Beloved

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