PROLOGUE
Zabdas – 290 AD (Present day)
Clouds of sand billow across the road into Palmyra. I sit upon my horse, back to the city; the rubble and dirt and deadly silence of a place that once chimed with life. Walls that scraped the sky now stand two men high and cast us in shadow: five men beaten by time. Two of us defy death, restless for one last clash of iron before we make peace with our gods.
Behind the walls near five hundred of my men hold the remnants of the broken city. Beyond, thousands of citizens who spent years rebuilding with dust shelter in their homes, afraid of our common enemy. I sense their fear, the panic rising in those who cannot muster their own defence in the uncertainty of what may come. And who would not feel fear, alone in a desert oasis, with only crumbling walls and two carts to block the city gate?
I rub the pommel of my sword with my thumb, the grip worn smooth from a lifetime of killing. Killing, or defending? Suddenly I am unsure of the difference. Which am I, a soldier or murderer, a keeper of peace or a warrior who would have men under his command? Bent on revenge or broken man, or both? I shake the thoughts and watch the road with keen eyes. The Tanukh tribe bring their army north, raping and raiding, pillaging the cities of Syria; plaguing the sands. Scouts tell me they are close, and my breath quickens as I await first sight.
‘The Tanukh march two thousand men along this road,’ Vaballathus says. He is mounted on my right, and I hear the man beside him, a priest of Palmyra, suck in a sharp breath and begin to chant.
‘A thousand, two, a hundred thousand,’ I say, ‘it does not matter.’
‘You told me they numbered a thousand.’
Vaballathus speaks to annoy the priest, a jest we do not share. He knows the numbers I told the city leaders: the city commander and the priest who stand with us now.
‘I told the people they numbered a thousand. A lie to stave fear. What would you have? The streets swarming with citizens attempting to leave, only to find themselves in more danger still?’
‘You could have told me,’ he says more quietly.
I breathe deep, close my eyes, and open them again, my gaze resting on Vaballathus. He sits as tall as his father once did, a full head above an average man. He holds my eye a moment, then looks away. There is much guilt and regret and promise resting on our standing before the Tanukh army. Most of it mine, not his.
‘I did not think you would come,’ the commander says, forced calm in his honest voice. Appointed by the people of Palmyra, he has their respect and mine.
‘I swore to protect the people of this city and bring aid if ever it was required,’ I say.
‘And it is most welcome. But you lead the largest force in Syria. Why not station it here, in Palmyra? The people are afraid. They would welcome your continuing protection.’
I shake my head. He does not understand.
‘The Romans have not forgotten the threat of Syria commanding large forces. My men lurk in the shadows of what this country has been. We must remain so.’
‘The Romans would not know,’ the commander protests, glancing at Vaballathus.
‘If the Romans knew my warriors lined these walls, that we still lived, they would strip the city bare until they found us. They would not rest. You are not old enough to remember.’
The commander shades his eyes against the sun. He has seen perhaps thirty-five years. I have known fifty. He cannot comprehend the hatred of the Romans and the power Palmyra once held – the threat we were.
‘So be it, General Zabdas.’
Perhaps he uses the rank I once held to flatter, to remind me of the oaths that tied me to this country, that tie me still, but I cannot be sure.
‘I am no longer a general,’ I murmur. ‘I am but a warlord.’
‘And yet this country still looks to you for leadership, to keep the peace and provide our defences.’
‘I live to serve.’
‘And I live to bed whores,’ Bamdad says, my oldest companion and a leader of our men. ‘And drink and eat.’
I laugh. ‘And gamble.’
‘That too. Is there anything more I should do that you disagree with?’ he says, a proud, playful grin upon his face.
‘I will think of something before this day is done.’
I shift from one foot to another, my joints stiff despite the heat. I have spent a lifetime riding the sands, hunting those who would strip Syria bare, keeping order where I can, and bringing a certain peace to a country that has known too much war. We are invisible to all but the people my silent warriors protect. It is not the dream I once had, and I cannot call it greatness, for it is barely freedom. But it is what I have chosen for these lands.
‘The last of the scouts have not yet returned.’ Bamdad speaks. He shifts in his saddle, leather armour creaking and his horse snorting complaint beneath the weight of the huge man. Skin thin and loose over seasoned muscle; sweat collects beneath a red bandana.
‘I will ride out,’ Vaballathus says.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘We wait.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until they come,’ Bamdad says.
‘You are old and cautious,’ Vaballathus snaps.
Bamdad grins.
‘I am alive.’
‘Only just,’ I reply, returning his grin.
‘That is true, but I have ten years on you and half the scars,’ Bamdad says.
I glance down at my arms and the hatched lines which cover them. They are my warrior bands, proof of the man I have been and the life I have led.
‘I have more scars because I saw more battle.’
Bamdad snorts. His horse paws the ground.
‘They are coming,’ the commander says.
I urge my horse forward, listening for the sound of men on the road. A faint hum. I glance to Bamdad and Vaballathus and nod.
We wait in silence. I hate the waiting. Behind us my archers line the walls at a signal from Bamdad, and heavy cavalry flank the outer perimeter of the city, hidden from sight.
The Tanukh emerge from the haze of sweeping dust and sand. Two hundred men in all. No more than my own force. They stop a few hundred paces away, enough for me to see they are a ragged band of warriors with no banners and few horses. A grey mass behind grows darker, a firmer image, becoming steadily larger as the bulk of the army forms.
I turn my horse and say to the commander: ‘Invite the King of the Tanukh to join you in the city this evening, and for drink and food and provision to be sent beyond the walls for his men.’
‘Are you sure, General?’
‘I am.’
He nods agreement as the priest beside him chants louder still.
I signal for the archers to stand down and the gateway to be cleared. Vaballathus rides into the city ahead of us. Bamdad gives an imperceptible nod. I take a look at the road and the Tanukh army growing ever larger and my stomach tightens. Then I urge my horse to follow Vaballathus inside the walls.
Tonight we dine with an old enemy.
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