"Could I not stay with Julia? Her mama says it would be all right. You don't need me to herd the goats!" Zenobia made one last desperate try.

"No, Zenobia," came the firm and quiet reply, but a tiny smile twitched at the comers of Iris's mouth. Poor Zenobia, she thought. She knew just how her daughter felt, but she would say nothing, for she knew sympathy only encouraged rebellion. Iris, too, disliked the desert, but never in all the years she had been Zabaai's wife had she ever admitted it aloud. It was part of her husband's heritage, and when she had married him she had accepted it. She held out her hand to her daughter. "Come now, my dearest, let us go without further ado. The others are already several miles ahead of us, and you know how I dislike galloping a camel. It makes me sick if I must do it for too long. Come along."

"Yes, Mama," Zenobia sighed, defeated.

The three had turned to go when they heard strange footsteps on the stairs outside the bedchamber door. Tamar stiffened, sensing danger. Then, pulling Zenobia from her mother, she pushed the girl down and back under the bed with its bright, red satin hangings.

"Stay there!" she hissed urgently, "and whatever happens do not come out until I tell you! Do you understand? Do not come out until I call you!"

The door to the bedchamber was flung open before Zenobia could protest. She could not see from her hiding place that the room had suddenly been invaded by a small party of Roman soldiers.

Tamar quickly stepped forward, saying, "Good morning, Centurion! How may I help you?"

The centurion eyed her boldly, thinking as he did so that she was a fine figure of a woman with her big, pillowy tits, and that she looked clean, and disease-free. "Whose house is this?" he demanded.

Tamar recognized his look. She prayed she could stay calm. "This is the house of Zabaai ben Selim, warrior chief of the Bedawi, Centurion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tamar bat Hammid, senior wife to Zabaai ben Selim. This other lady is my lord's second wife, Iris bat Simon."

"Why are you alone? Where are the servants?" The centurion's tone was arrogant.

"I can see that you are new to Palmyra, Centurion. The Bedawi spend but half the year in Palmyra. The other half we spend in the desert. My husband left but a few minutes ago. Iris and I were checking to be sure that everything was secure. One cannot trust the slaves to see to it." She paused a moment, hoping he would be satisfied and let them go. Seeing his intent still unchanged, she decided to attack. "May I ask why you have entered this house, Centurion? It is not the policy of the Roman Army to enter private houses within a friendly city. My husband is a well-respected citizen of this city, honored by all who know him. He holds Roman citizenship, Centurion, and is personally acquainted with the governor. I would also tell you that Zabaai ben Selim is cousin to this city's ruler, Prince Odenathus."

He did not look at her directly when he said, "The gates were wide open as we rode by, and since we saw that the house appeared to be deserted we came to check that robbers were not stripping the property of a Roman citizen."

He was lying, and both of them knew it. The gates had been firmly locked behind Zabaai when he had left. Tamar was afraid, but she knew that to show fear would encourage these men in whatever mischief they were planning. "As always," she said, her voice heavy with sincerity, "the Romans are the keepers of the peace. I shall tell my lord Zabaai of your concern, Centurion. He will be well pleased."

She turned to Iris, who stood nervously behind her. "Come, Iris. We must hurry to meet our lord Zabaai. Our camels are in the stable, Centurion. Would one of your men be kind enough to fetch them for us?"

"How do I know that you are who you say you are?" the centurion said. "You might be thieves for all I know, and then I should be in trouble with my commanding officer."

The ring of men was closing in about them.

"My lord Zabaai, his wives, and his entire family are well known to the Roman governor of this city," Tamar repeated threateningly. She was very afraid now. These, she realized, were not regular legionnaires. These were auxiliaries, barbarians recruited from Gallic and Germanic tribes, noted for being pitiless, without mercy or respect for anything-including women.

"I am sure that you are both well known in the city," the centurion said insinuatingly, and the men with him laughed, their eyes hot. His gaze bold and cruel, he reached out and pushed Tamar aside. "I want a better look at you," he said to Iris, pulling her forward.

At first she looked at him unflinchingly, her blue-gray eyes scornful, but her heart was thumping violently against her ribs. She felt as if she were staring death in the face. The centurion let his hand caress her ash-blond hair almost lingeringly. Slowly the hand wandered downward over her body, fondling her breasts.

"Centurion," she said in a quiet, strained voice, "not only am I wife to Zabaai ben Selim, but I am the only daughter of the great banker, Simon Titus of Alexandria. Do not allow a simple rudeness to escalate into a serious crime."

"You lie," he said pleasantly. "You are a whore of Palmyra."

"Centurion, do not do this thing," Iris said, her voice now trembling. "Do you not have a wife, or a sister? Would you like it if someone did this thing to them?"

He looked at her dispassionately, and she saw no pity or mercy in his ice-blue eyes. "It has been a long time since I have had a fair woman," he said, and then he pushed her back onto the bed.

Her instinct for survival made her attempt to rise, but he shoved her back brutally, and Iris's control left her. She screamed, totally terrified. The centurion slapped her viciously with one hand, while ripping her gown and pushing it up to her belly with the other. His knee jammed between her resisting thighs while she fought him, clawing at his face with her nails, maddened with fear, already ashamed of what was happening to her. She had known no man but her loving, gentle husband. She had known nothing but tenderness and kindness at his hands. Iris had never imagined that a man could do this to a woman. Even knowing it was useless, she continued to fight him because something deep within her refused to accept this horror; and the centurion in his fury at being thwarted, continued to strike her into submission. Both her eyes were almost swollen shut when she felt him gain the advantage, and thrust with a cruel, burning pain into her resisting body. Her reason finally left her as he pounded against her again and again, conscious only of his own pleasure in subduing the woman.

"By the gods," he grunted, "this is the best piece of cunt I've fucked in months!"

Beneath the bed, hidden by the coverings, the child Zenobia squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was terrified by the strange sounds above, trembling and confused at hearing her mother begging in such a frightened voice. Then her mother screamed, and she could no longer hear women's voices, only men's rough laughter, and words she didn't comprehend.

Iris never heard them. She never knew that she was mounted by not only the centurion, but half a dozen other men who patiently waited their turn to violate her now still body. In the end the centurion raped her a second time, cursing when he came too quickly. In his pique he cut her throat as one would butcher a helpless lamb, swiftly, bloodlessly.

Tamar, pulled down onto her back on the cool tile floor, her garments yanked over her head, fared little better than Iris; but Tamar knew enough not to fight back. They left her still body for dead when the last man had finished sodomizing her, not even bothering to use the knife on her. She lay barely breathing while the soldiers stripped the room of the few things left in it for most of its furnishings had gone with Zabaai ben Selim as they always did. Terrified, she held her breath when they ripped the hangings from the bed, along with its coverlets. She prayed to every god she could think of that in their greedy and lustful haste they would not see the child Zenobia. Those fervent prayers were answered. Her eyes met the terrified ones of the girl, and they warned Iris's daughter not to move, to be as silent as the tomb.

It seemed like an eternity that she lay there upon her stomach on the cool tiles, her violated body aching unbearably. She dared not even groan for fear they would realize that she was alive. Finally, after searching through every room for valuables, the soldiers left the house of Zabaai ben Selim. She heard their horses clattering noisily in the courtyard, and wondered why she had not heard them before. Probably because they had led the animals in quietly so as not to surprise anyone left in the house. At least she now knew that they were cavalry, and that would narrow her husband's search for the guilty ones.

Certain that they were now alone, she moaned with pain and tried to sit up. Zenobia scrambled from beneath the bed, her young face wet with tears, as she helped Tamar. The child was pale, and still shaking. She carefully avoided looking at the bed. "Is my mother dead?"

Tamar nodded. "Don't look, child."

"Why, Tamar? Why did they do it? You told them who you were? Why did they hurt you? Why did they kill my mother?"

Tamar spat out a broken tooth. "You cannot tell the Romans anything," she said contemptuously, finally managing to sit up with Zenobia's aid, her back against the bed. Suddenly embarrassed by her disarray, she pulled down the skirts of her dalmatica, which were now ripped, torn, and stained by the soldiers' leavings. "I do not believe that they stole the camels, child. Go to the stables, get one, and ride like the wind to your father. Tell him what has happened! I cannot go, Zenobia. I must wait here."

"It is my fault," said Zenobia, tears welling up in her silvery eyes. "My mother is dead! If I had not been such a child, if I had been ready to leave when everyone else was ready instead of hiding like a brat." She began to weep piteously.

Tamar sighed deeply. She ached in every joint, and she wanted to scream at Zenobia that it was indeed her fault for delaying them so that the soldiers caught them unprotected. Then she looked at the child's face, woebegone at the loss of her mother. "No, child," she said firmly, suddenly even believing it, "you must not blame yourself. It was fate, the will of the gods. Go now, and fetch your father."

"Will you be all right?" Zenobia sniffed anxiously.

"Bring me a pitcher of water, and I will survive. Then you must go, but be careful."

"I will leave by the back gate," Zenobia promised.

Tamar nodded wearily. She suddenly felt very tired, and very, very old. She would survive, if only to see those who had done this to her, and so wantonly murdered Iris, punished. She sat in the midday heat after Zenobia left her, watching almost dispassionately as two large horseflies buzzed about Iris's brutalized body.

Zenobia left the house, going by way of the kitchen garden to the stables where three impatient and cranky camels waited, chewing their cuds. She felt nothing. Neither grief, nor anger, nor fear. She was numb with shock remembering her mother's pleas for mercy. Never had Zenobia heard Iris's voice as it had sounded this day-begging and terrified. The echo of it still rang in her ears, and she believed it would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Absently, she patted her own camel, an unusually mild-tempered blond beast. Mounting it, she guided the animal through the back gate of her father's house, after leaning down to unlatch the lock, and out onto the desert road. The camel moved swiftly, taking bigger and bigger strides until it seemed to be flying just above the road.

Zenobia sat atop its back and firmly settled into the red leather saddle, her white linen chiton pulled up to leave her golden legs free to manipulate her mount, her agile mind racing. Why had the men hurt her mother? She did not really understand at all, for she had never known anything but kindness and indulgence from the men in her life. Her father and all of her older brothers spoiled her terribly, as did their close friends. She knew that men sometimes beat their wives, for she was not entirely sheltered; but that was within the realm of the respectable. Everyone said that a woman needed correction occasionally. Still, she had never seen her father beat his wives, and her mother did not even know the men who had attacked her. If Iris did not know them then why were they angry with her, and why did they hurt her, kill her? She simply could not understand.

Was brutality then a trait particular to the Romans alone? Was it some peculiar form of madness that afflicted them that made them turn on innocent strangers?