Chapter 4:
In a dark cell was where Sebamose ended up, after a generous beating to his sides. Only when he was chained up to the wall in his cell, did he allow himself the luxury of coughing up what blood had accrued up his esophagus. He wasn’t too concerned about his health, however; for all he knew, he was as good as dead. All he could do now was hope that Pharaoh was going to be merciful enough to give him quick death, as improbable as it might be. He heard many a horrible rumor of what happens when someone gets too brave and becomes an uninvited guest in pharaoh’s property, palace or not.
The most common punishment was almost always impalement. It was little more than a fancy term for taking a criminal and throwing him upon a well-sharpened stick, as if one were attempting to prepare a pig for roasting. While this was the written prescription of dealing with such a problem, ultimately, it was the decision of Pharaoh that commanded life or death. To rely on Pharaoh’s mercy, however, is to rely on a crocodile’s hospitality; both garnered the same chance of survival.
His only “neighbors,” if one could be generous enough to call such poor fools like that, were other prisoners who had done something almost if not just as abhorrent as what Sebamose just did a while ago. Looking at the soon-to-be corpses on the wall, it was easy to tell how long one had been sentenced to this light-forsaken place; No food, or water meant that the skinniest man hanging on the wall had been there the longest; he had his skin painted over his bones, with the occasional vein embossed across his limbs. The poor soul’s sunken eyes were permanently cast down, a sign of the general mood of living in this room. His breathing was reduced to a sad wheezing, the only thing close to a cool breeze that these prisoners would ever get.
Sebamose did his best to avert his eyes from that man, whose whole body screamed, “You will surely die slowly and in great agony!” The trouble came in that Sebamose was chained directly across the almost corpse, as if the priests intentionally put him there; besides what other interesting things are there to look at? Other prisoners on the walls? His only option was to stare at the dirt floor, and try to ignore the atmosphere of pain, suffering, and looming death that enveloped him.
What didn’t help was that the man next to him kept trying to talk to him; the meaning of trying to talk to him was little more than, “hey, hey, what you in for?” in a raspy, dry voice. It was especially annoying that after hearing that scream from failing to snatch that stupid amulet never really made him deaf. “Great,” Sebamose thought, “The one good thing that I could’ve gained from being deaf, and I don’t get it.” After ten or twelve times of, “hey, hey, what you in for?” Sebamose snapped. “Do yourself and shut your sad excuse for a rotting hole of a mouth, before I take my foot, and make it suffer the indignity of stuffing it down that rotting hole!” All he heard as a reply was a small uttering of, “Bastard,” under the man’s breath.
Sebamose tried to pry himself off the wall by pushing away with his legs. He felt a slight give from
the chains. Possible hope in a hopeless place? He constantly yanked the chains on his wrist, getting more frantic each time. No good. The chains were too well bolted to the wall, and they were freshly forged from bronze. Even if they were worn down, he was in no condition to rip them out of the wall. There was no way that he was going to break them, and all he did was add fatigue to his already pained and weak limbs.
Adding to the pain was the humiliation of laughter from another prisoner. “Isn’t that cute,” the laughing man coughed out, “he thinks he can escape! Dumb fool might as well beg for a random savior”
As if on cue, the wooden door to the prison swung open, allowing entrance for a towering, darkly-skinned muscular man, his body clad in a leopard’s skin. He was a priest, and in fact was one of the priests Sebamose saw earlier.
Every step this man took was like a declaration of his presence by the mere sound it made. His piercing gaze slowly scanned the room until his grey eyes fell upon Sebamose. Sebamose, in turn, felt himself exposed to damnable judgement, and couldn’t bring himself to look upon the man.
The priest, being huge, lowered himself to Sebamose’s level, and he began to speak in an emotionally-devoid voice, as if a serene oasis had a voice. “Who sent you, finder?”
Sebamose tried to ignore the man, as the priest’s piercing stare filled him with overwhelming discomfort. The priest simply repeated slowly, “Who sent you, finder?”
“Why in damnation do you care?” replied Sebamose, “Don’t you have an ass-kissing ceremony or two to do?”
“Your wit is juvenile,” the priest said, as he pulled out a piece of fruit from his bag. Then grabbing Sebamose’s head, he gently steered it towards the fruit to show one of its sides; it was carved with a glyph that made Lowerglyphs—and even Hieroglyphs—childishly simple by comparison. What really got Sebamose’s attention, however, was that it had a somewhat strong blue glow.
“Know this, whelp,” The priest began to speak, “The fruit I hold bears the mark of the divine language, words that only the purest of men may speak without consequence. You will tell me exactly who sent you against our sacred shrine before I force you to eat of this fruit. And let me tell you, as soon as you eat of it, your throat will burn, your eyes will sting, and your head will hurt in such a way that will have you beg for death. So I ask you one last time: Who sent you, finder?”
Sebamose made no effort to stall at this point. He had enough of messing with magic for one day, and he wasn’t going to mess with it a second time. “I’ll tell on one condition. You free me!”
The Priest grunted in dissatisfaction. “You are in no condition to bargain, Finder.”
“Then I guess I’ll take my words to my grave,” Sebamose said, secretly unsure of the truth of the words he said, “I am a dead man, anyway.”
The priest narrowed his eyes, and finally said, “I’ll consider your terms, if you speak.”
Sebamose figured that this was about as far in the deadlock that he’ll get. “Fine. It was the Nomey that sent me.”
The only sort of emotion the priest showed was a single cocked eyebrow. “Nomey?” he asked. Sebamose gave a sigh, and finally spoke once more, “The Nomarch. Donkor Abuaton.”
“Hmmm.” The priest pondered, “I knew that there was something funny. The timing between his visit and your crime was almost too convienient.” The priest then stood up, keeping his head down as the ceiling prevented his height from fully presenting itself.
As the priest started to depart from the cell, Sebamose cried out, “Did you forget your promise to me? We had a deal!”
The priest simply stopped in his tracks, and simply replied in his stoic manner, “I said I would consider your deal, whelp. I did not agree to it…yet.” As soon as the last soul-wrenching word hit Sebamose’s mind, the priest marched off.
“HA!” said the laughing prisoner, “for a moment, you thought that you actually had a chance to escape! What a childish idiot! Hahaha!”
“I don’t know who you are,” Sebamose replied, feeling the blackness of his soul freezing over both mind and body, “nor of what sad pathetic excuse for crimes you did to land your sad ass in prison, but I at least managed to escape slave-hood to become something beforehand!”
“You’re just saying these things because you’re afraid of the cold dark truth!” the laughing prisoner replied, “The truth that says you were born to be trampled upon, spat upon by those stronger and greater than you. Nothing’s more entertaining than when I see some hot-shot get snuffed really badly!”
“YOU’RE NOTHING!”
“And you’re less than nothing now! HAHAHAHAHA!” the laughing prisoner gave in to his almost mad laughter and then finally submitted to his coughing fit. His malnutrition weakened his body to sickness.
“Could you all shut up!” Another prisoner snapped at the previous two, “We all are going to be damned when we die, and the last thing I need is a sampling of it!”
“You are always ruining my fun, Uras!” the laughing prisoner, spat back, “At least I’m trying to enjoy my fun here!”
“No one wants you making your not-so-funny, wise ass jokes here, Abzu!” Uras snapped back.
“I don’t care,” Abzu said in a snooty manner.
“You shut your mouth before I call the guards!”
“Don’t think that they’re on your side, cur! They’ll flog you, too!”
“If it mean it’ll shut you up, then SO BE IT!”
Two loud thumps were made on the wooden door, followed by a gruff low voice, bellowing out, “Quiet down there, OR ELSE.”
Abzu, knowing that he just lost his fun, grumbled to himself quietly, but not quietly enough for anyone to not look at him with seething rage. Alas, for souls supposedly destined for damnation, they seemed to already be there, simply waiting for eternal round two.
Though it was quieter than the Clueless Stork, Sebamose found his mind wandering to the one thing he hated to touch the most: moral quandaries. Back at the tavern, he would reminisce about his previous jobs as a finder, and comb over the things that could’ve been done better, or were simply outright mistakes. Being known as the “Ivory Finder,” he knew the color of his skin would pose as a disadvantage. One way he got around it was by disguising himself as a scribe or some low-ranking noble. Another way was to cake himself in the river Djet’s black mud in order to blend in with the night; that is, if the situation called for it. Alas, thinking about his “craft” and how to use it, at least in terms of avoiding thinking of awful things, proved to be a useless venture.
Sebamose tried his damnedest to be as busy as possible in his former life. Whether it was through “work,” drinking, or the occasional conversation, he had to stave off what notions of empathy that tried to assault his psyche. Damn his curiosity! During a job, he was focused on the task at hand, but when he found himself at the tavern there was always the lingering temptation to ponder; His raw curiosity always asked “what happened to the guard I just injured? Does he have a family? Why do I even care?”
Fighting these idiot notions was bad enough when he found himself stuck in the Clueless Stork, but the temptation was overwhelming in his current location. Prison was a place of judgement and the presence of the atrophying prisoners was like seeing a visual representation of a magistrate proclaiming, “GUILTY!” Sebamose never really cared about the religious aspect of the land, but now, he felt himself trapped under the shadow of a descending fist; a fist which belong to an angry, god of the sun, Udjat.
These sort of thoughts Caused Sebamose to reflect inwardly about what he had done his whole life. He was always stuck in a stupidly vicious cycle of guilt, one that deteriorated over time, burning and melting his soul away. What did he have to show for it? Try as he might, there was no way to avoid facing now.
Three days came and went, with silence, and a lack of food and water, taking their toll. Sebamose felt himself growing ever weaker; if his soul were like a river, then time was like a hundred thousand water lifts, determined to empty it, one large jar at a time. Sebamose was losing his mind so much that he was about yell all the obscenities that he could—or he would if his mouth wasn’t too dry to do so. He kept cursing himself over and over about passing up the opportunity to yell earlier; at least then the guards could off him to shut him up, and he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. A deal that everyone could enjoy!
Just when he felt the remainder of his life’s embers grow cold, the wooden door to the cell swung open. Sebamose, fully crushed by the weight of his despair, dared not look up, assuming that another prisoner was being delivered.
“Whelp, I have come for you,” A familiar voice rang out.
Sebamose looked up to find the tall, muscular, dark-skinned priest standing over him. It was time, and Sebamose knew it in his heart. His eyes slowly lowered preparing to accept the fate of a thief who made the mistake of getting caught trying to rob the pharaonic palace.
“I know what you are thinking, but I did not come to kill you…yet.” The priest replied in his stoic voice.
Sebamose felt an oddly cautious wave of relief flow over him. He tried to speak, but only gasps escaped his mouth. The priest recognized what was wrong, and taking a small skin of water, put the open end to Sebamose’s lips.
He drank as much as the priest would allow; while it wasn’t much, it was enough to rejuvenate the dying embers in his soul into a small fire. Sebamose felt five years younger, and craved more.
“So you’ve finally came back,” he said hoarsely, “tell me, if you’re not here to take me to an execution ceremony, why do you want me?”
“You might be a petty thief, but what you were trying to steal, and especially who you are stealing it from, disturbs me.” The priest replied, “Nomarch Abubaton is in charge of more than just the local Nome that surrounds La-Karem.”
“Oh, really.”
“He is also in charge of our spies as well. And if he wanted the Amulet of Udjat, he cannot desire anything good for the royal family!”
“Yeah, yeah, politics will fall, war of some bull, yada, yada.”
“This lies deeper than any political interest, regardless of loyalty!” The priest chided as he fastened a leather cuff around Sebamose’s left arm, “You may be loyal to coin alone, whelp, but if my inferences are correct, then not even coin will save you from the storm yet to come.”
“Then tell me, what do you want from me, and why should I care?” Sebamose asked in a salty manner.
“If I am not mistaken, are you the man they call ‘the Ivory Finder?’”
“I may. I may not.”
“I have something that needs to be found. And I am willing to give you a pardon for it. Perhaps something extra, if you are lucky.”
“I can find it! Pick me!” cried the prisoner called Abzu.
“This does not concern you, cur!” The priest snapped back, then turned to Sebamose, “Do we have a deal?”
“You didn’t really tell me what you wanted found!” Sebamose replied.
“Answers. I will lead you to your master, and then you will scour every nook and cranny that the villa there contains.”
“Can’t you have your guards do that, priest?”
“Guards may have hawk-like senses, but they lack experience in stowing away contraband.” The priest replied, “Sure, they might be lucky in finding a clue or two, but I think I’ll have better luck with you.”
Sebamose didn’t need extreme effort to be convinced to take the deal; sure it was still a risky gamble, but at least he now had a chance to survive, and even thrive. He took a deep breath, desperately hoping that he was not going to regret taking this path.
“Fine,” he said at long last breaking the silence, “I’ll go on your hunt. But you better keep your promise!”
The priest simply smirked at the remark. “I’ll keep that in mind. Farnavaz!”
At that calling, the guard came in. Sebamose hardly remembered being thrown in prison, but the look of the guard was one of the few things that was seared into his eyeballs. The gaze of the man through his dark cowl felt like a deep mental stab. You could be the vilest criminal in all of Akhat-Geb, but those eyes could make you behave yourself in a terrible fit of paranoia.
The guard moved slowly, but quietly, as if he was stalking both Sebamose and the priest in some odd blood sport. “Unchain him.” The priest simply spoke.
“Pardon?” The guard replied.
“You heard me correctly, Farnavaz. Unchain him.”
The guard gave a simple grunt, and took out his huge pile of well-worn keys. Soon, Sebamose found himself firmly on the ground again; though his battered knees, caked with dried blood, stung and ached, screaming that they were not yet ready for walking again. Instinctually, Sebamose rubbed his sore right wrist. Getting to his left wrist, however, he found an unpleasant surprise.
“What in all of Akhat-Geb is this?” cried Sebamose, pointing to the leather band, with a glowing divine hieroglyph inscribed on it; all attached to his left wrist.
“You may be permitted to walk,” replied the priest, “but only because I need your services. Until then, you have been magically restrained, and you must remain within one hundred cubits of me.”
“Great, so I’m a slave again.” Sebamose muttered.
“I would rather think of you as an indentured servant.”
“How? I’m a criminal, not a debtor!”
“You have a debt to society, considering your crimes.” The priest mused, as he began to head for the door, “Come, Ivory Finder. We have much to do.”
“Hold on!” Sebamose said, stopping the priest, “If I’m going to be your slave—or servant—you could at least tell me your name!”
The priest stopped in his tracks, turned around to face Sebamose, and in his most serious voice, announced, “I am known as Djed Abubackar, Assistant Priest of Udjat, but you will address me as ‘Ervad.’”
To read Chapter 1, click here
To be continued in Chapter 5 here…