Odenathus nodded, and bade Zabaai ben Selim a safe trip. Then he walked across the desert floor to where Zenobia sat. Seating himself beside her, he took her little hand in his own. It was cold, and instinctively he sought to warm it, holding it rightly in his own.

"The Roman dies well," she said, acknowledging his presence, "but it is early yet, and he will in the end cry to his gods for mercy."

"It is important to you, that he beg for mercy?"

"Yes!" She spat the word out vehemently, and he could see that she was once more going to withdraw into her private thoughts. She hated well for one so young and, until today, so sheltered. More and more this child fascinated him.

"I would bid you good-bye, Zenobia," he said, piercing again into her self-absorption.

Zenobia looked up. How handsome he is, she thought. If only he hadn't given in to the Romans so easily. If only he weren't such a weakling.

"Farewell, my lord Prince," she said coldly, and then she turned back to contemplate the dying man.

"Good-bye, Zenobia," he said softly, lightly touching her soft dark hair with his hand; but she didn't notice. He stood up and walked away.

The sun was close to setting now, and had turned the white marble towers and porticos of Palmyra scarlet and gold with its clear light; but Zenobia saw none of it. Campfires sprang up on the desert floor as she sat silently watching her mother's despoiler. About her the Bedawi went about their own business of the evening. They understood, and waited patiently for the child's thirst for vengeance to be satisfied.

Vinctus Sextus had been unconscious for some time, but then he began to revive slightly, roused by the waves of pain that ate into his body and his soul as the painkillers given him earlier wore off. That he wasn't already in Hades surprised him. Slowly he forced his eyes open to find a slender girl child sitting by his head, contemplating his misery.

"W-who… are… you?" he managed to ask through parched and cracked lips.

"I am Zenobia bat Zabaai," the child answered him in a Latin far purer than any he had been able to learn. "It was my mother that you slaughtered, pig!"

"Give… me… a drink," he said weakly.

"We do not waste water here in the desert, Roman. You are a dying man. To give you water would be to waste it." Her eyes were gray stones and totally without feeling as they stared at him.

"You… have… no… mercy?" He was curious.

"Did you show my sweet mother mercy?" The child's eyes blazed intense hatred at him. "You showed her none, and I will show you no mercy, pig! None!"

He managed a wolfish parody of a grin at her, and they understood each other. He had shown her blond beauty of a mother no kindness or mercy. He wondered if, having been given a glimpse of his fate, he would do it all over again, and decided that he would. Death was death, and the blonde had been more than worth it. Men had died for less. He blinked rapidly several times to clear the fog over his blue eyes so he might see the child better. She was a little beauty facially, but she yet had the flat, unformed body of a child.

"All women… beg… when beneath a man. Didn't… your mother… ever… tell you… that?"

Zenobia looked away from him and across the desert, not quite understanding his words. The sun had now set, and the night had come swiftly. About her, the golden campfires blazed merrily, while the stars stared down in their silvery silence. "You will die slowly, Roman," she said quietly, "and I will stay to see it all."

Vinctus Sextus nodded his head slightly. He could certainly understand vengeance. The child was one to be proud of even if she was only a girl. "I will do… my best… to oblige you," he said with a scornful and defiant sneer. Then he drifted into unconsciousness.


***

When he opened his eyes again it was pitch black but for the light of the campfires that darted across the sand. The child still sat motionless and totally alert by his side. He drifted off again, returning as dawn came. He watched it creep across the desert floor with tiny slim fingers of violet and apricot and crimson. He could still feel the pain, worse now than it had ever been, and he knew death was near to him.

The narrow stripes upon his back had festered in the night; the thousand ant bites on his body stung and burned unbearably. The rawhide bindings on his arms and legs had now dried, and were cutting painfully into his ankles and his wrists. His throat was so parched that even the simple act of swallowing hurt him. Above, the sun rose higher and higher until it blinded him even when he closed his eyes. He could hear his surviving companions moaning and crying out to their own gods, to their mothers, as they hung upon their crosses. He tried turning his head to look at them, but he could not. He was stretched wide, and tight. Movement was now quite impossible.

"Five are already dead," the child said brutally. "You Romans are not very strong. A Bedawi could last at least three days."

Soon the groans stopped, and the child announced, "You alone are left, Roman, but I can tell that you will not last a great deal longer. Your eyes have a milky haze over them, and your breathing is rough."

He knew that she was right, for already he felt his spirit attempting to leave his body. He closed his eyes wearily, and suddenly he was back in the forests of his native Gaul. The tall trees soared green and graceful toward the sky, their branches waving in the gentle breeze. Ahead was a beautiful and cool blue lake. He almost cried aloud with joy, and then his lips formed the word, "Water!"

"No water!” the child's voice cut ruthlessly into his pleasure, and he opened his eyes to face the broiling, blazing sun. It was too much! By the gods it was too much!

Vinctus Sextus opened his mouth, and howled with frustrated outrage and pain. The sound of the child's triumphant laughter was the last thing he heard. It mocked him straight into Hell as he fell back dead upon the desert floor.

Zenobia arose swaying, for her legs were stiff. She had sat by Vinctus Sextus for over eighteen hours, and in all that time she had neither eaten nor drunk anything. Suddenly she was swept up in a pair of strong arms, and she looked into the admiring face of her eldest half-brother, Akbar. His white teeth flashed in his sun-browned face.

"You are Bedawi!" he said. "I am proud of you, my little sister. You are as tough as any warrior! I would fight by your side anytime."

His words gave her pleasure, but she only said, "Where is Father?" Her voice was suddenly very adult.

"Our father has gone to bury your mother with the honor and the dignity she deserves. She will be put in the tomb in the garden of the house."

Zenobia nodded, satisfied, and then said, "He begged, Akbar. In the end he begged the same way that he forced my mother to beg." She paused as if considering that, and then she said softly, "I will never beg, Akbar! Whatever happens to me in my lifetime, I will never beg! Never!"

Akbar hugged the child to his breast. "Never say never, Zenobia," he warned her gently. "Life often plays odd tricks upon us, for the gods are known to be capricious, and not always kind to us mortals."

"/ will never beg," she repeated firmly. Then she smiled sweetly at her brother. "Besides, am I not the beloved of the gods, Akbar? They will defend me always!"

2

Odenathus, Prince of Palmyra, sat his horse and watched the maneuvers of a Bedawi camel corps. Its warriors were magnificently trained, and under the direction of their captain they performed extremely well. The prince turned and said to his host, "Well, my cousin Zabaai, if all your troops perform this well; if all your captains are that competent; I foresee a day when I may drive the Romans from my city."

"May the gods grant your wish, my lord Prince. Too long has the golden yoke been about our necks, and each year the Romans take more and more of the riches that come to us from the Indies and Cathay. We are beggared trying to feed their rapacious appetites."

Odenathus nodded in agreement, and then said, "Will you present me to the captain of your camel corps? I should like to congratulate him on his leadership."

Zabaai hid a smile. "Of course, my lord." He raised his hand in a signal, and the camel cavalry whirled away from him, galloped down a stretch of desert, and then turned to come racing furiously back to stop just short of the two men. "The prince would like to present his compliments, Captain," Zabaai said.

The leader of the corps slid from his mount and bowed smartly -before the prince.

"You handle your men well, Captain. I hope that someday we may ride together."

"It will be an honor, my lord, although I am not used to sharing my command with anyone." The captain's burnoose was tossed back, and the ruler of Palmyra found himself staring into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She laughed at his surprise, and said, "Do you not recognize me, my cousin?"

"Zenobia?" He was astounded. This could not be Zenobia! Zenobia was a child. This statuesque goddess could not be the flat and leggy child he remembered. Three and a half years had passed since he had last seen her.

"You're staring," she said.

"What?" He was totally confused.

"You are staring at me, my lord. Is something wrong?"

"You've changed," he managed to say in a somewhat strangled voice.

"I am almost fifteen, my lord."

"Fifteen," he repeated foolishly. By the gods, she was a glorious creature!

"You may go now, Zenobia," Zabaai dismissed her. "We will expect you at the evening meal."