The Prince of Nubia

by Nathaniel Burns

  Hassim also turned to look at Shabaka, a frown forming on his forehead before his eyes suddenly distended, noticing the sash. “You are . . .”

  Shabaka only nodded as he reached for one of the flatbreads.

  Just as their meal came to a close, Hassim took his leave as one of the palace messengers entered, bowing low to the king, before extending a small, rolled scroll to him. “I was told this came from one of the pharaoh’s people, and that you are to receive it with great urgency.”

  The king frowned as he took the message from the man, turning it over to see if it contained any seal. “There is nothing here to indicate it is from the pharaoh.”

  “I believe the messenger said it was from one of his people,” the runner replied.

  “Why would one of his people send me a message, and such a small one?” the king said as he unrolled the small scroll. The lines on his forehead deepened on reading it.

  “What does it say?” the queen asked, not liking her husband’s reactions any more than Shabaka did.

  Shabaka thought about the time lapse since he had sent word to Pi-Ramesses about Neti’s disappearance, and he had come to the conclusion that his own message would only have arrived there, thus the current message would not have anything to do with that communication. However, knowing it could just as well contain a notice from the pharaoh that he was missing, which could explain his father’s behavior, his disbelief. He prepared himself for any questions but only became more concerned when his father did not even turn to him.

  The king shook his head, “I don’t know who is playing the fool, but I really don’t have time for childish jokes.” He turned to the messenger, pointedly glaring at him. “Who sent this?”

  “It was brought here by runner as all messages are, my lord.”

  “Did he have any official insignia on him? So that I can know who is trying to make a fool of me?”

  “No, my lord, my king,” the messenger quickly replied, he was plainly dressed, nothing to set him aside.”

  Shabaka and Moses looked at each other before Shabaka turned to his father, although the queen beat him to the question. “What is it?”

  “As it is, I understand very little Egyptian, but even so this does not tell me anything. It is as if someone was practicing their letters and then sent it to me.”

  “What does it say?” Shabaka calmly asked.

  “Nothing, my Egyptian might not be the best, but unless the symbols have different meanings the only thing I can make out is the last part that says Kerti.”

  Shabaka immediately reached for the note, “Give that here!” he demanded.

  “It means something to you?” the king asked, his confusion obvious as he handed the note to Shabaka.

  Shabaka took the message from his father and turned it so that he could peruse it himself, the air fell silent as everyone watched him. He turned to Moses, “Moses, your Egyptian is far better than mine, I only know that which the pharaoh and Neti taught me. Have a look.” And he handed the papyrus to Moses.

  Moses looked it over and shook his head. “I agree with your father. You think it means something?”

  “It is signed Kerti—only she would have done something like that,” Shabaka said, causing Moses’ eyes to enlarge as he again looked at the sheet of papyrus. “We rarely use her full name and no one here knows it.”

  “You think it is from her?” King Shebitku asked, watching the two interact.

  “It has to be,” Shabaka said.

  “How do you know?” Queen Amarna urgently asked, causing Shabaka to look at her, then between his parents.

  Moses again went over the symbols, murmuring, “They should mean something to us then.”

  “They will be done in such a way that whoever has her will not be able to determine the message,” Shabaka said.

  “Yes, but that also means that we might not. No matter how I try, I cannot make a word of this, even moving the symbols around.” Moses said.

  Shabaka drooped his face to his hands, just as the messenger again bowed to leave. “No! You remain.” Everyone in the room jolted at his tone. “This would be indication enough that she

  is . . .” Shabaka instructed firmly, as the man made to leave, “I need to know everything I can about who brought this.”

  Moses looked at the man in expectation, however, the messenger shook his head, “There was nothing about him, he was an ordinary messenger, nothing set him aside from the others.”

  Shabaka took the note from Moses, who objected, “I’m still busy with that.”

  “I want you to find the messenger who brought this, I want him brought before me,” Shabaka angrily stated, “I want to know who sent him, who handed him this note, and where he came from.”

  The young messenger shook his head, “That is not possible. We get several messages like that in a day. I have never really taken note of a bearer unless there is something noteworthy about him, or he says something.”

  “And what did he say to you?” Shabaka demanded.

  “Only that he had a message for the king, and that it was from one of the pharaoh’s people.”

  “And there was nothing noticeable about the guy?” Moses asked. “Think—we sometimes remember things we don’t realize.

  The young man stood for a moment, thinking, but shook his head in the end. “There was nothing that I could recall. He was ordinary.

  “The perverseness in him being ordinary,” the king mumbled. “Whoever is behind that knows that we would be asking such questions.”

  Shabaka looked at his father, “Yes, someone who is skilled in distorting information. This note might mean everything or it might mean nothing.” Shabaka said, looking at it, then turned to his father, “I need one of your most skilled scribes.”

  “Whatever for? You can write as good as any,” the king said, confused.

  “I need them to check if this note was written by one person,” Shabaka said.

  “How are they to do that?” Moses asked.

  “Neti once showed me that one can tell if the same person wrote something—it has to do with the way the symbols are formed.”

  “But we have nothing to compare it to,” Moses said. “We couldn’t know if it was her.

  “I need to know if the whole note was by one person,” Shabaka stated. “Who did it is not as important. But if more than one person did it, then it could be to throw us off,” Shabaka said.

  The king motioned to the runner standing there, “Go and call Tembe, he is the best scribe we have got.”

  The man seemed hesitant to leave at first but finally made to go. The king turned to Shabaka, “I caution you not to say too much in front of runners. I have known information to leave here.”

  Shabaka nodded and again looked at the note, pressing his lips firmly together.

  “You think there is something there?” Moses asked

  “Something we are not seeing.”

  “Perhaps the scribe can tell us more.”

  The scribe entered the dining area sometime later, hesitantly looking around before lowering to his knee and addressing the king, “You sent for me, my king.”

  “The king indicated to Shabaka, “My son called. He needs your assistance.”

  “I will help in any way that I can,” the scribe said, as he regained his feet.

  Shabaka extended the note to him. The scribe took it, looked it over and said, “It is Egyptian. There is no real meaning, it looks like a child’s scribbles, although the symbols are well formed, from a practiced hand, which makes it strange,” the scribe said, looking closer at the papyrus. “They do not overlap in places.”

  “I need to know if the whole note was written by one person.”

  “What?” the scribe said, looking at Shabaka.

  “I have a friend who says you can tell if something is written by more than one person.”

  The man looked at the note, “I would need more than this,” he flatly stated.

  Shabaka took a deep breath
, “I don’t need you to identify the person, only if one hand wrote it.”

  The scribe looked at Shabaka and then the note, finally nodding, “You want information about the note, the origin.”

  Shabaka nodded, “Anything.”

  “It is a scribe’s trick,” the man started moving a short distance away from them, “it is how we see how long it took someone to write a page. I cannot tell you if the note was written by one hand, but I can tell you if it was written at one time.”

  “How so?” Moses asked.

  “The ink and paper reacts differently to each other over time. Ink changes as time passes.”

  “How?”

  “It is complicated, but makes it possible to tell if something was written at one time.” The scribe looked at the paper for a length of time before nodding. “The color is all the same, the ink did not stand for some time.”

  “It still does not tell us if the same person wrote it all,” Moses said, dejected.

  “I might not be able to tell you that, but I can tell you that the person who wrote this is educated and familiar with Egyptian symbols, even more so than the scribes here. Although it does not say anything. Its meaning is possibly only known to the writer and the receiver,” he concluded, handing the papyrus to Shabaka.

  Shabaka took it, “And the papyrus?”

  “There is nothing significant about it, it looks like most of the papyrus in this area.”

  “Thank you,” Shabaka said, dismissing the scribe.

  “This is what you do?” Shabaka’s father asked.

  “Sometimes,” Shabaka said. “It depends on what we have.” Shabaka then turned to Moses. “We will have to go over everything we have, everything that has happened since her disappearance. Speak to everyone again if need be.”

  Moses nodded, “We’ll start from the beginning.”

  “Those traders should still be here; they would not have left this close to the festival.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Shabaka took up space in one of the smaller gathering halls, where they spent most of the morning drawing up a list of people and a list of questions. Then he called in the captain of the medjay, who had been sent to the desert. Shabaka listened as he retold their findings in the desert.

  Time had allowed Shabaka to gain some distance from the matter, allowing him to listen more objectively. As such, person after person was called in, their actions brought under scrutiny, their conduct assessed, and notes made about possible improvements for palace security.

  By late afternoon, Shabaka shook his head. He could feel the stirrings of a headache. Dropping his head into his hands again, he let out an audible sigh.

  “I know the feeling,” Moses said.

  “Do you?” Shabaka flatly asked.

  “It was hard enough when Ma-Nefer requested the return of Yani as payment for your release. I thought I’d go mad; there was just no way. Sorry I mean I like you, but . . .”

  “You love her, I get it,” Shabaka said, then tilted his head as he looked at Moses, “You know you never really told me about that. About what really happened or how you knew where to find me.”

  “Does it matter? We found you,” Moses shrugged.

  “It might help with this if I knew,” Shabaka sincerely replied.

  “This is nothing like that was,” Moses was quick to reply. “Neti knew it was Ma-Nefer. She knows how he thinks, who would know his hiding places . . . Here, we know nothing. Nothing. Not a thing about the people or their reason for taking her.”

  Shabaka’s voice remained flat as he said, “My father’s captain thinks they took her for the slave trade.”

  Moses sat upright at that, “Then why haven’t they done anything?”

  “Slave trade is legal; it is not a crime,” Shabaka flatly said, “Maybe we should talk to Ramesses about that.”

  “I don’t know,” Moses said, “I mean Neti has bought slaves in the past, your family owns slaves, most of my people are slaves, it just seems a way of life.”

  “Well, little good it will do us now,” Shabaka said, his eyes again drifting toward the piece of papyrus. He reached for it, trying to make sense of it.

  The guard brought in the man who had brought Neti’s sash to the palace. The man nervously looked about, becoming even more reluctant when he saw Shabaka.

  “If you were able to speak my tongue, I’d say you should take him.”

  “Where is your brother’s son?”

  “I’m not sure, I can have him sent for,” Shabaka offered.

  “It would probably be at a bad time, as he was looking forward to your brother’s arrival.”

  ~~~

  The evening meal was approaching and neither Shabaka nor Moses felt they had accomplished anything; they had not learned anything new. The tales had remained the same and there was little that had been altered, no detail remembered that might have slipped the mind the first time.

  “I think I understand your frustration at the moment, but short of Neti being home and embalming people, it is like the gods came down and took her with them,” Moses stated. “I mean other than the sash and the note, we have nothing really And no idea where to even start.”

  “Yes, and that irritates me. We have nothing, while there is a great deal of information that has left here today,” Shabaka flatly replied.

  “What do you mean by that?” Moses asked, turning his attention to his friend.

  “How many people have we called in today?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “And all of them left here knowing we are looking for her, actively looking for her. It is only a matter of time before those who have her hear of it,” Shabaka looked at the note, picking it up and waving it at Moses. “This could not have come at a more inopportune moment. It would have been different if we started to search for her before this. But now it will look like our efforts are in reaction to it.”

  Moses nodded, “And your sudden involvement can also be misconstrued. Talking about that, how is it that your father did not object this morning?”

  “We spoke last night . . .” Shabaka, however, never finished what he was to say as Hassim entered the room.

  “I was sent to ask if you will be attending dinner or should it be sent here?”

  Shabaka looked at Moses, for a moment placing the note on the elevated platform he was sitting at. “I’m not all that hungry,” Shabaka commented as Hassim came farther into the room.

  “They can send some food here for me. I would feel odd at the table without Shabaka,” Moses replied, “Besides I can’t let him get to the bottom of this alone,” Moses taunted

  “Ha, like I could. What I wouldn’t give to have someone like Menwi now,” Shabaka playfully replied.

  “The foreseer . . .” Moses mused, “now there is a thought and an avenue we have not discussed.”

  “What do you mean?” Shabaka seriously asked. “You are not suggesting we—”

  Moses interrupted, “You said he wanted to speak with her, did he not perhaps mention anything?”

  Shabaka remained silent for several moments before finally shaking his head. “He knew things about her—things about her sister’s child—but he did not warn her of anything such as this,” Shabaka said as Hassim came closer, looking at the note on the platform.

  “What I fail to understand is why they waited so long,” Moses said. “Normally it is fast if they want something.”

  “Or maybe they are as cunning as a jackal, knowing that the longer they wait, the better the effect. Anyone here knows it takes time to get a message to Ramesses. Even to get you here took several days.”

  “What is this?” Hassim asked, pointing to the note close to Shabaka.

  “It is a note that arrived this morning,” Shabaka said, “although no one can make out what it means.” Shabaka turned to Moses, “I think I will speak to my father this evening about detaining all messengers until the message has been identified.”

  “That way we could get one of them
, much like Ramesses did when there was a threat on the palace,” Moses said.

  “This looks almost like hidden code,” Hassim said.

  Shabaka thought about the boy’s words for a moment, suddenly turning to him, “You can read it?”

  “Well, it looks like someone was trying to do hidden-code glyphs.”

  “What is that?” Moses asked.

  “I remember one of the scribes telling me that there were times when people did not know the words or they didn’t have enough papyrus to write the message on, so they used glyphs as words. At times it was even used as a secret message where individual glyphs could mean an entire word or sentence. He said that we should always view short notes as such.”

  “You think you can read it?” Shabaka asked.

  “We used to play with it, but it is not often that one understands the true meaning, unless the writer can confirm it.”

  “You think Neti could know of this?” Moses asked, looking at Shabaka.

  “She was one of Sutten’s best students; he could have taught her.”

  “You think you can decode it?” Moses asked Hassim.

  Hassim seemed hesitant, “I could get it wrong.”

  “But you could try,” Shabaka pressed.

  “I could, but my Egyptian is not that good, I can read most of the alphabetical hieroglyphs, but I don’t know what all of them represent in life.”

  “I could help you there,” Moses said, moving closer, “We should get you something to sit on.”

  “What about our meal?” the boy asked distraught, causing Shabaka to frown in confusion.

  “Spoken like a growing boy,” Moses said, as he handed Hassim a pillow to sit on, “We can have it sent here, Shabaka?” Moses said. looking at the man.

  “Yes, I’ll have one of the footmen bring the food here,” Shabaka said, as he handed them the note.

  Rameke looked at the paper for several moments, before commenting, “The writing is neat.”

  “The scribe said that as well,” Moses said, as he settled next to Hassim.

  Hassim went through the entire message several times, before pointing to the last tree hieroglyphs, “This is a signature, it says Kerti.”