The Prince of Nubia Read online

  Rameke advanced and Shabaka lifted his stick in the ready, his steps light, expecting the first strike to be center, however Rameke changed and struck low, striking Shabaka on the thigh and shoulder before Shabaka could counter the remaining blows. They stepped back and Shabaka rolled his shoulder. The strike had not been hard, but it was enough to sting.

  “Ah, shame, the queen’s baby boy got hurt,” Rameke teased him, causing Shabaka to clench his teeth, his eyes narrowing. He could feel his anger rising, knew he was not supposed to use force during a dance, however, the temptation was too great.

  Shabaka stepped forward, allowed his anger to cloud his decision, and approached the sequence, choosing movements that were supposed to push his opponent out, to intimidate. However, Rameke appeared to anticipate them and countered, again striking Shabaka once on his back and the back of his head before they stepped away.

  The blows caused Shabaka’s rage to fester, with every step that he took it intensified. However, Rameke did not allow him much of a reprieve, as he quickly stepped in, this time using an unexpected series of movements, one that was definitely not taught, and swept Shabaka from his feet, leaving him with only one hand on his stick, taking two full blows before countering the last two. There were several murmurs around the ring about the legality of the movements, knowing Shabaka could object.

  Rameke backed off, and those around the arena grew silent, waiting as Shabaka regained his feet. They waited in anticipation for his reaction, to see if he would call the fight’s end. However, he regained his stick and his feet moments later, righted himself, and again took up his position before the drums started.

  He rolled his shoulders as he looked at Rameke, trying to remember which of the patterns were successful. He selected one and advanced. This time the movements were only countered, and Rameke barely stepped back the required paces before advancing. Shabaka managed to counter the first few movements, but the last one hit him across the face. Shabaka had to shake his head, blinking several times to clear his vision, his hand brushed over his eyebrow that stung. He brought it away to notice the blood, the slight copper scent of it reaching his nostrils, causing his stomach to churn.

  Rameke stepped back and goaded, “No wonder you have to take other people’s wives, you are not man enough for your own.”

  Shabaka did not think his attack through, simply lifting his stick and advancing forward. The drummers stopped drumming, since neither of the participants kept with the rhythm.

  There was a hard clash of sticks, the first two movements countered, before Rameke turned Shabaka’s anger against him, with three blows to the body, and one to the upper arm, before nearly swiping Shabaka from his feet. Shabaka had barely regained his feet before Rameke again approached him, serving several blows, drawing blood from a shoulder before stepping back.

  Silence hung in the air as Shabaka regained his stance, drawing in several deep breaths to counter the pain. Rameke smirked at him, “You know it is almost embarrassing for me, you are not much of an opponent.”

  Shabaka again took up his stick and indicated to the drummers that he would continue the dance. Their beat started anew and Rameke prepared himself for Shabaka’s advance. The sequence maintained most of the beat, and Rameke managed to avert a hit, again backing off for only a moment before advancing.

  Shabaka countered the movements, however, he was caught off balance with the last and stumbled a step before righting himself. It was as if the whole arena had taken a breath with only a few of the drummers continuing to drum.

  Rameke shook his head, “You realize they cheer your stupidity, your unwillingness to give up. They see that as a good reflection of a Nubian, one who does not give in even when his opponent is far-greater skilled. I know how great a fool you really are, and they will realize it as well. You are only a prefect. Someone who appeases a pharaoh’s bidding. Even your father saw that.”

  Shabaka looked around him, noticed the multitude of faces, their silence as they looked at him. His gaze shifted to the drummers, who had drummed tirelessly the entire day. Then he looked at Rameke and pulled himself up to his full height, lifting his stick. Rameke smiled at him, expecting him to call the fight, however, Shabaka indicated his insistence to continue.

  Shabaka turned to Rameke, “I was born a prince; it is a birthright that cannot be revoked. But I became a Nubian prefect, that title was earned.”

  “Ha!” Rameke scored, as they again took up their positions.

  Shabaka waited for the drummers, allowing the beats to consume him and become part of him, become one with his heartbeat, as much as being a Nubian was. He looked at Rameke and suddenly everything became quiet, all the noise seemed to fall away. His anger and his resentment were there, he could feel them, he knew their cause, but they were pushed back, his mind focusing on his opponent. The beating within his heart grew as the men moved to circle each other. His weight shifted onto his toes and dismissed the slight discomfort he felt from his injuries—they became some distant thought. His mind focused, as a Nubian he could dance, as a prefect he was taught to fight, and with that thought he stepped forward.

  The movements were related, allowing him to twist and par Rameke’s thrusts, which were intent on altering the sequence, and he finished by striking Rameke hard on the ankle.

  Rameke cried out in response and for several paces favored the foot to test it. A cheer went up from the crowd as Shabaka turned and again raised his stick. Already circling, his attention focused on the man. As Rameke approached, Shabaka read his movements and was ready to counter the high leaping as he swung the stick, landing lightly and paring the last, before again stepping back to circle again. The drums became the pounding of blood in his veins as he again stepped forward. The sequence was simple enough, but only to test the man’s reflexes. The sticks rhythmically knocked against each other before the two men again stepped back and circled.

  Rameke again approached, and Shabaka could feel the jarring in his stick as Rameke proceeded through the movements. Again a cheer went up as they backed away from each other, circling, this time maintaining the pace along with the beat of the drums.

  Shabaka selected a grouping of movements, taking advantage of his agility as he swept Rameke’s feet from under him, causing the man to call out in objection when he hit the ground.

  Shabaka turned to his father, but the king shook his head, waving his hand in a horizontal position to indicate that it would not be considered.

  Shabaka had barely turned around and Rameke was on him. He responded by raising his stick, paring the first three movements before being pushed back, causing him to stumble and receive three blows from Rameke.

  All the onlookers again fell silent, and Rameke looked at him, challenging him to object to the illegal movement, but Shabaka got up and brushed himself off and again took up his position circling.

  He approached, twisting and turning as he went through the movements, serving Rameke with a blow to the knee and ankle before stepping back. Rameke countered, the strikes against his stick less jarring, indicating that Rameke was tiring. Shabaka again approached, this time using movements he had learned with Ramesses, movements designed to hurt and disarm opponents. He managed to break the grip on Rameke’s hand on his stick before sending him spiraling to the ground.

  Rameke remained there for several moments, and again the onlookers appeared to be holding their collective breath in anticipation. Rameke finally rose, again lifting his stick. The blows had not been as numerous as those Shabaka had suffered, and visibly caused the man discomfort. He could also see the anger in Rameke’s glare. Rameke approached, this time the sheer force of his attack caught Shabaka off guard, the man twisted and turned in a fashion Shabaka was unfamiliar with, rendering two illegal blows to Shabaka’s head, causing him to step back a few paces, dazed.

  The queen stood from her position to object, however Shabaka pulled himself up to his full height turning to the ring, gathering his stick. He blinked several times to
disperse the tears that had gathered in his eyes. He expected the dance to be halted, the blows Rameke used were not permitted. He bought some time circling a full two turns before deciding on his actions, knowing Rameke already favored his one foot. He again did a familiar sequence, alerting and adding more force to the strike when it connected with his ankle bone, causing Rameke to call out in objection, as he visibly favored it after the strike.

  Rameke again advanced, although his action was slower, which allowed Shabaka to twist and sweep him off his feet.

  Shabaka stood back, waiting for Rameke to call the dance, his body streaked with sweat, his breathing labored, and his muscles trembling from the strain. He had lost count of the number of advances they had made. It was his turn to advance, and he knew he could finish Rameke and the crowd chanted that he should.

  Rameke regained his feet and picked up his stick. Indicating his intention to continue, to which Shabaka nodded and took up his position, circling. Before approaching, his attention was off and Shabaka’s strike snapped his stick out of his hands with a resounding thwack, causing everyone to fall silent. Replacement sticks were not allowed, and Rameke sneered.

  Shabaka stepped back, for a moment confused. He had not dropped the stick to indicate his surrender, and everyone around the square waited with bated breath to see what he would do.

  He turned to find Rameke already advancing and countered the almost clumsy strikes, eventually tripping the man, forcing him to turn over, forcing his stick from his grasp.

  A loud cheer went up from the onlookers, the women chanting and yodeling, yet Shabaka did not move to lift his stick from the ground, to claim his victory, which caused them to fall silent once again.

  Shabaka kept his foot on the man’s chest as he crossed Rameke’s stick over the man’s neck, glaring at him as he harshly spoke, “Rameke, son of Dragi, I, Shabaka, the Nubian prefect, place you in custody for the kidnapping of one of the pharaoh’s people.”

  Shabaka remained in position as his father rose from his seat and loudly announced, “This arrest nullifies any request make by Rameke until such time as he is heard by the Egyptian pharaoh for the charge assigned to him”

  The entire arena fell silent. No one dared to speak or to even make a sound.

  Rameke scoffed at that, “Are you now?” he challenged, breathing hard. “And what grounds do you have for such a claim?”

  “We searched your father’s property earlier and found her,” Shabaka said, angrily.

  Rameke looked at him for a moment, tilted his head some before he spoke, “No, you didn’t, you wouldn’t be as confident if you had really found what you claim to have found,” Rameke sneered.

  Two of the palace guards approached them and Shabaka indicated to them to take the man away.

  Shabaka watched as the guards led Rameke away, expecting to feel some sort of elation, but instead he only felt worn out. Shabaka’s attendant came to stand beside him, indicating that he was to lift his stick. The moment he did, the entire arena cheered in celebration. He knew the dance would be spoken of for many generations, while he felt entirely drained. He lowered the stick and looked at the young attendant, noting the pride that filled his eyes and gave him a slight smile before handing the stick to him, “You may have it.”

  The young boy’s eyes distended as he took the stick from Shabaka, again looking up at him. “I hope it brings you luck.”

  The boy nodded and then handed him the waterskin.

  Shabaka unstopped it and lifted it over his head, emptying the content over himself, for a moment feeling the coolness splash over his body before again lowering it and placing the stopper back. He searched the crowd for Moses, as he had imagined the Hebrew would have found him already to tell him what had been found.

  Rameke’s words swirled in his mind, a tightness settled around his heart. Moses had not confirmed that they had found her, and, from Rameke’s claim, he would not like whatever it was they might have found there.

  A loud horn blast had everyone turn toward the king, who proudly announced, “I present you with my son and our prefect, Shabaka. Again the cheers went up and the drums started anew. Shabaka knew there would be food and drink and all sorts of merriment, while the festival would continue the following day, although he had no intention of participating. Many onlookers patted him on the back as he made his way to the palace. He had to find Moses, had to find her, and it was the only place he could think of to look.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shabaka entered the palace courtyard and for a moment stopped to consider the dray that still stood there, almost as if it had been forgotten. He looked at the guard and haphazardly issued the instruction for someone to remove it before the rest of the royal family returned. It was only when he stepped into the hallway that the nervous air around him became apparent. He looked to one of the footmen, demanding, “Where are they?”

  The man hesitantly looked around him before pointing Shabaka in a direction. Shabaka turned from him and started on his way, thankful that the man had not been obtuse about the situation. The next guard he came across simply pointed him in the direction he was to go, and soon enough Shabaka realized they had placed her in the quarters she had occupied during her visit.

  There were several people gathered at the entranceway to her chamber, one of them Moses, as he purposely strode toward them. He was just about to call the man’s attention, when Moses stepped forward, holding his hands in front of him.

  “You can’t go in there,” Moses quickly said, pushing against him to stop his forward movement.

  “What do you mean I can’t go in there? I have every right to go in there,” Shabaka angrily said.

  “I’m saying you can’t go in there,” Moses firmly said, not even cowering when Shabaka glared at him and tried to sidestep him.

  “You have no authority here,” Shabaka said, as he tried to get past Moses who continued to shift to block Shabaka.

  “I do when it involves Neti, she is also my friend,” Moses firmly stated. “So just calm down first, there is a lot you need to know, before you can see her.”

  At the mention of Neti’s name, Shabaka seemed to calm down some, although he hesitantly looked at Moses, “You really found her?”

  Moses nodded, not willing to voice his actual answer.

  “What are you not telling me?” Shabaka demanded.

  Moses hesitantly looked at all the people gathered before the door, before he hesitantly replied, “a lot.”

  “I need to see her,” Shabaka said, his voice containing a desperate note to it, “to appease myself.”

  Moses shook his head, “It is best if you don’t for a little while.” Shabaka made to object, however, Moses held up his hand to silence him, “Not now, let the attendants and healers first see what they can do for her.”

  “Can do for her!” Shabaka loudly demanded, again wanting to push past Moses. This time one of the guards came to Moses’ aid, blocking the path, which caused Shabaka to glare at Moses as he demanded, “but she is alive.”

  Again Moses seemed to hesitate, causing Shabaka to grab him by his shirt, demanding, “Is she alive?”

  “She is, just barely.”

  Shabaka’s eyes enlarged and he heatedly said, “We should have searched his place when we decoded her message.” And then he started pacing the hallway, “But, fool, I listened to you, when my instinct told me to go fetch her.”

  “It would not have made a difference,” Moses said, causing Shabaka to turn on him, anger evident in his eyes.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We don’t know what they gave her. The healers are still trying to figure it out. We could, I could, only tell them what we found with her . . .” Moses swallowed visibly fighting the desire to gag. “What was with her at the time.”

  “Ho–how do they know,” Shabaka hesitantly stated, “what she was given?”

  “They don’t, but she is not responding, it is like she is . . .” Moses started but fel
l silent.

  “She is?” Shabaka demanded.

  “It is like she . . . she is a shell, you know, she is here but there seems to be no life. She doesn’t move; she doesn’t respond; they cannot even get her to relax enough to straighten out her body. Her pain comes and goes, it is the only time you know she is still alive.”

  “I will kill him!” Shabaka exclaimed, “The self-importunate, self-righteous, bastard child! I’ll kill him. I swear I will pull him limb from limb!” Shabaka turned from Moses. “Just let me get my hands on him. He will think the dance festival was a swim in the river.”

  “Shabaka, wait!” Moses called after him, grabbing his arm, “You are in no condition to do anything, you are tired, concerned, and covered in fat, sweat, and blood. You need to rest first, have your injuries seen to. We know where to find him. I’ll send the captain to torture the answers out of him.”

  Shabaka made to object, but Moses again silenced him, “He will only tease you and anger you, he knows how to get under your skin, Let the captain at him, he will practice some restraint and not kill him.”

  Shabaka looked at Moses for several moments, before finally nodding.

  ~~~

  Neti remained curled in a little ball, it hurt less that way, she was aware of things happening around her, of people wiping her with soft rags, on someone prodding her, trying to get her to straighten out, but it was too painful. There were strange voices and the figures were out of focus. They were dark, and she wondered if this was what it felt like to be embalmed, to be captured in your own body while preparing for the afterlife.

  She was thankful that she had always been considerate of the dead, that she had always taken the utmost care in their preparation for the afterlife. These embalmers were still new to it she decided, one’s touch was soft as it washed her body, although she could not smell the scent of palm wine, the herbs appeared to be missing also.

  She did not mind, she was ready to go meet the gods. The darkness again rose up and this time she relaxed, allowed it to consume her, there was no pain in the darkness.