The Prince of Nubia Page 4
The man shook his head, “I don’t know. A man outside the stoneworks was asking for a friend of mine.”
Shabaka glared at the old man.
“Honest. I told him my friend was on his day off so he asked me if I would like to make a quick debben. It’s not every day a man gets a month’s wages for running an errand. So I agreed.”
“Without asking what was needed?” Shabaka asked, astonished.
“I did ask, and he showed me the length of fabric. He said I had to deliver it to the prince at the palace, and tell him something. I can’t remember what now. It seemed simple.”
“This man has a name?”
“I told you I didn’t ask; it was only a piece of fabric.”
“And has he already paid you?” Shabaka asked.
“Yes, he told me they would know if I delivered it, but I don’t know what that means.”
Shabaka simply nodded and turned to the guard, “Detain for the evening, and be on the lookout for anyone seeking him.”
“You cannot do that! I have a wife and children.”
“You should have thought of that before agreeing to be a messenger,” Shabaka countered. Turning to the guard, he demanded, “You will escort him to the stone yard in the morning and investigate the area. Take him away!”
Shabaka turned from them, clenching the fabric tightly. He already knew what the men returning from the desert would report to him. He knew she was possibly still alive. However, the questions that concerned him the most were for how long and what did they want in return?
Chapter Four
Shabaka looked at the various sashes that hung together. Collectively they depicted the three avenues of his life. Lifting his hand, he ran his fingers over the intricate patterns on Neti’s sash and swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. It was the avenue that gave him the strongest purpose, the one that was the easiest to embrace. He traced the patterns of the sash. He had always meant to ask her where she had gotten all her colors woven into one. That made it so much simpler, as there was no need to contemplate which sash was more appropriate for the occasion, or necessitating the need to wear several at once.
His hand moved to one of his own sashes, that of the kingdom, his birthright. Although he had never resented it, it posed too many limitations. One would think that as a prince he would have the freedom to do whatever, yet he was stuck with duties, responsibilities. People looked to his father, brothers, and him for guidance, as was their custom. Another was that of the pharaoh, an avenue he had willingly embraced, even without knowing what it entailed. And even with all that had happened, he would not change a single thing, even if he could.
Yet, with every day that passed without word of Neti, without knowing if she was alive, it seemed more distant. He even questioned whether he would continue if she were dead, but found himself unwilling to answer that, unwilling to contemplate the possibility. The simple thought that she might be . . . he could not even bring himself to think it, it made his stomach churn, leaving him feeling sick.
He was expected at the morning meal, a meal he had neither desire nor appetite to consume. He drew in a deep breath to counter the sense of desolation that filled him, and his hand shifted to the sash he had no desire to wear. He was stalling before leaving his quarters. He had no desire to enter yet another day of arrangements, of appearing unaffected by matters, when his desire was to be elsewhere, to be doing something, seeking her. However, it seemed as if the world had somehow opened and swallowed her, along with those responsible for her disappearance.
Several days had passed since Neti’s sash had been brought to him and nothing more had happened. No one had come forward to demand any ransom, none to claim any involvement or expecting recompense for information. There were also none among the palace guards whom he could task with seeking information about the matter, or those involved, since everyone knew the palace staff and would demand recompense for information. Recompense that he had no right to authorize.
He also knew that even if he could, even if he had the authority, it would take the informers several moons before they managed to establish themselves and earn the trust of those they sought information from. He remembered how long it had taken him to become acquainted with Thebes and to build up a group of people who could supply him with information . . . and, even then, most of it had been useless. Had it not been for Neti and her discovery, he would never have learned how the gems had been moved within and from the city. There simply was no time to allow for such action, he had hoped that with Moses’ arrival, they could come up with a better solution. Yet he knew it would be several more days, days that seemed to stretch on for eternity, before Moses would arrive.
Shabaka’s hand hovered over the sash, the one he had little desire to wear, when a knock sounded. He clenched his hand in response, knowing that it would be one of the palace footmen, who had come to summon him to the morning meal.
“Come in,” Shabaka grumpily said, turning toward the door.
A young messenger hesitantly entered the room and Shabaka tilted his head at the boy’s appearance, wondering as to why he had been sent instead of Azez. Shabaka recognized the boy as one of the newer runners and finally shook his head. He knew he had not been that boorish, thus knew that whatever information the young man had to relay, it was not something any of the others felt comfortable with. For a moment he thought it might be about Neti, but then realized that the messenger would have been accompanied by guards. The runner shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hesitantly looking about him. The actions alone had Shabaka’s entire body stiffen, and still the runner did not say anything.
“What is it?” Shabaka asked, as the boy seemed to gather his composure and start to lower to his knee. The young man quickly righted himself and visibly swallowed, before speaking, “There . . . is a . . . a problem,”
Even though Shabaka wanted to demand from the young man to spit it out, he waited, taking a deep breath and clenching his hands, watching—apparently calm—as the boy continued.
“We, the palace, was notified, eh, notified that there is a problem at the, um, at the storage house.”
Shabaka released his pent-up breath. Although it was not the news that he had desired, or that which he had feared, the situation, like so many others, was a nuisance. He had no desire to settle meager conflicts, as it had never been his responsibility. It was his father’s and his brother’s duty, but he replied, disinterested, “Which storage house?”
The young man seemed to stand taller at his response and answered his request with more certainty, “It is the traders’ storage house.”
Shabaka looked at the young boy, tilting his head some, before replying, “But that is a matter for Bergi or Gamez to attend to, not me.”
The boy cleared his throat before he continued, “The traders have demanded the presence of the palace, or they say they will burn it down.”
Shabaka shook his head, his shoulders drooping. He could not understand the tendency of some to want to burn and destroy everything. It was something of his people he could not understand. Many moons could be spent establishing something and they would destroy it in a moment of unrest. And then they would expect that matters would return to normal the following day.
He turned his attention from the boy, reaching for his royal sash, it seemed that the gods had decided his path for that day. The messenger shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched Shabaka prepare. Shabaka turned his attention toward him and said, “Run and summon the captain of the medjay, I will need assistance. Have them ready my chariot.”
The boy remained where he stood, causing Shabaka to frown. ‘I gave you an instruction!”
The messenger hesitated for a moment, but stood his ground before speaking, “Bergi said he would arrange them, that I was to wait on you.”
The boy’s words caused Shabaka to hesitate, to think for a moment. Bergi had a great influence on matters at the palace, even he had succumbed to Bergi�
��s advice. Moreover, the fact that the young man would give preference to Bergi’s instructions over his own felt wrong. However, Shabaka nodded, before gesturing for the young man to precede him.
As they walked down the passage toward the assembly courtyard, Shabaka thought back to when he and Neti had arrived in Sylene, and tried to remember every interaction he had had with the man. He understood the relevance of the man’s position and, in his father’s absence, Bergi was responsible for the management of the kingdom, yet he could not help question the man’s intentions. Although he could not fault his actions, they had been appropriate and just, or seemed such.
As Shabaka stepped into the courtyard, he concluded that he would have to be more observant of the man’s actions, and first moderate his advice, especially that involving matters surrounding Neti.
Shabaka approached his already waiting chariot, looking at the small gathered group of medjay who were to accompany him. He looked them over before demanding, “Where are your horses?”
The captain stepped forward, “We were told they would not be needed.”
“And how much use do you think they would be, running to the storage houses?”
The man looked at him for a moment before nodding his head and turning toward the gathered men, instructing them to go collect their horses.
On hearing the instruction, Bergi stepped forward, “But the horses are only supposed to be used—”
Shabaka caught him short and firmly replied, “If there is one thing the Egyptian pharaoh taught me, it is that the quickest way to separate a crowd is to charge down on them with horses.”
“But what—”
“Enough,” Shabaka firmly spoke, “You have tasked me with this matter and I will handle it in the best manner I see fit, and that means the horses go with us.” Shabaka then turned to the runner, “Tell the captain I will meet him at the cavalry gate; we go from there,” before stepping onto his chariot taking the reins from the footman and guiding his horses out of the courtyard.
~~~~~
Even before they reached the storage house, Shabaka could hear the uproar of the people. The crowds gave way to the medjay riders, and he followed them to where one man was shouting demands. As they progressed through the gathered crowd, the people fell silent.
He calmly pulled up his chariot and handed the reins to one of the medjay, before calmly disembarking from his chariot, another thing he had learned from Ramesses was to approach a situation with calm. He walked right up to the man who appeared to be the instigator.
“What is the problem here?” Shabaka calmly spoke, watching the man.
“You see, the palace will yield to your demands,” the man called out to the crowd, who murmured among themselves.
“The palace has not yielded to any of your demands,” Shabaka firmly spoke, only those closest could hear him and fell silent. “I have no idea even what you are talking about.” Shabaka turned toward the crowd sweeping his hand over them in a gesture, “I have no idea what this is for.”
The man’s eyes narrowed moments before he again rattled off, “Your interests are not safe here!”
The chant caused everyone to shout in unison.
Shabaka turned to the gathered masses and lifted his hands and within moments they grew silent, before he spoke, “I can only address a matter if I know what the cause is.” Then he turned back to the man, “And seeing as you appear to be the person in command of this situation, I would expect you to inform me.”
The man seemed hesitant for a moment, first looking at Shabaka and then at the crowd. It was a situation not wholly unfamiliar to Shabaka, he had watched Ramesses several times deal with such situations, which were often easily diffused when the instigator was singled out.
The man then pulled himself up to his full height before boldly saying, “The makers want their goods back.”
Shabaka thought it over for several moments, having familiarized himself with the system while resolving Dragi’s matters, and then calmly replied, “But according to what I know, the creators have been paid for these wares.”
Shabaka’s response was obviously not what the man wanted to hear, and he was quick to counter, “Paid, ha! It was a mere token of what the traders sell them for!”
“Then I suggest we contact the storage house scribe for records.”
“What does it matter? He will only side with you, not the traders, as he is here to ensure that your father gains a lot more from these goods than the people who make them.”
“Summon the scribe. I want clarification on the matter,” Shabaka said, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
The people murmured among themselves as they awaited the arrival of the scribe.
“I will expect you to better acquaint me with this matter,” Shabaka said as the scribe arrived.
“Yes, my prince,” the man said, bowing some before continuing. “It appears that as some people learn about the circumstances surrounding Dragi’s death, certain members,” the man emphasized the last word as he looked on Shabaka’s other side, “have decided to take advantage of the confusion it has caused.”
Shabaka frowned at that and then asked, “But the traders have been paid their price.”
The man seemed hesitant, “Well, not all of it, my prince.”
“And they will not allow us traders access to the goods,” someone within the crowd shouted, causing Shabaka to turn toward the onlookers.
He said, “If you wish to be heard, then step forward and speak up, do not shout from the masses like a coward.”
Within moments there was movement within the crowd and a man, his face ragged from the sun and travel, stepped forward, firmly decreeing, “I am no coward.”
“That I see, humble man,” Shabaka replied, before turning toward the scribe, “What is the matter here?”
“We do not know how to continue or how things will now be managed,” the scribe hesitantly replied. “We do not know if we have the authority to continue to trade.”
“The makers want their goods back, if they are not going to trade. Then we as creators will barter our own goods.”
Several encouraging shouts followed, and Shabaka fought the desire to simply demand the man’s compliance and leave, his insistence of riling the crowds made any worthwhile discussion difficult.
Shabaka turned to the scribe, “Other than the pieces that have not been bartered for, have all the others received their goods in exchange?”
The man quickly nodded.
Shabaka turned his attention toward the other man, “The solution is simple enough, makers who have not received goods in exchange for theirs are welcome to take them back and barter them elsewhere, there is no restriction on trade,” Shabaka turned his attention to the scribe, “To my knowledge, the management of the storage house is the responsibility of the palace.”
The man nodded.
“That means that its continuance also rests with the palace, so there will be no change as to the running thereof. The shutties and traders will be allowed access to the goods with immediate effect. Any trader or maker not happy with this arrangement need not use the storage house for their business. They can seek their goods and materials elsewhere.”
Shabaka then turned his attention back to the trader, before looking at the crafter, “I think you will find that a solution to the problem.”
The man made to object, however, Shabaka stopped him simply by lifting his hand, before turning toward the gathered crowd, “Is there anyone opposed to the continuance of trade as it has been?”
There was no objection from the onlookers, and Shabaka turned his attention toward the instigator, “I consider this matter resolved then.”
The man meekly nodded before returning to the gathered crowd.
Shabaka then turned toward the scribe, “I want identification marks made next to every record of goods traded from today on. I have a feeling this will not be the last argument we will have on the matter; that man is spoiling for a fight.”
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With that, the crowd of onlookers started dispersing.
“I would not just concern myself with the creators as much,” the aged trader spoke up. Shabaka heard a threat in the words and turned toward him, taking in the heavy garment the man wore, along with the well-worn grass sandals, mentally calculating the threat. The man, however, seemed too calm to have meant the words in a threatening manner.
“Explain.” Shabaka demanded.
“We all know the son too well.”
Shabaka’s forehead marred, not understanding what the man meant. “Whose son?” Shabaka demanded.
“Dragi’s,” the man calmly replied, “as both traders and crafters know the boy’s desire for status, they fear his interference in the matter.”
“How can that be?” Shabaka asked, looking toward the scribe. “According to my knowledge, my father has since taken responsibility for the storage house.”
“That is so, my prince,” the scribe quickly replied.
Shabaka turned to the trader, “Explain your reasoning.”
“Handing the storage house over to your father was the most astute thing Dragi could have done,” the man stated. “I have no knowledge whether his son knows anything about the matter, however, if he does, you can be certain he would lay claim to it, that is what both creators and traders fear.”
“How do you know this?”
“I sit around the fires; I talk to the others. There has been no clarity about the matter, however, everyone will now be more at ease.”
Shabaka turned to the scribe. “Ensure those records are kept. I will have to discuss this matter with my father. The entirety of Dragi’s matters have not yet been settled; there are still matters that require my father’s assessment.”
The man nodded.
Shabaka took leave of them and returned to his chariot. He had no desire to consider Dragi’s matters, everything surrounding them made him irritable. Yet he could not dismiss the man’s words from his mind. Foolishly he realized he had failed to get the man’s name.