by Lewin, Renee
“Are any of you her aunts or uncles?”
Two women and one of the men raised their hands.
“Are any of you her siblings?”
No one responded.
Tareq took a deep breath. “Are any of you her parents?”
A tall man with a thick beard and a young looking woman both nodded and raised their hands.
Tareq was incredibly relieved that Jem’ya’s parents had survived. He folded his nervous hands behind his back. “Please, you may stand by your husband,” he said softly to Jem’ya’s mother. She shuffled to her husband’s side. Dried tears marked her cheeks and her eyes were bright with anger and fear. Jem’ya’s father looked down his nose at Tareq, his eyes searing with disgust and rage.
“I know your daughter. She is well-respected in the North. She’s been taken someplace safe, so please do not worry.”
“Where have you taken her?” Jem’ya’s father growled.
Tareq lowered his head. He couldn’t let his men know the details and he was ashamed to tell Jem’ya’s parents the truth. “She is safe,” he uttered. “But your son…,” Tareq swallowed, “I am deeply sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen.”
Jem’ya’s mother began to cry again. She turned to her husband and buried her face against his shoulder. Her husband snarled something at Tareq. When Tareq looked to the translator to know what was said, the translator only shook his head, unwilling to repeat it. Tareq sighed.
“I fear that the two of you may not be safe if you remain in your village. I will have one of my men take you to the town of Eulid. You can stay there until you and Jem’ya are reunited. She is someone I truly appreciate, so I am doing what I can for her family.”
Jem’ya’s mother lifted her head. “You are the one that gave her those earrings, aren’t you?”
Surprised, Tareq nodded. “She talked to you about me?”
“Yes,” her voice trembled. “She said that you were an arrogant, insensitive and entitled Arab man, and I told her...I told her, ‘Please, be very careful’.” She broke into sobs again.
Tareq’s pride crumbled further. He’d always thought that the time he shared with Jem’ya on the Coast was genuine. It seems he’d been a fool all along to think Jem’ya’s friendship was anything more than charity. Tareq wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure his tempestuous thoughts and emotions. He’d spent half his life trying not to feel.
Tareq hardened his demeanor. The gentleness in his eyes and in his voice disappeared. He instructed one of his warriors to take Jem’ya’s parents to Eulid and put them under the supervision of Amir, the old stable owner, after the two were allowed a day in Tikso to bury their son. Then he told Mr. and Mrs. Okobi to remain in Eulid if they wanted to see their daughter sooner rather than later.
Tareq ordered his men to release the villagers that were Jem’ya’s aunts and uncle, as well as the remaining women and a few of the men that were not as physically fit as the others. They fled and seven tough tribesmen remained. Tareq nodded to himself, certain that they would survive the bondage they would experience in Samhia. When Tareq finally took the throne, he would free these men and thousands of others. The King was in his last days, so the men would not have to be enslaved for long.
Tareq returned to Sultan’s saddle and continued leading the squadron away from Tikso.
Jem’ya stopped crying after the first day of riding, though her sorrow continued to twist and claw at her insides. It upset her that no more tears would come. Crying was a release, and it was the only ritual she could perform in memory of her brother since she was not with her family in Tikso to participate in a ceremony for him. What about the rest of her brothers and sisters? Her mother and father? Were they alive? She didn’t know. The fear of learning the truth, and the fear of learning her fate, was preventing her tears.
On the second day she learned a few clues as to what her fate would be. Tareq and Hakan had spoken to each other in Samician, which she didn’t understand. She asked the massive warrior Hakan in Arabic where she was being taken. Hakan was surprised to hear her speak in Arabic. He answered, saying she would be hidden in the royal palace and left in the care of Bahja, one of Prince Tareq’s maidservants.
“He’s the prince?!”
“The Prince of Samhia.”
Jem’ya felt so foolish and violated. She’d fallen for a prince, of all people? Royals were the most greedy, egotistical, vicious and immoral people in the world. The King of Samhia was especially notorious, and Tareq was his seed. Like father, like son. “What does he want with me?” her voice trembled with anger.
“That I do not know. He has never ordered something like this before. I wonder if he even knows what he will do with you.”
Hakan did not speak much during the five day trip to the capital city. He made sure she ate though she had no appetite and checked that she was warm when they camped at night. He cut the ties loose from her hands and ankles. He bought her a black burqa to conceal her and protect her from the sun. Though Hakan was not unkind, Jem’ya knew not to cross him. Anyways, there were no opportunities to escape. She could not run faster than a horse, nor could she traverse an unfamiliar desert in the thick darkness of night.
When Jem’ya saw the Samhizzan palace, her body began to tremble. She felt light-headed as they went through the extravagant golden gates and into the palace courtyard. Hakan spoke to a small servant boy who ran into the palace and returned with a squat older woman Jem’ya assumed was Bahja. She watched Bahja’s face go from concern and curiosity to shock as Hakan relayed, in Samician, Tareq’s orders. Bahja seemed to argue with Hakan a moment, but resigned to the situation.
Hakan came down from his horse and then carried Jem’ya down by the waist. When her trembling feet touched the ground she found that she did not have the strength to stand. She had slept little the past five days and her grief and frayed nerves had left her entirely weak. She wanted to run away from Hakan and Bahja but her body would not cooperate and the place was surrounded by guards. Instead, Bahja and Hakan had to be her crutches as she was led around the back of the palace, down into its dark cellar and into a dusty, gated storage room.
Hakan kept an eye on Jem’ya who was leaning against the wall as Bahja swept the place and found a table and chair, a chamber pot, a water bowl, a sleeping mat and a lamp for the windowless room. Then the metal gate woven with strips of tough brown leather was pushed closed and Jem’ya was locked in.
Hakan left. Bahja stared through the gate at Jem’ya who was pulling off her black burqa.
“Who are you?” Bahja asked in Arabic. Her green eyes were dark with disappointment.
“Tareq’s war prize,” Jem’ya muttered as she slid down the wall and sat on a corner of the bed mat.
Bahja shook her head and quickly left.
Jem’ya closed her eyes as nausea hit her stomach. Who would she be? Tareq’s slave, his servant? His live-in healer? The newest addition to the royal harem…?
No. Never. She would kill him or kill herself.
Tareq made the five days’ journey home into a four days’ journey. It wasn’t easy. Horses were faster than camels but they needed frequent water breaks. Plus, two of his men’s horses were slowed down by the carriage of slaves they were pulling. So in order to get back to the capital quicker he made his squadron continue riding at night if the moon was full enough. They slept only a few hours and then set out at the first hint of dawn. The first two days Tareq didn’t sleep at all. His turbulent mind wouldn’t settle long enough and the aches in his body were persistent. He began to drink liquor at night and managed to sleep at least two hours at a time, but the resulting headaches were incredible and the nightmares were rattling.
“What does ‘Lewome tebu oko’ mean?” Tareq asked his translator after the third nightmare.
“You fight my heart,” said the curly-haired translator.
The entire trip home Tareq questioned and fought his own heart. What was wrong with him? Why did he have Jem’
ya taken to the palace?
He didn’t want Jem’ya to see the destruction of her home village. But she’d seen too much already. He could have ordered that she be taken back to her house on the Coast, but he hadn’t. He didn’t want to take the chance of never seeing her again. He needed to be alone with her, to explain all of this.
Why did he feel the need to explain himself to a woman who, he now knew, actually thought little to nothing of him throughout their yearlong acquaintance?
Even if she never cared a wit about him, he still cared what Jem’ya thought of him. It mattered more to him now than anything. All he could think of was her forgiveness. Once the squadron reached the city limit of the capital he broke from the pack. He bent down close to Sultan’s body and held onto its mane as he drove the horse as fast as it could go, up the winding road to the palace. Tareq jumped down from the panting black horse as soon as it entered the gates, and ran into the palace, his heart still galloping.
He had an idea of where Bahja placed Jem’ya. There was a room deep in the palace’s cellar. When Tareq was very young he used to hide there from his father. Bahja would pretend not to know where little Tareq had gone. She would let him hide for a while, and then she would retrieve him. Tareq could get to the cellar from inside the palace.
There was a long stairwell that started on the third floor, and was accessible from the second floor. Tareq ran to the second floor, but slowed his pace as he walked past his father’s open bedroom door. The man was sleeping. Tareq continued running again to the end of the hall. He made sure no one was looking as he entered the dark passage and bounded down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs Bahja was sitting in a chair. She stood. A deep frown wrinkled her mouth and forehead.
“What is the meaning of this, Tareq?”
Tareq looked away from her. “Where is she?” he asked as he continued past in the direction of the secret room. He weaved through the dusty stockpile in the cavernous cellar with Bahja at his heels. He came to the metal door with the brown leather weaving. Jem’ya was sitting on the floor. She looked up. He watched her face change at the sight of him. Tareq’s aching muscles braced for her reaction.
To see his face was like seeing her brother impaled on that gold-hilted sword again. She saw Tareq’s face, and, like an evil spirit, rage possessed her body with animalistic strength.
“Murderer!” she screamed. She jumped up and threw herself against the gate. “Murdererrrr!” she screeched at him, her fingers curled to claw out his wet eyes.
Frozen, Tareq stared at her. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice was quiet. “Open the gate,” he told Bahja. His maidservant hesitated, and then pulled the key ring from the pocket of her white dress. She slowly opened the lock and Tareq reached for the door, his eyes glued to Jem’ya. As soon as he stepped inside the room, Jem’ya attacked him. She was a whipping sandstorm of tears, screams, punching, scratching and kicking.
Tareq was silent as he restrained her. He took both her wrists in his large hands and held them between their chests. He put his right leg between hers and hooked his feet behind her heels to lock her legs in place. Baring her teeth, Jem’ya growled and cursed in frustration as she struggled to pull her arms and legs from his grip. The hatred in her wild eyes pained him. Tareq’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I was defending myself,” he said softly. “I didn’t know it was your village. Jem’ya…if I’d known…” He felt her twisting in his grasp again. “Jem’ya, please.”
His remorse was barely detected by Jem’ya. Her anger was deafening. His smell, a mix of sweat and alcohol, was making Jem’ya nauseated. She wanted to see him bleed. “My name on your lips is like honey in the slimy mouth of swine. You heartless monster!”
Tareq looked up at the wall behind Jem’ya’s head to get a break from her tormenting glare. Emotions were building up inside him. It was like a levee about to burst.
Bahja took the moment to speak up. “Tareq, who is this woman,” she demanded.
He swallowed. “She is Jem’ya Okobi. The healer.”
Bahja gasped. “Why are you doing this?!”
Tareq met Jem’ya’s eyes. “Jem’ya, I’m—”
“Do not speak my name again!” She was trembling all over with fury and tears continued coursing down her face. “I won’t allow you the privilege of that anymore. I am not your healer. I am not your Jem’ya. I am Black Africa. Black Africa!” she roared. “I am every black African man you’ve ever slaughtered like an animal, every black child you’ve orphaned without a second thought, and every black woman you’ve allowed to be violated and sold into slavery in your degenerate kingdom!”
Tareq saw her work her mouth and knew exactly what she was going to do. He ducked out of the trajectory of her spit, and grew angry. One hand still holding her wrists, he grabbed Jem’ya’s mouth and chin and lowered his face inches from hers.
“A bloody lip would not suit such a flawless face, eh? So, I beg you, tread lighter with me,” he warned. He felt like he was going mad. He could bind her hands and threaten her to prevent her attacks, but it would not be as simple to quench the consuming hatred inside of her.
His temper ebbed and Tareq realized what he’d said. He could never strike her. He wished he’d never said it. He relaxed his grip on her. His thumb smoothed across her lips as he let his hand slide away from her face. He released her wrists and her legs. He stepped back from her. He saw her hand lifting, but he didn’t stop her.
She slapped him, so hard that the tears in his eyes sprang out and flew across the room. The smack echoed through the cellar. Bahja gasped. His cheek began to burn like a dozen bee stings. Tareq clenched his jaw at the stinging pain that caused his eyes to water. Carefully, he turned his head to face Jem’ya.
“I cannot bring your brother back, but I have done my best for your mother and father.” He noticed Jem’ya’s expression soften a little at the mention of her parents. He told her that her mother and father were taken to Eulid, where he promised they would be free and safe.
“And what of the rest of my people?” she asked, her voice hoarse from screaming.
“I did the best I could. I released most of them, but there were a few men that had to be brought here…to work for a while. They are not your siblings or close family members, I made sure of that.”
“Do you think my heart does not break for them? They are still my family!” She shook her head in disgust. “You know nothing of family and you have no morals to speak of. What raised you, Prince Tareq?” she snarled. “It could not have been your natural mother. You are like a demon, not a man. I know now that you are like the rest of the white-skinned men; without color and without souls!” She glared at him a long, tense moment and then ripped the earrings out from her ears. She threw them at him. “Take back this blood gold!”
Tareq caught the earrings as they hit his chest.
Then Jem’ya began to sob. She crumpled to the bed mat and covered her face. “It would not sadden me,” Jem’ya whispered bitterly through her tears, “Tareq Samhizzan, warrior prince, if today you took your last breath.”
With that, the last part of Tareq’s pride crumbled into the rest of his inner ruins. He sauntered out of the cellar.
Bahja found the prince soon after in his bedroom on the third floor. He was sitting at his dining table, staring out at the view through the open balcony doors. His face was dry, but his eyes were full with tears. Bahja walked carefully towards him. She rubbed his shoulder. “I forgive you, child.” She kissed him on the cheek. Tareq’s chin lowered almost to his chest. He stared down at the earrings on the table top.
Bahja took his chin and turned his face to examine his left cheek. There were hot red welts there. Bahja clicked her tongue and went to the bathroom for a washcloth and a bowl of water. She returned and pressed the cool damp cloth to his cheek. “You cannot bend her will, Tareq.” She dipped the corner of the cloth in the cool water again and then went back to his face. “You cannot make her forgive you.�
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Tareq squeezed his eyes closed and the tears broke through his black lashes and fell down his face.
“Tareq, please, just let her go. You must let her g—”
“I cannot!”
Bahja slowly moved the cloth away from his cheek. She stared at him a moment, then continued dabbing at the welts and hot tears.
He moved his face away. “Go, Auntie,” he urged. “She needs a warm meal and more bedding. Get her a clean dress as well.”
Bahja set the items on the table and left the room.
Tareq lie naked on top of the wrinkled white sheets strewn across his canopy bed. It was after two in the morning, but he could not sleep. His mind wouldn’t quiet and he was too hot. His body was damp with sweat from the heat of the deep pain in his body and from the warmth of the liquor burning in his stomach and snaking through his veins. The pain was everywhere; in his skin, in his muscles, and in someplace inside that he could feel, though never touch. He took another swig from the half empty bottle of imported vodka from Tusci.
That’s where Tareq and Qadir’s mother was from. She was an Etruscan, from Tusci, a region in that boot-shaped peninsula north across the sea, where they were fair and had soft, thick black hair. Tareq touched his own curly hair. His mother’s hair was one of the few things he remembered about her. She’d kept it impossibly long. It almost swept the ground when she walked.
He loved her so much. When he was little, he thought she was the most beautiful sorceress in the world. To him, everything she did was magic. His father, on the other hand, always frightened him.
So, Jem’ya was right. He was only raised by his natural mother the first ten years of his life. After she died, there was the King, the demon. Who knows how much more of a “heartless monster” he might have become without Bahja?
Tareq couldn’t have survived this long in this palace if he’d given his heart too much influence. He learned to shut down his emotions to be a warrior, and a prince, and to remain the King’s successor. But was it worth it? He had caused the woman he cared about to hate him for always, during an effort to make proud the King who he’d hate forever.