"My uncle will punish you," she whined, and then she cried out again with her labor.

"Push!" he commanded her, and she obeyed him, for the child was precious to her. It would guarantee her wealth and power for her lifetime. It was the beginning of a new line of imperial Roman Caesars. Gritting her teeth, she bore down. She would be the mother of a race of kings! Rome would be at her feet, and even this proud patrician who was her husband would eventually desire her; but when he finally did she would scorn him.

Soon! Soon she would hold her baby in her arms. Another pain clawed at her, and she bore down, elated to hear the midwife's cry, "I can see the child's head!" Carissa was greatly encouraged now, and from that moment on she strove to deliver her baby. Through the mists of pain she could hear them all driving her onward to her ultimate victory. The pain was becoming worse as the child pushed itself forth with her help. Finally with a mighty effort she expelled the infant with a shriek, and then she panted eagerly, "Give me my son! Give him to me now!"

They were silent. Why were they so silent? Despite her devastating weakness she struggled into a sitting position. "Give me my baby!" she demanded.

Why wasn't her son crying?

Marcus Alexander sighed, and there was a look of pity upon his handsome face. "The baby is dead, Carissa," he said quietly. "I am sorry."

"No!" They were lying to her. The baby couldn't be dead! "Give me my son!" she screamed.

Marcus nodded to the midwife's assistant, and the woman handed a swaddled bundle to Carissa. Eagerly she unwrapped the white linen stained brown with birthing blood to reveal-her watery blue eyes bugged in horror. 'This isn't my baby!" she whispered in a tight, little voice, a voice that quickly rose to an hysterical scream. "What have you done with my child?!"

"You are holding your child," he said tonelessly.

Carissa looked down for several long moments at the thing in her lap. It had a head, a head with a flatfish top, and a face with a grotesquely twisted mouth. At the base of the neck the thing's body divided itself into two sets of shoulders, which sprouted between them three arms, three legs, and two sets of fully developed genitals. The umbilical cord was wrapped tightly about the unfortunate infant's neck, and its whole body had a bluish cast. With a horrified shriek Carissa flung the thing from her lap, and screamed at Marcus, "It is your fault! You cursed me! You cursed me!" Then she gasped twice, and suddenly a stream of rich, red blood began to pour from her mouth while at the same time she began to bleed heavily from between her legs.

It was over so quickly that the spectators hardly had time to realize what was happening. Carissa fell back. She was quite obviously dead; and with an oath Marcus rushed from the room. Ulpia Severina stepped forward and closed her niece's eyes before turning to the midwife and her assistant to say, "You must disregard my poor niece's ravings. She was not herself in these last days of her pregnancy. Marcus Alexander was a fine husband to her, and she was fortunate to have him."

The midwife and her assistant nodded. "We have seen it happen before, lady. The sweetest-natured girls become totally deranged when told a child is dead. Poor girl. But, 'twas the will of the gods." She began gathering up her instruments. "We will leave you to prepare her for burial, lady."

The empress smiled graciously. "You will, of course, be paid double your fee for your trouble; and we may rely upon your discretion with regard to the matter of my niece's unfortunate infant."

"Of course, lady," was the smooth reply. The midwife bowed respectfully, and then departed the room with her assistant.

"Lady," Ulpia said quietly, "call your slaves and let us prepare my niece's body as quickly as possible. With your permission I should like to put her in our family's tomb rather than yours."

Dagian nodded gratefully. "It would be better," she said, "and I thank you, Ulpia."

"Call the slaves," the empress repeated, "and then go to Marcus. Now, perhaps, he may marry his true love. Aurelian will soon have Palmyra safely back within the fold. He is totally dedicated to reuniting the empire. Once Palmyra is subdued, your son may travel east and wed with his lady."

"I do not know if that will now be possible," Dagian said. The woman to whom my son was betrothed is Zenobia, the Queen of Palmyra."

"Oh dear," Ulpia murmured. "That does put a different complexion upon the matter, doesn't it? Aurelian would be very angry with me if under those circumstances I allowed Marcus to leave Italy." She sighed, perplexed, and then her face brightened. "Well, Marcus will simply have to wait for his queen to come to him. I know that Aurelian plans to march her in his triumph when he returns to Rome. The queen will, of course, be an imperial captive, but I shall see that my husband gives her to Marcus. Aurelian is always very generous with me, for I ask little of him and I have always been discreet." She smiled at Dagian. "Go to your son, and tell him that everything will be settled soon. I will help to prepare Carissa for her last journey."

Dagian left Carissa's bedchamber. She wondered if Zenobia would survive her war with Rome. Was she already defeated, or had she surprised imperial Rome once again by defeating them? News took so long to get to Italy from Syria. Marcus's mother said a quick prayer to the gods that they protect Zenobia of Palmyra.

The gods, however, had chosen to be fickle toward the mortal who until recently had always been their favorite. She had spent another night of unrelenting combat in Aurelian's bed, and she wondered why Venus had left him so long upon the earth. The man was insatiable and apparently inexhaustible; but then, Zenobia thought with the barest hint of a smile, even the goddess had to rest. It was a pity she could not. The dawn had barely broken when they were engaged in battle of another kind.

"You will walk behind my chariot," he had announced to her as they rose from the bed.

Shocked, she had taken a moment to comprehend him, and then she had spun about, shouting, "Never!”

"Or I can drag you behind my chariot," was the choice offered next.

"Then you will drag me," she declared dramatically. "I will never enter my city in defeat! You have not defeated me, Aurelian!"

"Yes, I have," he mocked her, his sky-blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "What a stubborn goddess you are, Zenobia. I have defeated you honestly, both in the field and in my bed. If you do not play your part today in my triumph then I shall not allow you ever again to set foot within your city. How will you then spin your webs, my adorable spider? More important, how will you guide your son?"

Her teeth bared at him and her fists clenched angrily, she realized how securely she was entrapped. She knew that he would not relent once his decision was made.

"You will come meekly?" he demanded.

"I will come."

He chuckled at the fine disjunction between his question and her answer.

A slave brought them breakfast, and he noted with some amusement that her irritation had not affected her appetite. She neatly peeled and sectioned a small orange, which she then placed in a little bowl and covered with yogurt. A thick slice of freshly baked bread was lavishly spread with honey and set upon the red Arrentine pottery plate with two hard-boiled eggs and a handful of plump, ripe black olives. Totally ignoring him, she proceeded to consume this bounty, washing it down with a goblet of pomegranate juice. Then, without so much as a word to him, she rose up and left the tent. He wanted to laugh, but Zenobia's dignity was already worn thin and the emperor needed her cooperation.

To drag her shrieking into Palmyra would not win the city's sympathy, and even the young king might think differently about cooperating with Rome under those circumstances. He was, after all, her son, for all her usurpation of his office. He wanted her walking under her own power behind him, in a gesture that all of Palmyra would understand. Seeing her acceptance of Rome, the citizenry would then bow their own necks to the imperial yoke. Let her walk off her bad temper and come to terms with herself before his triumph. Had their positions been reversed she would, he knew, have treated him no differently. Let her be aware of that. Having settled it in his own mind, Aurelian proceeded to eat his own breakfast.

When he had finished he called for Gaius Cicero. "You are responsible for the queen," he said quietly. "I do not believe you will have any difficulty with her. We have spoken this morning, and she understands my wishes completely. You will see that she is in her place behind my chariot as I enter into Palmyra."

"Yes, Caesar!" came the dutiful answer.

At the appointed hour the Roman army was drawn up in full formation before the main gates of Palmyra. At their front was Aurelian in his battle chariot, looking eminently powerful and regal. His gold breastplate, with its raised design of Mars, the god of war, in various victories, gleamed in the morning sunlight; his long red military cloak blew gently in the faint breeze; but his elegant helmet could not hide the stern features of his face. He stood tall, erect, quiet. Behind him his waiting legions shuffled nervously.

The emperor turned to see Zenobia, in her place behind his chariot, turning away from his gaze. The gods! he silently cursed. Just to look at her aroused his desire. She wore no mourning this day, but rather was dressed as she had been the first day his army had arrived at Palmyra's gates those months back. In her golden kalasiris she looked no more like a beaten adversary than a bird of paradise. Her collar of rubies, rose quartz, and diamonds glittered brightly, its brilliance echoed by her golden circlet of vine leaves with their ribboned brilliants. She was in truth a golden goddess incarnate, and she had managed by her dress to change the lesson he had intended to teach the people of Palmyra.