“Zenobia, Queen of the East, to the Roman Emperor, Aurelian.
“Never was such an unreasonable demand proposed, or such rigorous terms offered, by any but yourself! Remember, Aurelian, that in war, whatever is done should be done by valour. You imperiously command me to surrender: but can you forget, that Cleopatra chose rather to die with the title of queen, than to live in any inferior dignity? We expect succours from Persia; the Saracens are arming in our cause; even the Syrian banditti have already defeated your army. Judge what you are to expect from the junction of these forces. You shall be compelled to abate that pride with which, as if you were absolute lord of the universe, you command me to become your captive.”
When Aurelian read this letter, says Vopiscus, he blushed; not so much with shame, as with indignation.
Her answer inflamed the emperor to the highest pitch. He pressed the siege, therefore, with redoubled vigour; and the city was reduced to such extremities, that her council advised her to send for succour to the Persians. Thus counselled, she determined on going to the king of Persia in person. She set out, therefore, on the fleetest of her dromedaries, and had already reached the banks of the Euphrates (about sixty miles from Palmyra), when she was overtaken by Aurelian’s light horse, and brought back, captive, to the feet of Aurelian. We are told, that the sight of the queen gave the Roman emperor infinite pleasure; but that his ambition suffered some humiliation, when he considered that posterity would always look upon this only as the conquest of a woman[60]. The city surrendered soon after, and was treated with great lenity.
Aurelian now went to Emesa; on arriving at which place, he questioned the queen as to her motives, and the persons who had advised her to make so obstinate a defence. He sternly asked her, how she had presumed to rise in arms against the emperors of Rome? “Because,” answered Zenobia, “I disdained to consider as Roman emperors an Aureolus or a Gallienus. You alone I acknowledge as my conqueror and my sovereign; and this I do, because you know how to conquer.”
When, however, the soldiers demanded her immediate execution, her fortitude forsook her. She confessed by whose counsel she had been guided. She purchased a dishonourable life at the expense of her friends. They were immediately led to execution; herself was reserved to grace the conqueror’s triumph.
Among those of her friends, whose names she had betrayed, was the illustrious Longinus, author of that noble Treatise on the Sublime, which is so well known and appreciated by every scholar. He it was, she confessed, who had drawn up the letter. “Her councillors,” she said, “were to be blamed, and not herself. What could a weak, short-sighted, woman do? especially when beset by artful and ambitious men, who made her subservient to all their schemes? She never had aimed at empire, had they not placed it before her eyes in all its allurements. The letter which affronted Aurelian was not her own—Longinus wrote it; the insolence was his.”
When Aurelian heard this, he directed all his fury against the unfortunate Longinus. That illustrious person was immediately led to execution. Far from lamenting his fate, however, he condoled with his friends, pitied Zenobia, and expressed his joy; looking upon death as a blessing, since it would rescue his body from slavery, and give his soul to that freedom he the most desired. “This world,” said he, with his expiring breath, “is nothing but a prison; happy, therefore, is he who gets soonest out of it, and gains his liberty.”
A modern poet has very finely alluded to this in his poem on Palmyra.