CHAPTER ONE

“Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” 

I am captain of a small troop for the kingdom of Sheba. We are at peace currently, so our duty today is to guard King Abati’s garden. Yes, most mornings this duty is rather, should I say, boring, especially for a troop of hardened warriors.

It is, although, an unbelievably beautiful garden. There are rows of flowers of multiple colors. Among them are roses, jasmine, poppies, and crocus. These flowers are rare for this part of our Northern Africa world. This peacetime assignment is more pleasant than most. Therefore, I should not complain.

This morning proves to be the best morning and may increase my enthusiasm for this troop’s military task. Accompanying the usual garden staff this day is Princess Makeda. I have heard how beautiful she is, but my friend’s description of her does not do justice. The magnificent floral view pales with her presence.

As she walks past gathering flowers that I assume are for a bouquet, I notice how gracefully she moves. Her uncovered head is unlike many of the common women of the Castle City of Sheba. Her raven hair radiates the early morning sun into a halo-like glow around her royal head. Her eyes are unlike any other woman I know for their exotic shape and dark amethyst hue reminiscent of a desert sunset.

“Is there something illegal in what I am doing?” Makeda holds her basket of flowers in front of her with both hands and addresses me.

She has so mesmerized me that I stare and now I am face to face with her majesty.

“Never, your majesty. In fact, everyone should gather their flowers as exquisitely as you do,” I recover well from caught gawking at Makeda.

“Aren’t you too familiar in your tone addressing me? Do you not know who I am?”

“My apologies, your grace. I meant to say your decorum shows your royal breeding.”

“You wear the sash of a Captain, is that correct?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Not even a general may address me as you have. You should remain silent, and your gaze directed to my surroundings for my protection. Should it not?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“What is your name?”

I find myself trembling. I have been in hand-to-hand combat with powerful men and giants, faced a barrage of arrows, had my horse lanced from under me and not trembled like this.

“I am Captain Emon, your majesty,” I bow so low on one knee my forehead nearly touches the other.

“All I will need to say to my father is how rudely you address me, and he demotes and reassigns you to a less responsible task, dear Captain Emon.

She calls me dear.

“Stand up, Captain Emon.”

I stand and snap to military attention. Her eyes peruse me from head to toe. I must be careful and stare straight ahead. I find it so hard. What a beautiful perfectly oval face, rounded shoulders, much smaller waist than her bosom above and hips below. I must look straight ahead.

“Turn around, Captain!” Makeda hands a servant her basket as she motions with her finger for me to turn.

“My back, your majesty?” I can feel the eyes of my men glaring at me. I hear a servant girl snicker.

“About face, Captain! That is an order.”

Automatically, following this command, I step back with my right foot and whirl around in a 180.

“Uh-huh,” I can almost feel where Makeda’s eyes are looking. I feel extremely humiliated.

Makeda turns without a word and walks back with the giggling servant girl who carries the basket of flowers. I give her a minute to make sure she has disappeared into the castle.

I turn to my men trying to catch a clue when it is prudent for me to carry on as usual. Their faces provide no clues. Nowhere is a familiar expression from men who think as I do.

Princess Makeda’s reaction was like nothing that men toe to toe with other men can define. Will the humiliation in front of my troop end? She was stern, but there was giggling and snickers. Did she win or will she return to strike another blow?

Moments later, a private brings me a written message. He is to escort me to meet with my commander. I follow this young boy. I signal to my subordinates to keep their positions. I can see on their faces that they believe as I do that this is a second strategic strike. My defense is weak. My future is certain to be quite different.

I am sure that Makeda has reported what she feels was insubordination. I know that any argument against the word of the princess will only make me more insubordinate.

Other than the garden, I have never been inside the castle. I escorted prisoners of war underground to the dungeon.

Sheba is a powerful country whose spices trade to many kingdoms for miles around. Other peoples admire Sheba’s landscape, its governance, and the craftsmanship of its people. The inside of the castle is a tribute to that craftmanship. Stone masonry, woodwork, tapestry, and paintings that make up the interior are the most magnificent that I have ever seen.

I was not born in Sheba. I was born a Jebusite in the city of Jebus. My father was a commander of his brother’s, the king’s royal army. He died in battle when King David of Israel attacked and conquered the city. I left there on foot as a teen hating the Israelites.

Nearly dying from starvation in the hills close to Jebus, now Jerusalem, merchants of Sheba rescued and brought me here.

I worked for them in spice fields until I felt confident enough to set out and find my calling. My father had been military, so I thought it might be in my blood.

The Sheba army took me in. I washed soldiers’ feet, polished shields, learned to build weapons and eventually to use them. After a few short years, I moved my way up to the rank of Captain where I am today by fighting valiantly and being loyal.

Now, all of that could be over in a matter of minutes. All because I surrendered to my carnal nature and dishonored the royal family and my duty as a soldier admiring a lady above my station.

As I make my way down a long, carpeted corridor admiring the handiwork, I plan out an argument to plead my case. I will start out admitting to the accusation and pleading for mercy. I will then detail battles where I have shown bravery and loyalty to the royal court and this country. I pray this will be sufficient to keep me from the worst of punishments.

At the end of that corridor stands my commander and two court guards. I salute with my best salute.

“Capt. Emon,” Mushkila returns a half-hearted salute, “follow me please.”

We head down another corridor which may even be more ornate and wonderful as the one before. When we arrive, one of the guards swings open a huge cedar exquisitely decorated double door. It looks to be as large as the city gates, but vastly more gorgeous.

The room opens into a magnificent and huge court. Servants are everywhere busily doing their assigned tasks. I do not think they even notice that we enter.

This is the most majestic part of the castle thus far. A pastoral painting fantastically so realistic that I can almost feel the wind blowing, hear birds singing, and sheep bleating adorns the ceiling which must be twenty feet above.

I tremble thinking that I must be in King Abati’s private chambers. I expect the worst possible sentence will be mine. No one like me a foreigner without pedigree lives long after feasting his eyes on a royal’s private chambers.

“Are you Capt. Emon?” a stately elderly woman appears from behind a gold and garnet curtain that reaches to the ceiling and is as wide as it is high.

My commander bows to one knee. I follow his lead.

“Please arise, Commander and tell me if you have indeed brought Capt. Emon as ordered,” the woman dressed in fine linen garments and adorned with golden necklaces and bejeweled rings commands.

“Yes, my lady, this is Capt. Emon.”

“Thank you, Commander. You may return to your duties,” she waves, and a castle guard escorts Commander Mushkila out those huge cedar doors.

While I watch the commander and guard leave, the stately woman makes her way to the curtains she appeared from earlier. She clears her throat to regain my attention and signals for me to enter.

“This area,” she waves her hand to have me peruse my current surroundings, a dimly candle lit area between two ornate curtains, “is where you will begin and end your day.”

I look around me and spy only a small plain wooden table in an area of about eight feet in width and six feet in length between the curtains. Lying on the floor is a woolen mat with neatly folded military issue blankets resting on top. I later discover this will be my bed and bedding. At least it is not a dungeon cell.

Before I can wonder about the rest of the day, this stately woman which I later learned is Isabel, grabs the curtain ahead of us.

“At no time, unless given permission must you open and enter through this curtain,” Isabel emphasizes by shaking the curtain, “and you will probably never be given permission.”

I want to ask who it is who will give or withhold permission, but I was afraid that could be inappropriate. Although Isabel’s skin tone, accent are closer to mine, not a naturally born Sheban, she ordered my superior. She must be a highly favored and privileged servant that I must not disrespect.

 I remember a saying spoken to me from my best recollection by my grandmother. The only memory I have of her. It was something about how curiosity killed her cat. This cat is not ready to die.

“Only her majesty can give you permission,” Isabel declares and folds her arms in front of her.

I start to ask to which “her majesty” would she be referring, but I am learning that Isabel will soon answer that question if I am patient. I wait while Isabel crosses over to the first curtain that we first entered.

“You may not leave this area without her majesty.”

I was still waiting to learn which of King Khalif’s wives or daughters I am to serve. Part of me hopes it is Makeda. Of course, if it is Makeda, that could be a test to see if I can be even more insubordinate or finally submissive.

 It also could be one of the older of King Khalif’s wives who is so old that they never leave their chambers, and I am a prisoner to this little room between two curtains. I resign myself to think it is the latter rather than the former but desperately hoping it is Makeda.

“I am talking about guarding and protecting her and keeping her from harm or injury. Is that understood?”

I affirm and decide to risk everything and ask, “Who is her majesty that I am to protect from harm or injury?”

Isabel raises an eyebrow and turns her nose up at me, “I recommend you ask few questions. It might be favorable if you speak only when asked to speak. Her majesty will be out shortly to introduce herself.”

My insubordinate question reveals the gesture and the accent of a Jewess. I knew there is something more than her superior tone that I detest.

Isabel disappears into the forbidden chamber behind the secret curtain leaving me to ponder in this barren little space.

After several minutes, Isabel returns. This time she does not even glance my way and disappears again through the other curtain.

I suddenly realize that the only thing I know is that I begin and end my day here. I have no idea how long my day will be. Well, at least I am not in a dungeon, the haughty Isabel refers to me as Captain, although I do not have anyone to command. I am one who prefers a command over commanded.

I remember now. My grandmother said, “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”  I hope I am that cat.