“I’ll just pin it on someone, there is always someone willing.”
“Not for this,” the visitor scoffed.
“You think you know so much,” Rameke said, returning to the door and calling down the passage for someone to bring him some water. “I will make my profit on her, and if they are not willing to barter, I’ll sell her.”
“To whom? She’s not worth anything dead.”
“She is not that bad,” Rameke said, returning to where the man was rolling Neti onto her back.
“Yes, she is. She can hardly move on her own, she has not even enough energy to counter my actions. I doubt Merka has even spent a moment to think about her, other than supplying a bowl of water and a piece of stale bread. Before you start making any plans about great riches from the king, maybe you should think about the importance of keeping her alive.”
“Well, if you are so concerned about her welfare, I should have you see to her,” Rameke said. Besides she means something more to the prince. I saw it, and almost anyone who saw them together would have seen it.”
“The prince is no fool. He knows that marriage to her would not be approved. She is not royalty, and the people will not accept a Hittite for a princess.”
“But they will pass over a mistress,” Rameke said.
“And none of that is important,” the visitor firmly said, “if she is dead.”
Just then a men arrived in the doorway with an earthenware pitcher of water and handed it to Rameke, along with a chipped mug.
The visitor moved to take it from Rameke, who at first did not want to release it. Rameke said, “You can look after her as part payment for the debt you owe me.”
The visitor thought it over for a moment, at first pinching his lips together before finally nodding, then taking the pitcher and cup from Rameke.
The visitor looked into the pitcher, smelling the contents, before decanting some into a glass and carefully placing the pitcher to the side. He moved toward Neti, at first moving the beaker under her nose. She stirred, slightly, and he dropped a few drops on her cracked lips, although she did not move to take more. He shifted, lifting her head some to allow the liquid to flow into her mouth. She swallowed, her actions slow, and he unhurriedly allowed her to consume the cup’s contents. He placed the beaker aside, holding her head up a bit longer, but softly spoke when her cracked lips moved. “No, not too much. Too much water can be worse for someone in your condition.”
“What, is that your healer training speaking?” Rameke scoffed.
“As I said, some of us actually attended the tutors and scribes to learn something.”
“I had more important things to concern myself with,” Rameke dismissively said.
“Well, you had better hope she lives, or you will have something far greater to concern yourself with.”
“Whatever. So what was this important development that you simply had to come and tell me about?”
“Well considering things,” the man said, looking down at Neti, “I am no longer surprised at this morning’s developments.”
“And what might those be?’
“Another of the pharaoh’s prefects arrived, a Hebrew who is rumored to have served in the pharaoh’s palace.”
“Hebrews don’t come here,” Rameke professed. “They will not set foot in our city as they consider us cursed. You must have it wrong.”
“I have never seen an Egyptian who will allow for such facial hair growth.”
“And what do you think he is doing here? She has not been missing long enough for a message to even have reached the Egyptian pharaoh.”
“I do not know; it could be official business from the pharaoh,” the visitor said, again looking Neti over before moving off a short distance, “I know there was that one tillage that was late, the one your father managed to get out without you knowing about it. He could be here to oversee the next tillage, especially with your father having passed on.”
“That is a matter for the king to decide, he was the one who appointed my father.”
“And you hope that he will appoint you now?”
“He has no reason not to; they don’t anything. Besides, I have been invited to the stick dance festival, and that will provide me with the required status,” Rameke boasted.
The man again decanted a beaker of water and moved to give it to Neti, before he calmly questioned, “You have received an official invitation?”
“I was invited to one of the selection dances, and told I’d been selected.”
“Then you have only made the list of possible dancers for the festival. You are only invited once you have received an official invitation on behalf of the king.”
“You are only trying to anger me,” Rameke said, and added, “I thought you said that is like wine to her,” as Neti finished the second beaker.
“She must receive several small drinks if her body is not to reject it.”
“It is water,” Rameke stressed.
“Water is deathly dangerous to one who has been without for some time,” the man calmly replied as he again positioned Neti on the floor. “You could at least provide a sleeping mat and some clean clothes.”
“What is in here is sufficient,” Rameke firmly said, “I’m not cosseting her.”
“I will need some beer for her tomorrow.”
“Beer?” Rameke said, surprised, “I do not waste beer.”
“She needs one of the grainy beers, not that which you like. It will help her regain some strength, as she will not be able to eat for several days until her body has recovered.”
“And where am I supposed to get that kind of beer?”
“Your father had good servants. I’m certain they know how to make beer.”
“I let everyone go—too many eyes and ears about.”
The man shook his head, “You have never been discreet in your actions, the only thing that kept you from suspicion was your father’s position and his wealth and your ostensible stupidity.”
“Are you insulting me with big words again?”
“Don’t concern yourself with the beer,” the man said, dismissively, “I know where to get some.”
Chapter Six
Several days later the blaring of signal horns sounded throughout Sylene, drawing everyone to the river. Excitement filled the onlookers as they waited for the first glimpse of their king and queen.
Shabaka took his place along the pier, feeling both a sense of elation and dread as he awaited the appearance of the bark. It had been several dry seasons since he had seen his parents, a great deal had happened since then, and he hoped that with their arrival he would be freed to pursue the search for Neti.
Hassim stood on his right and Moses, as his official guest, stood on his left. Moses had spent the preceding days at the quarry, surveying some of the work and checking the different grains in the stone, although nothing had come of it other than several enthusiastic stoneworkers with the hope of garnering employment with the Egyptian pharaoh.
They watched as the bark drew along the quay and the dancers and drummers started. Suddenly, it all seemed too much, too loud, too overbearing. The hundreds of colors intermingling, along with the cheering and hollering, the loud drumbeats, along with the shaking rattles and shaker bracelets worn on the onlookers’ arms and feet. Long antelope horns were constantly blown, causing a sound that felt as if it went right through him. As a child, he had enjoyed these ceremonies because they marked the return of his parents, and, although that aspect of it remained, the overbearing noise only served to render him irritable.
His father’s attendants and guards were first to disembark, before his parents put in an appearance, causing the cheering and chanting to elevate even further. He saw his mother’s face light up on seeing him, He felt a jolt of elation surge through him—as the youngest child, he had remained with her longest. She maintained her composure, addressing all those of the official welcoming party, finally coming to a halt before him. Reaching out with her hand
s she laid them on either side of his face, causing him to lower his gaze, tears welling as she spoke, “You are home again.”
He fought against the urge to pull her closer and draw comfort from her, something she had so willingly granted to him as a child. Instead he found the composure to remain there, a stinging sensation in his eyes had him keep his head bowed. He felt her hands shift, encouraging him to look at her, and although he had no desire to (for he knew she would see everything, his mother always did), he relented to her request.
She looked at him for a few short moments before she spoke, “The world has not been forgiving of you,” she said, pressing her hands against his cheeks, “You have aged well beyond your years.”
Shabaka swallowed against the lump that had lodged in his throat. What he would not give to have the carefree years of his youth, when he could go to his mother and she could soothe away all his concerns. He nodded, before closing his eyes, knowing she would only see more and that the occasion would not allow for further discussion. He had no idea how his mother could always sense things like that, but she did, and he simply nodded in response.
“We will talk later,” she said, before moving on to address Moses.
His father stepped up to him and Shabaka lowered his head respectfully, as he addressed his father, “Welcome home, father, my king.”
When his father did not answer him, Shabaka lifted his head. His father was still well-built and a good cubit taller than Shabaka. The colorful clothing they wore, so native to his people, often made him appear more relaxed that was the actual fact. This moment was no different, for although there was pride in the man’s face, there was also a hint of concern as he looked at Shabaka
“Father?” Shabaka questioned, uncertainly.
“I agree with your mother; you have aged beyond your years. And although I know that there are no problems with our relationships with Egypt, I now fear the reason for your presence here. Unannounced tidings and visits from my sons have never borne good tidings.”
“Shebitku!” Shabaka’s mother reprimanded his father, “You make our sons sound like the most difficult children.”
“It is the truth,” Shebitku said, as he looked at Shabaka’s companion, “And this man’s presence here only serves to confirm it.”
“Enough,” Shabaka’s mother scolded the king, “I am thankful for the opportunity to see my son, and his . . . friend.” Shabaka’s mother said, looking Moses over before finally addressing him, “For a moment I thought you were someone else, Moses. Your visit with my son must therefore be official, although we have received no word of it from the pharaoh.”
Moses lowered to his knee as he spoke, “Queen Amarna, welcome home. The Egyptian pharaoh has assigned me as your son’s assistant, and I am therefore here at your son’s insistence.
“I see,” Queen Amarna said, looking first from Moses to Shabaka and back, before replying, “On a matter I dare say requires far more privacy to discuss.”
“That is so, Queen Amarna.”
Shabaka only inclined his head in response, allowing his parents to move farther down the line. Cringing as his father announced, “My son is home in time for the festival.”
Shabaka took his position in the procession that followed his parents to the palace.
~~~
Shabaka hesitantly settled on the pillow, set beside the low table. It had been easier to fulfill the function of a husband-to-be in his parents’ absence; however, it was difficult to continue with the role in their presence.
His mother had looked Aya over, however had kept her opinion to herself as she plainly said, “Shabaka, we will discuss this later.”
His father was not as diplomatic about the matter, “Is there something I need to know?” the king flatly demanded. “This cannot be the woman, the cohort who I have heard so much from the pharaoh and your brothers.”
Shabaka swallowed at that, knowing that he would be called to council—very soon—regarding the matter.
“I was under the impression that she was Hittite.”
It seemed disrespectful, after such a time away from their table, to sit down at it with a woman he presumed he would marry. He took a deep breath, swallowing at the lump in his throat, and managed to calmly say, “Mother, Father, this is Aya, my betrothed.”
Both his parents looked at him in shock, however, his father was the first to demand, “What?!” a moment later adding, “If you ever had a betrothed, I would be the first to know of it.” His father took a deep breath in preparation to continue, however Queen Amarna placed her hand on her husband’s arm, causing him to look at her.
She shook her head and he nodded before turning to Shabaka, firmly stating, “We will discuss this after the meal.”
The king again looked at Aya before settling next to his wife, periodically looking from Aya to Shabaka.
The meal adjourned and Shebitku left the room. Shabaka took a deep breath as his mother approached him, “Go, he doesn’t understand, it does not fit what we have been told.”
Shabaka made for the gardens. As a child he had often sought his father there; it was the one place he knew his father would retreat to. Approaching his father, he once again felt like a small boy who had to own up for some malicious act his brothers had duped him into. He had no way of knowing what his father’s response would be, and his father’s almost calm appearance concerned him even more.
“Father,” he hesitantly spoke up, cringing when his father fixed him with a pointed glare.
“Is there a problem?” Shabaka hesitantly asked.
His father huffed at that, lifting both his hands in an effort to convey the unspoken message, before finally exclaiming, “That is something I should be asking you!” He dropped his arms to his side as he continued, “The last I heard, from Ramesses no less, was that you were enjoying your new position as a prefect, that you had successfully captured and brought to his court for judgment those responsible for pilfering the gems, those disloyal to him. I also heard that you have a Hittite woman as a cohort who assists you with these matters, and that you have done the kingdom proud! Yet when I arrive home, I find a Hebrew with you, not that I have anything against Moses, I know him to be loyal to Ramesses. But that is not the worst of it. On our return I was informed that you and your Hittite partner were here—”
Shabaka made to speak, although his father stopped him with a firm swiping motion of his hand, one Shabaka was well enough familiar with.
“—who informed me is of no importance,” the king continued, “but your mother, on hearing the news, hastened our return in hope of meeting her, only to arrive here and find you betrothed to a woman who I easily recognize as trader Dragi’s wife.”
Shabaka again made to speak but was prevented.
“Although your mother will not voice her disappointment in the matter, I will. Your brother’s wife alluded that you and your cohort might have more than a working relationship.”
Shabaka’s heart started racing at that, his hands becoming clammy.
“But at this moment I think this woman only exists in their minds, as a means to appease us of a greater concern. I can understand a young man’s reluctance to marry, especially one of your disposition and current position.”
Shabaka’s eyes enlarged at that and he quickly replied, cutting his father short, “Father, no! It is not that.”
King Shebitku looked at his son, his shoulders drooping, “Then please explain to me what is going on here.”
“Neti and I were sent to investigate a late tillage, Ramesses sent us after the festival. When we arrived here, there was a matter with Dragi, this is a really long story . . .” Shabaka said, knowing his father did not necessarily have the time or inclination to listen to long stories.
“Only important points.”
“Dragi died and betrothed his wife to me. Neti then left for Thebes, to return to her matters, leaving me to sort out matters here.”
King Shebitku made to speak but this time Shabak
a cut him short, “There is a lot more . . . I sent a medjay with Neti to ensure safe passage but the caravan was raided, and many people were killed,” Shabaka swallowed at that, drawing in a deep breath. He continued, “The body of the medjay was returned, but hers was not found. I then had Moses summoned because Bergi would not allow me to partake in her search,” Shabaka finally halted, feeling worn out.
His father remained silent for several moments before he spoke, “You do realize that she might be . . .” his father started to say, causing Shabaka’s shoulders to droop even farther. “But you don’t think she is, what are you not telling me?”
Shabaka took a deep breath, “Someone has her, they sent us her sash.”
“And what has been done to recover her?” his father quickly, decisively asked.
“Not much,” Shabaka murmured.
“What was that?” his father demanded.
Shabaka shrugged, “Your advisors have blocked me on every attempt. Moses has
attempted . . .” However, he was interrupted by the king.
“Fools! Utter fools!” the king exclaimed.
“Father?” Shabaka asked shocked.
“They do not see the danger, the irresponsibility of their actions.”
“They thought they were protecting me from exploitation.” Shabaka was quick to counter, knowing how harsh his father could be on his advisors. “They said it was foolish to show any reaction to it. That I would be manipulated.”
The king looked at him, for a moment appearing as if he could not decide between shaking or nodding his head, before he spoke, “That might be so and was probably with good intent, but it has further-reaching consequences.”
“What does that mean?” Shabaka uncertainly asked.
“That if the pharaoh was so inclined, which thankfully he is not, we could have a war on our hands.”
Shabaka made to speak, however, his father again silenced him by lifting his hand, “but that does not mean the Hittites won’t. Tudhaliya has been clamoring for a reason, especially since his and Maathorneferure’s father gave up the throne.”
The Prince of Nubia Page 6