The Prince of Nubia

by Nathaniel Burns

  “And just how is it that he will have to set her aside? I fail to understand,” Moses quickly interjected, drawing Rameke’s attention to him.

  “You must be a fool not to see it, anyone can see how she has stirred his passions.”

  “She? Who? Neti?” Moses asked, looking to Rameke for clarification.

  “You play your part well,” Rameke stated, causing Shabaka’s legs to turn numb. He really did not need his relationship with Neti questioned in such a manner. “For anyone with eyes, anyone who understands human relations, can see how much the prince cared for his partner. Only now she has to be replaced with someone else, someone who should be mine.” The latter was added in an aggressive tone.

  Moses turned to Shabaka with a disbelieving look on his face. “You and Neti, really? You would chance the pharaoh’s wrath?”

  Rameke looked from one to the other before asking, confused, “There are rules about such things?”

  “Yes, of course, there are. You think the pharaoh’s most trusted prefects would be allowed to . . .” Moses waved his hand around as if to explain, his entire being animated. “But it would be scandalous if they were,” Moses said, looking at Shabaka.

  Shabaka took a deep breath, having had a moment to compose himself, “There is nothing between us, as you well know,” Shabaka said to Moses, before turning to Rameke, “We work well together. That is all.”

  Moses looked markedly subdued after that, even his shoulders drooped a bit.

  “My apologies. However, I would imagine that you would miss her company.”

  “She is a valuable asset to the pharaoh and has returned home to tend to matters there,” Shabaka calmly replied, fighting the urge to physically shake Rameke, knowing that what he said was an honest reply.

  “Well, we are not here to discuss either of the woman,” Moses said, turning to Shabaka, “You have a message for Rameke.”

  Shabaka drew himself up to his full height before taking the small papyrus scroll from the guard, opening it to read from it. “King Shebitku of Nubia herewith invites you, Rameke, to be an official participant in the annual Stick Dance Festival. You are to appear at the Sylene court for proceedings the day following the full moon.” Shabaka did not bother to read the remainder and rolled up the scroll and held it out toward Rameke, “Acceptance of the scroll denotes acceptance of the invitation.”

  Rameke took the scroll from him, firmly replying, “I accept the invitation, with the guards and my own men as witnesses.”

  Shabaka let go of his side of the scroll, saying, “then the king will welcome you to the festivities.” His tone was not as courteous as it had been to the other contestants

  “Something tells me it peeves you to have to give me this,” Rameke goaded Shabaka, waving the papyrus at him.

  Moses, however, answered, “Sometimes it is the reception that determines the sincerity of one’s actions.”

  Rameke turned to look at Moses, sharply saying, “For one who does not care to wash and clean himself properly, you certainly have a lot to say, Hebrew.”

  “My beliefs or practices have nothing to do with courteous behavior,” Moses flung back. “Ever since we arrived here, you have tried to rile the prince.”

  “Oh, he is the prince now, not a prefect.”

  Moses pointed to the sash Shabaka wears, “I would expect more respect for your prince, but you obviously have none for either prince or prefect,” Moses said, pointing between Shabaka and himself. “I can fully understand his reluctance at extending the invitation. I hope you get a severe beating at the festival.”

  “That will be all,” Shabaka said, turning a stern gaze on Moses, “Some people still need to learn how to conduct themselves properly, in such matters.”

  Moses nodded, as Shabaka continued, “I have issued the invitation out of duty, our work here is done. We will leave now,” Shabaka said, his tone strained as he turned and made for the doorway, gesturing for the others to follow him. In his haste, he turned the wrong way in the passage.

  Only to have Rameke firmly demand, “Where are you going?”

  “I am leaving. What does it look like?” Shabaka said, turning toward the man.

  “That is not the way out,” Rameke firmly stated, pointing in the other direction. “The door is that way. That part of the house, you are no longer welcome in.”

  Shabaka turned and followed the two soldiers, stating as he passed Rameke, “I have no desire to go there.”

  Shabaka had not intended to become riled by the man’s words, although it had been exceedingly hard. He took his leave without any formalities, feeling that they would have been wasted on the man anyway. He allowed the guards to outstrip Moses and himself before asking, “Is there really a rule about prefects?”

  Moses looked at him for a moment as they walked, “No, but he doesn’t know that.” They both chuckled softly.

  ~~~

  Rameke stood for several moments, watching as they left, noticing how Shabaka and Moses at first allowed some distance between themselves and the others before discussing something. He knew that the palace had remained silent about Neti’s disappearance, but for them to be so friendly toward each other?

  And what he had seen with Neti, he could not understand it. He could understand the draw between a man and a woman, but he had never seen such coworker relations. It was as if their differences did not matter, and the differences among a Nubian, a Hittite, and a Hebrew were vast in his eyes.

  Garagh came to stand next to him moments later. “Are you a fool to goad the prince like that. You have any idea of the retribution he could release.”

  “Are you now worried about me?”

  “And why should I be?”

  “Where is she?”

  “At the moment? Drugged. She went crazy after hearing his voice, I had no choice.”

  “I will need to rethink my options, even if she does not mean anything to him emotionally, she is still one of the pharaoh’s trusted.”

  “You now want to extract information from her? I doubt the pharaoh entrusts them with stately information.”

  “No, they do not talk about her disappearance, only that she has returned home. Which means he thinks her to be dead. The king’s actions are only those of a person seeking to appease the pharaoh, that they have done the necessary work in attempting to find her. Perhaps it will change when he knows she is alive. Let’s first see what she is worth to the palace, then I will set a price.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let her send them a note.”

  “A note! Are you crazy?” Garagh exclaimed.

  “You were taught medicine, and you were taught her language, you will ensure that there is nothing in the note that can identify us, or where she is. If there is, I will have her under the others, as they are tempted by her light flesh.”

  Garagh looked at Rameke in shock before finally nodding.

  “If the king seems concerned enough, he might give in to my demands,” Rameke mused.

  Garagh left to collect some paper, a quill, and ink. After Neti was alert again, he explained to her the terms and watched her ponder what she was to write. He watched her make a series of symbols on the paper. None of them made any sense or even formed a word. She was painstakingly slow, working accurately, and finally signed the note with what he thought was her name, but he could not be certain.

  He looked at her for several moments, she had been quiet since waking, not saying a word. But she had been weak to start with, even before he drugged her with the sleeping liquid. He took the note from her, going it over. A frown marred his forehead, as he asked, “You want to send this to the palace?”

  All he received from her was a blank look.

  He looked at the piece of paper and finally shrugged. “Well, then, that is what goes to the palace.

  ~~~

  Shabaka entered the training area, his frustration and irritation levels having driven him from the palace walls. He started with his breathin
g exercises, trying to dissolve from his mind the things Rameke had said. He had no idea why he was so angry, especially since what the man had said was true. He did miss her, he missed her a lot more than he thought could be possible. He often caught himself turning to look for her, only to remember that she was not there.

  He blamed himself for her capture, blamed himself for letting her go, for not having gone with her. Although Rameke could never know that. He started working through the paces, balancing on the balls of his feet as he leaped, jumped, and twisted through the first series of movements.

  He usually enjoyed and found solace in the various patterns, but not this time. He pushed harder than he normally did, forcing himself to do the movements faster, to make the circles smaller, until his heart raced and the blood rushed in his ears. The exercises had drained him, had forced him to focus on something other than the situations, the complications, he faced. However, this gave him little reprieve or resolution. They only provided a temporary reprieve for Rameke’s taunts—they felt like taunts, chants that went over and over in his head. If he let them.

  He had to look past them or he would certainly lose his mind. After completion of a series of more advanced movements, he halted for a few moments to catch his breath and collect one of the training sticks. His own was in his chamber, although he had not thought to bring it. He had always excelled in the dances, had become champion in his second year of partaking, had given as good as he got before going to the pharaoh.

  Again he leaped and twisted. His body automatically following through the movements; they were so deeply ingrained, that it was second nature. What was not second nature, was the force he applied to some of them. He focused on the movements, his muscles contracting, flexing, and reacting in the familiar ways, allowing him to focus on his breathing as he introduced several new movements he had learned—they were more combat orientated than the dance movements.

  The dance only taught him to be light on his feet, to par and attack when needed. These he practiced were to defeat, hurt, or maim an opponent. The leaps, turns, and strikes became easier, even though his muscles complained of the strain placed on them, especially those in his shoulders. But even the pain was welcome, as it was different from the feeling of guilt and emptiness that filled him. His concentration was shattered when a familiar voice spoke, “I can see that you have improved.”

  Shabaka faltered for a moment, and halted, breathing hard. His skin glistened with perspiration as he turned toward his father, not saying a word, knowing his father would say whatever he had come to say.

  “When I watch you now, it is easy to understand how you could have become a champion so young,” his father said, stepping closer. “Having elder brothers only helps so much, but you always were one with a natural skill for the dances.” The king picked up one of the sticks. “But even then you never had the determination that seems to fill your steps and movements now. It is like you are fighting a ghost.”

  “Certainly, father,” Shabaka stated, having regained his breath, “you did not come out here to discuss my stick-dancing techniques,”

  His father tilted his head, looking at his son for several moments, before replying, “Well, it is one of the reasons. I think it will do the youngsters good to see you in action, you will inspire them.” The king then turned his attention to the stick he held, twisting it some as he spoke, “I was the one who said that you are to compete, if only to confirm your manhood. Although I should not have feared any such thing from you, especially not with what I have heard.”

  “And what would that be?” Shabaka demanded, not bothering about the fact that it was his father, the king, and that he was to show some proper respect to the man.

  “I was informed of your less-than-desirable behavior this afternoon,” the king calmly said, returning the stick to its place.

  Shabaka firmed his stance, as he looked his father straight in the eye. “I see no need for me to run about doing foolish errands, while my partner is god knows where. I do not even know if she is alive.”

  “I believe there has been some information from my informers?” the king countered.

  “What information? All we have heard is that there is some plan to rob those attending the dance festival. We have known of similar attacks for many seasons already. We know that we should be vigilant when our guests leave here, that they are soft targets. Thus, there is little actual information. No one knows anything about Neti’s whereabouts, so how am I supposed to feel? It is my fault that she is gone. I should have gone with her, or at least made her stay until matters were resolved.”

  “It is not your fault,” Shabaka’s father firmly stated. “Had you been with her, you would likely have suffered the same fate as the others. So do not ask me to be accepting of that.”

  “But I have done nothing to find her.”

  “You have done as much as you could—sending out sentries to check the desert. Do you think that combing the desert will find her? Ha, you will not find her in such a manner, you will search your entire life if you do not have an inkling as to where to start or where she was taken.”

  “She did not have that problem,” Shabaka said, without thinking.

  “What do you mean by that?” the king demanded.

  “Nothing, forget I said it,” Shabaka quickly deflected.

  “Shabaka, I will not.”

  “It does not matter at the moment, nothing came from it that can be changed.”

  Shabaka’s father looked at him for several moments before he spoke, “Your mother was right.”

  “About what?” Shabaka replied, disinterested.

  “You have grown up.”

  “That is stating the obvious,” Shabaka said, not in the mood for philosophy.

  “And that you have been touched,” his father added.

  Shabaka frowned at that, not understanding his father’s reasoning.

  “Your mother always feared for you the most, feared that the world would run roughshod over you. That you would soon enough find that people were not all honest, that there were very few fair dealings to be had. That honesty and righteousness were just words many strove to, and others detested. I told her you would be best off with Ramesses—that there you would find your place in the world—and it seems I was right. It might not be the traditional path that you have followed, but you have achieved something far greater than any of the others. Ramesses speaks highly of you and your partner.”

  Shabaka made to speak, however, his father held up his hand, “You do what is expected of you, and, like now, your head and your heart are in opposition with each other. Yes, I expect you to attend the dance festival, because in line with our tradition you are old enough to stand still, and more so to prove your manhood. It is also a convenient means for me to annul your betrothal, even with the complications that Rameke has caused. No one will see it as a shortcoming on your side, especially not if I pair you up with the man. If he is beaten, then he will have no claim if you decide to let Aya go. I know there are others who seek her, I have had a request from another to release her of the betrothal. He has offered to purchase her. And I dare say they would make a better match.”

  “So, what am I to do?” Shabaka asked.

  “Well, given your animosity toward each other, you need to clear your head first and not fall for his barbs, because he will use them, especially if he knows they work.”

  “And?” Shabaka asked, knowing his father had not finished,

  “I will allow you to use any of your skills to beat him. I think it is time he learned that study alone does not assure him a high position in life.”

  Shabaka nodded in understanding.

  “Although from what I have seen, I need not concern myself with your skills.”

  Again Shabaka nodded, his shoulders drooping some, as if he did not have enough responsibility toward the kingdom and his parents. To fail now would be to fail them.

  “Shabaka,” his father gently called his attention, “I wil
l leave you with a piece of advice your mother constantly reminds me of.” Shabaka looked at his father, tilting his head some before his father continued, “When the head and the heart are at odds, it is best to follow your heart, your head can always fix it later.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means if you are at odds, look at yourself, inside. Instinctively you know the right choices, so let your heart guide you. Whatever your decision, you will always remain my son, one I am exceedingly proud of.”

  “You place so much emphases on advice, how can you say this?” Shabaka asked, confused.

  “One needs advice to make good decisions, but when at odds, listen to your heart, it is rarely wrong.”

  Shabaka finally nodded in understanding, then watched as his father walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning, Shabaka again stood before his sashes, although not as conflicted as he had been before. He reached out and took the one he had not worn for some time and fastened it around his middle and felt a sense of ease at his decision. He then reached for the other one, the one he had hoped he would return to its owner, and ran his thumb over the patterning, softly vowing, “I’ll find you,” before allowing the fabric to slip through his fingers and making his way to the morning meal.

  When Moses and he entered the dining hall, his parents were already seated with Aya and Hassim. Shabaka’s father looked toward them, his eyes for a moment resting on Shabaka, before finally nodding, allowing Shabaka to release the pent-up breath he only then realized he had been holding.

  They moved to join the others. The conversation was light, more about the upcoming festival. Hassim animatedly talked about the expected arrival of his parents and younger brother.

  King Shebitku turned to Shabaka and calmly addressed him, “You are addressing the disappearance of your partner.”

  Shabaka nodded in response.

  “Let me know if you need any assistance,” King Shebitku said, causing Moses to look between father and son.