Beloved by Bertrice Small

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 thegentle 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.”
    “I 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!”



Chapter Two
    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