Beloved

'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.