Daughter of Sand and Stone Read online

  The sound of her mother’s rebuke makes Zenobia’s skin tingle with an enticing thrill. When Berenikë speaks to her with her goddess voice, all her sisters’ whispers fade away and Zenobia knows, down to the pit of her stomach, that her mother is a princess of Egypt, a rare and precious vessel that still carries the blood of the highest royalty.

  All the more reason why I will never accept a husband whose status is so far below my own, Zenobia thinks. But she bows her head to her mother’s command, just enough to avoid further scolding.

  She returns to her embroidery, pursing her lips to drive away a mischievous smile. She feels the soft, sensitive gaze of her middle sister alight on her face. Zenobia looks up in time to see Zabibah lay down her own needlework—she had been stitching tiny indigo-colored flowers, each one encased in a precise hexagon, along the hem of a new yellow gown—and rise from her place at Berenikë’s side. As ever, Zabibah has misinterpreted Zenobia’s expression, projecting her own tender sweetness onto the hard world that surrounds her. She lowers herself onto one of Zenobia’s cushions and drapes an arm around the younger girl’s shoulders.

  “Don’t let Nafsha’s chiding or Mother’s glares bother you,” Zabibah says. “Father will be home from the battlefield soon, and then he’ll make you a match that will make your heart sing. A young, handsome, brave man—and he will be so fine that your head will go dizzy when you look upon him.”

  Zabibah herself is newly wedded to just such a man: Vakat, an Amlaqi warrior and the most trusted guardsman in their father’s caravans. Vakat will run his own routes one day and carve out for himself a strong share of Palmyra’s considerable trade wealth. Zabibah’s happiness will only grow as the years pass. Zenobia is grateful to the gods and to her father for placing her sister in Vakat’s care. If any woman deserves such a life of quiet contentment, it is the chief’s middle daughter. Zabibah has no stomach for a life more complicated or trying.

  Zenobia has always had a yearning for something more—for a life of glorious complications. Since she was a little girl, long before she was old enough to wear a turban, she has been fascinated by the interplay of the tribes, by the looming influence of Rome. She feels the pull and tug of politics running silently beneath every facet of her life—of every life in Palmyra—of every life in the world. It is an intoxicating current. It calls to her ceaselessly, and all she has ever wanted is to plunge into its depths.

  She has tried. A year ago, just after she’d rejected her fifth suitor, Zenobia sat, perfumed and adorned, between her two sisters at a banquet in Zabbai’s palace. She watched as the Ras received the honors of his guests one by one, straining to hear the men’s conversations over the soft notes of cithara and flute and the clatter of conversation. Berenikë was a delicate ornament at Zabbai’s left hand. She was near enough to hear everything the men said, yet Zenobia’s mother only cast her elegantly distant stare toward the musicians or out into the garden where the dusk had begun to gather, affecting not to care about the intense, low-voiced words the chiefs of the tribes exchanged.

  Zenobia had risen from her seat abruptly—Nafsha squawking in rebuke—and moved steadily down the length of the banquet hall, driving toward the empty seat at Zabbai’s right hand as if it were her birthright. She was acutely aware of the guests’ questioning glances, and of her own finery—her bright, layered skirts brushing her legs as she walked, the bangles on her turban swaying. She looked so pretty, she knew. Such a lovely, admirable, perfectly marriageable girl, if rather headstrong.

  In that moment, crossing the hall under the curious eyes of tribesmen and their wives, Zenobia at last understood what she wanted from life. She wanted to be more than pretty, more than simply marriageable. She wanted to sit at Zabbai’s right hand and hear the words of Palmyra’s chieftains, instead of the soft, unchallenging music meant to entertain soft, complacent women. She wanted to delve into that thrumming, rushing, all-encompassing current of politics—to know the current’s course, and to guide it, control it, if she could. She would never have that if she remained sitting with her sisters. She would never have it if she married a merchant, either.

  Zenobia didn’t make it all the way to her father’s table before Berenikë’s gaze sharpened on her daughter. Zenobia’s newly named desire warred with her lifelong awe of Berenikë, and her confident stride faltered. She stood mute and still, her hands limp at her sides. Behind her, she could feel the entire banquet hall watching, and she sensed Nafsha burning with fury and embarrassment. Zenobia couldn’t move. She was like a dove ready for a temple sacrifice, too stunned even to twitch.

  “Zenobia, my darling?” Zabbai said.

  His voice was warm, as it always was for his daughters—for Zenobia especially. Zabbai had always shared a special bond with her, even allowing her to accompany him on trading expeditions now and then, when the destination was not terribly far from Palmyra. But before the eyes of the guests, the affection in his voice stung Zenobia. Darling, she said to herself, eyeing the empty chair next to Zabbai. That place at his side seemed to recede away from her, escaping rapidly down a long tunnel of impossibility. Zabbai would never call a son darling, and only a son could sit at his right hand.

  Without answering, and with no explanation, Zenobia turned and glided smoothly from the banquet hall, her face an impassive mask. But once she climbed the stairs to the palace’s second story, she groaned in humiliation and snatched up her skirts, running for the sanctuary of her chamber. She threw herself across her bed, weeping into a pillow. She knew just what she wanted—the desire was a fierce ache inside her. But fiercer still was the knowledge that it was beyond the reach of a female.

  As she lay on her bed, she was more aware of the secret current than ever before. She could feel it scouring through the banquet hall, carrying every guest along on its unseen waves. She could sense it sweeping down the hill, into the heart of Palmyra, rushing on toward distant Rome. But she could not hear the words of the chiefs—those words that had the power to move the current, to bend it to use or will. All she could hear was the delicate, muted tones of the cithara. Lovely—very pretty music. But it was only music, and music didn’t matter.

  Sitting on the rooftop with Zabibah’s arm around her, Zenobia shrugs and smiles to please her sister. But the ache has never left her. It has only grown over time; it has made Zenobia aware of a world beyond herself, beyond what she may, as the daughter of a chieftain, reasonably expect. She cares nothing for fine looks or a dizzy head. Fine looks will not bring her closer to the mysterious, compelling current.

  She sighs and picks at her embroidery frame. This will bring her no closer, either—lounging on a rooftop, working at her stitches like a proper lady—or gossiping over a game board while her thoughts drift away, of no use to anybody. She knows already, young as she is, that the gods intend her for a greater purpose. She was born for something more—greatness, power. Why would the gods have put this keen interest in her heart, this yearning for politics, unless it serves some purpose? Why would they have made her so discontented with a lady’s easy, unchallenging life?

  If her destiny resides with a man—and when does a woman’s future not depend on her father or her husband?—then Zenobia has no care for whether his good looks will make her heart flutter or her head reel. She cares only whether he will give her a place of honor at his table—and whether his table will draw men of power.

  He must have more to offer than any merchant or guardsman, she tells herself, frowning at her needle and thread even as Zabibah chatters on. I cannot be content with embroidery and games forever. It is not the life for me, and I swear it will drive me mad.

  Since that evening at Zabbai’s banquet, Zenobia has sensed her future waiting just ahead, as one senses the presence of an unseen figure at the end of a darkened hall. Glory waits for Zenobia, silent and expectant, shrouded in shadows. She knows it—but she cannot reach it.

  Let Nafsha be happy with her game board,
Zenobia tells herself, sighing. Her own life will not be one of leisure. It must, she thinks fiercely, be worthy of her Amlaqi heritage, worthy of a descendant of Cleopatra, and of the other great queens to whom she can trace her blood: Julia Domna and Dido. Her life must be worthy of her ancestors. Anything less would be failure—and an insult to the gods who have made her.

  Zenobia pats her sister’s hand. She cannot speak of such things to Zabibah. Although she is a married woman, Zabibah is as soft and fragile as a little child. It is not in her nature to understand discontent. Zenobia will do whatever she must to shelter her sister from the hard edges and bruises of the world.

  “I am sure you’re right,” Zenobia says for Zabibah’s sake. “When Father comes home, Vakat will return, too—and so will your smile.”

  Zabibah draws a corner of her yellow veil across her face, hiding her deep blush, as giddy and shy as a virgin bride. It has been several days since Zenobia’s two sisters arrived at the palace to take shelter from the battle, which, rumor has it, is frighteningly close—somewhere just beyond the northern fringe of Tadmor. Palmyra has no walls—trade on Palmyrene scale would only be impeded by walls. So even though their own homes are fine and sturdy, their husbands insisted that Nafsha and Zabibah await their return in their father’s palace. Zabbai’s estate, unlike the city itself, at least has a gate. If the battle should be lost and Palmyra attacked, the Ras’s palace should be able to withstand assault. For a time, anyway.

  Zabibah is not thinking of walls or assaults. She thinks only of Vakat, his kisses and his gentle touch. She has made sacrifices in the Temple of Bel, pleading with the god to bring Vakat home safely. Bel has always been good to Zabibah. With a childlike trust, she has complete faith in her prayers. And when Vakat returns, she will kiss him and kiss him until her mouth goes numb. Thinking of it, she blushes deeper and lowers her head.

  Berenikë watches the exchange, as keen-eyed and assessing as ever. She raises her voice so that all the women on the rooftop might hear her words—the cousins and nieces, the servants who lounge and whisper in the shade of the potted palms. “All of our men will return soon, and the Tanukh will be vanquished—forever, I pray. May the gods grant that it will be so.”

  Nafsha and her cousins leave off chattering over their game board and bend their heads, a pious acknowledgment of Berenikë’s prayer. For a moment the day’s spirit of leisure is dampened as the women recall the reason for their men’s absence.

  It surprised no one, certainly not Zabbai, when the Tanukh chose this moment to rise up against the city. Palmyra’s governor and the better portion of his soldiers have departed to rescue Valerian, the current emperor of Rome, who has been captured by the Sasanids.

  Zenobia’s mouth tightens in scorn as she muses on the fiasco. One can count on a Roman to achieve any pinnacle of folly. And emperors are far worse than common Romans when it comes to blundering and general uselessness. In recent decades Rome has seen a rash of assassinations, coups, and deadly plagues and a proliferation of emperors to match. None of the men Rome has raised to the purple have been strong or wise enough to rule an empire. Zenobia stabs her needle into the silk. But even for a Roman, Valerian’s willingness to walk into captivity is a marvel of absurdity.

  The governor of Palmyra is well known for his loyalty to Rome. In his attempts to free Valerian, he’d first sent gifts to the Sasanid king, but Shapur the Sasanid only spurned Palmyra’s gifts. Sasanids, Zenobia broods, are a haughty and ungrateful lot. The incensed governor struck out three weeks ago to free Valerian by the sword, leaving Palmyra thinly defended.

  What better time for the Tanukh to slink from behind their thickets of thorn and heaps of desert stone? They came scrabbling and biting at Palmyra’s flanks, jackals harrying a flock of sheep while the shepherd’s back is turned. Her father, Zabbai, so trusted and beloved by all the people of Palmyra, took charge of the men who remained in the city—merchants and caravan guards, craftsmen, and a scant handful of soldiers. He united them with the skilled desert warriors of his own Amlaqi tribe. But it is the peak of the spice season, and most of the Amlaqi have taken their caravans east. Altogether, Zabbai’s ragged army numbers just under two thousand. They rode forth bravely to meet the Tanukh on the treacherous sands.

  As the men paraded down the city’s long, colonnaded Great Row they made a brave show, cheering and waving their swords. Zenobia watched with the rest of the women from the rooftop as Zabbai, mounted on his fiercest camel, led his string of men from Palmyra. She stood with her arm around Zabibah, who had wept to see both her husband and her father going off to war. Zenobia’s heart ached for Zabibah and even for stoic Nafsha, who held herself some distance apart, watching her own husband’s departure with dry eyes. Zenobia had found herself unable to tear her gaze from the sight of their father.

  Zabbai’s roots among the Amlaqi have made him a great trader, cunning and hardy. He is at home in the desert, where the dry sands and harsh sun have darkened his olive skin to the burnished brown of worn cedar and carved into his face the deep traces of a ready smile. His Seleucid heritage gives him a certain erudite grandness, a respect for all things civilized, orderly, and fine. A man like Zabbai will not suffer glorious Palmyra to fall to the Tanukh, who hunger after chaos and wild fear.

  But though his heritage is worthy and his intentions good, Zabbai is an old man. His long beard is more gray than black; his hands tremble, and his steps are slow.

  And yet who else can answer the challenge of the Tanukh? If they are not stopped, the wild tribe will fall upon Palmyra while the city is weak and helpless in the governor’s absence and rape it of every bright and good thing it possesses. The Tanukh would scatter Palmyra’s worth across the desert sands, dissipating its refined culture until there is nothing left of it but a fading memory.

  The Tanukh are nothing more than animals, Zenobia thinks sourly. But she knows, as do all the Amlaqi, that animals of the desert can be deadly.

  “Perhaps,” Nafsha says lightly, breaking the silence that has fallen over the women, “when Father returns he’ll bring back a Tanukh captive for our little Zenobia to wed.”

  Berenikë shoots her eldest daughter a warning stare, but Nafsha pretends not to see. Zenobia raises her brows. Perhaps her new status as a wife has made Nafsha a little bolder. Zenobia can recall a time when her eldest sister would have run and hidden from Berenikë’s glare.

  Nafsha’s smooth hand reaches for an alabaster pawn. She taps it languidly across the game board. One of the cousins groans as Nafsha captures her game piece, and Nafsha sits back, eyeing Zenobia.

  “Nafsha is so concerned with my virginity,” Zenobia says, “I am beginning to think she would wed me herself. Alas, the only tool she might use to make me a woman is her tongue—and it is far too sharp for me to allow it beneath my skirts.”

  The cousins gasp in delighted horror and Zabibah stiffens in shock. From the cluster of servants in the shade of the potted palms, Zenobia hears a snort of stifled laughter.

  But her comment has gone far beyond the limits of decorum. Berenikë stands with smooth grace, hands her book of poems to one of her waiting maids, and glides toward Zenobia.

  Zenobia looks up at her mother, mouth open to make an excuse or apology. Berenikë’s hand flicks out and catches her across the lips. It is a featherlight strike; Berenikë’s knuckles and rings barely brush her daughter’s face. Still, Zenobia flames with humiliation and remorse.

  Berenikë seizes her daughter’s wrist and pulls her to her feet. Her sewing falls in a heap on the cushion. Zenobia is dragged across the rooftop, out of the protection of the red canopy so that the full force of the desert sun beats against her exposed shoulders and arms. She squints as she stumbles after her mother.

  They halt at the low wall of pale-yellow-gold limestone at the edge of the rooftop. The wall is carved with a motif of blooming flowers and curling palm fronds. Berenikë drops Zenobia’s wrist and f
olds her hands placidly atop the wall, gazing down on the roofs and streets of Palmyra. She is Cleopatra now, calm and possessed, impossibly serene. In the face of her mother’s unruffled dignity, Zenobia’s embarrassment only deepens.

  “Nafsha is right about you,” Berenikë says in her low, melodious voice. The quiet music of it betrays nothing of the anger she still feels, but her hard grip on Zenobia’s wrist speaks eloquently enough. Zenobia pushes her bracelets up her arm so that she might rub the ache away. “You should have been married long ago. A husband would quell your haughtiness, and the gods know you need that.”

  Zenobia inhales sharply through her nose. She can think of no response that will not sound haughty—and therefore prove her mother’s point.

  “You’ve rejected every suitor your father has brought before you. Why, Zenobia?”

  The girl weighs her words with great care before she responds. “I am grateful for the thought Father has put into choosing my husband. And I know that in allowing me to say yes or no to the men he suggests, he shows me more esteem than a daughter deserves.”

  “Then why have you rejected all of them? Nafsha agreed to marry Antiochus when she was fifteen, and Zabibah was sixteen when she accepted your father’s choice of Vakat.”

  “Zabibah would have said yes to whatever man Father offered. She is sweet, but you know she has no will of her own.”

  “She has plenty of will. She tempers it with wisdom and obedience. You would do well to adopt some of Zabibah’s traits. You will not be young forever, Zenobia, and your value as a bride decreases with each passing year.”