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 men sometimes beat their wives, for she was not entirely sheltered; but that was within the realm of the respectable. Everyone said that a woman needed correction occasionally. Still, she had never seen her father beat his wives, and her mother did not even know the men who had attacked her. If Iris did not know them then why were they angry with her, and why did they hurt her, kill her? She simply could not understand.

Was brutality then a trait particular to the Romans alone? Was it some peculiar form of madness that afflicted them that made them turn on innocent strangers?

She goaded the camel to greater speed with her little heels, for ahead she could see the dust of her father's caravan. Soon she was passing the groups of families who made up their tribe. All waved and called out to her in greeting as her camel galloped by them. Their smiles were indulgent, for she was a great favorite with everyone in the tribe, and not simply because she was their leader's daughter. Zenobia bat Zabaai had always been a merry, kindly child. At the head of the group she could see her father, and her eldest brother, Akbar. She began to wave at them, to call out frantically, her young voice sounding hollow in her ears.

"Hola, little one!" Akbar called in a teasing voice. "Want to race that flea-bitten old nag against my champion?" Then he saw her pinched and pale little face, and turning to his father cried out, "Father, something is wrong!"