"Of Princes And Slaves"
Part 9
by Osiris Brackhaus & Beryll

 

"Oh... I didn't want to -"

I hadn't even noticed that somebody had opened the tentflap.
Looking up through the veil of tears that covered my eyes, I saw my owner's eldest sister in the brightly lit entrance, holding a small bundle in her hands. Trying to blink away the tears, I could see she was looking at me with something that could have been genuine concern.

"No, it's alright," I heard myself answer. "I'm just –"

A sob choked whatever stupid thing I had been about to say, and for whatever reason, my tears flowed freely again. This time, I really was crying.

"Has he hurt you?", his sister asked, obviously insecure about how to deal with the situation.

Had he hurt me? No, not really. But then – why did it hurt so much?

Jerkily shaking my head, I answered:

"No. Only – here."

Patting my chest above my heart for emphasis, I looked at her again, and in her eyes, I thought I could see a reflection of what she saw in me right then: A mere boy, beautiful but weak, naked except for his tears, sitting in the middle of her brother's tent, crying for no other reason but being heart-broken.
I could almost hear the two voices in her head disputing about what to do with me. One of them was telling her to chide me for my shameful behaviour, for not showing sufficient gratitude to her revered warrior brother and my owner. The other one told her to take me in her arms, to comfort a young man who was hurt so deeply he didn't mind her seeing his shameful tears.
She opted for neither suggestion, instead entering the tent completely, putting the bundle she had brought in front of my feet.

"I have brought you something to wear. You'll want to clean yourself, after your travel, I think, and your old clothes are of no use here."

Looking at what remained of the fine white skirt I had been wearing upon my arrival in this camp, I had to agree with her.
And a bath definitely sounded a good idea, for though I had not really checked upon my looks since Ardeth had captured me, I was pretty sure I didn't look much better than my old skirt.

So I tried to push away what happened this morning, securely closing the doors in mind I had hidden it behind.

With a last sob, I sobered up, turned at her and asked:

"Where can I take a bath?"

"A what?", she replied, obviously confused.

"A bath?" Still no reaction. "Where can I go to clean myself?"

She looked at me doubtingly, as if she couldn't believe someone of my age hadn't learned such simple basics of everyday life.

"Here, of course," she answered, not really sure if I wasn't joking.

But she saw in my face that I honestly had no idea what she was suggesting, and so she stood up with a soft sigh, fetched the water-bag and a piece of cloth out of a chest and knelt down besides me again. After pouring some water onto the cloth, she handed it to me.

I probably stared at her for quite a moment in disbelieving shock at what her gesture suggested. Cleaning oneself among these people included nothing but a wet rag?!
This was... quite understandable, I added a thought or two later. Water out here was so incredibly rare, they obviously wouldn't waste it on something so secondary as a bath. Probably they didn't even know what that was.
Now that would even explain the slightly appalled stares Ardeth had given me when he saw me submerge myself in my own little pool every morning.

With a soft sigh, I took the cloth, slowly beginning to wipe off the grime that had collected on my skin during the last days.

"What's your name?", the young woman asked softly, taking a rag herself to help me with my back.

"Nekhem."

"It means 'sweetheart', doesn't it?", she said with an audible smile.

"Yes, it does. Both my parents and the priests were very fond of me." Usually, talking about the name my parents had given me somewhat made me feel uneasy, but this time I only realised how much I missed them. Trying to find another subject, I asked:

"What is yours?"

"Rhesa. And I can see they did. You're very pretty."

Instead of an answer, I gave her a wry snort. After a while, she dropped her cloth and said:

"So, the rest you can do yourself. When you're finished, come to the day-tent. It's the huge, colorful one without sides, close to the main fireplace. My sisters can brush your hair, and there's enough sewing and mending to be done. Especially as my brother's clothes had been all given away when he –" Suddenly, she stopped, continuing sternly: "Well, he needs new ones, and you will help us. So don't dawdle here in the tent."

Turning around briskly, she stepped towards the tentflap, but I stopped her.

"Rhesa?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

For a moment, she looked as if my gratitude angered her, then her noble features softened and she said warmly:

"You're welcome, 'sweetheart'."

Giggling softly, she left the tent.

Maybe not all of my time here would be dreadful. Actually, after a while, I found myself looking forward to sit together with that chatty bunch of girls, though I admittedly never before had held a needle in my hands, let alone worked with one. But I was a crafty and bright boy, so I would pick up fast enough.

Maybe, I would even have a chance to learn some more about my owner, perhaps even gain a faint idea why he acted like he had this morning.

'Learning is growing,' High-Priestess Meret usually pointed out, and small as I felt, some growing definitely was called for.

So I finished my cleaning and tried to figure out how to wear this funny garb Rhesa had given me. Though after a while, I gave up, merely wrapping myself in the fabric, hoping the girls would help me dress appropriately.
Once out of the tent, I cursed the fact that she hadn't thought of bringing me any sandals, for again I found myself covering the distance with more hops and curses than actual steps. How did they manage to keep those stones all lying with their sharp side up in the sand?

Consequentially, I was greeted with mirthful laughter at the day-tent. Almost a dozen women of all ages were sitting together under the brightly colored canopy, all of them perfectly entertained by both my outfit and my awkward walk.

Immediately as I arrived among them, I was shouted directions on how to wear my garb, and though it was a loud and lively affair, I felt for sure no-one of them wanted to hurt me. Too contagious was their good humour, and soon I found myself laughing with them. Their happiness and familiarity among each other were such a relief after all the insecurity and gloom I had to stand lately.
So they told me how to wear the clothes of their people, I showed them the way I was used to wear kohl around my eyes, they started to show me how to sew.

Apart from the fact that I merely ignored my broken heart, it was a lovely day.
Until Ardeth returned.

----

Ardeth Bey (Oded Fehr)

Spirits of the night, what was wrong with me?

The hot orb of the sun hung high in the sky, beating down on my bare back in the ferocious will to burn me to ashes, but even that heat didn't help to sear the deeply imbedded feeling of impurity from my body.

I had been moving through the timeless forms of unarmed combat gracefully, perfectly for several hours, but my mind was not in them. I was not able to lose myself in them like I had done countless times before. I felt sullied. And though I adamantly refused to dwell on the reason for this, my mind brought back the images and feeling of this morning again and again.

What was wrong with me? Had the darkness dwelling in the stone cities taken root in my heart? Why did the bright sand only hold pain and sadness for me right now?

I had taken revenge, like I had envisioned. I was happy, right? I was happy now...

With a silent sigh I stopped in mid-movement and sank down onto the hot sand, bowing my head before the truth.

No, I was not happy.

I had been happy waking up with the princeling curled up in my arms trustfully like a child.

But the moment he had woken up and recoiled from my touch, darkness had descended on me like a choking blanket. Anger had stirred in my heart. Anger that he might flee what he had forced onto me. I had wanted to take him, wanted to gain control over his body just like he had ruled mine. I had been gentle. And still he had tried to run.

And then I had seen his eyes stare up at me full of fear, nearly brimming with tears, so bleak with despair. How much I hated him for making me feel like I did then. Making me feel like the monster I thought him to be. Every fiber of my soul had cried to just take him into my arms, to make it right, to stop hurting him.

But my seething rage had not allowed that. I had to see this through, could not show weakness before his fear, had to take that cursed 'revenge'. And it hadn't even felt good. Thrusting into him harder and harder to get done with it, to get away, to be able to run without losing more face.

I looked up at the bleached sky, a bitter laugh escaping me. What had I gotten myself into? What kind of cruel humor was this? Maybe I would have been better off killing him. A short hard pain for both of us and... yes... what then?

Looking at that possible future I felt a shiver run down my spine. Emptiness was what I saw there. An empty life without his stupid pride.

"It is not true." I told the desert. "He means nothing to me. He is the reason for my suffering. It is all his fault."

Yes, it all was his fault. And still I was not able to hate him for this anymore. He had not consciously 'tried' to make me love him after all...

My shout of helpless rage disturbed a couple of vultures who had been resting on a stone nearby. They circled a couple of times, their croaking hoarse and angry, before they settled back down.

And with them, my thoughts settled as well.

---

I heard his voice from the day-tent, carrying on the slight breeze that stirred the hot afternoon. So different from the higher voices of the girls he was chatting with. It felt like sweet water from a deep well. So cheerful, so without doubt or pain that I felt a twinge of jealousy.

At least he was not as hurt as I had feared he would be. So he might even be able to forgive what I was about to do to him now.

I walked over to my cousin's tent, where he sat in the shade, sharpening a needle. He was the one who made the tattoos among our tribe.

"Greetings, Matouf." I said and he smiled up at me.

"What can I do for you?" he asked curiously.

"I want you to mark my slave for me." I answered and hunching down next to him. "With this." I continued and started to sketch a design in the sand next to him.

He started at it with growing uneasiness. "Are you sure you want this?" he asked, his voice showing more than a hint of disapproval.

"Absolutely." I smiled at him brightly. "But do not tell him what it means." Then I got back up, brushing sand from my knees. "I'll go and get him..."

---

- Prince Nekhem (Orli) -

Laughing and chatting with the girls truly was a relieve to my sore heart. So much like our girls at home, and yet so immensely different.
Men were an important subject among them, as apparently everywhere, either to desire or despise, sometimes both. Most of the sentences I quoted from Our Lady's Priestess Meret evoked gleeful outbursts of approval and unrestrained laughter.
And yet, it was strange to me witnessing how much pride they took in the work of their hands, in how fine their seams or how sturdy their sheaths were, whereas knowledge apparently was only cherished in so far as it concerned their crafts. No-one knew that wearing kohl prevented eyes from getting infected, or that oranges, onions and lemons kept your gums from bleeding. Simple things like that were half-guessed, vague ideas in the heads of some old women at best, and it irritated me to be among people who by all appearances could lead a fulfilled life without all the learnings and cultural trappings my people considered the foundation of everything.

All my life I had been told that a great civilization needed religion and science, to be based on piety and knowledge.
Well, these people around me didn't live a great civilization, but they were happy none the less. Why then bother?
And if our believes were wrong in so far as much of what we learned or considered necessary was pretty much based on personal preferences – what else might have been wrong? Apart from the teachings of our Lady Isis, I learned to question close to everything in my former education.

And I learned quite a lot about these people, maybe even more than they would have guessed. Bit by bit, I pieced together some rough idea of their beliefs, learned how their families were connected, how marriages were planned and disputes settled before they ever reached the ears of the local chieftain.
I learned that my owner was not so unlike a prince in his own right, being the eldest son of the chieftain, his sister Rhesa acting like a princess anyway. I wondered how the women at the palace at Theben would react if I confronted them with this 'barbarian girl' who bore herself with more poise and determination than they would ever be able to.

And I learned about their concept of honor.
A lot suddenly made sense when I took into consideration the way these people lived. Without elaborate medical care, a wounded warrior was far more of a liability than a hero, and it was little wonder that dying in battle was considered above surviving wounded.
A warrior out here in the desert could not fight without a horse, so obviously healthy horses were of utmost importance to the tribe and its men, maybe even more so than having riches or many wives. And as warrior was always responsible for the training and care for his own steed, judging a man by his horse was not a superstitious animalistic ritual, but a relevant measure of his skill and diligence.
Well, not necessarily always so, I mentally added with a soft snicker.

It was intriguing how much things could change as soon as one looked at them from another point of view.

Ardeth's sisters were particularly happy as they noticed how fast I was able to pick up what they told me, and soon I found myself charged with repairing loose seams of apparently countless of their dark robes.
A few hours after I arrived at the day-tent, a passer-by wouldn't have noticed anything out of the ordinary at my presence. Sitting there among the women of the tribe, I was sewing silently, adding my bit to the unceasing chatter as often as not, being treated by all of them like just one more pair of nimble, industrious hands. And as a friend, maybe.
Only Rhesa sometimes was rather reserved towards me. Though after a while, I was pretty sure this stemmed from her conviction that, as the chieftain's eldest daughter, she had to watch out for all the customs to be respected, which apparently included not to talk about her brother's time among my people or to question his use of his new slave.
Not that I would have liked to, no, I stayed as far away from the subject as possible. And it helped, for I could almost convince myself I was happy here.

"She really said so?", one of the woman asked me with a chuckle.

"Of course!", I answered, adding in a conspiring voice, "And then she leaned close to me, saying: 'Listen, Princeling, the only REAL –"

"You are not a prince!", a girl of no more than thirteen years blared merrily, only to receive a short but distinctive slap in the neck from her sister Rhesa. The girl apparently was the youngest of my owner's many sisters, and a constant one-person turmoil.

"I know," I answered smiling, "I am not. But I was then. And the Priestess said: 'Listen, Princeling, the only real problem women have ever had – "

"Too many sisters?", Ardeth's youngest sister squealed again, this time being immediately jumped by the girl next to her, very effectively gagging the young distraction with the scarf she had been working on.

"Go on, she'll be quiet for a few moments now," the girl said mirthfully, grinning at the playful struggle of her 'victim'.

Smiling widely, I went on:

"So the priestess said: 'The only REAL problem women have ever had, to be honest, are men.'"

Cajoling laughter and ear-splitting zachrits, the high-pitched, almost bird-like yells of the desert-women, rewarded my little tale. Apparently, they all agreed whole-heartedly with Meret's conviction.
The girl released Ardeth's sister, only to tell her what I had said, both girls joining the laughter.

'Good Lady Isis,' I thought with a wry grin, 'if this is how they react to such harmless sentences – what will they say if I tell them the dirty parts?'

For a while, no-one in the day-tent really spoke, but there was a constant low chuckle in the air as every woman present had her own thoughts about the subject, snickering softly to herself whenever she stumbled over a particularly funny or nasty idea.

Yet despite the mirth, silence fell like a heavy blanket on our small group as a shadow announced the arrival of someone who usually had no business among us. For a moment, no word was spoken, and I didn't even have to look over my shoulder to know who was standing at the day-tent's entrance.
Ardeth, my owner, and the man I loved. And therefor the only man who could really hurt me, as he had already proven.

"Come on, Princeling," I heard him say mockingly, "There's someone you have to meet."

Nodding a brief goodbye to the women around me, I obeyed, unable to lift my gaze higher than his heels.
What did he want of me now? Another, mindlessly cruel joke on his side? Different work?

He led me to one of the tents somewhere at the rear of the camp, presenting me to an elderly man who was sitting in the shade, smoking some kind of pipe. I could see his fingers were stained with some dark color, though I could not figure out why.

"Here, Matouf," Ardeth explained, "This is the slave I have been talking about."

"Come here!", the man ordered, gesturing me to kneel down in front of him so he could better have a look at me. "What a pretty boy," Matouf said after he had thoughtfully studied my face for a while. "And you're still sure about this?"

"I am not a man who changes his mind in a matter of minutes, Matouf, and you should know that."

What was going on here? What wanted Ardeth the man to do to me?

Now looking straight at my owner, Matouf added:

"You know it can't be removed, not unless we slice his skin off."

"Now will you do it or not? You're wasting my time, cousin."

"I just want to make sure you're not wasting MY time. This is very serious, what you're asking of me here."

"I know it's serious," Ardeth replied in a surprisingly soft voice. "That's the whole point."

Matouf studied my owner for a moment longer, then nodded silent approval, dismissing Ardeth with a gesture of his hand. And my former slave left, hesitantly, but without a word, and left me alone with this man I had never seen before.

"So," Matouf began after a while, cleaning his pipe. "Now let's see how we're going to do this..."

"Do what?", I asked, somewhat angry about the fear that showed in my voice.

"He didn't tell you?", Matouf asked surprised. "Well, could have guessed that myself. I'm Matouf, and I am the one who does all the markings of our tribe."

Slowly, I gathered a faint idea of what I had to expect from my unexpected visit to Matouf's tent, yet I asked anyway:

"These paintings in your face? Those that don't come off?"

The man only nodded silently, rummaging in a large chest behind his back, bringing out a neat bundle of cloth-wrapped tools I had never seen before.

"He wants you to mark me, is it?", I asked, slow anger burning in my stomach.

Again, Matouf only nodded, unwrapping his tools, carefully checking each of them, cleaning them.

"What's he going to mark me as?"

"Ardeth asked me not to tell you, so you'll have to ask him yourself."

Gradually, I felt anger rise in my throat like a tide, slow but unstoppable. Why this completely unnecessary ritual? Hadn't I satisfied him this morning? Was it still not enough that I had given myself to him, accepted him with as much grace as I could bring up?
I never before had thought of him as being so, - so mean.
How could he dare do this to me? How could he think marking me as his property for all to see would make me – actually, what?
There was absolutely no use in this barbarian act, none at all, however much I tried to understand his motives.

"Now, boy, come closer," Matouf said calm and professionally. "Let me have a closer look at your face."

My face?! He wanted me to be marked as a slave in my FACE?

"NO!", I yelled, jumping away from the man kneeling in front of me. "You will NOT mar my face, not in a hundred years!"

I didn't mind these desert-people running around with dark letters in their faces, but if ever I wanted to return to my people, I must not be disfigured in such a demeaning way! Even if no-one would be able to read their language, all would see the barbarian script that would place me among them. The signs that would make me a slave among my own people.

"So what's your problem, little boy?", Matouf asked angrily. "All members of our tribe wear their markings open for all to see, and so you will as well."

"I won't," I snapped back, anger and fear burning within me. He mustn't mark me as a slave, not among my people! How could he do this to me?

Trying a desperate run to escape, I turned around on my heels, only to stare into the dark wall of a man's chest behind me.

"Is that little minx giving you trouble, Matouf?", the man said. He must have sneaked up behind me when he heard our little dispute, and though I knew I had little chances, I tried to dodge his hands and get away from him.
Of course, the man managed to get hold of the billowing folds of my garb, and with a single motion, he pulled me back, flinging me onto the sandy ground next to Matouf. Snarling with annoyance, the elder man said:

"Hold him down as long as I work on him, will you? Can't have that touchy slave ruin my work..."

Vainly, I struggled against the man trying to fix me on the ground, but as soon as another of the desert-men joined him, I gave up. One of them was now kneeling on my hands, the other one pinned down my feet to the ground.

With a wry grin, Matouf came to me, sitting down in the sand next to my shoulder.

"Well, pretty-boy," he said with hardly veiled spite, "Now that's been a short century, hasn't it?"

Carefully placing his tools next to my head and onto my chest, he added grimly:

"And I advise you not to move your head while I'm working. It would only ruin my work. And your face."

I swallowed down whatever stupid answer my anger tried to come up with. Why, by Horus, had I been so stupid to attempt to flee? Why did I have to fight? Maybe there would have been a chance for negotiation, maybe I could have convinced Ardeth of another way to express his ownership to my body.
Now his people would make sure I was properly marked merely not to lose any more honor than they already had at the hands of this impossible slave.
A sudden sob broke out of me, and I realised with confusion that I was close to tears. I was afraid, yes, but not of the pain this antiquated ritual would surely inflict, but of losing my last hope of returning to my people as a free man.

Ardeth was deliberately destroying all my chances of ever going home again, and I couldn't see why he did so. How could I have missed that he had such a vengeful streak? Why did he have to be that cruel?

Matouf knelt above me, examining my face with calm professionality, carefully testing the skin below my right eye. Then he tool some dark liquid and thoroughly painted this area of my face, softly humming to himself.

The pain of the knowledge that I would never be able again to face my family without shame was burning in my chest, and I felt like crying out lest I would burst of the despair.

Holding some kind of stick in each of his hands, one of them with a tiny needle on its end, both of them stained with the same color than the one in my face, Matouf said softly:

"Now don't move. It's gonna hurt."

And it did hurt.
Using the second stick like a minute hammer, he used the needle to pierce my skin again and again, swiftly, concentratedly.

I knew that with each single tiny blow, the mark in my face grew bigger, harder to conceal, and so my pain grew as well.
The thought of my mother's face was owerwhelming, her eyes full of shocked disbelief at my face, her joy of seeing me return destroyed at the fact that my face was marked as being one of the barbarian tribesmen, turning away in grief for her lost son.

I didn't move, nor did I cry out, but I could feel tears running down my face again in silent lines.

No more sanctuary in the temple of our Lady Isis. Shunned for the rest of my life from Lady Meret's soothing wisdom. Never again would I be allowed to share the secrets of Bast or the knowledge of Ptah.
Each prick of the needle severed more of my life from me than any axe could have done.

A long while ago, I had closed my eyes, and the ordeal seemed to last forever.

The agony in my heart and the pain in my face blended together, until I could hardly distinguish between them.

"Hey, pretty-boy!", I heard Matouf's voice, sounding remote and vaguely irrelevant. "Hey, you! It's over!"

It took me a while to register that the hammering pain in my face actually had stopped, only a throbbing ache reminding me of what had happened.
Couldn't I just lie here? Sooner or later, I would be allowed to drift in to sweet oblivion. I didn't want to face my disfigurement, nor the people who had inflicted it on me. And less of all, I wanted to confront the man who had ordered it.

But I couldn't.
I had to go on, had to do anything. For even if I would never be able to enter the temples of Theben, or seek counsel with one of their priests, I still had the gods watching me.
Watching to see if I would learn the lesson they prepared for me.
If ever I die, I reminded myself grimly, I just bloody hope for them they come up with a very good explanation. Even if they burn my body to cinders, I will make sure my voice will be heard in the afterlife. I am the son of Osiris, after all, the blessed child of Isis and revered scholar of both Bast and Ptah, and I will not let the gods get away with silly games.

Opening my eyes with a somehow fierce resolution, I managed to sound rather composed despite the teary face I was presenting.

"Can I - can I have a mirror?", I asked Matouf as I sat up, looking straight at him.

Wordlessly, he handed me a polished brazen disk, and I was surprised to see something like confused empathy in his face, though it was mixed with disagreement as well.

The two men had let go of my limbs, and both of them were staring at me with a weird combination of irritation and disbelief.

Taking in a deep breath, I forced myself to look into the mirror, and I had to stifle a wail of anger as I saw what they had done to me.
Dark as the night sky, reddened by the constant violation of my skin, I was now wearing one of their barbarian symbols on my right cheekbone. Whatever they might see in the fact of marking themselves, I felt defiled, soiled.

How could he do this to me? What did he think to achieve this way?

"Thank you," I said to Matouf with as much grace as I could come up with as I handed him back his mirror. "Is there anything else you need me for, or can I go now?"

"No."

The elderly man seemed genuinely insecure of what to think of all this. Good, I thought, maybe his bad conscience would haunt him until the rest of his life.

"Just come back every other day so I can check on it, we'll have to take care it doesn't infect."

"If my master allows, I will.", I answered with a slight inclination of my head, silently chuckling how much I suddenly sounded like my headstrong barbarian slave when I was still a prince.

Matouf dismissed me with a gesture and a nod, and I walked away slowly.
Where should I go now? Back to my owner's tent?

I did so, but he wasn't there.

But I could see everyone I passed staring at me wide-eyed, their faces so funnily indecisive if to show repulsion or happy surprise. Maybe it will take far longer than just a morning at the day-tent to figure out what these weird people think.

So after a moment of feeling damaged and useless, I decided to walk back to the day-tent. Maybe the women there would at least be able to explain what this mark in my face was supposed to mean.

And the reactions of the women partially rewarded me for the burning anger I felt inside.
All of them stared at me in shock, Rhesa actually had to stifle a surprised cry behind her hand.

"How could he dare!", an elderly woman exclaimed in exasperation, and infuriated as I felt inside, I replied snappily:

"I don't know. Ask your bloody hero why he thinks this funny."

"Don't you talk of him like that", Rhesa barked, but immediately I heard myself retort:

"Or what? You gonna treat me like a slave? Or will you brand me like cattle the next time?"

"How can you be so - ," Rhesa started to reply but broke off in mid-sentence. There was some hard thinking going on behind her regal face, I could see that. After a moment, she asked: "Do you have any idea of what my brother has marked you as, Nekhem?"

Shrugging grimly, I answered:

"I suppose it's some claim of ownership. But he's told Matouf not to tell me. So I'm still guessing."

"Well, it is some sort of claim - ", the elderly woman said, but was cut off by Rhesa saying with a glare in her general direction:

"But if he wants to tell you on his own, it's not our place to do so."

For a moment or two, there was nothing but uneasy silence among the women, most of them staring at my face in open disbelief.

Whatever Ardeth had had permanently inscribed to my cheek, it apparently was something so low it made even these chat-birds speechless.

"Well," Rhesa said with a soft sigh as the silence grew oppressive, "Apparently my brother has done the only honorable thing."

Grinning wryly at the fact that I was still awkwardly standing at the fringe of their little group, she added with a gesture towards the pile of clothes I had abandoned earlier this day:

"Now get back to work, Nekhem. There's still quite a lot to learn."

Yes, apparently there was. And it was a heavy lot.

 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Osiris Brackhaus & Beryll

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