Undying Love

By Bill Liggins

Everlasting life. Many want it. Others dont, believing its a curse. Either way, Malchides is the only one who has it. He doesnt know why, but he just cant die.

Malchides, who has been known by many names, has been alive from the beginning of human history. His legend has spawned religions. His deeds have destroyed armies. He has affected people and nations worldwide, setting the course of cultural evolution even beyond Earth. Now as fate leads him into encounters with three womenCandace Amanirenas of Nubia, Tamara Jennings of Florida, and Sage Kolene of Tau Ceti Epsilon-Basaltseparated by thousands of years of time, Malchides learns the value of unconditional love, even as his obsession with dying grows. But will the Universal Consciousness grant him the gift he has always desired or will he remain a tortured soul forever.

Undying Love tells the tale of a mans fascinating journey through thousands of years as he meets three extraordinary women and attempts to release himself from everlasting life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532046032

Bill Liggins

BILL LIGGINS is a graduate of Cleveland State University with degrees in Geology and Communications. He is an award-winning writer with five other novels on the market: TABLE OF THE SUN, I NEED; I WANT, UNDYING LOVE, NOVA CHASERS, and WARNING. He is a native of Cleveland, Ohio, and a current resident of Tampa, Florida, with his wife. He was also a TV sportscaster, actor, and a documentary film producer with two regional EMMY nominations, two national CableACE awards, and two Associated Press Awards to his credit.

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Copyright © 2018 Bill Liggins.

Cover Images from 123RF.com

Cover Artists: vikvuk (123RF), curaphotography (123RF), tk0920 (123RF) and shamain (123RF).

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4602-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4603-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018904077

iUniverse rev. date: 04/09/2018

Contents

APADEMAK

GAIUS, THE ELDER

BERTRAND WELLS

KYN-DUH CHELO-AIS

MALCHIDES

APADEMAK

Meroe burned with Roman flames. Pillars of smoke rose into the pre-dawn sky carrying flickering cinders from the carnage behind this Nubian city’s breached walls. Horrific shrieks from those who couldn’t flee pierced the clamor of swords and shields.

By dawn, it was over. Their battle won, exhausted and wounded Romans slowly emerged from the city’s gates, joining their brothers in encampments around catapults and ramparts. Satisfied by the pillage of their latest conquest, most of them collapsed in their tents. Others amused themselves with food and wine. Still others watched their commanders apply their mastery of interrogation techniques on their Nubian prisoners.

Five of the defeated Nubians lay naked on their bellies side-by-side. The Romans had bound their hands and feet with leather straps, preventing them from easily raising their faces from the ground. Small puffs of sand rose from their labored exhalations as a band of three horsemen drove their mounts back and forth, hooves splashing the sand only inches from their heads.

Tribune Marcus Lindrium and his commander, Legatus Gaius Petronius, sat patiently on their horses awaiting answers. Lindrium lifted his hand, halting the reckless jaunts of his horsemen. When they stopped, the Tribune listened. All he heard were the prisoners’ coughs and heavy breathing. Lindrium turned to a Nubian guide standing at the side of his horse.

Ask them again. Where is their Candace? Where can we find her?

The guide yelled out the same questions in the prisoners’ native language. He heard no answer. The prisoners only turned their heads to breathe air that was without sand. The guide briefly turned back to the Romans. Lindrium only kept his eyes on the Nubians, but the menacing Petronius turned to the guide. The guide bowed his head to the Legate as if hearing an unspoken order, then pleaded with the prisoners for answers.

Where is the Candace? They won’t ask again! They will set you free if you talk! Please! TALK! The guide and Romans heard nothing from them, but the guide continued his pleas. Lindrium turned to Petronius, and deferred to him.

The Legate listened a last time for any response from the Nubians, but never became angry.

Enough! Petronius ordered.

The guide bowed, then stepped back to the side of Lindrium’s horse. Petronius turned his cold eyes toward his Tribune.

Lindrium understood, and obeyed his commander’s silent order. He nodded to his horsemen and soldiers. They knew what to do. As six infantry men unfurled a broad leather sheet over their prisoners, off-duty Romans gathered to watch, anticipating a brief but satisfying glimpse of their homeland’s blood sports. Lindrium’s three mounted soldiers lowered blinds over their horses’ eyes, turned and walked them across the sheet. Hooves pressed into flesh, crushing skulls and snapping bones on every pass. They then heard the Nubians voices in cries and screams. Some of the horses, startled by the sounds and the feel of their footing, reared-up only descending on their blanketed victims with death blows, silencing their voices one by one.

Petronius and Lindrium watched until the horsemen had trampled the Nubians three times. Some of the Roman spectators around them cheered. If there were others who felt remorse, they couldn’t express it. It was not the Roman way in a war of conquest.

A Praefect rode up to Lindrium’s side and pounded his chest once in salute.

I beg your pardon, Tribune.

What is it, Manius? Lindrium asked.

The city is clear, sir. If the Candace is still in there, she’s dead. Only bodies remain.

Very well. Make sure –

Did you check the bodies? Petronius interrupted.

Sir, many of them are unrecognizable, Lindrium answered.

I said, check the bodies, Petronius ordered. I want confirmation of her death.

Lindrium relented and nodded to Manius.

You have your orders, the Tribune said.

Yes, Tribune – Legate. The Praefect pounded his chest again and rode off toward the city’s demolished main gate.

Petronius turned back to the flattened bodies of the prisoners.

The gods will be merciful with them, he said. Get five more.

Far from the Roman columns, a dusty fog floated over scorching desert sand. Walking barefooted here would be hazardous unless your feet had calluses as tough as rhino horns. Yet, a man walked here with no sandals, his feet soft and supple. He wore a hooded brown robe, and walked in an unhurried pace with a simple wooden staff.

He paused, his eyes locking on figures that seemed out of place in this barren land. He walked a little further until he reached the body of a warrior half buried in a small dune with a broken spear protruding from his ribs.

The man stooped for a closer look at the warrior. He wiped the sand from the dead man’s face and saw ritual scarring that was very familiar to him, three small diagonal slashes on each cheek, and three ridges with a sharp dip in the middle on his forehead.

Nubian? the man whispered to himself.

The condition of the warrior’s skin, and lack of scavenger consumption indicated he couldn’t have been dead more than a day.

He pulled the spear fragment from the body and examined its head. It was glassy and black, workmanship very familiar to him.

Blemmyae, he whispered.

The man walked further and found a small zone of destruction with more bodies, all of them Nubian. There were no horses or camels, only looted carts stripped bare of their valuables. The man found one cart that seemed unusually large. Its fractured veil framing held fabric shreds that flapped in the breeze. The man sensed a faint fragrance of sweet flowers and spicy oils. Even the blowing sand, and decaying blood couldn’t destroy all of those pleasant aromas.

There were women with these warriors, he thought. But where are their bodies?

The man sighed, then turned toward the way he came. There was nothing here worth salvaging. Then something caught his ear. He thought it was fabric flapping on the large cart, or blowing sand, but it sounded different. He heard it again coming from a another direction. The man remained still, listening carefully for any faint noise. There was nothing at first, then he heard it again – a gasping for air! Cautiously, the man stepped toward the sound each time he heard it. Walking around looted carts and stepping over bodies, the man moved toward the edge of a shallow ravine outside the doomed encampment. He stopped and looked, but the blowing sand made it hard for him to recognize anything unusual among the rocks.

He heard another wheezing gasp. The man stepped forward ten paces, then discovered a woman sprawled on the rocky ground. Her clothes were gone. Knife wounds on her throat and face barely oozed blood. The man knew if the Blemmyae had attacked this camp, she had also been savagely ravaged and left for dead. She was unconscious and, from the size of the blood stains on the ground around her, should have already been dead. She then gasped again though her mouth, bloody bubbles emerging from a wound in her throat as she exhaled.

The man knelt at her side and removed a leather sack from his shoulder. He gently moved his fingers across her forehead. The woman’s breathing eased. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a white orchid. He placed it whole in his mouth and chewed it. He briefly felt light-headed, but when it passed, he pulled a dagger from inside his robe and sliced the skin of his left hand. A trickle of blood rolled down his wrist. While it bled, the man placed his hand over the woman’s throat. Their blood mingled. The man felt air gurgling in her wound on each exhalation. When he no longer felt a seepage of air, the man lifted his hand. The blood in her wound had clotted sealing her throat. The man’s hand no longer bled. His wound was gone as if the knife had never slit his hand.

The woman slept comfortably, her mind at peace. She had no more nightmares, no recall of the torment she had endured. She had no dreams at all. Just a dark, featureless bliss that slowly worked its way into her awareness. That’s when she opened her eyes. Her view was blurry in her left eye, and nothing out of her right. She blinked until the vision in her left eye cleared, but there was still no vision in her right. Blankets of fur covered her on a bed of silken cushions. She looked up, and only saw a thin silk veil extending downward on all sides.

Her right eye was still sightless. She felt for it, but only felt a cloth over an empty socket. Feeling its emptiness, the woman, at that moment, remembered everything. Her mouth stretched wide in a grimace. She began sobbing and turned over, pulling the soft fabric closer to her face. Her body pulsed with utter grief. She wanted to scream, but her injured throat wouldn’t allow a sound. She could only gasp as if again near death.

In time, the woman’s grief faded under her growing curiosity about her current location.

Is this the underworld? Is this the afterlife?

She slid to the edge of the bed, and parted the thin veil. She was in a spacious chamber with a ceiling and walls of native stone that had a dim shimmer. There were no oil lamps or even open fires, yet it felt warm here.

Is it night or day? Does time even matter here?

Nothing in the stone chamber gave her a clue.

Not far from the edge of her bed was a table with a bowl of fresh fruit and a water pitcher. At her feet, furs of unknown beasts covered the floor adding pleasant comfort for her. She stood and briefly felt dizziness. When it passed, she noticed an open doorway out of this chamber. She nervously peered around its edge and saw a long stone corridor with distant sunlight at its end. Other chambers branched off the corridor, but as the woman stepped forward, she only had as her goal the sunlight at its end.

She came closer to the light, but couldn’t see what was beyond its brilliance. By the time she emerged, her one eye became used to the sun, but not to the riot of colors outside. She closed her eye tightly, hoping her vision was no illusion. She then opened it again. It was real. She was in the underworld of her dreams. She was in a thick green forest with soft sandy trails. Narrow trees bent under the gentle pressure of cool breezes, red and white flowers fluttering in their canopies. Shrubs with leaves larger than her body rustled along the trails, shaking dew to the ground. Rare orchids on the tree trunks were so plentiful here, and were of so many varieties, that this had to be the land of their origin.

A gust filled her thin gown, causing comforting chills to run up and down her body. The woman folded her arms, and caressed her shoulders. She felt for her wounds, but at each spot felt only healthy skin. She had no more pain, no more fear. She was all but reborn.

Under the sounds of rustling leaves, the woman heard rushing water. Thirst called from her body, filling her parched mouth with saliva. She hurried downhill along one of the sandy trails, going deeper into the forest toward the sound. She was close to its source, and could smell water in the air as she continued. The woman looked to her left and, through the straight tree trunks and leafy shrubs, saw a strange, wondrous sight, an eruption of water shooting to the sky and falling back upon itself. It was another vision from her dreams of a world she had built in her mind as the abode of the gods.

I must be dead.

She then felt the empty space where her right eye once was. Her thirst returned.

She rounded a bend in the trail, and approached a blue-green pool fed by the erupting water. It was perfectly clear and irresistible. The woman knelt and touched the fluid. It was cold. Sweet or poison, she had to drink it. The woman immersed both hands and brought water to her lips. It was so thirst quenching that she quickly forgot her dignity, and dunked her face in the water, gulping and sucking in as much as her body could hold.

Candace, a voice said softly.

The woman lurched upward, falling backwards on her bottom. She heard the voice, but didn’t know where to look.

Here, the voice said, drawing her attention back to the trail.

There, smiling at her, was a man who seemed to have appeared out of the vegetation, a young man with a golden-brown complexion, a man with eyes darker than a moonless night. Though there was something familiar about him, the woman couldn’t move. Her mind raced around thoughts of escape or defending herself.

You have nothing to fear. I was the one who brought you here. The man walked in her direction, but not to her. The woman stood and stepped back as he passed. You should have awakened days ago. I guess I’ll have to review the healing arts. He lowered a waterskin into the cold fluid, filling it. He then lifted it over his face and allowed a trickle of water to drop into his mouth. He noticed the woman still watching him. I’m sorry. Please, continue drinking – as much as you want. It’s spring water.

The woman attempted speaking, but her lingering throat pain prevented it.

The man sealed his waterskin with a rope and draped it over his shoulder. He stooped down in a resting position and stared at her the way she stared at him.

Your voice should recover anytime. Considering how close you were to dying, you’re most fortunate.

Candace began shaking her head, stunned over the confirmation that she was still alive. She sank to her knees and bowed her head, but her thirst was more powerful than her anguish. She turned back to the water and drank. She then realized the man had addressed her by title and lifted her head, water dripping down her face. She stood and turned back to the man. Her voice was gone, but she mouthed the words, Who are you?

Who am I? he responded. The woman nodded to him. You may call me Malchides. Welcome to my home.

Using her lips and a gentle whisper, she asked, How do you know me?

I’ve known you a long time. The Candace Amanirenas of Nubia, Daughter of Isis, Light of Amon-Ra, Source and Giver of Life –. Malchides lifted his hands in salute and briefly bowed his head. Now a mere runaway to this dangerous land. Running from what? Leaving behind what? Seeking what?

A drop of water trickled from her eye as she closed it.

The gods have abandoned me, she whispered. I’m at your mercy. Candace lowered herself to her elbows, and lowered her face to the sand.

Malchides stood and walked up to her. He looked down and offered her his hand.

The gods have abandoned you? Maybe you need to find more reliable ones. Take my hand, Candace.

Candace lifted her head, and gazed at this man who stood over her offering his hand. Somehow his voice sounded older than time, yet his face was so youthful even irresistibly handsome with his light beard and dimples. Could she trust him? She shook her head, and didn’t reach for his hand. Instead, anger crossed her face.

Why didn’t you let me die? she whispered.

You want to die?

Candace’s breathing deepened as she thought seriously about his question.

I have nothing left. My people have been humiliated. They had all their hopes in me, and I failed them. What do I have to live for, now that Meroe is dead? I am dead.

Malchides’ eyes grew cold. He withdrew his hand and pulled a dagger from under his robe. He tossed it in front of her.

Then kill yourself, woman. Be what you want.

Malchides turned and walk away swiftly toward his abode, leaving Candace confused and in tears. His footsteps faded under the soothing sound of the falling water.

Candace looked down the trail. As quickly as he had appeared, Malchides was gone. Candace turn her eyes toward the dagger, then grasped it. She assessed its sharpness with her fingers. It was perfect for a quick death. Candace closed her eyes, and raised the dagger as high as her face, aiming its tip toward her stomach. She began mouthing the words of a simple prayer.

In a chamber that glowed dimly from a light without a source, Malchides sat cross-legged on cushions of animal furs. He was motionless, his eyes unblinking, his mind utterly cleared of thoughts, especially of her. She was not another to carry him through the years. So, he sat silently, passing through another day in time – an unending, lonely torment. The deafening silence was soothing to him. In the rugged native-rock of his chamber’s walls, he saw visions from his past of worlds that had been born, flourished, then died. He took pride in the triumphs, and mourned the tragedies he had perpetrated upon them. There were many lovers whom he had longed for, but had since passed away. He had wanted to cry for them so many times, but no tears ever came from his eyes.

Something hit a wall! It was metal on rock. Malchides turned toward this harsh interruption of his silent contemplation. He saw his dagger on the ground, then lifted his eyes to the chamber entry where a reborn, regal woman stood.

Candace had a clear voice this time, though still raspy.

You may have saved my life, but you will never again address me as ‘woman.’ As long as I am alive, I am still the Candace Amanirenas of Nubia.

Malchides remained on his cushions as he raised both hands in salute.

I beg your forgiveness, your Majesty. A smile grew on his face. You are clearly more than a woman.

Candace walked slowly into his chamber, examining the ceiling and walls, wondering how they glowed without lamp flames.

I’m going back to Meroe.

With what? My dagger? he asked.

I will gather an army, and it will be led by the one I seek.

Who?

Apademak, the god of war.

Apademak? Malchides began laughing. Is that why you came to this land? A legend?

He’s no legend. Apademak saved my father’s life as a child, and made Nubia strong. My father always told me, if I’m ever in trouble run toward the reborn sun and call out his name. Candace turned her eyes to the ceiling and lifted her arms. I seek Apademak! I seek Apademak! Come to me! Help drive the invaders from Nubia! Free my people! Please –

Shhh. Malchides chuckled again. You should hear yourself, Majesty.

I fail to see any humor in this, she said.

That is because you are still not well. Malchides tried suppressing his laughter, but wasn’t succeeding.

Very well. I’ll find him myself. Candace turned and began walking toward the entry.

Wait. Malchides chortled a couple more times, then sat up straighter on his cushions. Listen, if I help you find this Apademak, will you stay a little longer until you’re well enough for travel? You’re still very fragile.

Candace’s determined gaze returned to Malchides.

Where can I find him? she asked. I must find him.

In time. But can you hear yourself now?

Candace then realized she could talk clearly again. She touched her throat, then stared in astonishment at Malchides.

My voice? What manner of healing is this? I’m feeling better by the moment. She then reclaimed her royal dignity, and strolled up to Malchides. Her stare locked on his eyes. I owe you a great debt. She then bowed her head to him.

I am at your service, your majesty.

When Candace lifted her head, their eyes met again.

How do you call yourself again? she asked.

Malchides.

Mall-shy-deez? she asked. Why do I have the feeling I’ve known you for years?

Maybe you have, he responded.

I’ve never seen you before.

Malchides rose from his cushions and offered her his hand.

All the senses can contain recollections, not just sight. Take my hand, Candace. Your quest has just begun. For now, I will take you back to your chamber for rest.

I must –

Take my hand.

Candace, as if transfixed by his eyes, grasped his hand this time. She had never felt a man’s hand so soft, yet powerful. There was a permeating warmth engulfing her, sweeping over her entire body. She was so stunned by its feel that goosebumps rose on her skin. She looked up at him and felt lightheaded.

Who are you? she asked. She then closed her eyes, collapsing into his arms.

Malchides lifted Candace, and carried her out of the chamber.

Five days south of Meroe, a Roman procession lifted dust from a path entering the markets outside the city walls of Soba. There was no conflict, no flames like in Meroe. Only the festive arrival of someone the Romans felt could pacify the Nubians. A dozen horsemen and fifty infantry men surrounded a single lectica supported on the shoulders of eight servants.

The markets became quiet. The Nubians gathered along the sides of the path as the procession passed. Many stretched to see who was in the lectica, but that was all they could do. If they wanted to get closer, the Roman soldiers would’ve driven them back with their lances. They had seen Romans pass in and out of this city since its fall two months before, but this lectica procession was for Teriteqas, a man recognized by the Romans as the Nubia’s sole ruler and king.

Teriteqas rose from the cushions to his knees, and tried mustering as much royal bearing as he had left. In his golden robe, he was slight in stature compared to the muscular servants who carried him. He turned his boyish face from side to side, holding an uneasy smile, hoping to draw at least a few smiles back from his people. And that was all he received, a few polite smiles with small nods of respect in his direction. If the Nubians wanted to cheer, they didn’t. Their defeated spirits were too weak.

Teriteqas was accustomed to traveling with the Candace in long processions, serenaded by songs, cheered on by his people. Now, all he heard was silence. The highest tributes paid to him this day were by Roman soldiers at Soba’s gates. They pulled their lances back to an upright position in salute as Teriteqas’ lectica passed them.

Inside Soba’s red walls were small marble palaces and temples, unstained by the Roman pillaging that befell Meroe. Shallow pools of fresh water, gardens of flowering shrubs and palm trees, made this city a bastion of cool serenity amidst Rome’s destructive thrust into this drying land. Perhaps its beauty was why Petronius spared it. Perhaps Petronius spared it because it was the only Nubian city that surrendered without a fight.

Surrounded by aides, guards, and his ever present Nubian guide, Petronius crossed the garden plaza wearing only a flowing white robe trimmed in red. A grin came easily to his otherwise emotionless face when he saw Teriteqas.

The servants lowered the king’s vessel, and went to their knees. Teriteqas dismounted and, upon seeing Petronius, curled his right hand into a fist and pounded the heart side of his chest.

Hail Rome, he said haltingly, unsure of his Latin pronunciations.

Hail Rome, Petronius responded. Welcome back, your majesty. We have prepared a place for your new court. Come this way. As Petronius showed the way, his Nubian aide translated his words into Teriteqas’ language.

Thank you, Legate. Teriteqas followed Petronius, passing a shallow pool that caught his eye. Its waters were clear and inviting. Meroe is still my preference.

I’m sorry, my lord, the Nubian aide said. I didn’t hear your words.

Ask him about Meroe.

The Nubian did as Teriteqas ordered, and continued translating their words.

I know, Majesty. You want to return there. We are busy bringing the city back to life for your return.

It was once so beautiful, Teriteqas said. The sight of it now breaks my heart.

It was necessary. Your sister’s warriors were quite stubborn.

Could we have found a better way? the king asked.

I wanted that, but they didn’t understand the futility of resisting Rome, Petronius said. Good thing your warriors did, Majesty. Now you’re the sole ruler of your people. You will no longer have to compromise to the will of that woman. In Aethiopia, your word is final.

What?

Your word is final, the Nubian translator repeated.

No. What did he call my land? Teriteqas asked.

Aethiopia, the translator said.

Tell the Legate my land is Nubia.

The Nubian translator repeated the king’s words in Latin.

Nubia – Aethiopia, Petronius said. That’s just our word for Nubia. You’re still king.

Teriteqas smiled faintly as he heard the translation.

They still haven’t found her? Teriteqas asked.

No, Petronius responded.

I’ll have no complete mandate unless she’s dead.

For now, you have a complete mandate from Rome, and the backing of my soldiers, Petronius said.

She’s still out there, Teriteqas said.

She may already be dead.

I want her found! The Nubian translator hesitated because of the forcefulness of Teriteqas’ words. Tell him!

The translator repeated the king’s words with cautious urgency.

Petronius halted his steps. His face became unemotional again. The imposing Roman walked closer to the skinny Nubian king and stared down on him.

Majesty, I have scouts looking for her, Petronius responded. But you’ll need rest. We’ll return you to Meroe in time for the Festival of Renewal. By then the palace will be repaired enough for your triumphant return. Petronius paused. He took a deep nasally breath. Be patient. Aethiopia – excuse me – Nubia needs stability, and I will not stay a day longer than it takes to achieve that. From that point, you will rule this land alone, with the support of the Senate and People of Rome.

Teriteqas sighed after hearing the translation.

Yes, Legate, he said. As you wish.

Petronius placed his huge hand on Teriteqas’ shoulder as a father would a son.

Now, let me show you to your chambers. They’re very comfortable here.

As Petronius led him across the plaza garden, Teriteqas closed his eyes tightly as if he were fighting off a sharp pain, a pain that had no physical source. In his mind, his goals were simple – to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a beloved Nubian king. He saw it as more than his destiny, it was his right. Betraying his sister was a regrettable, but necessary, consequence of his father’s only catastrophic failure as king, his indecision in choosing an heir before his death. Teriteqas knew his father’s favorite child was Candace, but he never thought it would lead to an uncomfortable compromise with him sharing the kingdom with her, as King and Queen, brother and sister, husband and wife.

He had completed his task. He ruled without her, but his land was a Roman province. On that thought, he squeezed his eyes shut again.

For days, Teriteqas remained in darkness within the innermost chamber of his palace surrounded by his consorts, flowers, fresh food and wine, all provided by the Romans. Merriment was everywhere within the red walls of Soba, but Teriteqas rarely emerged from the darkness, his darkness. He received no visitors outside of his consorts, servants, and his consistent familiar, Petronius whose cleverly forged messages from other Roman legates, and even the Emperor, bolstered Teriteqas spirits.

As the days passed, Teriteqas grew even more trusting of the Romans and began emerging from his guilt. As he walked the grounds, they honored him not only as the Nubian King, but also as a fellow Roman of high status. They served him almost as often as the Nubian servants. They gave him intense lessons on the Latin language and Roman customs. They helped in maintaining his palace, gathering his pleasures in women, beer, and intoxicating herbs.

Six weeks after his entry to Soba, Teriteqas emerged from the city’s gate in a lectica on the shoulders of eight servants. Twenty Roman soldiers surrounded him as he entered the markets outside the walls. He wanted to survey his people’s lives, and had hopes they would warmly greet him. There was no change. He heard no cheers. He saw their passionless eyes. There was no joy in seeing him. There was just quiet as all activities in the markets ceased. The war was over, but what kind of peace did Teriteqas gain?

An object struck a veil on the right side of his lectica, splattering Teriteqas and some of his servants with vegetable fragments. Instantly, the servants lowered the vessel. Half the Roman escort surrounding the king turned outward with their lances poised for attack. Screams and Nubian chatter drew the guards’ attention to one of the market alleys, where a group of men began tussling with each other.

There! the guard commander said. He then sprinted with eight of his men through the crowd into that alley.

Nubians fled from them, screaming, knocking over flimsy stalls. Dust rose from the ground as Romans wrestled with Nubians. Teriteqas wanted to stand so he could see the commotion.

Stay down, Majesty, one of the Roman guards commanded.

Yes, yes! one of his servants urged, waving at Teriteqas.

What’s happening? Teriteqas asked. I can’t see!

Stay down, my lord, the servant repeated.

The crowd parted, giving way to five Roman soldiers dragging an old Nubian from a market alley. His torn clothes hung by threads from his shoulders and