Cairo Surrender Ch 03 04

Chapter Three: The Darkest Hour

When Michael came to, he was still being carried by the hands of more than one ruffian. The dulling of the sensitivity to his eyes told him that they had entered a darkened area—cool, and damp. The contrast with the dry heat of the Cairo streets, even at night, seemed incongruous to him unless, of course, they were somewhere near the banks of the Nile. He was being carried bumpily down stairs that he discerned were stone from the hollow sound of the flapping feet. He heard the sound of rusty metal grating on metal, he was laid, not too gently, down on a hard surface. Hands were pulling at cloth while he was being released from his bindings—and not just the rough cloth covering he'd been swathed in but his white suit and shirt and shoes and socks as well, down to his linen drawers. Nearly last to come off was the cloth over his head, and with a painful jerk, the binding over his mouth was ripped away. His eyes were having difficulty focusing. He felt the air current and the feet flapping of the withdrawing figures—and then the heavy slam of the door and the rasping of a bolt being shot home.

The light was dim, but bright enough that he caught no glimpse of his assailants before his eyes adjusted to the glare.

He found himself in a square stone-walled, stone-floored cell of dimensions of perhaps eighteen by eighteen feet. There was a single horizontal window opening high on the wall opposite the door. The opening was barred, and he could tell that day had broken because a beam of light, thick with dust particles almost too dense to see through, flooded into the room from the window and lit up a narrow cot placed against the wall to his right. His eyes then went immediately to the far corner of the room to the left, where he saw a square indent in the floor with a circular hole toward the back corner. Above this area was suspended a cistern with a heavy rope hanging down. He reasoned at once what the hole was for and also what the cistern was for. You pulled on the rope and the cistern tipped and water cascaded on anyone standing in the indenture. And the hole was large enough for other purposes as well.

Against the wall to the left was a crude wooden table with uneven legs and two squat stools, also with uneven legs. Above the level of the rude furnishings and set at intervals high on the walls all around the chamber were heavy black iron rings from which short chains ending in manacles dangled. Michael shuddered at the realization of what these were and what purpose this chamber must once have served—unless, of course, it still served that purpose.

Michael sat up on the floor, rubbed his chaffed wrists with his hands, and was unsuccessful in stifling a whimper.

"Ah, company. How nice. I was beginning to think I'd have to entertain myself."

Michael's head jerked up, seeking out the seemingly disembodied voice in what he initially had thought was, beyond him, an empty cell. The voice was a musical baritone, rich in texture, a touch of amusement completely out of place in these surroundings. The accent British, but a slight touch of something else too. But refined, carefully modulated.

He peered through the dust particles in the beam of light from the window and barely discerned movement there, from what he now could see was a second cot, set against the wall opposite the door.

The figure stirred, arose, and materialized through the dust particles. It was a man—a familiar man—an Egyptian. Of average stature and perhaps in his thirties, both of which surprised Michael, because the last time he had seen the man, he had appeared bigger than life and older—more mature.

And the last time Michael had seen him, descending the stairs at the Gentlemen's Dining Room at Shepheard's, commanding the attention of all those present, he also had been elegantly dressed in black silk evening clothes.

Now, like Michael, he was stripped down to linen drawers. And now he was more mysterious, more Egyptian, more feral than he had seemed before. He was dusky skinned and had magnificent musculature. Black curly hair—everywhere—from the crown of his head to his tightly clipped beard, down the line of his chest. And then on down, in a wide band running down his clavicle and ribs and flat belly and into the low-slung waistband of his drawers. His legs were hairiest of all. And what came to Michael's mind immediately were the images of satyrs he'd seen in books—so much so that his eyes descended to the man's feet, half expecting to see cloven hooves, but seeing instead long feet with long, plump, sensuous toes.

Michael shuddered and felt warm inside—without knowing why.

"Come, let me help you up," the man said as he moved to Michael.

Michael said nothing; he moaned and reflexively shrank away.

"Come. I won't harm you. We're both in the same pickle it would appear. And . . . don't I know you from somewhere? Have we met?"

"No. I've just arrived in Cairo," Michael said. It started in a croak, but then he realized that he was able to speak without his voice wavering. "I don't know anyone here," Michael continued. "I don't know why I'm here. It must be some sort of mistake."

"Everything in Cairo is a mistake," the man said somewhat wistfully. "But surely I've seen you."

"Last night. At Shepheard's. We were dining in the same room. My name's Michael. Michael Powell. American. I am just passing through. On my way to Karnak. The young pharaoh's tomb, you know. What's his name?"

"Tutankhamun, the boy pharaoh," the man said helpfully.

"Yes, that's him," Michael mumbled.

"Come, Mr. American Michael Powell. My name is Rushdy. Come let me help you up. I won't bite—at least not yet."

Michael gave him a sharp look, which Rushdy Abazar answered with a lopsided "I was just kidding" smile. Abazar reached his hand down, and Michael tentatively raised his and Abazar helped him rise to his feet.

"You can have whichever cot you want," Abazar said. "I only beat you in here by about an hour. I don't feel proprietary yet regarding any of these luxurious amenities."

Once again that smile, and Michael gave a tentative smile back, although it was through a haze of forming teardrops.

"Where are we? Why are we here? What's going to happen?" Michael had moved to the cot outlined by the beam of sunlight from the window opening high on the wall and collapsed on the thin mattress in despair.

"Such a lot of questions," Abazar said, retreating back to the other cot and sitting down. "I can answer one of them and perhaps make a good guess as to the rest. You have come to Cairo at a bad time, my lad. It's a pity you could not have come a few years ago. It's a glorious place, it really is. I would have enjoyed showing you around."

Abazar's words, given in a calm voice, clearly trying to soothe the young man, remained unremarked, so he continued. "As to where we are. In a prison cell, of course. Not the government's cells, to be sure. This is the virtual lap of luxury when set against those. This one is clear and doesn't smell of rot—at least yet. And as far as a location on earth, I am fairly certain we are somewhere in Heliopolis, a suburb of Cairo, along the Nile."

"How? How do you surmise this?" the youth asked, drawn in by the soothing, rich voice of the satyr, an image he just couldn't get out of his mind and that was assaulting him with mixed sensations of fear and interest.

"Look out of the window, high up on the horizon. What do you see?"

"A tower. Some sort of tower."

"That's a minaret, from which we Muslims are called to prayer. You will probably hear the call yourself soon enough—and then I will prostrate myself on the floor facing Mecca—assuming I can get my bearings and ascertain which direction Mecca is in. And it's not just any minaret. I recognize it. I live in Heliopolis myself. I can see this self same minaret from my home. That's the one answer to your questions I can provide with surety."

"And the others?" Michael asked in a soft voice, almost not wanting to hear the answers.

"Ah, the others. You are American and obviously wealthy—and I might add, achingly young and handsome and blond—although we will not get into that shall we? It's enough that you are American and wealthy. I would surmise that you are here as a matter of convenient snatching. You evidently placed yourself in a position to be kidnapped. No doubt in a few days, your family will have paid a handsome ransom and you will be back in their comforting arms—with luck, not much the worse for wear. Unless, of course. . . . But as I said, we won't get into negative thinking, shall we?"

Michael shuddered. He was beginning to think of the possibilities. Visions of the Nubian he had avoided only perhaps to fall into worse straits sprang to his mind.

"And you? Why you?"

"Alas, I left Shepheard's a little precipitously last night—without guards. There are other reasons why I would have been taken when vulnerable. These are volatile times in Cairo. And I am a public figure and was dining at the center of the European community here. I perhaps was a bit out of balance last evening on my loyalties. And just a little out of balance now can be fatal. No, no, I wager you'll be out and on your way up the Nile with a story to fascinate your friends back in America within a day or two," Abazar rushed on. "Whereas I may never be seen again, alas."

"How . . . how can you say that so cavalierly?" Michael asked.

"Life is precious, but it also is fleeting," Abazar answered. "Even in our most settled days, we live on the edge here in Egypt. One must be a fatalist about these things—and enjoy life to the fullest as we live it. Haven't you found that to be the case?"

Michael hung his head and was unable to stifle a perceptible sob.

"Have you not lived life to the fullest, my young Michael? You are rich and young and godlike handsome. You have traveled a quarter of the way around the world. There has been adventure, and wonder, and glorious risk in your life, has there not? You have seen the amazing sights on offer and have loved well and often already. Surely you have."

There was silence for a while, and then a muttered. "No sir, no, there hasn't been any of those things in my life. All of my life has been in study and preparing myself . . . preparing to follow in my parents' footsteps."

"What? That certainly sounds dull. Surely there has been love—and exploration. You shake your head. I cannot believe it. Not one as perfectly formed as you—and that blond hair and the face of an angel. Why, I thought America was civilized. Even in Europe you would have been placed in the care of an experienced older woman—or man, if such be your preference—long before now and shown the glories of life between a pair of plump thighs."

"Please. Please, don't. I have not . . ."

"I do apologize," Abazar said in a soft voice. "I do not mean to distress you. Distract you, yes, but not distress you. Let us speak of other matters. But I do believe I hear footsteps—and the rasping of the bolt on our door. Ah, yes. Trays. We shall be fed. A feast surely."

A lower section of the door opened, and two trays were pushed into the room. The food wasn't straight from the Gentlemen's Dining Room at Shepheard's. But it looked hearty enough.

Abazar reached down and picked up both trays and placed them on the table and gestured to one of the stools. "Come, my young Michael. We must maintain our strength. We must eat. No? But you must, I insist. Come."

Michael reluctantly rose from the cot and moved over to the table. Abazar was already eating greedily from one of the trays and drinking the lukewarm coffee.

The young man sat on the stool in front of his tray, but he was just looking at the food.

"Come, eat. After our meal, I will spin stories for us to bide our time—and then, in the heat of the day, we can nap. We can sleep the hours away without any fear of being called lazy, of needing to be doing anything else because anyone else wanted us to do it."

"Stories?" Michael asked.

"Yes, yes. You don't know, of course. You couldn't know. But I am a storyteller. Of some renown, even outside Egypt, if I do say so myself. Haven't you read any Egyptian novels? Didn't you do that in preparation for your journey up the Nile? That is the best way to get the sense of a place, you know. Read its literature."

"I did try. I tried reading Egyptian novels. One I did find very interesting. It was one called

The Prince of the Sands

. But my guardian took it away from me. He said it was not something I should be reading—and he wanted me to read only books on archaeology and finance. I find those a bit dull, though."

Abazar smiled and gave a little chuckle when Michael gave the name of the novel he had been prevented from finishing. "I know that novel, yes, I know it well. It is a pity you didn't get to finish it. It has much to say about living life—grasping the golden crown, as they say here in Egypt—living life to its fullest. Taking pleasure completely. Because we never can say what tomorrow can bring. You can be dining at Shepheard's one night and in prison the next day. We both now know that."

Michael lowered his head. He was listening, but he could barely comprehend what Abazar was trying to say. His own life had been too controlled, too limited.

"Do you perchance remember the name of the author of that novel, young Michael?"

"No, I can't remember it. I think I'd know it if I heard it, though."

"Was it perhaps Abazar? Rushdy Abazar?"

Michael thought only a second and responded, "Yes, yes. That was the name, I think. Yes, I'm sure . . . but, but . . ." he looked up to see Abazar smiling broadly his arms bent, the index fingers of both hands point at his own bulging chest. "That's you? You wrote

The Prince of the Sands

?" Michael's voice was full of awe now.

"Guilty, I must say, and perhaps when I am telling stories—to help us forget where we are—I can remember some of the ending of that novel so that we can make your silly guardian's teeth gnash the next time we meet him. Yes? But for now, eat up. If you finish what's on this plate, we will go over to the cot and sit, side by side, and close our eyes, and I will weave a story for you that will say much of what

The Prince of the Sands

was meant to convey and that will transport us above our present difficulties."

Abazar watched closely, as Michael, his mind already swimming with thoughts that were taking his mind off the present circumstances, ate his food and drank his coffee.

Afterward, they both sat, side by side, on Michael's cot, basking as best they could in the beam of sunlight as it slowly moved up the wall and off their near-naked bodies, and Abazar began to recite a story in a rich, evenly paced baritone. Michael closed his eyes, suddenly feeling his limbs heavy and his mind sinking into a haze in which only Abazar's words were heard, but even they were becoming dim and progressively sounding as if they were coming from an echo chamber at ever-greater distance.

Half way through the story, Abazar put his arm around Michael's shoulder and a hand on the young man's belly—and Michael didn't even open his eyes or flinch.

Chapter Four: Twin Princes

There once was born to the king of the land beyond the Upper Kingdom twin sons as the first-born of the land. The two boys were perfect and identical in every way at birth, and their mother, the senior wife of Hondo, the war god of the north, the king of the kingdom that buffered the civilized world of the pharaohs from the grasping, primitive world of the beyond, loved the boys equally. Both were perfectly formed boys of marble skin and translucent white hair, which set them apart from all other children of the land beyond the Upper Kingdom. Their mother had been a war offering to Hondo when he had subdued the Hyysoks and had come from the frozen lands of white-haired people beyond the northern sea.

However there cannot be two kings-to-be in a civilized kingdom, and thus the boys were separated from birth, with the first-born by mere minutes, Nebtawi, meaning the lord of the world, being taken into Hondo's court, and the inferior twin, Najja, meaning second born, given over to the senior queen to flourish as he might until such time as Nebtawi came of age and all possible contenders for the throne were passed into the night.

Now Hondo was jealous of the civilization of the Upper Kingdom and, while he himself spent his reign in the saddle defending his borders from all comers, he decreed that the one who was to rule after him would be learned and wise in the way of governing a people at peace who strove to sophistication and great wealth and comfort.

Thus, at an early age Nebtawi was turned over to the chief eunuch, Bakari, for education and preparation to succeed Hondo, and lived for nineteen years under his close protection. Nebtawi was kept secluded in the black marble palace to protect him from any possible ill intent or any of the diseases that ran rampant in the kingdom. He studied from morning to night, learning to be wise and knowledgeable about finance and military dispositions and, most important, how to balance the needs and intrigues of court, where everyone was scheming for position and a dagger awaited behind every column. Nebtawi grew wise in matter of theory, but not strong nor tested in the ways of real life. His was a delicate disposition, and with each threat of a plague he was rushed to the highest tower of the black marble palace to live in seclusion with his parchments and his teachers until the danger passed. He was permitted no close friends or play companions and had no one permitted to disagree with whatever he said—although by the decree of his father, Bakari's word was law with the young prince.

Hondo dreamed many a plan of passing on his knowledge of kingship to his first born and guiding the lad into his majority, but Hondo's plight was one of continuous warfare to safeguard the borders of the kingdom—and he could never trust the safety of his precious crown prince to the battlefield or its proximity. Thus, with Hondo, the personal interaction with Nebtawi was always something for tomorrow, never for today.

In contrast, Najja, was left to run wild and learn as and what he would. He was raised in the harem, but his mother, the senior queen, was from a sturdy, war faring peoples herself, and she pushed her son out into the world—when, as he reached the capability, Najja was not dabbling with the women of the harem. The queen knew the custom of the kingdom was that no possible contender for the throne would survive the dying of the previous king, and she decided that Najja would have a life of pleasure and whatever risk and whim aroused him. Eat, drink, make love, go into battle—and be happy, was her philosophy, for tomorrow you die. Nor did she deny Najja his enjoyment with the women of the harem—or the men slaves who served—and he was such a beauty that he never wanted for a companion for a night or an hour.

So, Najja's life was not one of books and theories and antiseptic surroundings. He got down in the dirt with people of the streets and sheep folds and military encampments and learned what he learned by experience and by making mistakes and discovering how to avoid that mistake the next time. He grew strong and tall, and was a presence in the saddle—going into battle on the fringe of his father's guard. He did not ride with Hondo, but he was nearby the king and was able to study his father in battle and in counsel—and he was there in the phalanx of the king's guard whenever danger approached, as it often did.

As years passed, although the people of the kingdom were able to recall—if only barely—that the first-born sons of the Great Hondo were twins, they only saw one. And they came to love this inferior son, Najja, for his contact with the people and his distinctive beauty, observable braveness, and his jovial freedom from care. He was especially appreciated by the young maidens beyond the harem—and some of the young men—of the kingdom for his prowess in a different kind of saddle, and many a by-blow in the kingdom had distinctively blond hair, and more than a handful of the kingdom's minstrels and shepherds could attest to the unequaled sword Najja carried between his strong thighs.