by H. B. Moore
She paused when she reached Batal’s side. The lightening sky warmed the ebony locks framing his moist face, and a flicker of tenderness registered in his gaze when their eyes met. Her breath caught for an instant. Recovering, she said, “It is almost time.”
“I will stay to protect you, O Queen.”
For a moment, she wished it could be so. No, she ached for him to stay, but she pushed away any selfish desire. “I have guards aplenty to accompany me. You are commander now and must lead the men to victory.”
Batal held her gaze. Nicaula could not take her eyes from him, noticing flecks of concern in his eyes. She guessed him to be in his seventeenth or eighteenth year, and while she was close to his age, she felt a motherly protection for him. That explained the seed of fear in her heart. It was just concern that any mother might have, yet she longed to reach out and grasp his hand. “Go and conquer in my name.”
She turned and urged her horse behind the line of soldiers before she did anything unbecoming to a queen. She waited breathlessly to witness Batal’s first command. He raised his steel sword for silence. With one motion, he brought his sword downward through the air and heeled his horse. By order of the queen, no cry went up, but it was as though three thousand hearts shouted in unison as the army surged forward—one goal in mind.
Moving her horse to the crest of the hill, Nicaula watched the men flow toward the city. She could well imagine the guards’ astonishment. She wondered if Azhara would be able to hear the battle from her confinement and know that rescue and vengeance had arrived.
In the distance, the resonance of a conch shell pushed through the air—the warning had sounded. Blood rushed through Nicaula’s veins in anticipation as the army neared Saba. She had given strict instructions that the women and children be left alone and for the fighting to cease at the first sign of surrender. Perhaps the chieftain of the region was a reasonable man upon defeat.
The day wore long and hot, and each moment seemed to stretch into an hour as Nicaula paced the camp. She had commanded that a flag should be raised upon victory. But there was still no sign.
The soldiers who had stayed to protect her stood huddled in groups. They had wished to fight with their comrades, but their task was even more important. No matter what happened to the soldiers at Saba, the queen must be protected.
In the late afternoon, the man from the lookout post cried, “Someone approaches!”
Nicaula gathered her robe and ran in that direction, and immediately, several soldiers fell into step beside her. Nicaula reached the rise just in time to see a soldier on horseback plowing toward them. In his hand, he held a stick with a crimson flag attached.
“Batal!” She stood braced against the heated wind and blowing sand, watching the horse and its rider approach. Satisfaction swelled within as she saw his triumphant face and his firm grip on the flag.
The other soldiers in the camp surrounded the hillside as they waited for the first news. Reining the horse to a stop, Batal grinned through the dust covering his face. “In the name of our queen, we have captured the marauders, and the land of Saba belongs to Sheba.”
Nicaula cried out, then brought her hands to her mouth. In a flurry of flowing linen and silk, she ran to Batal and gripped the horse’s reins. “Well done.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “And Azhara?”
“She lives.”
Nicaula bowed her head for a moment as gratitude flooded through her. Batal removed a folded cloth from beneath his tunic and presented the item. She unfolded the cloth to find the ring of Sheba. Meeting Batal’s smile, she felt as if their hearts were joined for an instant.
Then sense of duty claimed her judgment, and Nicaula turned to face the other men. “We will prepare for our victory ride through the city roads.”
The men fell into action, striking tents, gathering food supplies, and loading the camels. Nicaula walked to her horse, surveying the activity. Several of the men gathered around Batal, jubilant as he told of the successful battle. His bloodstained clothes were inspected, and someone brought him shrub tea. Nicaula smiled and turned from them, hoping no one had seen her glistening eyes.
When everything was nearly prepared, Nicaula climbed onto her horse and met Batal at the front of the procession. His face and hair had been bathed, and he wore a clean mantle about his shoulders. He masterfully controlled his horse that still trembled from its run, the heaving muscles of the beast nearly matched by its master’s.
“We have avenged your father, O Queen,” Batal said, his voice confident.
“Yes,” Nicaula said, catching the triumph in his youthful eyes. “The king’s death has been honored at last.” Slowly, she felt the weight settle on her shoulders as she turned and saw all the men waiting silently for her next command.
A new city to add to her kingdom, a new people . . . and she would be doing it without her father. The ring had taken its rightful place of honor on her finger.
She held out her jeweled hand toward Batal. “On this victorious day, as commander of my army, you will lead this procession.”
When they reached the city, Nicaula guided her horse through the dusty lanes. Mud and rocks made up the walls of the squat homes within the defeated walls of Saba; dried palm fronds provided inadequate shade. Death still hovered among the residents, and high-pitched wailing permeated the neighborhoods; women grieving for their men gathered in front of their homes, tearing their clothing and smearing their faces with ashes. Nicaula sat stiffly on her animal, feeling the wails pierce her back with ferocity.
She tried to ignore the emotion building in her throat. These women were not guilty of the crimes their men committed. She turned toward Batal, who rode beside her. “How many killed?”
“A few hundred. All military leaders fled or were killed.”
“And where are the marauders being held?”
“Under guard at the palace.”
Nicaula focused ahead again, ignoring the open stares that followed her presence. Some of the women even stopped in their cries to watch her pass. “Where is Azhara?”
“She waits for you at the palace. She will not speak until she sees you.” Batal glanced at the onlookers. “The people are curious about the queen. They see a woman has come to rule, and they think you must be a goddess.”
Nicaula snapped her head around and looked at the commander, a smile curving her lips. “A goddess? Is that what you told them?”
Batal’s face flushed. “I told them nothing. I have only heard the soldiers talking.”
“And the chieftain? Is he under guard too?”
“He fled before we reached the city. And he will not be back.”
Nicaula looked at the soldier in surprise. A chief who wouldn’t fight? “He doesn’t care for his people?”
“The people do not care for him.” He raised a bronzed arm and pointed down the road. “We are very close now.”
She squinted against the gathered gloom. The sun had just set, bringing cool shadows to the path. Up ahead, she saw a crumpled form in the middle of the road. A young child was on the ground, his mother crying over him.
“Halt,” Nicaula said.
One by one, the surrounding soldiers reined their beasts. Batal climbed off his horse, and when Nicaula extended her hand, he helped her down. A few villagers who had been following them gathered as closely as they were allowed. Nicaula moved to the small body and stooped. The mother looked up, grief in her eyes.
Nicaula watched the boy’s chest rise and fall with jagged breaths. A long gash adorned his small arm. The boy’s face was pale, and dark lashes spread against his thin cheeks. He couldn’t be more than five or six years of age.
Nicaula stood. “What happened to this child? No children were to be harmed.”
Batal took a step forward, his mouth drawn tight. “I issued the command myself. Every soldier was informed.”
Nicaula climbed on her horse and spurred it forward. Once she reached the dilapidated palace, she dismounted and led the others inside. The dead bodies had been removed, but the stench of death still remained. Torches lined the walls, their fiery glow making the entrance hall look somewhat welcoming. “More light,” Nicaula said. “And we need water and food for the child.”
She sidestepped a puddle of drying blood and noticed it streaked along most of the hall. “Where is Nabil?”
The healer ran forward, and Nicaula studied the shrunken man wearing battle garb that overwhelmed his thin frame. “You should not have gone into battle. Your healing skills are more valuable than your combat skills.”
He bowed his head.
“You may attend the boy now.” Nicaula turned and scanned the room, assessing the disarray, from the broken tables, trampled food, and bits of clothing and armor, to the collected dirt and hay. Batal was in conversation with another soldier. He was a natural leader, and the other soldiers respected him. She knew she had made the right decision in making him commander. It would also mean that she would have more interaction with him.
She crossed to his side. “Take me to Azhara.”
Batal led her past the great hall and through a silent corridor. He kept a respectful distance from her, and suddenly she longed for the privacy they had shared after the dunes. They stopped at a locked door, and he knocked. “The queen is here.”
After a moment, the latch clanged, and the door opened.
Nicaula blinked against the dimness. A skeleton of what used to be a vibrant girl stood there—feet bare, legs and arms bruised, clothing torn, and most of her head shaved with the remaining hair hanging in ragged clumps. “Azhara?”
The servant hung her head as tears dripped to the floor.
“What have they done to you?” Nicaula stepped forward and took the girl’s hands in hers. They were scratched and scarred as if she had been in many fights.
“We found her chained to that wall,” Batal said.
Nicaula’s eyes strayed to the far corner, where ugly, metal shackles protruded from the stone. The surrounding wall and floor were soiled with urine, feces, and blood.
“We released her from the chains,” Batal continued. “But she refused to leave the room until you came.”
“Poor girl,” Nicaula said, cradling Azhara’s face. Nicaula’s own tears formed and joined with the servant’s. Then Azhara fell against her queen, trembling as pitiful sobs broke through. Nicaula stroked her shorn hair, which looked as if someone had hacked it off with a sword. Festering cuts on her skull were visible through the stubble.
When the girl’s sobs faded, Nicaula drew away and examined Azhara’s ruined body, not missing the dried blood on her thighs. She turned to Batal. “Where are the marauders?”
“In the outer courtyard behind the palace.”
A hot flash of rage pulsed through her. She leaned over and kissed Azhara’s forehead. “Call in the women.”
Moments later, two servants entered the room, their eyes taking in Azhara’s appearance.
“Draw the girl a bath,” Nicaula instructed, and both women bowed. Nicaula turned to Azhara. “The healer, Nabil, will attend to you after you bathe. Do not be afraid.”
Azhara nodded, her lips trembling.
Nicaula backed out of the room and joined Batal in the hallway. “Take me to the marauders.”
They walked in heavy silence back to the grand hall, where Batal gathered four other soldiers. The men led Nicaula through the maze of corridors with low ceilings. When they reached the final door connecting to the outer courtyard, she took a deep breath before stepping out into the night.
There were at least a dozen of them: hardened desert dwellers. They wore ragged shifts around their waists, torsos bare and nearly blackened by the sun. Raised welts of self-mutilation covered their arms and chests. Nicaula saw no fear in their gazes. No respect. No allegiance. No human soul.
Batal and the other soldiers flanked Nicaula’s sides, but seeing the hungry looks of the desert raiders, she felt as if she stood alone and naked. These men were guilty of abominable acts toward Azhara.
Nicaula wasted no time asking about the servant girl. Instead, she walked straight toward the leader. The only change in his expression was the glint of his black eyes. “You have the evil heart of Onuris,” she said. “You are like the forsaken war god who delights in bloodshed and death, but not for this will you die.”
She looked at the men surrounding the leader, feeling their bloodthirsty eyes roam over her body. “You have murdered my father and left our people to rot on the desert floor, yet you will not die because of my desire for vengeance.” She kept her gaze steady, ignoring the foul stench permeating from the men. “You have taken a young girl and destroyed her virtue—which is graver than taking life itself.”
Nicaula lifted her chin, rising to her full height. “And for that you will all suffer a robber’s sentence. At sunrise, both your hands will be cut off, and you will live the rest of your days begging for that which you can no longer steal.”
Her gaze traveled over the other men. “All of you will suffer this mercy.”
The leader chuckled, and Nicaula turned away from him. She heard several men spit and curse her name. Her soldiers rushed forward and clobbered the offenders. She exited the courtyard without a backward glance, feeling as if fiery arrows had pierced her soul, while the other soldiers remained outside, defending the queen’s good name.
Her knees weakened once she was inside the palace walls. She stopped in an empty corridor and tried to calm herself. Batal followed and stopped, standing so close that she could almost feel his breath on her neck. Almost . . .
She turned and leaned against him. He stiffened for a moment, and then his arms encircled her. His chest was warm, reminding her that a good heart beat inside this man and that not all men were capable of such horrors.
After several deep breaths, she pulled away. Looking up at Batal, she saw the question in his eyes, but she wasn’t ready to come up with an answer. She turned and walked to the grand hall, ready to announce the punishments to her people. Hearing Batal’s footsteps following her, she wondered if perhaps her father had been wrong. Perhaps a queen could marry for love.
Daybreak traveled slowly across the arid plain, and as the glow touched Nicaula’s chamber, she opened her eyes. She burrowed beneath her rug, imagining the bedcover like Batal’s arms—securely wrapped around her. Then her mind flooded with the monumental task ahead of her. Suddenly the rug became cold and unwelcoming, and the image of Batal’s caress faded into obscurity.
Nicaula threw aside the cover and climbed off her bed. She was disgusted with herself. Thinking of a man while Azhara—tortured and bruised—slept at the foot of her bed. Nicaula watched the girl sleep, only imagining what images of terror existed behind the servant’s restless eyelids.
But this morning, it will all end. Then I will forget my foolish heart and be the queen I was born to become. Nicaula pulled her robe about her shoulders, shivering in the morning cool. Her stomach was empty, but she would enjoy no food until the unpleasant task was completed.
For a wild instant, Nicaula wanted to wake Azhara and escort her to the scene of torture. The girl would be able to see her vengeance enacted.
No, she should never have to see their faces again. Instead of waking the girl, Nicaula performed her own toilette with the water brought in the night before. Then she picked up an ivory brush and combed through her dark tangles. A few long strands of black hair fell at her feet, curling like snakes on the floor. Nicaula twisted her hair and fastened it high on her head with two gold pins
. Then she donned her headdress and adjusted the veil so it concealed her entire face. Those demonic men would not see her almond eyes in the light of day.
Unlatching the door, Nicaula moved silently into the hallway, where two soldiers stood at attention, bowing their heads upon seeing her. Nicaula was slightly disappointed not to find Batal among them, but, of course, he would be attending to more important matters. “The girl still sleeps within,” Nicaula said. “Continue to guard the room from any disturbance.”
Both men nodded and maintained their positions.
She walked to the main hall where Rona, Batal, and several other soldiers prepared for the morning rite. When they saw her, they bowed their heads. Nicaula’s gaze halted on Batal’s dark curls for an instant too long, so when he raised his head, he caught her staring at him.
Her face heated, and she spoke more harshly than she’d intended. “Are the bindings prepared?”
Rona rose from his place. “You want to bind the wounds?”
“Yes,” Nicaula said, trying not to look at Batal again. “I do not want any of them to have the luxury of bleeding to death. Their souls will remain on earth with their miserable bodies.”
The men returned to sharpening their daggers against a large stone. As each man finished, they silently assembled and waited for the queen’s instruction. “No one man will be required to perform the order. The vengeance will be on all your hands as we unite as one voice and denounce their murderous and torturous traditions.”
Nicaula took the lead, and the men followed. They reached the courtyard just as the sun’s rays tipped the outer wall. The gray shadows warmed, and the stench of the night before had dissipated with the morning breeze.
Most of the marauders were already awake, and the others stirred to life as the soldiers surrounded the courtyard. One prisoner in particular shook violently.
“We will start with the leader,” Nicaula said.
Batal nodded once, then called for the leader to be brought. Two soldiers flanked the man’s sides as he passed by. With a fierce grunt, he lunged and Nicaula drew back, narrowly avoiding contact. The man spat and cursed. Batal fell upon him, pressing his dagger against the man’s neck. “He should die for this.” Batal’s muscles tensed as he waited for her permission.