“Just don’t forget—” Maathorneferure started, but she did not conclude her sentence because the doors to the hall had opened to admit Neferronpet, who purposefully strode toward them.
Bowing low before Maathorneferure, he spoke. “It is encouraging to see my queen moving about once more.” Then he looked up at the queen, who smiled warmly at him.
“I have been in the most capable of hands,” Maathorneferure replied, turning her gaze toward Neti. “She has been both vigilant and considerate with my care.”
“As it should be,” Neferronpet said, righting himself. “I have come, however, to claim her for the evening.”
“Yes, by all means. She requires some relief from her duties,” Maathorneferure warmly replied, looking toward Neti. “Go enjoy your evening, child, for I have both my husband and his esteemed prefect to accompany me.”
“Thank you, my queen,” Neti replied. “If you will just excuse me so that I can rightly prepare myself.”
“By all means, go, child,” Ramesses insisted. “We will keep Neferronpet occupied in your absence.”
Neti turned to leave, but she heard the Pharaoh questioning Shabaka about his arrangements for the evening and Shabaka’s stilted reply before stepping out of the hall.
Shabaka entered the beer house a few paces behind Moses, who seemed familiar with the setup, even greeting some of the men present. They steadily made their way farther into the dimly lit room. The smell of pipe smoke, emmer beer, and sweat hung heavy in the air while sweaty bodies stirred around him. Shabaka looked around, and with every step he took, he became even more thankful that Neti had not accompanied them. Not that he was at all pleased with the company she was keeping, it was just that he would rather not have her bear witness to the morally deficient side of the capital city.
He knew she would not be wholly unfamiliar with the existence of prostitutes or what their business entailed, for like Pi-Ramesses, Thebes also had beer houses that catered to men’s physical needs. However, just the thought of her entering such an establishment, or the thought that some man could even mistake her as a woman of pleasure, caused his fists to clench. Besides that, these women were brazenly indiscreet about their business and what they offered. Not long after his entry, some had chanced running their hands across his chest and back, and the deeper he moved into the beer house, the more blatant their attempts became.
His gaze sought out Moses, who seemed to be maneuvering them deeper into the bowels of the seedy establishment, leaving him to wonder if they were even in the right place. However, communicating over the noise created by cheering men, mediocre musicians, and gaudy conversation seemed almost impossible, especially since the younger slave kept on moving, not paying the women or other patrons any heed.
His gaze once again shifted to the women, his body warming at the sight of them tending to their male habitués’ needs. They wore the scantest scraps of fabric, some hardly covering their breasts, and the men drooled at the sight while others groped at the pliant mounts of flesh. He steeled himself against his body’s reaction when he saw a woman brazenly stroking a man’s erection, the rapture on the man’s face evident. She whispered something into his ear, and Shabaka saw the man nod his head before following her like a lamb to the slaughter. He knew what the man would soon enough be doing, and his own groin jumped to life at the thought. It had been a while since he had tended to his own physical needs and taken a woman, but he had had no interest in fleeting encounters since meeting Neti. His phallus ached at the thought of Neti touching him in such a familiar manner, and he got hot all over at the thought of joining with her, having her cling to him as he moved over her, inside her. Just the thought of her moaning for him to release his seed inside her had kept him awake for more nights than he cared to admit.
He shook his head, as if the action would clear the thoughts from his mind, and declined the services of one of the women, who had brazenly propositioned him by stroking his emergent erection, professing not to need her services, though the ache in his groin declared him a liar.
His thoughts turned to Neti and whom she was spending the evening with, and a sudden jolt of anger shot through him, replacing his pent up frustration with a different kind of frustration, a more violent kind. He clenched his jaw as his resentment for the man settled in the pit of his stomach like a burning ache. His thoughts were as effective as a dousing of cold water to his libido. He was supposed to be the one with Neti, not the vizier. He had found her and brought her to the capital, seeking the pharaoh’s approval before pursuing her. He could not even contemplate the thought of her under the man, that she would allow him to place his seed in her… yet there was nothing he could do about it, for Neferronpet could offer her things he could not, and she was free and could therefore decide for herself.
He had no idea how to draw her attention to him or make her aware of how he felt. Their relationship had always revolved around finding answers, and he knew that though he held a position of reverence, there was a great deal about him she did not know that he had not told her about. He also knew that a great deal of what she didn’t know about him could sway her, but he wanted her to be attracted to him as a person, not for who others saw him as being. However, he doubted that she was that shallow or that she saw in the vizier a means of advancing herself and her social standing. She wanted to return home, and that was indication enough that whatever she and Neferronpet shared, it was not enough to keep her in Pi-Ramesses… not yet. However, after her evening with the vizier, Shabaka was uncertain whether she would still feel the same about the vizier and going home.
A burly body brushed up against him, jolting him from his thoughts, and he made to shove against the man. He halted, however, on realizing that there was no need, for it had not been intentional, as the man was already liberally inebriated and could barely move without staggering. He also knew his actions were far more likely to start a brawl, something he tried his best to avoid.
Moses called to him from a few paces away, his holler barely audible above the sound of the cheering men nearby, and indicated for him to follow.
Shabaka pushed through the milling mass of bodies that seemed unnaturally close together, hollering and shouting while pushing against one another.
“The fights are this way,” Moses called loudly, and indicated for Shabaka to follow him. They moved around the mass of packed bodies and Shabaka realized that they were on the outskirts of the onlookers, who were all zealously cheering. Most of the onlookers made way for them upon recognizing him, and some even glanced after him in uncertainty. They pushed through the crowd until coming to a halt near a crudely constructed mud brick arena, a mere two bricks high and about three cubits in diameter.
A loud roar went up as one of the scorpions was declared the winner, and Shabaka looked about him at the various responses to the news while the crowd noticeably settled.
Two men stepped into the arena and using crudely cut sticks ushered the scorpions back into their boxes while the emcee announced the participants of the following match.
A low hum started in the crowd, and Shabaka saw two men approach the arena, each holding a box. Moving to opposing sides of the arena, they shook the boxes while the emcee continued to introduce the two scorpions and their owners. Shabaka looked toward where the owners and the emcee were seated and recognized the medicinal trader of their company. The man was talking animatedly to the seated men. The emcee finally turned toward the arena and lifted his hand, at which the rounding crowd fell silent. The two handlers gave their boxes one final shake before opening them and casting the scorpions into the ring.
The scorpions righted themselves moments before hitting the ground and landed almost simultaneously. They curved their tails over their backs as they started scurrying around the arena. Shabaka watched as the nearly translucent scorpion became the first to sense its opponent and started moving defensively, its black opponent slightly larger. Shabaka shifted slightly and nudged Moses, asking, “Can you i
dentify these scorpions?”
“Yes, they are both deathstalkers. The lighter one is from the nearby desert, the darker one would have been caught in a cave or tomb.”
“Which one is the favorite?” Shabaka asked, only to have the man next to Moses speak up. “The darker one. It came from the pyramids and is said to be enchanted. It has never lost a battle.”
Shabaka thanked the man with a nod before asking, “Does it fight often?”
“No, it has been out for a while, only the best newcomers fight it.”
“Do they fight to the death?” Shabaka asked, watching as the scorpions circled one another, bracing their pinchers and threatening with their stingers.
“Their venom does not kill their own kind. They mostly fight until the first strike; sometimes it is a best of three match. It all depends on what the match arrangements are.”
Shabaka looked on as the scorpions intensified their actions and the cheering from the onlookers increased. Taking the opportunity, he called to the man next to Moses. “Do you know where I can acquire a scorpion like this?”
The man looked at him hesitantly before shaking his head. “I don’t know of anyone who sells scorpions. Most catch their own and train them for the fights.”
“I see,” Shabaka replied. “But I do not need a scorpion for the ring.”
The man looked him over once again and recognized the sash he was wearing. “You are here for the palace?”
Shabaka nodded, hoping that he would not cause a whole load of trouble.
“I just bid on the games,” the man quickly replied, then pointed toward the owners and emcee, “but you might try Ghalil. He knows most of the owners and should know of any scorpions that are for sale.”
Shabaka’s gaze followed the man’s indication and saw a man dressed in colored robes seated next to the emcee.
“He owns the enchanted one, and he might be able to help you.”
Shabaka thanked the man and reached for Moses’ elbow. “Come, I want to speak with Ghalil, and I have a feeling he does not speak my language.”
Together they moved toward the emcee and the owners, with some of the onlookers reluctant to move out of the way until they recognized Shabaka’s authority, after which they quickly stepped aside.
Shabaka and Moses slowly progressed to the other side of the crude arena, periodically glancing at the scorpions fighting in the ring. The cheering of the onlookers became almost deafening at times as they finally made it to where the owners were seated, moments before the dark scorpion was once again declared the winner.
Shabaka stood behind Ghalil, and the man enthusiastically spoke with the others, civilly crediting his opponent’s scorpion on a match well fought. When he finally turned in his stool and stood, he came face to face with Shabaka. He looked the Nubian prefect up and down before asking, “Is there something I can do for you, Prefect?”
The crowd was once again settling, allowing Shabaka to speak normally. “I was told you could assist me with acquiring a scorpion?”
The man looked skeptically at him before deadpanning, “And why would I do such a thing? For if I got you a scorpion I would only make one more challenger for mine.”
“I do not want it for the ring.”
“I see,” Ghalil replied, nodding knowingly. “You are on an errand from the palace. Our pharaoh needs more scorpions, yes?”
“Yes,” Shabaka replied, his heart pounding in his chest, wondering what he had entered into.
“Where is the other man? He knows where to find me for such matters,” Ghalil questioned skeptically.
“He has been reassigned. There have been changes…” Shabaka replied, hoping the man would buy it.
Ghalil looked past Shabaka as he answered. “That is understandable, considering recent events. Please meet me outside, just above the piers; I would rather not discuss such matters here.”
Shabaka was stunned for a moment at the ease with which the man so willingly complied and his nonchalant behavior regarding his request, and he made a point of asking Ramesses whether or not he had ever acquired scorpions in the past. He thanked the man and turned toward Moses just as the emcee announced the following battle, indicating that they should leave.
Leaving the oppressive mass of bodies was far easier than moving within it, for most of the onlookers gave way the moment they realized that they were leaving, almost cleating a pathway for them before rushing to secure their positions again.
Shabaka, thankful to have escaped the place, pulled in a deep breath as they reemerged from the beer house. The cool air was welcoming after the stifling heat and rank air. Together they turned for the pier and briskly set off.
On their approach, Shabaka felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and reached across to halt Moses. “Something is wrong,” he professed, looking about.
“What?” Moses asked, also looking about alarmed.
“The guards are missing,” Shabaka said, looking about. “The cargo is unguarded.”
Moses looked about as well. “Is there any reason they would leave their posts?”
“Only if there was trouble elsewhere,” Shabaka said, turning to look at Moses, the bright light from the full moon almost allowing him to discern the young man’s facial expression. “But even then, one must remain behind.”
They were just about to turn and head back up the path when a voice sneered from a darkened corner, “Where are you going? Surely you’re not leaving yet?”
“Why, you just got here,” another menacing voice added.
Shabaka listened for movement, the heaped goods along the dockside providing numerous darkened alcoves in which to remain hidden.
“Well, look what we have here, the Nubian prefect wandering around the docks at night,” another voice added as the first of the men stepped out of his darkened recess, his stout size and dark skin making him easily identifiable as a fellow Nubian.
“Yes, the pharaoh’s little minion,” the first sneered as they loosely started forming a circle around Shabaka and Moses.
“Pity he didn’t bring the little woman with him, we could have had some fun tonight,” the one with the menacing voice spoke.
Shabaka’s blood boiled at the insinuation; just the thought of these men laying a hand on Neti was enough to rile him. He looked about, counting six in all, and knew the odds were not good if things became physical.
“We’re not looking for any trouble,” Shabaka said firmly, while trying to establish which man was their ringleader. Unfortunately, there was not enough moonlight to distinguish their facial features.
“But then you are the trouble,” one of the men mordantly retorted.
“How so?” Shabaka challenged.
“We’re here to deliver a message,” the large dark-skinned one replied.
“And what might that be?” Shabaka asked calmly, his heartrate increasing as the circle of men moved in closer.
“That you are to stop digging into matters that are none of your concern.”
“As I said, we’re not looking for trouble.” Shabaka was trying to smooth out the situation once more. However, the men still grew closer, their bodies poised to attack.
“Oh, we’re just here to make certain you get the message,” the sneering one replied, moments before the dark-skinned one threw the first punch. Shabaka deflected the shot with practiced ease and countered, his knee connecting hard with the man’s stomach, causing him to double over and gasp in response. He managed to deflect another shot and hit the man in the face, causing his head to snap back moments before stumbling to the ground. The third, however, managed to land a shot to his ribs, and Shabaka grunted from the sudden explosion of pain. These men were not seasoned fighters, but they were not greenhorns either.
“The shoulder, knock out his shoulder,” one man said as the other two laid into Moses, who at first also successfully deflected their attempts but had failed to land a shot.
Shabaka managed to deflect a blow aimed at his recently recov
ered shoulder and turned to look toward Moses when he heard a harsh oath muttered in Hebrew. He watched as the young slave doubled over in pain, moments before another blow connected with his ribs. He could hear the sickening sound of bones cracking as pain shot through him; breathing became difficult, painful, and he drew in shallow gasps to try to compensate for the pain. Another blow landed, this time to the side of his head, and though the assailant yelped at the pain he had inflicted on his own hand, Shabaka’s vision blurred for a moment. He reached up to clasp his head with both hands, hoping it would steady his vision, but his feet were swept out from under him. He bellowed as he hit the ground, his elbow taking the brunt of the impact, further jolting his body. Pain shot up his arm and his muscles screamed when he tried to regain his feet. He had barely moved onto his knees before the first kick landed, jolting his already tender body and sending renewed pulses of pain from his ribs. The pain blurred his vision, and he eventually dropped to the ground, his arms braced over his head and his body curled into a tight ball as it absorbed the hard blows it was dealt. Spots appeared in his vision, his lungs burning from their need for oxygen.
He heard a shout from a great distance, and then there was a moment’s respite as his assailants looked about them. Their cries to retreat hardly registered with him, his body only cringing at the sound of approaching footfalls. His vision was blurred, and his ears rang from the blood pounding through his veins. His body seemed unwilling to uncurl from its huddled position as he tried to make out what had sent their assailants scampering, uncertain whether he faced an even greater threat.
“By Ra! It’s the prefect,” a man exclaimed close to him, and he could feel the man’s hand land on his shoulder. He wanted to scream as another jolt of pain shot through him.
“And the pharaoh’s messenger!” another exclaimed.
Shabaka tried to move his head, wondering in how bad a shape Moses was, but his body would not comply.
Deep inside, he was angered, for Moses had not deserved such treatment. For the second time that evening, he was relieved that Neti had not accompanied them. The thought of her jolted him. He had to make sure they didn’t get to her, could not touch her. He tried to move, but instead found his vision darkening. “Neti!” he grunted in pain, moments before everything went black and oblivion reached up to engulf him.
Princess of Egypt (The Mummifier's Daughter) (Volume 2) Page 9