then I do not have to force my own people into the military service. Rome's troops cost me nothing. The tribute we pay to the empire comes from the caravans; and not from my people."

"I cannot believe that you have bent your neck to their yoke," she cried. "Tell me you have been but jesting with me, my Hawk."

"Zenobia, you are yet a child, and do not understand these matters," he said gently. "When you see how the government is run, the monies involved, then you will understand why it is necessary for us to cooperate with Rome. Come now, my flower, why are we discussing such weighty matters in the midst of our wedding night." He leaned over and kissed her mouth.

She pulled back, her gray eyes serious. "You once promised to share your responsibilities with me, Hawk. Have you now changed your mind?"

"I do not make promises I do not intend to keep, my flower. There is, however, a time for everything, and this is not the time to be discussing my government."

"When is the right time?" she demanded angrily. "Must I make an appointment with you, as do your ministers? Shall I tell your secretary in the morning that the Princess of Palmyra wishes an appointment with the Prince of Palmyra so she may discuss the government with him?"

"By the gods!" he exclaimed. "We are having our first fight, Zenobia!" He reached out a hand, and stroked her shoulder. How beautiful she was with her midnight-black hair swirling about her shoulders.

"You must take the good with the bad," she muttered, not easily placated, and shocked by the revelation that she was quarreling with him.

"I will share everything with you, my darling," he promised, "but we are just married; this is our honeymoon; and I do not want to speak of politics or finances with you at this moment. What bride would choose these things over love in her marriage bed?"

Her resistance began to melt, and he reached out and drew her into his arms. "Oh, Hawk," she murmured. "I have so much to learn that I am impatient."

"It is as I have said, my flower. You are yet a child in many ways, but I will teach you." He nibbled at the corners of her mouth, and delicious little tingles of excitement ran through her. The prince smiled down at her, and then his lips took full possession of hers. There was no gentleness this time, only a fierce and burning demand that Zenobia found impossible not to answer. She returned his kisses passionately until her mouth was bruised and aching, but to his surprise she did not yield herself entirely. His hands moved to caress her marvelous breasts; his lips moved from her lips downward along a trail of soft, perfumed flesh that quivered beneath his touch.

She knew what to expect this time, or at least she thought she did, but the warm and softly breathing mouth that murmured love words into her ear, the mouth that moved teasingly along the straining muscle on the side of her neck to bury itself in the tender hollow of her shoulder shook her to the quick. He stayed but a moment in that sweet nook only to move onward to cover the swelling tops of her breasts with quick kisses before beginning his assault upon her nipples, which stood at attention eagerly awaiting him.

"Zenobia," he murmured, then his tongue began a slow, teasingly sweet encirclement of a nipple. Round and round it moved, sending waves of heat through her veins until she wanted to scream, for the pleasure left her weak and breathless. It occurred to her suddenly that he was diverting her from the discussion she had been trying to conduct with him. Her first reaction to this thought was outrage that he held her opinion so lightly; but then, as his mouth closed over a nipple and he began to suckle upon her sensitive breast, all coherent thought vanished. She gave herself up to the delights of his lovemaking.

"Oh, my Hawk," she whispered, afraid to break the lovely spell that seemed to surround them, "I love you!"

Slowly he raised his head so he might look upon her beautiful face, and for a moment Zenobia thought she would drown in the dark, dark liquid pool of his eyes. His voice had an intensity that gave her the eerie feeling that he had divined her very thoughts. "And I love you, my exquisite bride. I will share all with you, my love. We have an eternity of sharing before us."

4

Marcus Britainus looked up from his inventory sheets. "Yes, Severus, what is it?"

"The Princess of Palmyra is here, sir."

"Here?" His heart leapt within his chest. Then he realized that she probably did not remember him.

"She wishes to purchase furniture and see our fabrics and accessories, sir."

"Help her then, Severus." He lowered his head again to the scrolls.

"Marcus Britainus!" Severus's voice was severe. "You cannot avoid Princess Zenobia. If you continue to shun her, this fascination will increase until no other woman can match the woman you have created in your imagination. This is the ruler of Palmyra's wife. You must greet her."

"How old must I get before you will realize that I am no longer a green boy?" Marcus grumbled.

"There is something of the boy in every man, Marcus Britainus," came the quiet reply.

Marcus left his office and stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. She is here! Had she sought him out? Fool! His practical nature reared its head. Why in the name of all the gods would she remember him? She hated blue-eyed Romans. Besides, from all he could gather, her marriage to Odenathus was a love match. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he straightened the folds of his toga pura and entered the atrium of his warehouse with a firm step.

Zenobia rose from the bench upon which she had been seated, and watched him come toward her. The blue-eyed Roman! Of course! She vaguely remembered that he had introduced himself at their brief first meeting. Merchants were supposed to be old men, she thought irritably, but this was certainly no old man. He topped her by at least eight inches, and Zenobia knew few men to whom she must look up. It gave her a vaguely uncomfortable sensation, made her feel at a disadvantage with him. Around her, her maidens giggled and made rather pointed and suggestive remarks about the handsome merchant. Zenobia felt her cheeks flushing slightly. Newly awakened to sensuality, she could not help but look upon Marcus Alexander with a woman's eye, and somehow, she thought, that must be disloyal to her Hawk.

Reaching her, he knelt and paid her homage. "Highness."

"Rise, Marcus Alexander Britainus," she said, and before she realized it the words were out. "Why are you so tall? Are you a giant?"

"No, your Highness," he answered her in an even voice, although he was tempted to laugh. "I take my height from my mother's people, the Dobunni. My grandfather was their prince." He smiled down at her. "If I may say it, you are tall for a woman, Highness."

"I take my height from my mother's people too, Marcus Alexander Britainus. My mother was an Alexandrian Greek descended from Queen Cleopatra." Zenobia was openly proud.

"How fitting that Queen Cleopatra's beautiful young descendent should be the Princess of Palmyra, Highness," came the reply.

Zenobia looked up at the Roman, but the deep blue eyes held no trace of mockery, only the deepest respect. "This is a better beginning, Marcus Alexander Britainus," she answered him.

That, he was amused to note to himself, was the only reference she made to their first meeting.

"Severus tells me that you seek to purchase furniture, Highness; yet I have heard Palmyra's palace is most beautifully decorated."

"Palmyra's palace is, but the house that my husband and I share within the palace gardens is but newly built."

"My warehouses are full, your Highness, and I, myself, will escort you."

"Remain here," Zenobia commanded her half-dozen maidens. For the first time he noticed the women who accompanied her; fluttering butterflies, all of whom admired him openly.

"Please follow me, your Highness," he said, leading her from the bright atrium, through a corridor, and finally into a huge room filled with furnishings of every description; great bolts of multicolored silks, linens, and wools; and decorations of every type.

Stunned, Zenobia stood looking at it all. This gave him a moment to feast his eyes upon her perfect beauty. She was even fairer than he remembered. Her skin glowed with a radiance that told him she was well loved. His envy of Odenathus was tinged with sadness. She was wearing a sleeveless, low-necked pale-lavender-colored stola that had been belted at the waist with three narrow strips of gilded leather. Her long dark hair was no longer loose and flowing as he remembered it. Instead, it was parted in the middle and drawn into a heavy coil at the nape of her neck, affixed with amethyst-studded gold combs and long matching pins.

"It is so much," her awed voice brought him out of his daydream.

"The shipment arrived but yesterday," he answered.

"I have visited several other warehouses, Marcus Alexander Britainus, but I have seen nothing to compare with your merchandise." She paused a moment, and then looked up at him. "Marcus Alexander Britainus, I need your help."

"My help?" He felt his heartbeat accelerate.

"Can you keep a secret? You must, for I should die of embarrassment if anyone knew. For some reason I trust you although you are a Roman; a blue-eyed Roman at that. Yet my instinct tells me to trust you. Will you keep my secret?"

He nodded.

"Thank you." She drew a deep breath. "I know nothing about furnishing a home, Marcus Alexander Britainus. Nothing at all! All my life has been spent either in a tent trekking the desert, or in my mother's house here in Palmyra. Mother's house was a part of her dowry, and she furnished it before I was born. She never had any need to purchase things, and she died before she might teach me that which a good wife should know.

"Can you help me; tell me what I will need?"

He knew what that speech had cost her, for she was very proud; and he had an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and take her into his arms to soothe her. Instead he mastered himself, and said quietly, "I am honored, my Princess, that you have entrusted me with your confidence. I will endeavour not to fail you."

"You are a diplomat as well as a businessman, Marcus Alexander Britainus." Her gray eyes regarded him carefully. "The empire has lost a valuable servant in you."

"Part of being a businessman is being a diplomat, Highness," he replied smoothly. "Shall we begin with the couches?"

Zenobia laughed, and nodded. "By all means let us begin with the couches," she agreed.

He led her into a section of the warehouse that was completely filled with couches, carefully lined up side by side, row upon row. They were extremely ornamental, made of finely grained and finished woods, the arms and legs carved ornately or inlaid with tortoiseshell, ivory, even precious metals. Several couches had frames of solid silver and legs inlaid with jewels, or carved in high relief to depict scenes of the gods in various attitudes of play. There was a couch with a rather graphic scene of Jupiter as the swan seducing the maiden, Leda. Zenobia, Marcus noted, quickly turned away from that particular piece of furniture. For some reason her modesty pleased him.

"There are no cushions or coverings for the couches?" she asked.

"Most merchants have such items already made and on the couches, Highness. I, however, prefer to allow my customer a choice of fabric, for I should hate to lose a sale because you disliked the color of the cushions."

"That is very clever of you, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

He chuckled with delight, for it gave him great pleasure to be complimented by this girl. Quietly he listened to her needs, and then suggested several possibilities, always explaining why he chose one couch over another so she might learn, but leaving the final decision to her.

They next moved on to chairs. They were not upholstered, but they did have fabric cushions. The tables were elegant with supports and tops of marble, solid or veneered woods, or thin sheets of precious metals such as gold or silver. The most beautiful and the most expensive table in the warehouse was a round one made from cross sections of exquisitely marked, perfectly matched African cedar. Zenobia reverently rubbed her hand over the surface of the table, almost purring her pleasure.

"Do not tell me," Marcus teased her. "You must have it."

"Am I wrong to choose it?" she inquired hesitantly.

"No. It is a fine piece; in fact, to my mind, it is one of the best tables ever done. It will be fearfully expensive though, Highness."

Her winged brows raised themselves slightly. "I do not recall asking you the price, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

Just the faint hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Shall we move on to chests and cabinets, your Highness?"

Zenobia followed him into another section of the warehouse with what she hoped was a regal step. There, with Marcus's aid she picked several wooden cabinets, each one more beautifully decorated man the last. The cabinets were compartmented, but had no sliding drawers, locks, or hinges. She chose a dozen iron-bound wooden chests with ornamental locks and hinges of dark bronze, then moved on to purchase footed charcoal-burning iron floor stoves, to heat the rooms on chilly evenings and winter days.

Next Zenobia bought lamps to light her home, exclaiming with delight at the variety available to her. Following Marcus's advice, she chose only lamps made of metals, for they, he assured her, would last a lifetime. There were lamps with handles that could be carried from room to room; some that would be suspended from the ceilings by chains; and others that would be kept on stands or tripods. The lamps were graceful in form, and all had been finely crafted, precious and semiprecious stones set within the gold and silver.

It had taken over two hours for Zenobia to make her purchases, and now she must choose fabrics for her couches and pillows. "I am exhausted," she complained to Marcus. "I mink I should rather lead my camel corps in a desert drill than shop."

"Your camel corps?" He kept his voice curious but impersonal.

"The Bedawi are great fighters when they have to be, Marcus Alexander Britainus. When I was thirteen my father began to train me, as he had trained all my brothers in the art of desert warfare; as even today he trains his youngest sons."

"Whom do you fight, my Princess?"

"The Bedawi have few enemies," came the reply, "but, as my father has said, we must never grow soft."

"So all your brothers lead camel corps."

"Oh no, Marcus Alexander Britainus! To lead a Bedawi camel corps you must be the best. Only three of my older brothers and I have our own troupe, although one of my younger brothers appears promising." She smiled a shy smile at him. "You have been so kind, Marcus Alexander Britainus. Now I must choose fabrics. Lead on, please."

The conversation was closed, and he knew that he could not reopen it. She was young and she was inexperienced. He would question Antonius Porcius. The whole idea of this slender and delicate-looking creature being a warrior fascinated him. He smiled in return and said, "I will have a chair brought so you may sit, your Highness. The slaves will bring the fabrics to you."

He gave several sharp orders, and Zenobia quickly found herself comfortably seated, an alabaster goblet of cool juice in her hand. Another terse command from Marcus Alexander Britainus, and the slaves began to bring great bolts of fabric, unrolling several lengths of silks so she might see them properly. Zenobia's eyes widened at the glorious colors that were spread before her like a thousand sunrises and sunsets rolled into one. There were solid colors; and brocades and silks shot through with gold and silver threads.

The delicately woven wools were both local and imported, and there were many shades ranging from dark red to black. The best linen was from Egypt, he informed her, and cotton was grown only in the eastern provinces.

"I don't know where to begin," she said, and so he advised her as to which fabrics were best, showing her how to match colors and textures to make a pleasing effect. Bending over her, he breathed the subtle scent of hyacinths that she always wore; tortured himself with quick glimpses of her pale-gold breasts rising and falling calmly above her stola's low neckline. With superhuman effort he restrained the emotion that encouraged him to turn her to him and cover those luscious breasts with hot kisses.

"You have been so wonderfully kind, Marcus Alexander Britainus." Her voice came at him from a million miles away. "I did not, until today, believe there was any kindness in the Romans. I see now that I was wrong."

"There is good as well as evil in all peoples, your Highness. If I have taught you not to make quick judgments then I may count it a victory for Palmyra and her peoples."

"My husband rules Palmyra, not I."

"All women rule their husbands, your Highness. I have that on the best authority, for my mother and my sisters have often told me so."

Zenobia laughed. "I am rebuked," she said, rising from her chair. "Tell me now, Marcus Alexander Britainus, when will all these wonderful things I have purchased be delivered to the palace?"

"I will have them sent tomorrow, your Highness. They might come today, but we will need time to upholster your couches. If you will permit it I will escort you to your litter now."

He stood outside his warehouse and watched as the large litter, filled to overflowing with Zenobia and her maidens, disappeared down the street, escorted not, he noticed, by Palmyran soldiers, but Bedawi warriors. He knew now more than ever that this exquisite woman was the only woman for him. Whatever happened he must remain near her. He wasn't sure quite yet how he was going to do it, but somehow he would.

As if Venus herself had heard his wish and taken pity on him, the opportunity presented itself the following day, when he personally oversaw the delivery of Zenobia's purchases to the palace.

She greeted him gaily, then began to direct the slaves as to where they might put each article. Then Odenathus joined them, kissing his young wife's cheek, and smiling indulgently at her explanations.

"I should not have been able to do any of this, my Hawk, had it not been for Marcus Alexander Britainus."

"Then we owe you a debt, Marcus Alexander Britainus," Odenathus said. "Indeed, you are not in the mold of our average merchant. You seem more educated, a patrician I would swear."

"My family is patrician, your Highness. The Alexander family dates back to the earliest days of Rome. The key to our survival, I suspect, is that we have never involved ourselves in political intrigues. Each generation has been taught that only by hard work will they profit. The family estate, which is located in the hills outside of Rome near Tiber, was given to us in the first days of the republic. My grandfather, who is the current head of the Alexander family, still oversees the farm and the vineyards."

"Yet you are a merchant, Marcus Alexander Britainus. Why is that?" Palmyra's prince demanded.

"My father was a younger son, your Highness. Unlike others in his family, he chose to serve the government. Eventually he was sent to Britain as governor. There, he met and married my mother; and there, he began, in order to finance his growing family, to purchase and send back to Rome rare articles of beauty. When he was finally recalled to Rome he discovered that he had a burgeoning business. My grandfather allowed my father to start his own branch of the family. He continued to pursue his business, finding it preferable to life in the country. My younger brother, Aulus, resides in Britain, where he purchases goods to send back to Italy. I was sent here to obtain the magnificent goods of the Far East, and to send the luxuries of the West, east."

Odenathus eyed the tall Roman. "You have served with the army?"

"Yes, your Highness. With the Praetorian under the young Emperor Gordianus, in Africa."

Odenathus was impressed. "My wedding gift from the emperor is that I am to be made commander of Rome's legions here in Palmyra."

“A magnificent gift, Highness, I have no doubt you will bring glory to the region," replied Marcus.

"I think that Marcus Alexander Britainus should stay for the evening meal, my Hawk," Zenobia said. She turned to Marcus. "You will stay, won't you?"

The prince smiled. "I'm afraid you cannot refuse us, Marcus Alexander Britainus."

There was no way Marcus could decline gracefully. The truth was that he did not want to, for though it pained him to see the prince being so affectionate with Zenobia, at least he, Marcus, was with her also.

The winter dining room of the little palace faced south, and its walls were overlaid with thin slabs of pale yellow marble, its cornices and baseboards of carved and gilded wood matching the latticework that covered the windows. The east and west walls of the room had magnificent frescoes, bright with gold leaf, brilliant colors, and mosaic work. One showed a party of hunters after hippopotami and crocodiles on the Nile; the other offered mounted hunters with their sleek, fleet dogs chasing down gazelles in the desert. The floor was done in tiny pieces of blue, green, and yellow mosaic. Three dining couches, each one sectioned to seat three people, were set about a square dining table.

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 comer 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."

"What will happen to your sons, Deliciae, when Zenobia's eldest becomes King of Palmyra? Think on it, you little fool!"

"My sons will serve the family as they are being taught to serve it. A king's mantle is a heavy burden, and it is one I would prefer be left to another, to the rightful heir, Vaballathus."

"Sluttish idiot!" was Al-Zena's parting remark as the two women went their separate ways.

Al-Zena's attitude toward her daughter-in-law was not particularly improved on hearing that she, the King's mother, was to be created princess dowager, a title thought of by Zenobia. "As my wife has so carefully pointed out, Mother," Odenathus explained, "you cannot be known as Princess of Palmyra, for if we should have a daughter that would be her rightful title."

"Then why was I not created the dowager queen?" Al-Zena demanded furiously.

"There can only be one Queen of Palmyra," said Zenobia quietly. "Throughout the ages there has been much trouble when a kingdom had an old queen and a young queen."

"I am most certainly not old!" snapped Al-Zena, outraged more by the word old than anything else.

"There can be only one queen," Zenobia repeated, and her gray eyes, their golden lights dancing, met the furious black-eyed gaze of her mother-in-law.

"How dare your Al-Zena hissed venomously. "You! A little desert savage! How dare you attempt to lord it over me. I was a princess born! I am royal by birth not marriage. Do you think a few mumbled words by a priest of Jupiter can make you royal!?"

"You have accepted your royalty as a right," Zenobia shot back. "You believe that having been bom royal is merely enough; but I tell you, Al-Zena, it is not! Being royal bears with it many and great responsibilities. When have you ever thought of anything except yourself? Have you ever thought of your people? Worried about their welfare not just today, but in the years to come when you shall not be here, and someone else reigns in your stead? Being royal means knowing the world about us so we may best judge this city's course so our people will always, even in the centuries to come, be prosperous and happy. They are not responsibilities lightly taken, but I gladly help my lord husband, Odenathus, to carry his burden!"

"And you approve of this?" Al-Zena's voice was almost a shriek. "You approve of this mannish attitude on the part of your wife?"

"She is exactly the kind of woman Father would have chosen for me," came the devastating reply.

"And what am I?" Al-Zena was outraged.

The young king smiled. "Why, you are what you have always been. You are a supreme bitch." There was a furious gasp from the older woman, but Odenathus put a friendly arm about his mother and continued with his speech. "Do not be offended, Mother. I actually admire you, for in a strange way you are admirable. You took your position those many years ago when you came to Palmyra, and you have never deviated from it. Such strength of will is to be commended." He gave her a gentle hug. "Be content, Mother, with your lot. You have little to complain of, for all of your wants are most generously met."

"You have made her your enemy," Zenobia later told her husband.

"She was never my friend," was his reply.

"She is your mother, and although you have never been allowed to feel any love for her-although you were never close as a mother and a son should be-in her own strange way she has been proud of you and she has loved you. You were cruel, my Hawk, and that is not like you. You hurt her, and Al-Zena's memory for an offense, real or imagined, is a long one."

"Why do you defend her, my flower? She has never been your friend. She undermines you at every opportunity she gets."

"She cannot hurt me while you love and trust me, Hawk. And I shall never give you cause not to love or trust me. We are as one."

"Perhaps it would be better if you discontinued your lessons for the time being."

"Are you jealous?" she teased him, then grew serious. "Oh, Hawk, he knows so much. He has taught me philosophy, poetry, history, and Western music and art. I am learning how the Roman Empire grew, and that has already taught me that power, especially the vast power that the Romans have gained, is dangerous, for it corrupts completely.

"Marcus says that from the time the Roman Empire began its eventual destruction was inevitable. They are weak now, my Hawk. Marcus tells me that the emperor is far too busy persecuting the Christians to care about the Eastern empire. That is why he made you king, my Hawk! Be a king, and throw off the golden shackles with which Rome binds us!"

"No, Zenobia. If we revolt, the Emperor Valerian will be here in the twinkling of an eye. We will be free one day, but now is not the time. Besides, the Persians have become bold again. I cannot fight Rome face to face while I have another enemy at my back."

"The Persians will never be Rome's allies," Zenobia replied scornfully.

"No, you are right, but if I leave Palmyra to fight the Romans, how long do you think it would be before King Shapur and his armies would march into Palmyra. They have always coveted this city and its riches. I will not destroy Vaballathus's inheritance."

"What kind of inheritance is it when it can be taken away? The Romans made you king, they can just as easily unmake you."

"No. They need me, and it is little enough that they call me king in order to gain my aid. Wait and see, my flower. One day we will ihrow off the yoke that has bound us all these years; but first I must remove the Persian threat from my rear flank. The Romans do me a favor, Zenobia. They have given me the troops with which to deal with King Shapur."

"And while you do battle with King Shapur, I will hold the city for you, my Hawk. My mounted camel corps and my mounted archers will hold back any attacker," she promised.

He swept her into his arms, and with one swift motion loosed her long black hair. It swirled about them like a storm cloud, and his mouth met hers in a long and burning kiss. Zenobia felt herself melt body and soul into him, but at the same time she was filled with great strength. She slipped her arms about his neck, and when he freed her lips she looked adoringly up at him. "Oh, Zenobia, you are a wife to be proud of, my darling!"

"Was I not blest by Mars at my birth?" she replied.

The retired governor Antonius Porcius Blandus, who had so often threatened to retire to Antioch or Damascus, remained in Palmyra upon his release from the imperial civil service.

"And where would I go?" he had demanded irritably when Zenobia teased him about it. "I have grown old in Rome's service, and I have spent most of my life here in the East. I could not stand Italy's climate any longer. Did you know that it can sometimes snow in the imperial city? Bah! Why do I bother to tell you that? You know nothing of snow! Besides, all the family that I knew is gone. Oh, I have an older brother who writes me every year to tell me of the family, but it means little to me. Perhaps now that I have retired I shall marry. I never before had time for a wife."

"Indeed, Antonius Porcius, you must marry," Zenobia said. "I can recommend the state of matrimony quite highly." She fully expected him to choose some proper widow who would provide him with an instant family in his old age. Instead, to her great surprise, the former governor's choice was Zenobia's childhood friend, Julia Tullio, who at nineteen was still unwed. The young queen was shocked.

"You do not have to marry that old man if you do not want to, Julia! How could your family allow such a thing? He is older than your father!"

"As a matter of fact he is five years younger than my father," came the amused reply. "Dearest Zenobia, I want to marry Antonius. I have known him all my life, and I care for him. I am honored he has chosen me."

"But you do not love him!" Zenobia protested.

"You did not love King Odenathus when you married him- and do not shake your head at me, for you didn't! You have fallen in love with him since your marriage, and now you cannot remember a time when you didn't love him. Zenobia, be sensible. I am almost twenty, and I very much want to be a wife and a mother. Antonius is a kind and good man. He is tender and generous, and we have much in common; in fact I have more in common with him than with any young man I have ever met. Besides, a husband should be older than his wife. Is not the king older than you by some years?"

"Only ten," was the reply. "Oh, Julia, isn't there some younger man you would prefer? What of Marcus Alexander Britainus? He is much younger than Antonius Porcius."

"Marcus Alexander?" Julia shuddered delicately, then looked searchingly at Zenobia. "His heart is occupied, and besides, he terrifies me."

"His heart is occupied elsewhere? Oh, Julia, do tell! I have heard no gossip of it. Who is she?"

So she doesn't know, Julia thought. Am I the only one who sees that he loves her? Then she said, "It is not a woman, Zenobia, but his business that is his wife, his mistress, his everything."

"Oh." To her puzzlement, Zenobia found herself rather relieved that Marcus Alexander had no lover.

Julia smiled. "Do not fret yourself, Zenobia. I am not being forced into this marriage."

"I still believe that you could do better," Zenobia said.

Now Julia laughed. "No, I could not." She paused for a moment as if debating with herself, then she said, "Most important of all, my dearest friend… I shall be loved."

"Loved?" Zenobia looked puzzled.

"Yes, loved. Only when I accepted his proposal did Antonius admit that he loved me. He said he had loved me since I was a child, but that he dared not speak until he was sure that my heart was not engaged elsewhere, for he did fret in his mind over the vast difference in our ages."

"But what of children, Julia? Will you be able to have them?"

"It will be as the gods allow," came the reply.

"No, no! I mean-well, do you think he can?"

"Can what?" Then Julia's face grew pink. "Oh!" she said.

"Can he?" Zenobia repeated.

"I expect so," Julia said slowly. "My father still does, and for that matter so does your father. Age, I have been told, is no deterrent."

"Deterrent to what?" Marcus Alexander Britainus entered the room.

The two women giggled, and Zenobia, catching her breath, said, "Nothing that should concern you, Marcus, but come and wish Julia good fortune, for she is to be married."

"Indeed?" He came forward, and smilingly planted a kiss upon Julia's blushing cheek. "And who is the fortunate man if I may ask?"

"It is I who am fortunate, Marcus Alexander. I am to wed with Antonius Porcius."

"I will not be corrected in this, Julia Tullio. It is Antonius Porcius who is the lucky one," Marcus said firmly. "May the gods smile upon you both, and I hope that I am to be invited to the wedding."

Julia colored prettily again, and said breathlessly, "But of course you are to be invited, Marcus Alexander." She then turned to Zenobia. "I must go now. I have already stayed overlong, and I only came to tell you my news." She rose, as did Zenobia, and the two women embraced before Julia hurried out the door.

Zenobia watched her go, and then, turning back to Marcus, said, "I pray the gods she will be happy. He is so much older than she is, and if they have children she will spend all her time nursing her babes and her elderly husband."

"You do not think that a husband should be older than his wife, Highness?"

"Older, yes, but not thirty-two years older! Julia's father is his contemporary."

"And how does Julia feel?"

"She says he loves her, and that she cares for him."

"Then you should not worry, Highness."

Suddenly the door opened, and Deliciae hurried in, followed by Bab. "Al-Zena is coming," Deliciae said, "and she has the king with her. She wants to make trouble between you, and has told him that you are alone with Marcus Alexander."

"Why on earth should that matter?" Zenobia demanded, but Marcus instantly understood, and nodded at Deliciae who then said:

"Bab and I have been with you the whole time, Highness!"

"Julia Tullio is to marry Antonius Porcius," Zenobia said, quickly comprehending the urgency of their mission if not the reason behind it.

The two other women had barely settled themselves in a corner when the door to the room again opened and Al-Zena hurried in, followed by Odsnathus.

"There!" She pointed a long, bony finger at Zenobia. "Did I not tell you, my son!? Did I not say it was so!? This wicked creature is alone with another man! It is as I have suspected all along. She is betraying you!"

Before either Odenathus or Zenobia could say a word, old Bab sprang from her comer seat. "How dare you accuse my innocent mistress of such perfidy!" she shrieked. "It is you who is the wicked creature!"

"Really, Al-Zena," came Deliciae's amused voice from another part of the room, and they all turned to look at her. "Your obsession is beginning to do strange things to you. Ah, well, 'tis but a sign of age, I expect."

Al-Zena's mouth fell open in surprise. "She was alone, I tell you! The Tullio girl left, and she was alone with him! Ala, my maid, told me she was alone with him, and she would not lie to me!"

"Perhaps she was not aware that both Bab and the lady Deliciae were in the room with her Highness when I arrived," Marcus said, finally finding his voice. Al-Zena's viciousness had surprised him.

Odenathus's mother looked for someone to attack, and as Bab was too far beneath her she chose Deliciae. "If you were here as you say you were," she snarled, "then what did you speak of, tell me that!"

"We spoke of Julia's forthcoming marriage," Deliciae said sweetly. "She is shortly to marry Antonius Porcius."

"I think, Mother, that this must be the end of it. You have made an error, and you owe both my wife and my friend, Marcus Alexander, an apology."

"Never!” Her face contorted with fury, Al-Zena stormed from the room.

"I will leave you to your lessons, Zenobia," the king said. "I must return to the council from which I was dragged." He bowed to her, turned, and left the room.

For a moment a heavy silence hung in the room, and then Marcus said quietly, "Am I to be told what this is all about?"

"Al-Zena is angry because she is not to be known as Queen of Palmyra. She simply seeks to make trouble," Zenobia said wearily.

"She accused us of being lovers, Highness. A dangerous accusation for you-and for me."

"An untruth from the mouth of a bitter woman. It is as noisy bird chatter."

"Do not underestimate her hatred, Zenobia," Deliciae said. "Had I not overheard that old bitch, Ala, chortling her story, you would have indeed been alone with Marcus Alexander, and even if the king had believed you, a suspicion would always exist in some dark corner of his mind."

"Odenathus would never distrust me, Deliciae."

"Odenathus is simply a mortal man, Zenobia."

"Listen to her, my baby," Bab said urgently.

Zenobia sighed irritably. "Come, Marcus, let us get on with our lesson of the day. I apologize to you for Al-Zena's behavior. It must be her time of life."

"Humph," Bab said with a sniff. "It is her nature, and that is as sour as a lemon!"

"The old woman speaks a truth," Deliciae murmured.

Zenobia ignored them both, and looked to Marcus. He forced back a smile that threatened to turn up the corners of his mouth. "Today," he said, "we shall discuss your illustrious ancestress, Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt." Even Deliciae and Bab now turned interested faces to him, and listened as Marcus began to unfold the fascinating tale of the woman who had ruled Egypt and captured the hearts of two illustrious Romans of the day.

Zenobia, however, was not listening. There was little Marcus could tell her of Cleopatra that she did not already know. Al-Zena's unfounded accusation disturbed her in a way far different than anyone would have thought. Suddenly Zenobia found herself looking upon Marcus Alexander not just as a friend, or a Roman, or her teacher, but as a man. Had his eyes always been that blue, and the lashes so long and thick? The gods, he was so handsome! With a guilty start she lowered her eyes from his features, afraid her thoughts would be as plain to him as they were to her. What was the matter with her that her thoughts took such a path? Then the wicked worm of curiosity reared itself, and Zenobia found herself wondering what it would be like to be held tightly against his broad chest by those strong arms, to feel that mocking mouth upon her mouth. Shamed color flooded her face, and with a little cry she rose and fled from the room.

"Poor Zenobia," Deliciae said with genuine sympathy. "That wretched Al-Zena has obviously upset her greatly. I wonder the gods don't strike the old witch dead with one of their thunderbolts. It would be a great justice."

"Aye," Bab muttered. "I pray for it nightly."

He said nothing. What had caused her to flee the room he didn't know, but it was not Odenathus's mother, of that he was certain.

It was not in Zenobia's character to be dishonest, so that night as she and Odenathus lay side by side, fingers intertwined, sated with pleasure, she said quietly, "Ala told Al-Zena the truth today. I was alone with Marcus, but 'twas only a few minutes, my Hawk. He arrived while Julia was with me, and when she left we stood talking. It did not occur to me that we were being indiscreet. Suddenly Deliciae and Bab were there saying that your mother had set her slave to spy on me, and that you were both coming. They begged me to pretend that they had been with me the entire time. I regret that I did so, for now I have lied to you without meaning to."

He stroked the silken head that lay upon his chest, smiling to himself in the darkness. He had known that she was alone with the Roman, for he had set his own spies upon her weeks ago. It was not that he distrusted her, or that she had given him any cause to doubt her love; but his mother's barbs had set the worm of uncertainty gnawing at him in the dark part of the night when he awoke, and he was suddenly afraid of losing her. He had known there was no harm in the little time she and Marcus had been alone. He knew that the Roman treated Zenobia with great respect, and perhaps a little bit of affection; the kind of affection that one might give a younger sister. They were friends, Marcus Alexander Britainus, and his wife, and Zenobia had few friends, for who would dare to be friends with a queen. He would not spoil that friendship for her despite his mother's constant suspicion. They were simply the ravings of a sick and bitter woman.

"Thank you for telling me this, my flower," he said quietly, "but I have never doubted that your relationship with Marcus Alexander is anything more than friendship between teacher and pupil." She sighed with relief, and again he smiled to himself. Never again would his mother's words have the power to distress him. He and Zenobia were as one now, as they had ever been. "You will be regent for me when I go to war against the Persians," he said.

"When will you go?"

"Within the month," he replied. "King Shapur again harasses Antioch."

"I cannot help but notice that every time he does so he carefully bypasses Palmyra in his march to the coast," Zenobia said.

Odenathus chuckled. "He knows that I shall eventually beat him, my flower. He wishes to retain the illusion of invincibility as long as possible."

She laughed. "Neither of you lacks for pride, my Hawk."

"I shall probably miss Antonius Porcius's wedding, but you will go, and then you shall write me all about it."

"Oh," she said, "I had almost forgotten. My secretary has arrived! Just today."

"Who?"

"Dionysius Cassius Longinus. I told you that I had sent for him to come from Athens, where he has been teaching rhetoric. If I am to govern for you while you play the soldier I must have someone of my own whom I can trust. Do not forget that I have watched your council meetings, and I know how difficult your councillors can be. There is not one of them who wouldn't forward his own interests before Palmyra's. You, my Hawk, have the patience of a Christian, but I am not sure that I do."

"Speaking of the Christians, beware of my councillor, Publius. He has a serious quarrel with the Christian merchant, Paulus Quintus, and he will play the outraged moralist in order to gain his way."

"I will remember," she answered him. "Is there anything else you think I should know?"

"Only that I adore you, my flower," he said, and she murmured softly against his chest, sending tiny icy shivers up and down his spine. "I do not think I want to go off and play soldier," he said, "if it means I shall be parted from you. We have never been separated before, my flower."

"Come back either with your shield, or upon it," she teased him, quoting the saying of ancient Spartan women to their men.

"Are you so anxious for me to go?"

"You have proved yourself many times, my Hawk, but I have never been given that chance. With you away I shall rule the city in my own right, and I will at last know what I can do."

He winced. "You are as painfully honest as ever, my flower."

"Oh, Hawk!" She was instantly contrite. "I shall miss you. I shall! But I do want to know what I can do."

"I know, Zenobia, I know that. Go to sleep now, my flower. You will not get much rest once you become ruler."

She was quickly asleep, her even breathing a warm puff against his bare chest. He held her protectively, enjoying her softness, her scent of hyacinth. He would, he suspected, miss her a great deal more than she would miss him, for everything she was to do while he was gone was new to her and she looked forward to it with enthusiasm. Indeed, he wondered if she would miss him at all. For a brief moment he regretted marrying such an intelligent and independent woman; but then he had known what she was like, and still he had wanted her. He wanted her now. The world was full of compliant bodies, but interesting women were a rarity. Whenever she surrendered to him he felt a sense of victory. It was never with others the way it was with her. He smiled at his fancies. It was really very simple, Odenathus thought. He loved her.

5

"Do not hide behind false piety with me, Publius Cato!"

"Your Majesty misunderstands me," came the oily reply.

"I misunderstand nothing, Publius Cato."

"The emperor has shown us the direction to take. Do you say he is wrong?"

The collective intake of breath was quite audible. Be careful, Longinus mouthed at Zenobia. Her nod was barely perceptible. "The emperor is correct in all things, Publius Cato. If he persecutes the Christians in Rome then surely in Rome they deserve it; but here in Palmyra our few Christians are honest citizens who obey our laws and meet their obligations promptly. I suspect that your zeal for a persecution stems from the fact that you owe a rather large debt to Paulus Quintus, the merchant, who by coincidence is a Christian."

"The goods he sold me were inferior!"

"Then it is a matter for the courts, isn't it, Publius Cato?"

"The court ruled yesterday, Majesty," Zenobia's secretary said.

"Did it?" Zenobia was more than aware of the verdict, but she wanted the rest of the council to know, too. "And what was the court's decision, Longinus?"

"The court ruled in favor of Paulus Quintus, Majesty. The goods were not shoddy, as claimed by Publius Cato. He was ordered to pay Paulus Quintus for the merchandise."

"I see." The look Zenobia sent the rest of her councillors was one of patient tolerance. "Is there anyone else here who feels that the Christians are a danger to this government, or to the city itself? I will listen to anyone who wishes to speak."

Eloquent silence followed. Publius Cato rose angrily from his seat and made for the door.

"This council is not dismissed!" Zenobia's voice was icy.

"I will not stay here and be insulted by a woman!"

"That a woman bore you, Publius Cato, is certainly not a point in our favor," Zenobia replied, "but if you leave this chamber without my permission you will forever be dismissed from the council. I am Queen of Palmyra, and / will be Queen." She smiled faintly. "Come now, Publius Cato. You have given many years to this government, and have rendered it valuable service on any number of occasions. I can understand your desire for revenge, but whatever is between you and Paulus Quintus, you must not bring your wishes for vengeance into our government. When you have calmed down you will see that I am right. Come now, and sit. We have much business to dispose of before I dismiss you all."

Two other councillors had gotten up, and now spoke urgently and softly to Publius Cato, who, red-faced, shook his head in the negative.

"You can do no more, Majesty," Longinus said. "The man is impossible."

"It would be better not to make enemies."

"Whether he returns to his seat or not he will be your enemy. At least you have made a public attempt at reconciliation. If he is rash enough to leave, he will look the churl he is, and you may appoint one of your own people."

"And if he returns? What then?" She cocked her head to one side.

"He will attempt to block everything you do, for he is a petty man," Longinus replied. Then his eyes widened slightly and he said gleefully,"The gods have heard my prayers! The fool is leaving!"

Zenobia's face was regretful, but she gained immediate sympathy from everyone in the room. "I mourn the loss of Publius Cato," she said, "but if I did not serve the interests of Palmyra first, I could not serve the interests of Palmyra at all." For a moment she looked saddened, then her gray eyes grew bright and alert again. "With Publius Cato's departure we lack a quorum. Unless I immediately appoint someone to take his place we must disband; and there is so much to be done. I do not feel we can afford to lose the time. Are there any objections to my appointing, at least temporarily, Cassius Longinus, my secretary, to fill the place left by Publius Cato? Although he has been away several years, he is a native son of this city."

"I can see no impediment to such an appointment," said Marius Gracchus, the eldest and senior member of the council. After a brief moment all the others nodded their heads in agreement. "It is settled then, Majesty. Welcome Dionysius Cassius Longinus. You are not the first member of your family to serve this council. I remember your illustrious grandfather quite well."

Several hours later, after the council had been dismissed, Longinus said to his mistress, "I am not sure that you did not plan that whole thing."

"Actually, I did not expect Publius Cato to resign his post, but when he did it was only natural that I appoint you in his place, and I'm sure Odenathus will approve my choice, Longinus."

"You do not know me."

Zenobia turned her gray eyes on him, and smiled faintly. "I know you, Longinus. When we first met I instantly knew the kind of man you are-intelligent, honest and shrewd. You will be loyal to me, and therefore to Palmyra."

"You have neglected to say that I prefer men for lovers," Longinus replied wickedly.

Zenobia laughed. "Have you ever made love to a woman, Longinus? But you need not tell me. I shall grant that your private life be your own." Her eyes sparkled mischievously at him, and he was forced to laugh with her.

"I suspect that you are not going to be an easy person to work with, Majesty."

"Why, Longinus, I am simply a woman," she answered with mock humility. Longinus arched an elegant eyebrow in amusement, but Zenobia chose to ignore him, and continued, "You are to escort me to Antonius Porcius's wedding tomorrow. Be here in the hour before dawn."

"The hour before dawn?" He looked anguished. "I do not think my blood courses through my veins at such an hour, Majesty."

"I do not need your blood, Longmus, just your body," Zenobia answered drily.

"Well," he answered, "I think we shall make a handsome couple. Good night, Majesty."

Zenobia chuckled softly and poured herself some wine before seating herself in a chair. Thoughtfully she sipped the sweet red liquid. She had faced her first great challenge today, and she believed that she had acquitted herself quite well. As Longinus had said, whatever had happened Publius Cato would have been her enemy. By using his own weakness against him shehad removed him from the council and replaced him with one who would be loyal to Palmyra. She did not think Odenathus would disapprove her choice when he returned from his war.

Cassius Longinus. She smiled to herself. She liked him. He was a man of wit and culture, and, given his reputation, no one could accuse her of infidelity with him. She wondered briefly what made him prefer men over women as lovers, then shrugged. It mattered not, for he was already a friend, and she knew he would be a good servant of Palmyra. He was attractive,though: tall and lean, his gray hair close-cropped, his brown eyes lively and interested. His nose was long, and he had an intimidating way of looking down it that made most people nervous. Both his manners and his dress were elegant; his nature was generous, although he could become impatient with what he called the "general stupidity" of the populace. He was a tireless worker, she had discovered in the few months he had been with her, and this pleased her, for she disliked being idle, especially with her husband away.

A faint scratching at the door caught her attention, and she called, "Come in."

"I thought you might be lonely," Deliciae said, entering the room.

"I am glad for your company," Zenobia answered, although nothing was further from the truth. She had been enjoying her solitude.

"The council met almost the entire day-you must be exhausted."

"I thrive on hard work, Deliciae. Idleness is anathema to me."

"Is it true that you removed Publius Cato from the council? The city is abuzz with rumors."

"Already?" She was amused. "Publius Cato made an error in judgment when he attempted to use the government to pursue a personal grudge."

"Al-Zena says women do not belong in government."

"Al-Zena would quickly change her mind if Odenathus had left her as regent instead of me," Zenobia laughed. "Let us not speak of her, though, Deliciae. Instead, tell me how you spent your day."

"In idleness, Zenobia. The very idleness you so abhor. I spent most of my time beautifying myself, although for what or whom I do not know. I spent an hour with my sons, but alas, they are at an appalling age and speak only of weapons and horses."

"Are you happy, Deliciae?"

"No, but then what is there for me? I am Odenathus's concubine, although he has not used me as such in five years. I am the mother of sons who no longer need me. I have not the mind of weighty matters, as do you. I am as nothing."

"What do you want then?" Zenobia asked.

"If I tell you will you keep it a secret? I cannot have what I desire, but I can dream."

"I will keep it secret."

"I want a husband, Zenobia. Being a wife and a mother is what I am best suited for in this life. I know it is not possible, but still I dream."

"Why is it not possible? You have been beloved of a king, and should that king decide to reward your devotion by giving you to some worthy man as a wife, who is to tell him nay? If you wish it I will speak to Odenathus myself when he returns. You are still young enough to have more children."

"You would do that for me?" Deliciae's hopeful face brought Zenobia close to tears.

What a fool I have been! she thought. I have been so wrapped up in my own happiness that I did not see how miserable poor Deliciae has been. I shall never be a worthy queen if I can only speak of the people's needs, but do not see to them. "I will speak to the king, Deliciae, but once I have then you must be honest with him. I do not believe that you ever loved each other, but you have been friends. When I have paved the way for you, speak openly to Odenathus of your feelings."

"I am not sure I can, Zenobia."

"You must, Deliciae. In the end only you can gain your own happiness."

"What will happen to my sons if I leave the palace?"

"I do not know, Deliciae. However, I believe it would be best if they went with you rather than remain at the palace. They are as yet young, and need their mother." While they live here in the palace, thought Zenobia, Deliciae's sons are made to feel like royal princes, which they most certainly are not, and they also are old enough to be troublesome should anything happen to Odenathus. Indeed, for everyone's sake, Linos and Vermis would be better off elsewhere. She focused upon Deliciae again. "I will see that you are not separated from your sons, Deliciae. I could not bear it if I were separated from mine, and I understand a mother's feelings."

Deliciae fell to her knees and kissed the hem of Zenobia's gown. Her blue eyes were wet with tears. "Thank you, Majesty! Thank you!"

"Do not thank me yet, Deliciae. We have yet to speak to the king."

"He will listen to you," Deliciae said. "I know he will!"

"Come now," Zenobia said. "Join me for the evening meal. I must retire early, for tomorrow my friend, Julia Tullio, is to be married, and I have been invited for the augurs at dawn."

The next morning Zenobia wore a queenly flame-colored stola cinched with a wide gold belt inlaid with rubies and pearls. About her throat was a magnificent necklace of hundreds of small pearls and rubies that dangled from cobweb thin gold wires and glittered upon the pale-gold skin of her chest. Great barbaric ruby ovals hung from her ears. On her upper right arm was a golden snake with ruby eyes, and beneath it were a carved gold bangle and a smooth bangle of pink coral. On her left arm were three gold-wire bracelets, two studded with freshwater pearls flanking one encrusted with small rubies. Her slender fingers were dressed with but three rings, her wedding band, a great pink pearl, and a square-cut pink sapphire.

Zenobia's heavy black hair was parted in the center, and wound into a thick coil at the base of her neck. An exquisitely wrought diadem of filigreed gold vines and pink-sapphire flowers was set upon her head. On her feet she wore gilt leather sandals. Looking at herself in the polished-silver mirror held up by a slave, she was surprised at how regal she looked. Of course, she thought, my height is finally proving an advantage.

Longinus, shivering in the predawn cold, but elegant in a finely spun long, white wool tunic and a purple-bordered toga trabea of white and red stripes, awaited her in the courtyard of the palace. His gray hair was beautifully curled and smelled of a fragrant pomade. Giving her a wan smile, he helped her into the litter, and climbed in to seat himself opposite her. The slaves lifted them and moved off and out through the palace gate.

"If you are not too cold, Longinus, I should prefer to leave the curtains open. The sky before dawn is particularly lovely."

He sighed, and nodded as he huddled down into the pillows.

She smiled to herself, and for a few minutes they rode in silence, Zenobia watching the starry sky, now beginning to lighten faintly at theedgesofthehorizon. "Name me an unmarried man of good family whom we might wish to honor," she said.

Her question brought instant interest in Longinus's brown eyes. He sat up, and she could see his subtle brain mulling over the matter while at the same time wondering what she was up to this time. Finally he said, "The man who comes to mind is Rufus Acilius Curius. His father was a Roman centurion who married the daughter of a wealthy Palmyran merchant about thirty years ago. I remember it because it caused a great scandal. The family was at that time untainted by Roman blood, and the father a fanatic on the subject, but the girl got pregnant by her lover, and there was no choice but to marry. The centurion, however, proved a good husband, and when he retired from the army settled here in Palmyra. Rufus Curius is the third son, and he chose to make the army his career. He is the first Palmyran-borh commander of Qasr-al-Hêr. He's very loyal to Odenathus."

"Qasr-al-Hêr? The border fortress?"

"Yes."

"The gods! It is perfect! You are sure he has no wife? What of a betrothal? A mistress?"

"None that I have heard."

"Find out for certain, Longinus. I must know immediately!"

"Why?" No one else would have dared to ask the question, but Zenobia was not offended by Longinus. He had become her close confidant.

"Deliciae is Odenathus's concubine in name only. She is unhappy, Longinus. Odenathus does not need her. Frankly, she bores him, but he would not dismiss her, for she and her sons would suffer great shame if he did. She longs to be a wife, and to have other children. I have promised her that I would speak to Odenathus. She is young enough to begin a new life. I thought if he gave her in marriage to someone he wished to honor, it would solve the problem."

"Yes," Longinus mused, "and now that you tell me what you want to do I can tell you that Rufus Curius is indeed the right man. I expect you want her sons to go with her, and Rufus Curius would be an excellent foster father for them. He will see they grow up to be loyal citizens and honest men." He gave her a wicked look. "I know that your intentions toward the lady Deliciae are good ones, but I cannot help but think you will not be sorry to see Linos and Vermis go."

"For their own sakes, and for the sake of my son, Vaballathus, it is better that Deliciae's sons not grow up thinking that they are princes."

The litter arrived at the home of Manlius Tullio Syrius. Longinus descended from the vehicle, then reached back in to help her out.

Manlius Tullio Syrius knelt and touched the hem of Zenobia's skirts to his forehead. "You do us incredible honor, my Queen. The humble house of Tullio is made great by your presence."

"Rise, father of my dearest friend, Julia. I should ill repay your daughter's friendship of many years if I did not come to wish her and her betrothed good fortune."

The elder Tullio rose, and then each member of his family beginning with his wife, Filomena, paid homage to Zenobia. It was a large family, and afterward Longinus murmured softly to Zenobia, "If you had come a half-hour earlier I would have been frozen in my tracks by the time they all kissed your hem."

Zenobia stifled a chuckle as the bride's mother spoke.

"Julia would like you to serve as pronuba, your Majesty," Filomena said.

"I should be honored, Aunt Filomena," was the reply.

Zenobia was led to the place of honor, and as the sun slipped over the horizon the public augur slit the throat of a young sheep, catching its blood in a silver basin. For some minutes the augur carefully viewed the young ram's smoking innards, and then he said, "The omens are most favorable."

Now Antonius Porcius Blandus and Julia Tullio both appeared in the atrium, and the wedding began. Zenobia stepped forward, smiling at her friend, and before the many witnesses joined the hands of the bride and the groom. Shyly Julia repeated the traditional words, "When-and where-you are Gaius, I then- and there-am Gaia." The words of consent given, the ceremony continued, now led by the high priest of Jupiter and his assistants.

For a moment Zenobia let her mind wander back to the happy day when she married Odenathus, and she sighed softly. She missed him so very much. If the damned Romans wanted the Persians subdued, why didn't they send their own generals instead of the King of Palmyra? The empire is too big, murmured a little voice in her head, and they can no longer control it all themselves. She pushed away the thought, and glanced about at the other guests. Marcus Alexander Britainus was staring at her, and for some reason that she didn't understand she blushed. She was instantly furious at herself, and shot him a withering look, but to her surprise he was no longer looking at her. What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered.

"Feliciter!” the guests shouted, and Zenobia realized that the ceremony was over. She watched as Antonius Porcius vigorously kissed his rosy-cheeked bride.

"Are you satisfied now?" asked Marcus, suddenly at her side. "It is obvious that he loves her."

"Yes," Zenobia answered slowly. "It will be a good marriage, and I am glad for Julia." She took a goblet of wine offered by a slave, as did Marcus.

"Would I offend you, Majesty, if I told you that you were the most beautiful woman in this room, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my entire life, in all my travels."

For a moment her heart beat so quickly that she could not catch her breath to speak. Finally she managed to say, "Why do you say such a thing to me, Marcus Britainus?"

"Why should it embarrass you that I speak a truth," he said. "Are we not good enough friends after all these years that I may say what I feel to you, offer a compliment?"

"You have never said such things to me, Marcus Britainus. I am merely surprised."

"The wine makes me bold," he teased gently, and then he said softly so only she might hear, "Zenobia, look at me."

Surprised, she raised her eyes to him. Never before bad he dared to use her name. His blue eyes, seeming to devour her, held her prisoner, and she was mesmerized while a strange heat swept over her body, rendering her almost helpless.

"Are you a sorcerer too, Marcus Britainus?" she finally said, very shaken.

"Only a man, Majesty," was the reply. "I am only a man."

She thought about the incident later that night after all the festivities were over. Longinus, who had observed the little encounter between his mistress and Marcus Britainus, had not left her side for the rest of the day; but he said nothing, for he could see that she was disturbed.

She was restless that night. Each time she drifted off she would see his face with its high cheekbones, strong jaw, long nose, and those blue eyes that caressed and blazed down at her until she awoke, drenched in her own sweat, her heart pounding. I have been too long without my Hawk, she thought with strangely clear logic. I seem to be a woman who cannot get along without a man.

It would have disturbed Zenobia even more had she known that Marcus also lay awake that night. His passion for her had not abated, but rather grown over the years. Often he questioned himself as to whether it was simply because he could not possess her, but the answer was always the same. He loved her.

He had chided himself even as he had said the provocative words that risked his entire relationship with her. It had been a rash thing to do, but for once he had longed for Zenobia to look at him like a man, and not a teacher. When his eyes had held hers in thrall that morning he had yearned to sweep her into his arms, to kiss her marvelous ripe mouth, to caress her beautiful body until she swooned with rapture. Then he had seen her frightened eyes, and he had released his hold upon her. Why had she feared him? Was it possible that she was finally realizing that there was more to him than just history lessons?

Marcus stretched his long body as he sought to find a more comfortable position. He smiled ruefully. How unlike the bold and licentious women of Rome Zenobia was. She was still an innocent, and it was his misfortune to have fallen in love with her. A man of less character might have attempted to seduce her, but it was not in his nature to entrap or force a woman. The men he knew in Rome, men who practiced their new morality with lustful gusto, would have laughed at him for a fool.

Zenobia did not see Marcus for several days, and then she was only momentarily uncomfortable. He, however, seemed not to notice as he intently described Roman Britain to her. She would never know the effort it took him to appear so totally impersonal.

Odenathus returned home victorious over the Persians, who had fled back across their borders to lick their wounds. It was autumn, and the Bedawi again left the oasis city to wander the desert while the great caravans traveled in and out of Palmyra with their varied goods. The king confirmed his wife's temporary appointment of Cassius Longinus as a member of the council. The government ran smoothly.

"I have long wanted to get rid of Publius Cato, but there was simply no reason for me to dismiss him." He chuckled. "The gossip tells me that Publius Cato had bragged that I would reappoint him when I returned to Palmyra."

"He will not thank you for making him a laughingstock, my Hawk. It might be wise to offer him some harmless, but seemingly important post."

He hugged her lovingly. "I shall take your suggestion, Zenobia. The man who collects the taxes upon the silk from Cathay has recently died. We shall offer Publius Cato this post, although I doubt that those who import the silk thread to dye will thank us."

"I have a feeling that they will cope a great deal more easily with Publius Cato than the government has been able to do," Zenobia replied.

"You have done so well while I was gone," he complimented her. "Marius Gracchus himself told me-and compliments from that old fox do not come easily or often. Although the council was fearful of my departure, now they feel that I may meet my obligations as Rome's commander of the eastern legions without endangering Palmyra." He grimaced. "I am not sure that I should not be worried, Zenobia,- for if you prove a more adept ruler than I they could depose me."

"I could do nothing if I did not know you were coming home to me, my Hawk!" she answered fervently.

"There might come a time when you have to, my flower. Oh, I do not mean to frighten you, but no man, even a king, is impervious to an opponent's spear, an enemy's arrow. If I should die before Vaballathus is old enough to rule in his own right, you would be regent of this city, its ruler."

"You will not die in battle. It is not your fate, I know it!"

He kissed her slowly. "Sorceress," he murmured against her mouth. "What spells do you weave to keep me safe?" His hands slipped beneath her robes to caress her silky skin.

"No Hawk!" she protested. "I yet have something to discuss with you."

"Is it more important than our love?" he said, fondling a ripe breast.

She squirmed away reluctantly. "It concerns our love, my Hawk. I love you with all my heart, and you, I know, love me. Still, Deliciae remains your concubine although you have not favored her in several years. Have you any idea how unhappy she is?"

He looked curiously at her. "Are you suggesting that I return to her bed?"

"If you do I shall scratch both your eyes out!" Zenobia said with mock anger. "No, my Hawk, that is not the answer. While you were away, Deliciae and I were much together, and one night she confided to me how unhappy she is. She is grateful to you, of course, but she longs for what we have. She wants a husband, and she wants other children. She has been loyal many years, and she deserves to be rewarded."

"Deliciae really wants this?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And have you chosen a candidate for her hand?"

"Rufus Curius, the commander of Qasr-al-Hêr."

"How did you arrive at that choice?" His voice was somewhat strained.

"It was Longinus's suggestion. He tells me that Rufus Curius is the first Palmyran-born centurion to command our border fortress. He says that Rufus Curius is a good man who will be a model husband for Deliciae and a fine foster father for Linos and Vermis."

"How can you ask me to relinquish my sons?" he demanded of her, and Zenobia was truly shocked by the anguish in his voice.

"I know how you love Linos and Vermis," she answered him, "but you do them no kindness by keeping them here in Palmyra at the palace. They have already begun asking why their half-brother, Vaballathus, is your heir instead of one of them. Your mother does not help, either, for she encourages this attitude in them. Reason cannot aid us, for logic will not prevail over emotion."

"I want no other man raising my sons," Odenathus said stubbornly.

Zenobia lost her temper. "And what of my sons!?' she demanded furiously. "If you were killed in battle what is to stop a dissident group from pressing a claim on Linos's part? No bastard has ever sat on Palmyra's throne, but by keeping your sons by Deliciae here in the palace you appear to favor them. There are those who might even assume that you favor them over your legitimate sons! You cannot control the situation if you are not here, my lord King."

Now it was he who was shocked. Never had he heard her voice drip so with scorn and venom. She had always been truthful, even to the point of bluntness, but never had he heard her so fierce. Had her time as ruler of Palmyra given her a taste of power that she was reluctant to relinquish now that he had returned?

The truth of the matter was that Deliciae's presence had become something of a burden. Still, he had never thought of sending his older sons away. "I must think on it, my flower," he said.

"Think well, and do not think overlong," she replied, getting up and moving away from him.

"Do you threaten me, my flower?" His voice held a dangerous note.

She was neither afraid nor impressed, for although she loved him she was suddenly seeing him through different eyes. "I merely ask that you not delay in your decision, my lord," she replied coldly, and walked from the room.

He felt strangely bereft, for in their six years of marriage they had never had a serious quarrel. Odenathus sensed that things between himself and Zenobia would never be the same. He had somehow failed her, failed her in an unforgivable way. Was she correct? Was it possible that his open affection for his two older sons might lead people to think that he favored his illegitimate children over his legitimate ones? He loved all his boys. Still, should he fall in battle before his sons were grown… He shuddered at the thought of the civil war that could follow, for Zenobia would not sit quietly by and allow her own sons' inheritance to be usurped. And if Rome involved itself? His whole line could be wiped out.

He shouted for his secretary, and was dictating almost before the unfortunate scribe could ink his pen and put it to parchment. He ordered Rufus Acilius Curius to report to him immediately, no matter the time of day or night. Immediately! He realized now that Zenobia was right, and he would brook no delay. If Rufus Curius was not contracted, or in love, he was going to find himself married before week's end.

It was a confused commander of Qasr-al-Hêr who arrived at the palace several hours later. Rufus Curius could not imagine why he had been summoned. Had he somehow offended the king? Was there to be a war? He was justifiably nervous as he was hurriedly escorted before his lord, and Odenathus's piercing appraisal of his person did nothing to put him at his ease. The king noted that Rufus Curius had his Roman father's height, and a reddish cast to his curly hair; but his eyes were brown, and his features very much Palmyran. He stood properly at attention before his ruler.

Odenathus grinned, and the man before him relaxed somewhat.

"Rufus Curius," said the king, his black eyes sparkling with amusement, "you are to be married. I think tomorrow would be a good day."

Rufus Curius's mouth gaped. "Married?"

"Married," his king replied. "Your bride is to be the lady Deliciae, who has for many years been in my favor. She is a good and beautiful woman, Rufus Curius. She will bring to your house my two sons, Linos and Vernus. I entrust you with their care and upbringing, for I am told that you are a loyal and virtuous man. These children cannot remain in my house lest others believe I favor them over my heir, Prince Vaballathus. I know that you will be a good foster father to my natural sons."

"Sire, I am not unmindful of the honor you would do me," Rufus Curius said, "but I would have children of my own."

"The lady Deliciae is a good breeder and an excellent mother," Odenathus said.

"Yet she has only given you two children in all the years she has been with you."

"It takes two people to breed, Rufus Curius," was the reply.

Immediate understanding flooded the centurion's face. "I am grateful for this opportunity to serve you further, my lord."

Clapping his hands, the king commanded the summoned slave to fetch Deliciae.

She arrived wearing a pale blue stola, and her lovely milk-white bosom rose rather provocatively above the low neckline. Her beautiful blond hair was braided and looped gracefully on either side of her head. Her only jewelry was a thin gold chain about her neck. The whole effect was of purity and innocence. Rufus Curius looked once, his eyes glazing over, and Deliciae smiled sweetly. The centurion was lost.

The wedding was set for two days later. It was agreed that Deliciae's sons would not go immediately with their mother, but follow her a month later so she might have some private time with her new husband.

The day following their wedding, Deliciae and her new husband left for Qasr-al-Hêr, but in the royal palace of Palmyra Deliciae's sons found themselves in great trouble. With typical eight- and nine-year-old logic, Linos and Vernus had decided that if their younger half-brothers were not around, their father would not send them away. They had taken their four- and five-year-old half-brothers to the slave market, and attempted to sell them to a merchant whose caravan was shortly traveling to Cathay. The merchant was enchanted by the two golden-skinned, gray-eyed little boys who spoke so well, and were obviously quite intelligent; but he was equally suspicious of Linos and Vermis. They were a trifle young to be selling slaves. It was fortunate that he was an honest man. Taking the two younger boys aside, he asked them their names. He didn't doubt the answers he received. "I am Prince Vaballathus," lisped the older of the two. "My papa is the king. This is my brother, Demi. He is a prince, too."

"And who are the other boys?" asked the merchant.

"They are Linos and Vernus. Their mama-her name is Deliciae-was married yesterday and we were given sugared almonds." Vaba smiled up at the merchant. "I like sugared almonds, don't you?"

"Yes," the merchant replied. "I like sugared almonds, too. I will give you some to eat while I take you and your bromer back to the palace."

No one in the palace had ever seen Zenobia angry, but that day her rage consumed everything in her path. She had to be physically restrained from attacking Linos and Vermis. "Get them out of my sight!" she shrieked. "If I ever see them again I will strangle them with my bare hands!" She ordered her sons' nurses beheaded, an order countermanded by Odenathus.

"You cannot blame them," he attempted to reason with her. "The children have always played together. How could the nurses know what Linos and Vermis planned?"

Weeping, she heaped rewards upon the merchant, invoking the gods' blessings upon him. Odenathus absolved the stunned merchant of all future taxes for himself and his heirs unto the tenth generation.

Zenobia's rage would not abate. "This is all your mother's doing!" she accused. "You would not listen to me when I warned you that she was filling their heads"-she could not bear even to say their names-"with ideas above their station! My sons, my beautiful babies, could have been lost to us forever, and it would have been your fault!" The shock and fear had made her unreasonable. "You would not have cared, though, would you?! If my sons had been lost to you then you could have simply done what that bitch from Hades, your mother, has always wanted! You could have made Deliciae's brats your heirs! I will never forgive you! Never!" There was no reasoning with her for several days, although she did forgive the nurses for the sake of her children.

Linos and Vernus were confined to their apartment in deep disgrace. They were not malicious children, but the sudden change in their lives had made them unsure of their own future. They very much needed to know who they were and where they belonged in this frightening world. Their father told them in no uncertain terms that although they were his sons, he had not been married to their mother. This meant that in the eyes of the law they could inherit nothing of his. That privilege belonged to his wife's sons, their half-brothers. Whatever ideas their grandmother had given them, they must forget, for she was nothing but a foolish old woman.

Al-Zena, however, was a changed woman as she desperately tried to explain to Zenobia. "I did not mean them to harm Vaba and Demi," she wept, her proud face crumbled and suddenly old.

"If they had I would have torn your throat out with my bare teeth," Zenobia snarled.

"I love Vaba and Demi too, Zenobia," Al-Zena sobbed. "/ do!"

"You have never loved anyone or anything in your life!" was the cruel reply.

Al-Zena mastered herself. "You have the intolerance of the very young, Zenobia," she said. "I have loved. Oh yes, I have loved!" Sighing, she began to pace, and as she did she spoke. "When I was ten I fell in love, and my whole life I have loved this man, although he. is dead almost twenty years now. His name was Ardashir, and he was the King of Persia. His son, Shapur, now reigns. Ah, how I loved him. And from the first he loved me, though I was but a child. It was he who sent me here to Palmyra to be wife to Odenathus's father. I fought against leaving. I begged him to let me be his concubine, to be his slave, anything but to leave him. I might have swayed him, but my older sister was Ardashir's wife. She did not object to Ardashir having concubines as long as I was not one of them. So despite my protests, I was sent to Palmyra, and all might have been well if only Odenathus's father had been understanding of my girlish heartbreak; but all he wanted was an heir.

"You have undoubtedly heard the story of how he raped me on our wedding night. Well, it is true, for he did, and every night after that until he was sure I was pregnant. When my son was bom he was taken immediately from me. I was not even allowed to nurse him. I remember begging my husband to let me have my baby back, but he only laughed and said that he knew of Ardashir's plan to make my son sympathetic to the Persians, and that I would never be allowed to taint him.

"Each day after that the child was brought to me for one hour, but I was never left alone with him. I begged my husband for another child that might be mine, but he refused. Then too, he said, I was not to his taste. I was too skinny, and he preferred plump women.

"I grew bitter, Zenobia, and is it any wonder? My son was growing up without knowing me. I had a husband in name only, and I was separated from the only man I had ever loved. When Odenathus's father died I tried to regain my son's love so I might have some small comfort in my old age; but you came, and Oden-athus had no time for me again.

"Do you blame me that I have hated you, that I have tried to make your life the hell that mine has been? Why should you have been loved and I not? Believe me, though, I would never intentionally hurt my grandsons!"

"Which ones?" Zenobia asked harshly.

"None of them. Neither Linos nor Vermis; nor Vaballathus nor Demetrius. I love them, Zenobia! They are all I have, and they love me!"

"I do not know if I can ever forgive you," Zenobia said.

"I do not know if I can forgive myself," was the sad reply. "In my bitterness and jealousy I may have done Deliciae's sons great harm. If you will let me I will try and undo it. Whatever I have said in the past, I know that Palmyra can have only one heir and it must be my son's legitimate heir, your son, Vaballathus."

Zenobia looked closely at her husband's mother. What she saw convinced her that Al-Zena was being honest. "I do not know if we will ever be friends, Al-Zena, but whatever you can do to convince those two of the error of their ways, I will appreciate."

"And you will not take Vaba and Demi from me?"

"No."

"And you will forgive my Odenathus? You cannot fault him for loving all his sons."

"His love is not the cause of my anger. I am angry with him because he refused to see the danger until it was almost too late."

"You must forgive him, Zenobia! You are his joy! You have been surrounded your entire life by love, and cannot know how terrible it is to be without it."

Afterward, as she sat alone, Zenobia began to question if she had ever really loved her husband. She enjoyed his lovemaking, and she certainly enjoyed his company. He was her friend and companion, and she respected him, but was that love? Was that all that had bound her parents together? She thought not, yet she did not know for certain, and wondered if she ever would.

For the first time her life was not simple and clear-cut. When she was a child, her father and Akbar had been her gods. When she had married, she had turned to Odenathus. It had never occurred to her that things would someday be different. She could not erase all the good years with him simply because he had disappointed her, but neither could she ever completely trust in him again. She knew that she was being unreasonable, yet the feeling was there and could not be denied. Men, it seemed, were fallible. Why had that thought never occurred to her before? If Odenathus had put her on a pedestal to be worshiped, then so too had she put him on a pedestal.

"Majesty."

Zenobia turned to see a slave girl. "Yes?"

"Marcus Alexander is here for your lesson, Majesty."

Zenobia nodded at the slave girl, and hurried out into the garden of her little palace where lessons were held on pleasant days. When he turned to greet her something within her quivered, and for a moment she looked searchingly at him.

"Good morning, Majesty."

"Good day, Marcus Britainus. I have decided it is far too lovely a day for lessons. Will you ride with me?"

"Are you certain you are not one of those women sent to lure hapless travelers to their doom?" he teased her, and she chuckled as she remembered their first meeting in the desert.

"You will have to take your chances, Roman," she teased back, feeling more lighthearted than she had in days.

Marcus Alexander rode a large-boned Arab gelding, gold in color with a creamy white mane and tail; Zenobia, a big gray stallion. She was dressed as he first remembered seeing her, in a short white tunic and gold sandals. Although they were both recognized as they rode through the city, they were not stopped by the queen's adoring admirers, and once through the gates of Palmyra Zenobia let her stallion have his head.

They rode without stopping and without speech for several miles. Marcus Alexander was content to follow, for although he had lived in the desert for some years now one sand dune looked the same as another to him. It always amazed him that the native-born of Palmyra seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Zenobia watched him from beneath her lashes as they cantered along. She was conscious of the long, muscled legs that guided his mount so easily, and suddenly Zenobia was painfully aware of him as a male being. There was an auburn down on his shapely legs, and his feet were much longer than her husband's.

Unexpectedly, Zenobia's mount reared up, and caught daydreaming, she found herself pitched from his back into a small dune. Marcus instantly dismounted and was by her side, gathering her into his arms, and calling frantically to her. She was momentarily stunned, but as her vision cleared she became aware of his mouth but inches from hers. Zenobia stared, momentarily frozen. He wanted to kiss her, and she knew it! Instinctively her lips softened and parted as she found to her shock that she wanted to kiss him.

"Zenobia," he whispered.

Hearing the hunger in his voice was enough to bring her back to her senses. With a little sob she turned her head away from him, and hot tears slid down her cheeks. She didn't know why she was crying, but she couldn't seem to stop.

With a deep sigh Marcus held her close to his heart, and crooned to her as he might have to an injured child. "Are you all right, Majesty?" he asked, forcing away any thought of what might have been.

Her tears now controlled, Zenobia replied softly, "I think that I have only injured my pride, Marcus Britainus. I have never been thrown from my horse before. I cannot understand what caused the beast to rear up like that." Her mount was now standing quietly, although he quivered nervously.

"I will see to the animal. He seems yet agitated." Marcus rose and walked over to the queen's gray stallion. "Easy, my beauty," he said gently to the horse, and took his bridle. Scanning the ground around the animal for a few minutes, Marcus finally found what he sought. "Scorpion," he said to Zenobia, "and a huge one at that. No wonder this big beauty of yours panicked."

Zenobia rose to her feet. "Is he all right?" she asked.

Marcus ran a swift and knowledgeable hand over the horse's legs and, looking up, said, "He appears to be perfect, Majesty. He just needs the reassurance of you upon his back again."

"Help me up," she commanded softly, and he bent, cupping his hands so she might have a mounting place. Zenobia vaulted lightly back onto the gray, and then said, "Come, Marcus Britainus, we have not finished our ride." Kicking the beast, she started off again, this time more careful to keep her mind on the horse and her surroundings.

Later, however, in the privacy of her own rooms, she began to think over the incident in the desert. During her whole adult life her beauty and sensuality had been directed toward Odenathus. She had been taught that a woman cleaved unto her husband only. But Zenobia had always been honest with herself, and she was being honest now when she admitted to herself that she had wanted to kiss Marcus; had very much wanted to feel his mouth possessing hers in a burning and passionate kiss. Did she really desire Marcus, or was it that she was still angry at Odenathus? What had made her turn away from the Roman at the last moment? With an angry sound she pushed the disturbing thoughts away. She was a grown woman and the king's beloved wife, not a silly young girl who gave in to her desires.

The Roman Emperor Valerian came east from Italy, and engaged the Persian King Shapur in a pitched battle at the ancient city of Edessa in Mesopotamia, just north of Palmyra. The Romans were defeated, and driven back while their emperor was led into a shameful captivity from which he would never escape. No one could understand why Valerian had come east, especially when Odenathus and his Palmyran legions had successfully driven the Persians out of the Eastern empire the previous autumn.

Shapur now felt invincible, and taunted the Romans with the imperial captive. He used Valerian as a human footstool when mounting his horse. Finally beheading the emperor, he presented his tanned skin to the horrified Roman delegation sent to negotiate Valerian's release.

Valerian's son was wild with grief and thoughts of revenge. He was now emperor, and in their outrage over their defeat his army never considered replacing him which was fortunate, for Gallienus faced usurpations almost immediately on three fronts. While Gallienus took on two of his own challengers, Odenathus defeated the third at Emesa and was reconfirmed king by the grateful Gallienus.

Odenathus returned from his defense of the empire a changed man. Zenobia had greeted him coolly, but he seemed not to notice. "The time is close," he told her, "when we may throw off the chains that have bound us all these years."

"What has changed?" she asked.

"The government in Rome is worse off than ever, my flower. Every legion has a candidate for emperor, although only a few have dared to rebel so far. Gallienus is beset by too many problems both internal and external. He may be resolute, but he cannot possibly solve the empire's difficulties. The silver coinage is being debased, and he has already incurred the enmity of the senate. He has taken away perquisites from the politicians, and the majority of the senate is far more interested in its social position and its privileges than in good government."

"So we will take advantage of their weaknesses," Zenobia mused. "We will attack them and free ourselves!"

"Not quite yet, my Queen. You must learn patience, Zenobia. Never make a move until you can be sure of success. Rome trusts us and, having gained an alliance with us, will not look often in our direction. We will now begin to rebuild our armies, and in a few years we will free ourselves as well as expand our own territories."

She smiled a smile of genuine delight as she finally fully understood his intentions. "In other words, my husband, we shall expand our own empire under the guise of keeping the Roman peace. It is brilliant!"

"Exactly!" was his reply.

"Oh, Hawk! I am so proud of you," she cried, kissing him with the first genuine affection she had shown him in months.

He returned her ardor, wanting it to go on forever but knowing that he must clear the air between them. Gently he disengaged her, and set her back from him. "Zenobia," he said in a serious tone, "do not make the mistake with me that you made before. I could not bear it if you withdrew your love from me again. You must understand that I am only a mortal man. I am not invincible, or infallible, my flower." Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his hand for a moment. "What a paradox you are! You are intelligent enough to run a government, yet emotionally you are still a child in many ways. I erred, Zenobia, and you must learn to forgive those who err."

"Am I so intolerant then?" she asked, troubled.

"Only of those you love," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, then he drew her into his arms.

It was better between Zenobia and Odenathus then, but the relationship that they had once had was gone forever. Perhaps if they had had the time they might have regained it, but there was no time. Palmyra's king moved to annex Syria, Palestine, Mesopotamia, and eastern Asia Minor, finally breaking the back of the Persian ruler. King Shapur retreated a final time over his own borders, never to return.

In Palmyra Zenobia ruled wisely in her husband's frequent absences. Driving her golden chariot around the city, she became a familiar sight to her people. In an unruly world Palmyra was a safe haven of green in the middle of a sandy sea. Each day Zenobia drilled her own troops, a special guard that had been formed in addition to her own camel corps.

At first the young men recruited for her guard would not believe that a woman could lead a command. At their first meeting, Zenobia quickly disabused them of that notion, fighting the largest of their group and beating him soundly with her broadsword. She could throw a spear farther than any of them, and she taught them to use a bow and arrow while moving at a full gallop. They were quickly devoted to her, for she was patient with their errors and generous with her praise. The queen's guard would have died for her, and on one of his rare visits home Odenathus teased her about it, wondering if he should be jealous of all those strong young men who were so loyal to his wife.

Marcus Britainus waited for he knew not what. Zenobia had never mentioned or even vaguely referred to the incident in the desert when they had both come so close to indiscretion. When they had returned to Palmyra that day he had sought out the beautiful courtesan, Sadira, and used her almost savagely.

"It is obvious that you love a woman you cannot have, Marcus Alexander," Sadira had said, "but I cannot suffer each time you visit me because I am not that woman. Do not return to me unless you exorcise the devils within you."

Marcus might have bought himself a beautiful slave girl in Palmyra's famous slave markets, but he wanted no woman if he could not have Zenobia. Often his thoughts were black, but these thoughts he kept to himself. Sometimes in the night he would awaken and wonder what would happen if Odenathus were killed in battle. Then he would despise himself for having fallen so low in his desperate love for Zenobia that he wished the king, his friend, dead. With an eye to marriage, he made a serious effort to look over the available women within his class, but no one captured his heart. He reconciled himself to bachelorhood.

He saw Zenobia frequently, for from the beginning he had always been included in her social life. He and Longinus were her frequent escorts whenever Odenathus was away. They would stand on either side of her at the games, or at the theater, or amuse her with witty conversation at dull state dinners. It was not a great deal, he thought, somewhat sadly, but at least he was with her. Despite his family's constant pleas from Rome, he could not marry. True, most marriages were things of convenience, but Marcus Alexander Britainus would not marry without love. And there would never be anyone for him but Zenobia of Palmyra, wife to Odenathus.

The Persians were finally beaten, and Odenathus would at last be home for good, barring another war. Palmyra had never been so prosperous, so strong, so invincible. It had a warrior king, a wise and beautiful queen, and two healthy princes, Vaballathus who would soon be twelve, and his younger brother, Demetrius, now almost eleven. There was great celebration in honor of the royal family.

The city was filled to overflowing with dignitaries from as far east as Cathay and the lands beyond the Indus River. There wasn't a family whose house didn't accommodate relatives and other guests. Antonius Porcius and his wife, Julia, were playing hosts to Rufus Curius, Deliciae, and their children. In addition to Linos and Vermis, they had produced six children in the ten years of their marriage.

Julia and Deliciae had both become plump with age. Both were dedicated wives and mothers. The pampered daughter of one of Palmyra's most distinguished families and the former concubine of nameless parentage found that they had a great deal in common, and were fast friends.

Rufus Curius had been a good foster father to Deliciae's two oldest sons. He had never favored his own sons over them, offering equal love and equal discipline to all the children in his family. Unfortunately, Al-Zena had rooted the bitter seed of discontent deep within their hearts, and although they outwardly seemed to adjust to their new life, Linos and Vermis never forgot that they were Odenathus's older sons. Intelligent, they eagerly learned the arts of warfare from their foster father, and it was expected that they would join the army when they returned to Qasr-al-Hêr.

The Palmyran celebration was to last six days, with all entertainments free and open to everyone. Food and drink were available to all, courtesy of the royal council. Certain prisoners were released in honor of the king's victory over the Persians. Others would have the opportunity to win their freedom in gladitorial combat in the great Palmyran amphitheater.

The games held in Palmyra were probably the most humane in the entire empire. The Palmyrans did not have the lust for blood that the citizens of Rome did. The gladitorial combat was therefore with blunt weapons, and a man put down by his opponent was subject to the crowd's judgment. A thumb turned upward meant he was allowed to get up and continue; a downward thumb meant the contest was immediately awarded to his opponent. Unlike Rome, Palmyra did not allow man and animal to fight; nor did women battle dwarfs.

Palmyra's open-air theater, which dated from before the Roman occupation, was offering comedies each morning, and its ten thousand seats were always filled. There were no women performers, young boys whose voices were still high played the female parts. Zenobia in particular enjoyed the earthy, ribald humor.

Each night after the celebrations, the rulers of Palmyra held a banquet to which the rich and famous were invited; but on the final day their banquet was limited to their family and close friends. It was not as elaborate a meal as the previous nights, beginning with silver platters of boiled, peeled eggs with a piquant dipping sauce, artichokes in wine vinegar and olive oil, thin slices of onion, and salted fish. The second course offered baby lamb garnished with tiny onions which had been roasted with it and sprinkled with fresh mint, antelope with asparagus and beets, an enormous haunch of beef, chickens roasted with lemon sauce, bowls of beans, peas, and cabbage, platters of cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, and radishes, black and green olives in glass bowls, and round loaves of fine white bread. Mulsum, a drink made of four parts wine and one part honey, was drunk with the first course, and meal wine, a mixture of water and wine, was served with the second course because straight wine was considered harmful to the stomach until it had been well filled.

The last course offered fresh fruits: peaches, apricots, green and red grapes, pomegranates, cherries, oranges, figs, and plums. There were honey cakes rolled in poppy or sesame seeds, in chopped almonds or pistachios. There were large dates stuffed with walnuts, and at last the goblets were filled with rich and heady dark red wine. There was entertainments with the final course; a jongleur who delighted the children by being able to handle six oranges at one time; and a clever elderly man from Cathay with a troupe of dancing dogs. The older boys enjoyed the acrobats, the gentlemen the dancing girls from Egypt.

It was a warm and friendly gathering with Cassius Longinus and Marcus Britainus joining Zenobia, Odenathus, and their children; Al-Zena; Antonius Porcius, his Julia, and their children; Rufus Curius, Deliciae, and their children; Linos and Vermis; now elderly Zabaai ben Selim, Tamar, Zenobia's favorite brodier Akbar ben Zabaai, and even old Bab. Odenathus stood, raising a fresh goblet of wine to toast them all.

"To Palmyra," he said. "To my beloved wife, Zenobia, and to my sons. To all of you!" He gestured with the goblet, "My family, my friends." Then he spilled a portion of the goblet. "To the gods!" he toasted, and quickly quaffed the wine down.

All stood, and raised their own goblets to him in salute preparatory to drinking; but suddenly a terrible look came over Odena-thus's face, and he doubled over, his voice barely a whisper, but clearly heard by them all.

"Don't drink! I have been poisoned!" Then he fell back onto the couch.

Al-Zena screamed in horror, her hand going to her mouth as Zenobia shot her a quelling look.

"Fetch the doctor! Hurry!" the queen cried to the servants.

A servant ran from the room as Julia quickly gathered up the small children, and herded them out along with the king's weeping mother. Fortunately they had seen little, and understood nothing.

"Do not fear, my Hawk," Zenobia whispered, "the doctor is coming."

Odenathus shook his head. "I am a dead man, my flower," and he grimaced as a burning pain tore through his guts. "You must rule Palmyra until Vaba is of age, Zenobia." Painfully he raised himself so they might all see him. "Prince Vaballathus is my choice, my heir, the next King of Palmyra. Zenobia is to rule in his place until he is of age." As he fell back he cried out, "Promise me!"

The men gathered about the king, and said with one voice, "We will protect Prince Vaballathus's rights, Majesty."

"Where is the doctor!" Zenobia's voice was edged with hysteria.

"Zenobia.!” His voice was weaker now, as if, having settled the succession, little was left for him. "Give me your hand, my flower." She took his slender hand, icy now with approaching death. Her eyes were filled with tears that she could not control. "Ah," he said softly. "How I have loved you!" and then he was dead.

For a moment, silence. Then Zenobia said in a strained voice, "I want to know who did this. / want to know!”

The royal physician ran into the room, saw Odenathus, and flung himself on the floor before the queen. 'Take my life, Majesty, for what use am I to you by being too late," he cried.

"No, Apollodorus, it is not your fault; but take the other goblets of wine, being careful to mark each one, and tell me if they, too, were poisoned."

The physician stood and, moving to the table, quickly began lifting each goblet and sniffing carefully at it. When he had checked every goblet in the room he looked at Zenobia and said, "It is not necessary for me to make a further study, my Queen. Every goblet but two was poisoned. All in this room but two would have died had they drunk."

Zenobia looked to Odenathus's oldest sons. "Why?" she asked, knowing they were the quiet ones.

It was Linos who answered. "Because I should be the next king. I was the eldest son, not Vaba. Odenathus was going to formally invest Vaba as his heir tomorrow."

"But why everyone, Linos?"

"If you were all dead the people would have to accept me. Besides, the emperor promised that he would support me."

"Gallienus?" Zenobia was shocked.

"He always secretly held my father responsible for Valerian's death at the hands of King Shapur."

"Valerian was responsible for his own death, the fool!" was the sharp reply. Then Zenobia turned to Rufus Curius, and said quietly, 'Take your wife from the room, Rufus Curius."

The commander of Qasr-al-Hêr led his numb and sobbing wife out. Whether Deliciae wept for Odenathus or her sons even she did not know.

Zenobia drew her older son forward, and Longinus lifted the boy up onto the dining table. "The king is dead," Zenobia said in a strangely strong voice. "Long live the king!"

"Long life to King Vaballathus!" the men in the room took up the cry.

“No!" Linos shouted, but it was his last word. Akbar ben Zabaai moved quickly behind the young man and slit his throat. Vermis screamed but one word-"Mama!"-then the blade silenced him forever.

"Take them out into the desert and leave their bodies for carrion," commanded the high-pitched voice of the new king. "They have killed our father, and do not deserve the honor of a burial." His young voice was strong, but he looked to his mother for corroboration. Her nod was barely perceptible.

"I think that the king and his brother had best be taken to bed now, Majesty," Longinus said. "It is necessary that we call the council together immediately. A check must be made to ascertain if anyone else was involved in the plot against the royal family. The city must be secured against possible uprising or outside attack. The people should be informed, then assured that all is well."

Zenobia nodded. "So be it. See to finding the council, and send my guard to me. Tell Rufus Curius to return immediately." She turned to face the others in the room. "I must ask everyone here to please remain."

As she continued to give detailed instructions to Longinus, Antonius Porcius moved next to Marcus Britainus and said softly, "What do you know of this?"

Marcus's face was grim. "Nothing," he answered. "I have always avoided being involved in imperial politics. I can only suppose that the weak fool, Gallienus, made wild accusations in one of his drunken moods; but how he managed to involve Linos and Vernus, I do not know."

"It is obvious that there is an imperial spy here in Palmyra," was the reply.

Marcus looked at Antonius Porcius in surprise. "I am not an imperial spy," he said.

Al-Zena chose that moment to re-enter the room. She walked slowly over to the fallen body of her son and gently smoothed his brow. Odenathus's face was peaceful in death, and although he was but thirty-eight, he looked much younger. Sorrow had etched deep lines in his mother's once proud face, and she who so valued her appearance was oblivious to the fact that her face was dirty with tears. Sadly she shook her head. "I had him such a little time," she said.

Zenobia moved over to her mother-in-law and, in the first gesture of affection that she had ever shown the woman, put her arm about her shoulders. "I do not understand it," she said to Al-Zena, "but surely it is the will of the gods. Why else would this man be taken from us?" Gently she led the grieving woman back to the door, calling to old Bab, who had been in the dining room all along. "Take her to Ala, and stay if you are needed."

Bab nodded and, putting an arm around Al-Zena's waist, led the woman off down the corridor.

Rufus Curius re-entered the room. Turning to him, Zenobia said, "Rufus Curius, I am placing the king and his brother in your charge. See to their safety."

"You can trust me after what happened?" The centurion's eyes misted.

"I do not blame you, Rufus Curius. The damage was done to Linos and Vernus before you became their foster father. I know you did your best, and I thank the gods you have your own children, that Deliciae has something to live for despite this tragedy. Please now, escort my sons to their quarters and arrange that some of the men of my guard watch over them. Then see to your wife, for I know tonight's events have left her devastated."

Rufus Curius saluted his queen, and then bowed to the young king and his brother. "If your Majesty will allow me I will escort you and Prince Demetrius to your apartments."

Demi hurled himself into his mother's arms, weeping, and Zenobia soothed him as best she could, kissing away his tears and chiding him gently that his father would want him to be brave. Firmly she disengaged his hold about her neck, and placed his small hand into the centurion's big one. Young Vaba bowed in a courtly way before his mother, his face grave. "Good night, Mother."

Zenobia reached out and, pulling him to her breast, hugged him tightly. "Good night, my lord," she said, her voice strangely tight. He drew away from her and, nodding to Rufus Curius to go, almost ran from the room.

Watching him go, she sighed. He was so young to have this responsibility thrust upon him; yet a boy. Tonight his childhood had ended-or had it? Was it really necessary for Vaba, only twelve, to be laden with such responsibility? Perhaps she could give him a year or two more before she must teach him how to be king. He would be the better for it, she knew.

The council began arriving, staring at first in shocked fascination at the dead body of their king. Only when they had all come did Zenobia give the order that her husband's body be removed and prepared for its funeral. "Sit down," she commanded, and they quickly obeyed her, seeking seats about the dining table. "I am appointing Antonius Porcius to the Council of Ten to replace the king; and Marcus Britainus will have temporary command of Palmyra's legions. Are there are objections?" Her gaze swept them.

"Antonius Porcius has long been a resident of this city," Marius Gracchus said. "Although he was not bom here, he chose to remain upon his retirement. He has married into one of our most distinguished families. I can find no fault with the queen's choice. In the matter of Marcus Britainus, however, I am confused as to why the queen has chosen him over a Palmy ran officer."

"The king trusted him," was the reply, "and so do I. He has had several years of military experience with the Praetorian, and it is precisely because he is a Roman that I have chosen him. Rome trusted my husband, and gave him great powers. With his death I do not want them sending someone from Rome to oversee our armies. Rome will not find any fault in my choice, and we shall be left alone."

"Then it only waits for Marcus Britainus to accept your appointment," Marius Gracchus replied. He looked directly at the Roman, his glance searching and not entirely trusting.

Marcus was totally surprised by Zenobia's decision, and he could see the hostility in many on the Council of Ten. He wasn't sure exactly what it was she was asking him to do. Vaba was far too young to take over his father's command, and Rome was eventually going to send someone out. Obviously she wanted a little time to organize the government. He could aid her without being disloyal to Rome; but more important, he would have constant access to her.

"Marcus Britainus." Her voice was soft as she fixed her wonderful gray eyes on him. "Marcus Britainus, will you accept?"

"Of course, Majesty. I am honored at the faith you have in me."

"It is settled, then," she said, and only Longinus, who knew her best, heard the relief in her voice. "Now we must get to the succession. Those who were with us this evening heard my husband name our eldest son, Vaballathus Septimius, his heir, the next king. The Council of Ten must honor Odenathus's dying request."

"What of the king's elder sons?"

Zenobia froze, her eyes darkening with anger, and she looked at a council member named Quintus Urbicus. "Do you refer to the king's two bastards?" Her voice was icy. "They are both dead." The council gasped. "The eldest, Linos," Zenobia continued, "was responsible for his father's death; the younger was guilty also. They killed the king, Quintus Urbicus, and it was a miracle that they did not kill all of us! There were five women, and ten children here this night. Ten children including Palmyra's rightful heir!"

"Prince Vaballathus is only twelve, my Queen."

"It is true that King Vaballathus is yet young, but he is of the true line of Palmyra."

"This is a dangerous situation," said Macro Cursor, another council member. "A child king is always vulnerable. He cannot be allowed to rule until he is of age. If the king's older sons are dead, and unavailable to us, then the Council of Ten must take over for our boy king." He looked around the table for support, but only Quintus Urbicus seemed in open agreement with him.

Antonius Porcius cleared his throat. "We cannot have ten people ruling Palmyra. It would lead to chaos; and in the end Rome would send another governor. It only remains for us to choose a regent to rule in the king's place until he is of age. What more natural choice can we make than to appoint the queen regent of Palmyra. The king wanted it so."

"The queen!?" The council looked to Zenobia.

"Antonius Porcius is correct." The speaker was Marius Gracchus. "The queen is a perfect choice for regent. Rome will accept her, for she is a known quantity to them, and with a former Praetorian officer in charge of the legion…" He allowed them all to absorb the obvious. "When you think on it, my friends," he continued, "the queen is the only logical choice. She has an excellent grasp of government, and has ruled well in our late king's many absences. Does anyone else wish to put forward another candidate for this post?" His gaze swept the table. "Then I can assume there is no need for us to vote on this, and that the matter is settled. Queen Zenobia will rule in her son's stead until he is of age." Marius Gracchus looked again to the queen, and then sat down.

Zenobia stood and faced them all. "I will rule alone for the next two years," she said bluntly. "My son needs more time to grow. He will attend council meetings only once a month, but of course will be present on all state occasions. My husband's body will lie in state tomorrow, and be buried the following day."

"It will be as the queen has said," Marius Gracchus intoned.

"I thank you all for coming," Zenobia said. "The council is now dismissed, Longinus and Marcus Britainus to remain for a moment. Good night."

No sooner had they gone than Zenobia's face crumbled, and she began to cry. Longinus dismissed the guard and, turning back to her, was not surprised to see his queen held firmly in Marcus Britainus's strong arms. For some minutes she sobbed her grief, and Longinus could hear the Roman's voice softly comforting the woman. What a remarkable creature she was, he thought. Never once in the few hours since Odenathus's death had she allowed herself one moment of weakness. She had been firm and resolute, even ruthless, taking charge of the very dangerous situation. She was amazing!

As her pain abated Zenobia was suddenly aware of the fact that warm arms encircled her; beneath her cheek a hard chest cloaked a heart that beat steadily. To her confused and numbed mind it felt right, and she snuggled deeper into the embrace. She was so tired, so suddenly and terribly tired. Her legs gave way, and as they did she felt herself being lifted up. Marcus Britainus looked to Longinus for aid.

"Follow me," was the reply. "There is a guest bedroom nearby. If we go to the queen's apartments old Bab and all the queen's maidens will flutter and fuss."

"I will stay with her," the Roman said. "If she awakens in a strange place it could frighten her."

Longinus almost laughed aloud at this weakness being attributed to Zenobia. Ah, well, let the Roman have his dream, he thought. "Yes, that would be best, Marcus Britainus," he answered, ushering the man and his burden into a pleasant room reserved for state visitors.

"I will leave you," Longinus said. "I want to see to the young king and his brother." He hurried out.

Marcus carefully laid Zenobia on the bed, drew up a chair, and sat down. For a long time he stared at Zenobia. She was so incredibly beautiful. Her skin! By the gods, it was flawless, perfect! Venus herself could not have had more beautiful skin. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched it, finding it as he had suspected, smooth and soft. Growing bolder, he let his fingers trail down her face, her neck, her shoulder. Reverently, he fondled the rounded shoulder, admiring how marvelously proportioned she was. His hand seemed to move of itself, slipping lower and lower until it moved past the neckline of her violet stola and he cupped a warm, full breast. He almost cried aloud with the pleasurable pain of the act, and then he snatched his hand away as if her skin had been a hot coal.

He looked at the hand with revulsion. What kind of a man was he to take advantage of an unconscious woman? A woman who had just lost the husband she loved. Had his own love rendered him mad? Burying his face in his hands he groaned with shame. Then her voice touched him.

"Marcus Britainus, what is it?"

Slowly he raised his head, and then his deep blue eyes met her gold-flecked gray ones. For the longest time they stared, each transfixed by the other's eyes, and then he lowered his head and his mouth found hers in a deep and burning kiss, a kiss he had waited so long to give her.

Into Zenobia's mind came the single and simple thought: This is how it was meant to be. And as his hungry lips moved over her own, as her own lips returned the fire, it came to her with startling clarity that this was the man she had been waiting for all of her life. How could that be? she thought wonderingly. How? The question brushed through her mind briefly, and then she gave herself up to the wonder of his embrace. The kiss deepened, and she could feel him trembling with the depth of his emotion. Putting her arms up, she drew him closer to her, her graceful, strong hands caressing the sensitive back of his neck, her fingers entwining themselves in his thick, chestnut-colored hair. She could sense the natural wave of it as her fingers slipped through its soft silkiness.

She could feel his tongue against her lips, gently encouraging her to allow him that first, most intimate embrace; and without hesitation she acquiesced. Velvet fire filled her mouth, probing, exploring, caressing with infinite tenderness. A first flush of heat poured over her body, and she shuddered with delight. Finished with his exploration, he kissed the comers of her mouth, moving to the soft spot beneath her ear, down her slim neck to the hollow between shoulder and neck. There he buried his face for a moment, inhaling the natural fragrance of her that mixed with the hyacinth scent of her perfume.

Finally he sighed, raised his head from its sanctuary, and looked deeply into her eyes. "I want more," he said simply, leaving the decision to her.

Zenobia said not a word; but she swung her legs over the edge of the sleeping couch and stood up. Her eyes never left his as she loosened her stola and let it slip to the cool marble floor. Her camisa, finely spun white linen that gave a glimpse of the glories to come, followed. Reaching up, she drew the jeweled pins from her midnight hair, and it tumbled free. Her piercing look spoke as clearly as words would have.

He obeyed, standing to disrobe quickly, all the while filling his blue eyes with her golden beauty. If Venus came down to the world of mortals, he thought, she must surely look like this. He was enchanted by her body, which was the most beautiful he could ever remember seeing. She was tall for a woman, yet despite wide shoulders, her bone structure was really quite delicate. And the shoulders served to enhance the large breasts.

Naked now, he reached out to place a hand about her small waist. Because of his height most women were always too tiny against him, but Zenobia was just right, her dark head almost to his shoulder. He drew her nearer, feeling the small round of her belly as it pressed against him. Reaching out, she caressed his cheek. There was neither shame nor shyness between them.

He tipped her face upward so he might look at her. "I love you," he said quietly. "I have always loved you. I have loved you from the beginnings of time, and I shall love you long after our memories have faded from this earth." Then, picking her up in his arms, he returned her to the sleeping couch and lay down next to her.

For some minutes they lay together holding hands, and then her voice, soft with confusion, said, "I do not understand this, Marcus, and yet I desire you. I want you to make love to me. Why?"

"You must find your own answers, my beloved, but I shall never force you to anything you do not want. I will rise now, and go if that be your wish."

"No!“

At that he drew her into his strong arms again, and kissed her with such passion that she could not restrain herself from responding. She matched him kiss for kiss, tasting him, scorching him with her own fire until a flame began to leap upward within him; a flame born from the ever-burning embers of his love for her. It burned and twisted within him, and he grew warmer and warmer with his own desire to possess her.

Straddling her, he sat back upon his heels. His big hand reached out to cup and admire her breasts. They overflowed his hands again and again as he attempted to contain their beauty. Her eyes had closed, and as he gazed down upon her purple-shadowed eyelids, he wondered if she was even aware of him. "Zenobia," he said, and her eyes opened and she smiled up at him.

"I am here."

Drawing him down, she brushed her lips over his, and once more they kissed with steadily building passion. Now he allowed his hands the freedom they had so longed for, the freedom to caress her marvelous body. He stroked her back, revealing in its long line, the curve of her buttocks. Turning her over so that she lay face down, he began a worshipful adoration of her body, and kissed slowly and hungrily along the same path that his hand had taken, not stopping at her buttocks, however, but continuing down her legs to her slender feet.

Zenobia sighed luxuriously, for Odenathus had never made love to her like this. Marcus was a tender lover, considerate and passionate, preparing her carefully. Why she did not feel guilt she did not understand. Perhaps it was because she had not sought this wonder, this delight, and to find it now on this night of great tragedy was a miracle, a gift from the gods. She would not question further.

Turning her onto her back again, he pressed feathery kisses up her legs to the soft insides of her thighs, but going no farther for that was a special pleasure to reserve for another time. His tongue teased her navel, and she wriggled with pleasure as once more he found her breasts. This time he sucked her honey-colored nipples until they were tight crests of pure sensation.

Now his large body covered her, their mouths warred together again, and she felt him pressing against her. With a sigh she opened her legs to him, murmuring against his mouth, "Oh, yes, my darling! Yes!" Tenderly and with infinite care, he entered her. Zenobia quickly realized that his lance must be enormous, and she winced slightly. He stopped, giving her body time to stretch for him. Once more he thrust, and to her amazement she began to feel the magic beginning. It was too soon, she thought frantically, but she could not stop it.

With a gasp she cried out, opening her eyes to find his blue eyes blazing down on her. He saw her gray orbs glaze over as the first wave of pleasure washed over her. "No!" she sobbed. "It is too soon!"

But he soothed her. "It is just the beginning, beloved! I will give you more joy than you ever believed possible." He kept his word, bringing her pleasure several times before he finally took his own, his powerful seed overflowing her womb.

They fell asleep, clutching each other, their strong, beautiful bodies intertwined. But afraid for her reputation, he slept lightly, waking fully before dawn. Looking down on her, he was filled with tenderness. He wanted to waken her and make love to her again, but she slept very, very deeply, her body healing itself from the shock of last night's events. So he rose quietly and dressed himself. She would be all right when she awoke, and he had best leave lest some gossip see him.

A faint noise caused him to turn to the door where, to his surprise, Longinus stood, shocked. "How could you take advantage of her?" he whispered furiously. "She trusted you, Marcus!"

"I did not take advantage, Longinus. It happened."

The simplicity of the explanation convinced Cassius Longinus of its truth, although he found that he was still distressed. In his own way he loved Zenobia, too.

"Come with me," he said coolly. "I will take you to my own quarters, for it will be necessary for you to be here this morning."

"I would never hurt her, Longinus."

Cassius Longinus turned to the Roman, a look of sadness in his brown eyes. "I know that," he sighed. "How long is it that you have loved her, Marcus? I understand, but you must be cautious. Her position is so very precarious right now."

"We will be careful, Longinus."

"Love her if you will, Marcus, but be warned that Palmyra must come first. If Zenobia was given the choice between you and this city today, Palmyra would come before you. Never force her to that decision."

The Roman was somewhat taken aback. "Surely you make mock of me, Longinus. Zenobia is a woman who needs to be loved. She cannot live without it."

Cassius Longinus shook his head. "Because she melted into your arms last night in a moment of weakness, do not be fooled. Zenobia is not a weak-willed woman who can be content keeping her husband's house, and wiping the runny noses and wet bottoms of her children. She was born for greatness! The signs were all there at her birth, and she has only just begun to fulfill her promise."