When, at last, the history of Zenobia is recounted – as it must in Palmyra, the seat of her short-lived kingdom – Najib, my guide, falls silent. He draws thoughtfully on his cigarette, as I squint up at the stray hairs that sprout from the end of his bulbous nose. It is mid-morning, but already the heat is fierce, and all hint of shade has receded into the deep recesses to await the onset of dusk.
I still don't feel I know enough about Queen Zenobia. What drove her to murder her husband and to challenge Rome? Was it pure ambition? Or was she the first Arab nationalist, as some have attempted to portray her? As for her oasis city, what was Palmyra like in its heyday – whose streets once thronged with the rowdy commerce of travelling merchants and camel caravans, but which now lie silent in exquisite ruin, save for a few brave tourists and the souvenir touts on their scooters?
'My friend, there are many stories,' says Najib, as if reading my jumbled thoughts, 'but what I have said is true.' He looks at me awhile before adding simply, 'I know everything about this place. My grandfather and grandmother, they lived here until the 1920s, when the French destroyed the houses.'
Only two habitations remain within the boundaries of the old city – one, a guest house for visiting archaeologists, and the other a luxury hotel. In the evening, I return to the latter for dinner. Sitting out on the terrace in the soft summer breeze, surrounded by olive trees and date palms, I feel as if transported to some enchanted grove. Most magical of all, though, are the Temple of Bel and the great colonnaded cardo, both lit up across the darkness and the dust of centuries.
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