by Marc Secchia
Annakiya said that since he had taken over responsibility for Sheba’s record-keeping, the King had declared himself very pleased with his work. He was especially pleased at how Sheba’s trading profits had improved… at which time Shioni had nodded and forgotten the rest of their conversation. Annakiya and her love of minute historical detail! She was surprised the Princess’ nose did not have a permanent ink-stain on its tip, the way she constantly kept it inside a scroll…
The sneeze finally seized her and rattled her frame from head to toe. Three, four sneezes in a row. Shioni dropped the umbrella in order to wipe her nose. “Sorry.”
“I need a break anyway,” said the Archivist, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. “Same time tomorrow, Princess?”
“Same time.”
The Archivist’s face broke into such a mass of wrinkles that it seemed his smiling eyes would be swamped by successive waves of crinkly, parchment-like skin. “Never thought I would be painting you,” he said to Shioni.
“The greatest umbrella holder in history?”
Shioni glared at the Princess of West Sheba as she cut in. “I dare you to hold one of these up for hours...”
“That’s what I have you for,” she said primly. “And to fetch drinks, carry my scrolls, paint my fingernails, fluff my pillow, choose my clothes for the day–”
The Archivist’s bow was as stiff as a gnarled tree. “Until tomorrow.”
Annakiya inclined her head, every inch the Princess, Shioni thought crossly. Cool and composed. Her hair was dressed in traditional shuruba braids, which had taken three slaves from the break of dawn until noon to prepare. Her own hair was braided too, so tightly her scalp felt as though it was being stretched away from her skull. Hakim Isoke would approve. She would say, ‘I am delighted you actually look like a Princess today’, or, ‘I see that lazy slave-girl of yours finally learned to braid hair properly.’
“And you can just wipe that look off your face.”
“What look?”
The Princess sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I treated you so badly. Alright? I’ve been looking for a way to tell you for three days, but you’ve been under a thundercloud. Stop!”
Out of sheer force of habit, Shioni stopped stomping away from her friend–but decided to keep her back turned. After a moment she heard a light footstep on the path behind her, and then stiffened as Annakiya’s arms unexpectedly encircled her waist. “You will accept my apology and stop acting like an elephant with a stomach ache. That’s a royal order.”
“Oh… Anni!”
“Now there’s a sound of healthy frustration!”
How could she tell her friend it went much deeper than just a few words? It was… everything. Everything about being a slave, about her daily life… Annakiya was asking where she had skinned her knee.
“Yeshi tripped me!”
She made a disgusted noise in her throat. “Look, Shioni… do you want me to dismiss her? I have the power, you know. One word, just one–”
“No! I mean… no. Thank you, but it would make it worse.”
“What’s worse than intolerable?”
“I’m alive.” She hesitated, entering uncertain ground now. “Thank you, Anni.”
Annakiya linked her arm through Shioni’s. “Alive, like our castle? Walk with me. Take a turn around the gardens, as the Hakim would say.”
Arm in arm, they meandered slowly along the paths between the roses–great patches of yellows, pinks and reds, and the cream climbing roses–down towards the aromatic, equally delicious scents of Mama’s crowded herb garden.
“I’ve made absolutely no progress on your stele, I hope you know that.” Princess Annakiya’s gentle brown eyes regarded her as though she had wanted to say something more meaningful, but could not summon the words. “General Getu posted a whole squad of warriors down in the juniper forest. I’m told two warriors tried the tunnels. One came back with a spear through his shoulder, and the other is still missing.”
Shioni sucked in her cheeks. “Ouch. What did Zi say about the stele’s inscription? And Shuba?”
“Shuba has been sitting in one position staring at a scroll for two days now. Meditating, I suppose. And Zi has been working with me whenever she can. Between this stele and the inscriptions and symbols in the chamber beneath the baobab, we really aren’t making much progress.”
“You’ll crack it, Anni. You always do.”
“What I always do is develop a headache!” Annakiya tapped her head like a woodpecker madly burrowing into tree, and laughed as Shioni pulled a droll face. Then they both startled as a trumpet fanfare split the still afternoon air. “Oh, look, here comes the procession for the final blessing. I suppose I had better take part. Sorry.” She squeezed Shioni’s hand. “I do so adore talking to you, my friend. We should talk more often.”
“Me too.”
Maybe Annakiya did understand after all. Shioni felt grateful to be back on a good footing with her friend. Even if a Princess could never bow to her slave’s level, she cared. Openly. So why was that not enough for her slave-girl?
Princess Annakiya ran quickly toward the entryway to the main keep. Hakim Isoke would have clucked her tongue like a hen laying eggs. ‘Princesses of West Sheba do not run!’ Shioni could imagine her outrage. But this was a special day.
Today, the Chief Priest himself was going to rename the castle.
A procession of priests dressed in ceremonial robes was issuing from the main gate of the keep. They were quickly joined by the nobles, the senior warriors, and the elders of the nearby villages, followed by the inhabitants of the castle. The slaves who ordinarily worked on the building had been given a day’s rest, but they were being kept outside the defensive wall in their camp. Shioni touched her necklet self-consciously. She was not invited. Not this time.
All the celebrants apart from the priests and deacons were festively dressed in elegant white cotton clothing, loose fitting trousers and shirts for the men, and flowing dresses with filmy white headscarves for the women. Shioni stroked the beautiful cotton of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. The Archivist and Annakiya had insisted she wear the finest slave’s outfit they could find for the painting and the occasion, which meant a purchase from Takazze. There was nothing so lavish available locally.
Not that her outfit was lavish compared to the priests! They wore layers of thick velveteen material in deep red, bright blue and avocado green, thickly trimmed in gold brocade and worked with golden thread until the folds of their robes appeared as stiff as a peacock’s tail. Each priest carried a staff topped with a large golden cross in his right hand, and a ceremonial horsehair fly-whisk in his left. A posse of deacons processed alongside and behind the priests. They too were sumptuously arrayed in sweeping, tasselled robes, bearing golden crowns upon their heads, and carrying golden hand crosses in their right hands, but in their left hand each deacon bore a wide, ornate umbrella to shade a priest.
The Chief Priest processed front and centre. Carefully balanced on his head, wrapped in layers of thick cloth-of-gold, he bore the holy tabot from the great church in Takazze, the copy of the Ark of the Covenant that rested in the Holy of Holies for most of the year and only emerged on the most special of occasions–such as today.
This gaudy procession was winding slowly down the hill towards the main gate towers, as yet unfinished, that served the outer defensive wall.
Shioni was amused by the antics of a group of small boys–probably those selected to become deacons and then one day, priests–dashing about like a nest of overexcited ants, scattering freshly cut grass on the stone path ahead of the priests. The grass symbolised newness and hope, she knew. It suited the occasion well!
Now, to the throbbing beat of the massive, man-high kebero drum, and the jingling of sistra and clapping of hands, a troupe of perhaps a hundred girls came spilling out of the keep, dancing and singing and praising God in a frenetic excess of energy. At once the gathering crowd began to sway, clap, and sing i
n time with the drumbeat, to cry out and ululate to encourage the dancers to even greater exertions and contortions.
Her gaze was drawn aside to the sight of Talaku dancing a strange, limb-twitching dance in the midst of a group of children. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, fluttering and showing only white. The children thought he was hilarious.
But a group of parents swooped on the children and dragged them away from the dancing giant. His cheek began to twitch–once, twice... and then Talaku shook himself like a wet dog, turned his back on the proceedings, and slunk into the keep. Shioni shook her head sadly. She could not hear what those parents had said above the din, but their intent was clear. Poor Talaku!
Suddenly, a thunderclap of silence descended.
Shioni saw that the Chief Priest stood with his arms upraised. He was said to be the holiest man in West Sheba. With slow, rhythmic movements of his hands, he sprinkled holy water from a golden censer around the foundations of the gatehouses. His voice, resonant with power, carried up the hill:
“I call upon thee, Almighty God, before the congregation of your people, to bless and make holy these gates by the cleansing power of this holy water! May the enemy never prevail against them! May your mighty hand rest upon this place! May your angels surround and protect all who tarry or work within these walls, even as you struck down the evil witch sent by the Wasabi! I beseech you, o Lord, to make this a place of life, and health, of peace and perfect rest, not least for our beloved King who sleeps within!”
He made the sign of the cross. “From this day on, your name shall no longer be Castle Asmat. I declare your new name is Castle Hiwot, the Castle of Life!”
A tremendous cheer from the assembled crowd rolled up to the sides of the valley and echoed back and forth. To Shioni, it sounded as if a lion were roaring.
Chapter 6: Desta’s Rebellion
Kneeling AT Princess Annakiya’s right hand in Castle Hiwot’s courtyard, just the day after the ceremony of naming, Shioni struggled not to weep as Selam pleaded for her brother’s life.
The sun was a blistering white point high overhead. The noon heat assaulted the courtyard as though they were all standing inside Mama Nomuula’s largest oven. The Princess alone sat in the shade of a small awning–otherwise Shioni’s arm would have been the one aching. Again! Today the tickle was in the back of her throat rather than in her nose, and she was sure she could feel her head and shoulders frying beneath the sun’s powerful gaze. She would pay for this later. But it was nothing in comparison to how Desta would pay if he was found guilty. Not a pinch of dust in comparison.
She already knew what was written on the scroll of judgement, and signed in Princess Annakiya’s neat hand, over which the royal seal of the Lion of West Sheba had been affixed. After signing the scroll, prepared by Hakim Isoke, Annakiya’s eyes had seemed haunted. Shioni had heard her sobbing in the night.
And yet here she was, dressed in all the finery of a Princess of Sheba. A delicate crown of gold adorned her braided hair, which was lightly held back from her face by a silken nettela or headscarf adorned with a chain of rubies and diamonds, with matching star-shaped pendant earrings dangling from her ears, and a necklace about her slender neck from which depended a beautiful Star of David amulet. Shioni’s heart went out to her friend. Beneath that finery beat a gentle heart, one that shrank from delivering such a verdict–but she knew her duty. Shioni knew Princess Annakiya was strong enough to carry it out.
“He rebelled against Sheba, and has been tried as a rebel,” General Getu said sternly, but raised his hand to forestall his warriors from mistreating the girl. “What new information do you bring that could possibly change our judgement?”
Poor Selam. She was distraught. Besides the tears tracking down her cheeks, in her distress she had torn her face with her fingernails. But Shioni knew that a display of emotion would not move the General. He was a just man, fiercely so. And Desta had chosen to lead his rebellion against Sheba. When she and Talaku, together with the Elite warrior Tariku, had travelled into the mountains to bring back the King’s horse, Desta had captured the two men and sold them to the Wasabi. Her actions alone had rescued the two warriors from a horrible fate at Kalcha’s hand.
Shioni carefully masked her feelings. Any slave who dared to show sympathy or dissent would be whipped–Captain Dabir’s orders. This, the day after the blessing of the castle, she thought. How could this be right? Mama said there had to be justice. So why was she feeling as miserable as a soggy rainy season afternoon?
Tariku stood amongst the Elite warriors massed behind Selam, easily identified by his height. Although he was at ease, his gold-embossed shield planted by his left foot and his spear held loosely in his right hand, his face was shadowed with anger. It was he who had captured Desta and dragged him up to the castle, screaming and thrashing, to throw him in the dungeons and see justice done. Now a mere slip of a girl had forestalled judgement. He looked ready to spit acid.
“Princess! Mercy, please, I beg of you!”
To Tariku’s right, Captain Dabir regarded the proceedings with his customary smirk smeared across his face. If Princess Annakiya did relent, he would no doubt be first in line to report her failing to her older brother, Prince Bekele. By all accounts the Prince was too busy enjoying the high life in Takazze to bother with the small matter of a rebellion in the mountains. The King’s misfortune was his gain. And he had thrown himself upon that gain with shocking haste. He and Captain Dabir made quite a pair of thugs, Shioni thought. She loathed them both.
“My judgement,” said Annakiya, her hands white-knuckled upon the arms of her chair, “is already written.”
“Shioni! You’ll speak for my brother, won’t you?”
Unfortunately there was no earthquake and the ground did not swallow her up in time to avoid embarrassment. But Shioni was saved from reply by Hakim Isoke cutting in sharply:
“The slave-girl has already testified. Though her account shed some small light on his youthful foolishness, it did not change our verdict. This man Desta remains a dangerous rebel and shall be judged accordingly.”
Selam flung herself prostrate before Princess Annakiya. Again, General Getu raised his hand to restrain the warriors. Shioni saw that a dozen Elite warriors on the castle walls had arrows nocked to their bowstrings, and every arrow amongst that thicket was trained on Selam. Getu was taking no chances. Nor was she. Her own hand rested upon her long dagger. Her muscles trembled in readiness. As the Princess’ bodyguard she was ready at the first sniff of trouble to throw her own body in the way–even if that trouble came in the form of someone she regarded as a friend.
“Rebels must die,” said Hakim Isoke. “That is the law.”
“It is not our law!” screamed Selam. “We never wanted your law!”
Her scream raised the hairs on Shioni’s neck. It also made a flock of carmine bee-eaters, which had been enjoying the rich pickings of insects attracted to the flowering baobab, dart away over the wall as though a falcon had lunged into their midst.
The Hakim leaned forward. “Our law also states you can offer something in exchange for your brother’s life. Do you bring such an offering?”
On the one hand, Shioni thought, Isoke was being almost kind. But she must also have known that Selam had nothing to offer… or? Her eyes narrowed. There was something peculiar, a kind of fey deceitfulness, in what she sensed coming from Selam. What was the expression that had tugged the corners of her mouth upward, like a cat that had succeeded in stealing a tasty morsel from the kitchen? But as quickly as the expression had surfaced, it vanished again.
Rising to a kneeling position, Selam essayed a quick look at the Hakim. “He… he can lead you to the Wasabi camp.”
There, that little catch in her voice did not ring true!
“We already know where the Wasabi are,” Getu said.
Selam twisted her hands in her lap, keeping her eyes downcast. In a small voice, she added, “Desta knows a secret way into Chiro Leba.”<
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Against the background of a rising murmuring amongst the Sheban Elite warriors, Shioni stared at Selam with doubt and confusion churning in her gut. Where was the sweet girl she had helped and met? This girl had just straightened a half-smile off her lips–a smile nobody but a slave kneeling at the same level as her could have seen in that courtyard. What game was she playing? Had someone put her up to this? She wasn’t working for the rebels, was she? Or was this all part of the pleading for her brother’s life… sisterly concern, no more?
“Say that again?” said General Getu. Princess Annakiya had risen from her chair.
“Desta knows a secret path into Chiro Leba. He can lead you there.”
“Why can’t he describe the way for us?”
Selam turned an innocent, wide-eyed look on Hakim Isoke. “Such tricky mountain paths cannot be told, honoured Hakim. I offer you knowledge.”
Captain Dabir cried, “We could strike a blow right to their craven hearts!”
Shioni wanted to shout, ‘Can’t you see she’s playing you for fools?’ But she had to imprison her tongue behind clenched teeth.
The Sheban warriors were all shouting at once. Had General Getu issued the order, they would have stormed out of Castle Hiwot without a moment’s delay, intent on sinking their spears into Wasabi flesh.
Princess Annakiya rose to her feet. Ceremoniously, she lifted the scroll of judgement above her head, and then slipped it into her tunic pocket. Her voice rang clearly into the sudden hush, “Judgement will be stayed upon the successful completion of this charge: to lead our warriors forth by a secret way to the Wasabi camp, that they might strike the wicked Wasabi a blow like unto the righteous wrath of Almighty God. The assembly of judgement is dismissed!”
