Free Beloved by Bertrice Small Page B

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 abit 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