Beloved

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.'