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governor.
    “Friends do not rape and murder innocent women!” she said scornfully. “You have become one of
them
, my lord Prince! A mincing and perfumed fop of a Roman!
I hate them!
I hate them, and I hate you also for allowing them to put a yoke about our necks!”
    He could see her eyes were now filled to overflowing withshining tears, but before he could say another word she turned away from him, and ran, followed by her grumbling servant woman.
    “Poor little girl,” Prince Odenathus said sadly. “She was her mother’s only child, and they were very close, Antonius Porcius. I can see how terribly she has been affected by this horrendous crime.”
    The Roman governor looked after the fleeing child. “Yes,” he said. Rome had a bad habit, he thought, of making enemies.
    Once the prince and the governor had returned to the city, Antonius Porcius called immediately into his presence the twelve officers who were attached to the two legions at his command. He carefully explained the situation to them, and then asked, “Will the officers of the auxiliary legions stand by us in this matter?”
    “I guarantee my Africans,” said the tribune of the ninth legion. “They detest the Gauls.” His fellow officers nodded in agreement.
    “I can see no reason why my Gauls should not see the justice in your punishment, Antonius Porcius,” said the tribune of the sixth legion, somewhat stiffly.
    “Assemble the entire garrison then,” the governor commanded.
    Two Roman legions, or twelve thousand foot soldiers plus two hundred forty cavalarymen, and two full auxiliary units, equal in size to the legions, assembled themselves outside Palmyra’s main gate. Such a mighty gathering could not help but attract the curious. As word of the soldiers’ movement flew throughout the city, the citizenry hurried outside the gates to see what was happening.
    On a raised and awninged dais in the hot, late-afternoon sun sat the Roman governor, Antonius Porcius. Resplendent in his purple-bordered white robes, with a wreath of silver-gilt laurel leaves upon his balding head, he waited with Palmyra’s princely ruler, Odenathus Septimius. A young man of twenty-two years, the prince set more than one woman in the crowd to dreaming. He was tall with well-formed and muscled arms and legs bronzed by the sun. The short skirt of his white tunic was embroidered in gold. His midnight-black hair was curly, his large eyes velvet-brown. His mouth was wide and sensuous, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm.
    He was an intelligent and educated man, who played a waiting game with the Romans. He was not yet strong enough to overcome the invader, but he did have plans. The child Zenobia’s angry accusation that he had become one of them had pleased him becauseit meant that he had succeeded with his ruse. The Romans trusted him.
    Reaching up, Odenathus adjusted the crown of Palmyra upon his head. It was a beautiful crown, all gold, formed in the shape of the fronds of the Palmyran palms indigenous to the city. It was, however, hot in weather like this. He sighed, and brushed away a tiny trickle of sweat that attempted to slip down the side of his face.
    The governor’s trumpeters blew a fanfare, and the noisy crowds grew silent with anticipation. Then Antonius Porcius stood up, and walked to the edge of the dais. Solemnly, with a politician’s flair for the dramatic, he let his gaze play over the hushed crowds. Finally he spoke, his nasal voice surprisingly strong.
    “Today the glory of Rome was tarnished. It was tarnished not by those who are native to her, but rather by those upon whom she so graciously conferred the prize of her citizenship! Rome will not tolerate this! Rome will not permit those whom we have sworn to protect to be abused by anyone! Rome will punish those who would break her laws—and the laws of Palmyra!”
    He paused a moment to allow his words to sink in, and then he continued. “This morning, a wife of Zabaai ben Selim, great chief