The Prince of Nubia

by Nathaniel Burns

  Shabaka looked at the man for a moment, immediately understanding what the man and his master were doing. Also that because of his carelessness, they were taking advantage of a situation that could lead to far greater dishonor than the inflated price of a goat. Yet he calmly replied, “You misunderstand me, I informed you that I do not have five debben with me, that I do not carry such money with me. I did not say that I am unwilling to pay the debt. You can accompany me back to palace, where the palace scribe will record the payment.

  The man hesitantly looked at Shabaka, seeming uncertain of the turn of events. He then added, “That will be one hepar more.”

  “Excuse me?” Shabaka asked in disbelief.

  “A hepar extra, seeing as it will take me away from my work here, and I will then not be paid, you have to pay for my time.”

  “You are employed by your master, you collect payments for him, it would be in line with your service. All payments made from the palace are made in this manner. And while I will authorize the five debben, you can take me to the courts for the hepar, which I can promise you my father’s advisors and legal representatives will pull you apart for.” The man looked visibly admonished, even as Shabaka continued, “Do not threaten me with the courts, when you wish to manipulate matters, the five debben is exploitation enough.” Shabaka then turned from the men and approached the trader. “Once they have released the lion, you can be on your way.”

  The trader nodded.

  “Here is a hepar,” Shabaka said, handing the man the small silver coin, “I need you to deliver this to the pharaoh,” Shabaka said, holding out the sealed scroll. “You are to place it in the hands of the court scribe yourself. He will give you the remaining hepar.” Shabaka looked at the men around him, noting the sudden interest the scroll had garnered, and added, “Please ensure that it reaches the pharaoh. It notifies him of my intention to remain here.”

  ~~~

  Neti shifted some, and then tried to still the gasp. The action itself sent pain shooting through her body, finally casing her to whimper, which was muffed by the rag that been placed in her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but every action hurt her lips and throat, and she gave up. Her entire body ached, her muscles protested even the smallest of movements. She could not remember a time she had ever experienced such pain.

  She tried to open her eyes but they seemed swollen, and when she managed to open them a bit, pain shot through her eyeballs. The room seemed to spin, followed by a nauseating sensation, which allowed her little time to familiarize herself with her surroundings. All she knew was that she was still alive, for there was no way that death could be this painful, even if Thoth was to consume her heart.

  She tried to open her eyes again, the second time was less painful, allowing her to identify a small, darkened room. Some light filtered through a small window high on the wall, however, it was not enough to give her an idea as to what time of the day it could be.

  She tried to remember how much time could have passed since her disappearance, and how long it would be before anyone knew she was missing. She knew no one in Thebes would be concerned—no one knew of her return—and Shabaka would be caught up in his own arrangements. She pinched her eyes in an attempt to block that though. Her lips pushed against the cloth, a sudden stabbing pain shot from them, followed by the familiar coppery tang of fresh blood. She tried not to move her lips any more than really needed, and instead tried to focus her mind, which seemed fuzzy.

  She tried to think back as to what had happened, how she had come to be in so much pain, although little memory seemed to come to her, her head only hurt more the harder she tried to think. Instead she tried to move her hands, to establish how much freedom she had, although pain shot through her wrists, again causing her to whimper. Images of her hands being bound, a long line tied to a camel, filled her mind. Her wrists had been rubbed raw, and she had on several occasions cried out in pain, having more than once been tripped and dragged a few cubits before being allowed to regain her feet. No matter how hard she had tried to keep up with the camel, it always seemed to pull her along, until she had finally seen the sands slowly approach and the darkness of oblivion rise up to greet her. She had been ready to die. Obviously, the gods had other plans for her.

  She tried to bend her elbows, again pain shot through her wrists as the movement was restricted, the tugging around her ankles was also indication enough that they were bound together. Her side was numb, and she had no idea how long she had lain on it. There was nothing to cushion her body. She again tried to look around the room, although her mind grew foggy. She could only make out the door and a seemingly familiar smell, but she could not place it. Darkness once again enveloped her.

  She came to, several times, during the next few hours. At times the pain was unbearable, causing her to slip back into consciousness every time she awoke. She was thirsty, unbelievably thirsty. She could not remember the last time she had drunk anything. She was hungry and her stomach was cramping. She could not remember when last she had eaten anything.

  There were footsteps, faint, almost as if she could have imagined them. The door scraped open and someone stood at the room’s entrance, but the light behind the body made it almost impossible to make out whom it could be. She tried to say something, the sound muffled by the cloth. The man looked down the passage and called for some water and bread. She did not recognize the voice, but was entirely thankful for the gesture.

  Several moments later she regretted that thought as the man placed the flatbread on the ground, with no plate, and a small, earthenware pot of water just within the door, for a moment looking toward her, mocking her. “You can fetch it yourself.” And then he closed the door.

  She again tried to move, her entire body quivering from the effort it took. The bindings bit into her raw skin. Even if she could make it to the water, she could not drink it as the gag would prevent her from doing so.

  Gathering her strength, steeling herself against the pain, she bent over as far as she could, pulling her hands up in an attempt to dislodge the gag. Her eyes teared from the stab of pain that shot through her body. She had no idea it would be so painful and tried to relax, breathing hard to counter the agony. Several moments later, again she tried. She fought the pain and managed to move the gag the smallest amount before darkness again enveloped her.

  She came to sometime later, the room brighter and hurting her eyes. She looked around the room. It was bare. Other than the thin, grass mat on the ground, the flatbread still at the door, and the earthenware pot, the room was empty. Her body only felt marginally better, indication enough that she had been out for some time. Her throat was scratchy, her head pounded as she tried to remember what she had been doing before losing consciousness.

  She again tried to dislodge the gag, and on the third attempt managed to pull it away, tears stung her skin as she lay back. She took several moments to gather her thoughts, her strengths, certain someone would hear her if she screamed. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, only to choke—her throat was too raw to emit anything more than a croak. More tears filled her eyes. She wanted to scream, voice her frustration and her pain. She tried to move, to sit up, possibly find some means of reaching the flatbread and water. She managed to right herself, partially, before again collapsing in exhaustion.

  She drifted in and out of consciousness.

  The scrape of the door once again drew her attention. She shifted her head to look toward it. Again the light behind the body made it difficult to distinguish the person standing in the doorway. He said something to other people outside the door before coming into the room. His words were muffled by the sounds of her pounding heart. It was only as he came closer to her that she could make out Rameke, which caused her heart to pound even faster, her entire body turned cold at the mere thought of his proximity. It was only as he lowered himself to his haunches that she could make out what he was saying, realizing he had addressed the other people in their own language.

 
; “Seems your prince has indeed been informed of your situation, although he probably thinks you are dead. But we can’t have him thinking that, now can we?”

  Neti had no intention of answering him, even if she could.

  “Well, now, it is good to see your parents taught you well, not to object to a man, although that was not the impression I had garnered earlier. It’s possible that you have now learned your place.”

  Again she did not respond to him, a sick feeling settling in her stomach.

  He reached forward and she shifted, but knew she would not be able to escape his touch. He laughed, finally gripping her sash. “Oh, don’t worry, I did not come to enjoy your fruits, there will be time enough for that later. I now only need something that would tell your prince that you are still alive.”

  Pain shot through her body as he tugged at her midriff. She knew what he was after, and endured the pain he inflicted in his attempt to remove it.

  He rose from her, and Neti merely closed her eyes, not wanting to bear witness to his gloating. “We’ll know soon enough how much you are worth to him.”

  Rameke turned from her and she listened to his receding footsteps. She heard him say something to one of the others.

  She opened her eyes as the first man came into the room. This time he picked up the piece of flatbread and tossed it to her. Picking up the small earthen pot of water, he walked to the middle of the room, spit in the pot, and placed it on the ground. “If it were up to me, you could die,” he said before turning from her, allowing the door to swing shut.

  Neti looked at it for several moments, before it came to her. The door. The door itself was indication enough of where she was. Not many people could afford to have doors in their houses, most had cloths separating the doorways. Her recent duties had taken her often to the houses of people with doors, so much so that she had almost forgotten that many do not even own one door.

  She took a deep breath, at first only smelling the stale scent of her own sweat, before the smell filtered through, although different, but still unmistakable—she was in Dragi’s house. All she had to do now was remember in which room she had been placed, although that in itself could be a challenge, because she did not know all the house.

  Chapter Three

  Shabaka took a moment to catch his breath, before again working through the series of movements, carefully counting the actions and footfalls. His body gleamed from the perspiration, his breathing hard. He had hoped that the exercise would somehow relieve the tightly coiled tension he felt within him. All it had served to accomplish was to tax his already tired body. It had done little enough, even the discipline required to perform the steps had failed to take his mind off the matter of concern he had.

  He had already tired two of the palace guards, having challenged both to stick fights. His title as an unbeaten champion, and the prince, would tempt anyone to accept the challenge.

  The sun was lowering on the horizon, and he knew it would not be long before the men would confirm to him what had happened out in the desert, although he was no longer certain if he wanted to know. It would bring a finality to the matter, leave him with little reason to oppose the marriage to a woman he had no affection for. The kingdom did not require much of his time throughout the day, with only superficial decisions to be made for the festival. Several people had even chanced asking him if he would compete. He had not given them any confirmation, only having stated that he would think about it.

  Throughout the day, reports from various sides of the kingdom had come in. The taxes were brought in, and although the scribes were more than competent, they had reported everything to him. He found little pleasure in the entire practice, and Hassim had pestered him, wanting to know more about the matter with Neti, although Shabaka could not answer him. And Shabaka had been honest enough in telling him that he knew little more. He was impatient for Moses’ arrival, needing someone he could vent his frustration with and who he knew would not disclose it to others.

  As the series on movement came to a close, his attention was drawn to the palace runner, approaching him. He was tempted to tell the young man to leave him alone. He halted and turned to the messenger, noticing the two palace guards escorting a man, who looked like an aged stoneworker with hardly enough clothing on to properly cover his aging body.

  He was tempted to dismiss the matter, whatever it might be, on the grounds that it was simply too late to pass judgment on a man. He simply did not have the energy or patience to sit through even the simplest of hearings. It was only when they came closer that Shabaka noticed that the guards did not hold the man captive; they were only accompanying him. The man halted before Shabaka and he lowered his gaze in respect.

  “My prince,” the messenger spoke up. Lowering to his knee before continuing, “This man wishes to address you. I took the liberty of bringing him to you.”

  Shabaka looked past the messenger at the man flanked by the two guards. One nudged the man, “Tell him what you told us. And if you change your tale, it is the lashing post for you.”

  “You suspect him of lying?” Shabaka asked, turning to the messenger.

  “He claims he has information you would want.”

  Shabaka looked toward the elderly man, saw how he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking each of them over, seeming unwilling to speak.

  “Tell him what you told us,” the guard demanded. “You wanted to see him, you’re here, there is no reason to hold back.”

  The man visibly swallowed as he looked up, seeming hesitant.

  “Not only do you forgo the need to clean yourself before coming to the palace, you choose to waste my time,” Shabaka said looking the man over once again.

  The guards stepped closer to him. Shabaka’s tone had been indicative enough of his ire at the situation. They stepped forward, gripping the old man by the arms. It was only when he struggled against their hold that Shabaka noticed the piece of fabric that was scrunched up in the man’s hands.

  Shabaka closed the distance between them, prying the fabric from the man’s gnarled hands, relieved when he willingly let go of it. Shabaka opened the fabric, drawing out it’s full length. The intricate woven colors were familiar. His heart thudded in his chest.

  He transferred it to one hand, turning to the man, and holding it toward him, harshly demanding, “Where did you find this?”

  The man declined to answer, and Shabaka stepped forward, using both the momentum and his strength, and pushed against the man, again demanding, “Where did you find this? You will tell me.”

  The man stumbled back, losing his footing and falling to the ground. The guards moved to recapture him, although they were too slow. Shabaka stepped forward, grabbing what remained of the man’s clothing and heaved him upright again.

  “You will tell me.”

  The man visibly flinched at his tone, causing both guards to retake their hold of him.

  Shabaka again held up the piece of fabric, “If you know what is good for you, you will answer me.” Shabaka started shaking the length of fabric in his hand. “Start with where you got this.

  The man looked at the piece of fabric, before finally speaking, “It’s only a piece of cloth I was told to deliver to the palace. What does it matter where I got it?”

  Shabaka’s gaze narrowed and he looked at one guard, who quickly moved to bring his knee up to the man’s groin. The blow caused the man to double over, grunting as he gasped for air.

  “I have no time for games, you will tell me what I want to know or you will become better acquainted with the heat and wrath of Ra.”

  “I know nothing,” the man professed, “I was—”

  “Tell me where she is!” Shabaka interrupted the man.

  “The woman to whom this belongs, where is she?”

  The guard looked at him in surprise, “You know to whom that belongs?”

  Shabaka looked at the man, for a moment drawn from his thoughts, realizing that only a select few knew of the situa
tion. There had been no confirmation yet to make it official.

  “How I happen to know the owner is none of your concern,” Shabaka said to the guard. “All that matters is that this person,” Shabaka said pointing to the man, “is assisting in illegal activities.”

  “How?” the guard requested.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Shabaka irritably replied, then held up the length of fabric, saying, “The person this belongs to is believed to be missing.”

  “I know nothing of that!” the man quickly countered, pulling against the men who now held him fast. He tugged against their hold, the desperation in the man’s voice seemed to reach Shabaka.

  “Then how did you come upon this?” Shabaka again waved the length of fabric, causing the man to look at the colored cloth. Still he seemed hesitant.

  “Either you tell me, or I will have the guards tie you to the ground and rub fat on your body— then it’s either the ants or the sun you will deal with,” Shabaka threatened.

  The words only resulted in the man further fighting against the guards’ grip, professing, “I didn’t do nothing. I know nothing about the woman, only that I was to deliver that cloth to the palace.”

  “Then talk. Tell me who gave it to you and I will spare you the oil and sun.”

  “I was given it.”

  “By whom?” Shabaka pressed, “I want a name.”

  “I don’t know his name; why should I care? It is just a piece of fabric that once belonged to a woman.”

  “Did your mother drop you on your head or something?” Shabaka harshly demanded, “Do you think that someone, anyone, would send a piece of fabric to the palace, only for the sake of it?”

  The man’s eyes enlarged, his body growing still.

  “They care not what happens to you, only that their message was received,” Shabaka stressed, “and now you will tell me who he is, so that I might respond to the message.”