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an eternity that she lay there upon her stomachon 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 donethis 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