“So, Odaenathus!” said Rufinus, the tribune, reining in his horse and speaking in harsh and commanding tones, “what meaneth this array of armed followers?”
“Are the movements of Septimus Odaenathus, the head-man, of such importance to the noble tribune that he must needs question a free merchant of Palmyra as to the number and manner of his servants?” asked Odaemathus haughtily.
“Dog of a Palmyrean; slave of a camel-driver,” said the Roman angrily, “trifle not with me. Were you ten times the free merchant you claim, you should not thus reply. Free, forsooth! None are free but Romans.”
“Have a care, O Rufinus,” said the Palmyrean boldly, “choose wiser words if you would have peaceful ways. Palmyra brooks no such slander of her foremost men.”
“And Rome brooks no such men as you, traitor,” said Rufinus. “Ay, traitor, I say,” he repeated, as Odaenathus started at the word. “Think not to hide your plots to overthrow the Roman power in your city and hand the rule to the base Sapor of Persia. Every thing is known to our great father the Emperor, and thus doth he reckon with traitors. Macrinus, strike!” and at his word the short Gallic sword in the ready hand of the big German foot-soldier went straight to its mark and Odaenathus, the “head-man” of Palmyra, lay dead in the Street of the Thousand Columns.
So sudden and so unexpected was the blow that the Palmyreans stood as if stunned, unable to comprehend what had happened. But the Roman was swift to act.
“Sound, trumpets! Down, pikes!” he cried, and as the trumpet peal rose loud and clear, fresh legionaries came hurrying through the Damascus arch, and the pilum(1) and spatha of Rome bore back the shields and lances of Palmyra.
(1) The pilum was the Roman pike, and the spatha the short single-edged Roman sword.
But, before the lowered pikes could fully disperse the crowd, the throng parted and through the swaying mob there burst a lithe and flying figure—a brown-skinned maid of twelve with streaming hair, loose robe, and angry, flashing eyes. Right under the lowered pikes she darted and, all flushed and panting, defiantly faced the astonished Rufinus. Close behind her came an equally excited lad who, when he saw the stricken body of his father on the marble street, flung himself weeping upon it. But Bath Zabbai’s eyes flashed still more angrily:
“Assassin, murderer!” she cried; “you have slain my kinsman and Odhainat’s father. How dare you; how dare you!” she repeated vehemently, and then, flushing with deeper scorn, she added: “Roman, I hate you! Would that I were a man. Then should all Palmyra know how——”