Spirited (5 page)

From Jerusalem, we traveled to Oltremare, the main port of the eastern Mediterranean Sea in the city of
Saint-Jean d’Acre
. There we made our way down into the hold of a ship called
la Petite Baleine
that would carry us home to Cyprus. A great treasure had been seized in a battle against Mamluks in Egypt. Father wanted to see it before we set sail.

My father loved treasure.

I ducked my head to follow my father and Captain Auveré down the narrow stairs to the lower deck, the captain’s lantern the only source of light. I had never been so far below ship before. The smallness of everything surprised me. And the smell—mildew, rot, and something briny—worsened with each step that took us closer to the hold. I wrinkled my nose.

“It smells quite fresh today, Your Highness,” Captain Auveré said, pinning me with an amused smile.

Fresh? I raised an eyebrow. “Does it?”

He chuckled. “You should smell her when she’s full of livestock and men who haven’t bathed for three weeks.”

“A pleasure I am happy to forgo,” I said.

I struck my forehead twice upon low beams in the passageways between stairwells. I don’t know why father couldn’t have waited until we got home to look at his new treasure. I certainly could have.

But then we reached the end of the stairs, passed the men standing guard at a thick wooden door, and entered a room in the hold. The light from Captain Auveré’s lantern reflected off countless riches—gold, silver, bronze, jewels in every color, polished wood, ornate tapestries, shiny weapons.

The treasure’s glow warmed my cheeks.

Crates and barrels held much of the hoard, yet many of these containers were opened, their contents spilling out, calling me to take a closer look. Masks, crowns, coins, jewelry, cups, platters, daggers, swords, spears, canopic jars, scepters, amulets, chunks of precious rocks, and lengths of unwrought metals. Some items were too big to put in any box: statues, vases, candelabrum, and tombs.

I gazed about, transfixed by such glory and wealth. No wonder my father could not wait to see such priceless plunder, this…
trésor recherché.

“Choose, John,” my father said to me. “Something for yourself.”

Choose. I walked among the piles of wealth, studying everything with a careful eye. As a prince—and the eldest of my brothers—I had plenty of crowns and buckles with which to adorn myself. I had no use for golden goblets or swords. And I wanted no part of tombs or jars holding bits of dead Egyptians. I shuddered at the very idea.

I strolled past the mounds of treasure, wondering how many the Crusaders had killed in the name of Our Lord to claim such wealth. I did not oppose the Crusades outright, but I somehow doubted that the Lord our God would be pleased by some of the methods used to claim this holy land. When my time came to rule Cyprus and Jerusalem, would I do the same to keep it? My brother Henry certainly would.

A whisper pulled my gaze to a carved, wooden box about a foot long, six inches wide, and four inches deep. Egyptian hieroglyphics were carved on all sides but the bottom, the images stained white.

An old senet game.

I had played senet with my brothers many times. I was not particularly good at the game, and this one was worn and cracked along one side. Why was something so shabby in with such riches?

I moved on and stopped to examine a golden crown. In the center, carved of copper, a scarab clutched a crescent moon. Two vipers, tails coiled, heads raised to strike, perched on either side of the beetle. Lapis and turquoise beads dangled around the bottom edge. I liked the sinister look of the creatures, but the beads would likely chafe my forehead.

“There are some fine rings in this box, John,” my father said.

I owned dozens of rings already.

John.

I turned around, looking for the source of that whisper. My gaze fell to the senet box. My nerves tingled as if the box had whispered my name. Impossible. “Did you say something, Father?”

He looked at me with raised brows. “I did not.” His lips curved into a smile. “Perhaps the voices of Egyptian ghosts are calling to you?”

“Doubtful.”

In search of something unique, I passed over what many would claim. A turquoise amulet, a dagger with a carved ivory grip, a vase painted in black and gold checks, a scepter carved from dark wood, a Crusader shield from England, a matching sword.

I glanced at my father. “Some of this is English.”

“The Nubian prince has a fondness for foreign things. As do I.” Father peered through a death mask that had belonged to some ancient pharaoh, his eyes a glimmer edged in gold. The sight chilled me, for when my father died, I would be king.

I had yet to decide if I should crave or abhor such a destiny.

I turned back to the hoard and found myself standing before the senet game. I looked behind me. Hadn’t the box been nearer the door?

I ran one finger along the worn cedar, and a tingle ran up my arm. I jerked away. But the feeling had not pained me, so I lifted the box into my hands. The tingle returned, a subtle pleasure.

John,
it said to me.

Though it made no sense, I clutched the box to my chest, and the game pieces rattled inside. “I want this.”

My father looked past a pair of gold vases to where I stood, his eyes narrowed. “That’s it, John? A toy?”

I couldn’t explain why I needed it. If I told my father how the feel of the wood on my skin made me tremble… that I felt a pull to the box like hair on wool… that I could hear it speaking to me… he would think me mad.

Come to think of it, I felt slightly mad.

I merely said, “
J’aime ça
.” I like it.

Father shrugged. “Have it if you must, but chose something of value as well.”

Eager to take the box to my cabin, I grabbed the scarab crown and held it up.

Father smiled. “Interesting choice. It’s a bit… angry, isn’t it?”

“
J’aime ça
,” I said again. “May I return to my cabin?”

He turned his back and stepped past an intricately painted anthropoid sarcophagus. “I’ve barely had a look. Remain with me. Sit and play with your
toy
if you must.”

I didn’t like his tone, but I was not about to argue with
the Great
. I found a carved footstool, set the scarab crown on the floor by my feet, and held the senet box in my lap. I ran my index finger along each carving. A small thrill tingled through me as if I were petting a satisfied cat. How very odd.

I continued to stroke the box, delighted with my find.

~*~*~

Back home in Nicosia, my delight turned to frustration. Something was wrong with the box. No matter where I pushed or pulled, I couldn’t open the drawers. The pieces rattled around inside, so there must be a way. I took the box along to dinner, puzzling over its mystery.

“What are you doing?” my brother Henry asked me.

“I can’t open it.”

“It looks ancient. Where did you get it?”

“
La Petite Baleine
,” I said.

“
That
is your treasure?” Henry scowled at me as if I were some Mamluk intruder. “Seriously, brother. I cannot understand why the Good Lord allowed you to be born before me. You are most bizarre. I shudder to think of how you will rule us someday. Will you demand all your subjects carry antique senet games wherever they go?”

“I simply want to open it,” I said, knowing that it was a waste of time to provide any answer, that Henry would use it to make me look more the fool. Humiliating me was his method of diverting people’s attention from his falling sickness.

As predicted, Henry delivered his slander straightaway. “If you continue to bring toys to the dinner table, John, perhaps we should call back our old nursemaid. Clearly you need someone to look after you.”

Everyone chuckled. Henry’s victory. I laid the senet game in my lap where it would be hidden and ate my dinner in silence.

Henry began talking with Father about politics, hinting that the pope should execute Charles Anjou and give Cyprus its own Crusader army.

“No more violence, Henry,” Father said. “I’m tired of fighting the same battle.”

“But if you would only listen, you’d see that one last, large battle could end this conflict for good. Traitors must be eliminated—before they can create more traitors. If we were to establish a
Curtia Regis
, a court of the King, administer a national law as Henry II did in England, court officials under your authority could judge local disputes, reduce the workload on royal courts, and deliver justice with greater efficiency. It’s quite simple, really. I think it would strengthen our hold on Jerusalem.”

Father snorted. “What hold? Jerusalem is a fish in my hands. Every time I manage to grasp her, she slips away.”

“A court of the King would…” Henry went silent, his face ashen, his eyes staring off past Father’s left ear. For at least a full ten seconds, Henry was lost to his illness. Then he came back, blinked a few times, and continued talking as if nothing had happened. “It would give you an iron grip that would hold any fish, Father.”

Father pierced Henry with a barbed glare. “I’ll have no more talk of this.”

I wondered if Father’s declaration was due to Henry’s opinions on politics or his becoming stupefied at the dinner table. Henry’s fits were the cause of much gossip in Cyprus. Some believed him to be possessed by demons. Henry himself had started the rumor that he was a prophet of God, and that when the Lord spoke to him, the power of God paralyzed his senses.

I didn’t think either of those speculations were the full truth.

After dinner, I carried the box back to my room and spent the next few hours fiddling with it. It was no regular senet game; I saw that now. Some of the panels could be shifted, like a puzzle. I slid them around in an attempt to open the drawer.

It was no use.

Frustrated, I shoved a few panels harder than the antique could likely handle. The box trembled in my hands. Softly at first, then harder until I couldn’t hold it still. Off guard, I set it on the floor and stepped back. As if a mounted army were charging down the corridor outside my room, the box bounced on the floor, rattling against the polished tile. Light shot from the cracks, beams brighter than any lantern or torch could provide. As if the sun itself were inside the box.

I shielded my eyes with the crook of my arm.

Then all went silent.

The box remained in one piece on the floor, still now, but with the center drawer hanging open. I picked it up and looked inside for the pieces.

“
Nullae partes
,” a feminine voice said.

I jumped, my gaze darting to the sound. A young Egyptian woman stood before me, barefoot, wearing a white linen sheath. A gold-and-turquoise amulet circled her neck. Her hair was black and straight and thick, with a stripe of golden beads around the lower edge. Kohl outlined her eyelids, and black paint had inked a lacy net around her upper arms. Her dark eyes considered me. Her lips were pursed and painted gold.

“What is your name?” I managed to ask, my Arabic terribly rusty. “Where did you come from?”

She blinked slowly, but then looked away, her gaze traveling the room as if seeking escape.

I spoke again, fearful she might leave. This time I tried French. “
Je m’appelle Jean
.” I tapped my chest. “John.”

Her eyes flicked back to meet my gaze. “
John es
?”

“Yes.” I bowed without looking away from her eyes. “John.”

She straightened and lifted her chin, clearly pleased with my manners. “
Mihi nomen est Amunet.”

As I strained to place those familiar words, the translation struck me suddenly. Her name was Amunet. “You speak Latin.” But no one spoke Latin anymore. I had studied it, learned to write it, but the oral language had been dead for centuries. “Where is your home?”

“
Venio ex Rhakotis
.”

My eyes flew wide at this statement. She came from Rhakotis? How could such a thing be? Rhakotis was the original name of the city of Alexandria on the northern coast of Egypt, before Alexander the Great renamed it centuries ago. I had never heard anyone call the city by that ancient name.

Compelled by the depths of her dark eyes, I clutched the box to my chest and reached out with my empty hand. She flinched, drew back, and stared at me, eyes wide and cautious.

I knew little of Egyptian custom. Women were kept separate from the men until marriage. Perhaps touching a woman was frowned upon.

Yet, after a brief hesitation, Amunet stepped toward me and reached her hand toward mine. Our fingers touched. Her skin was smooth and hot. I wondered if she had taken a fever. She slid her fingertips over my wrist and up my arm. Her nearness brought the smell of myrrh and balsam. I trembled, captivated by this exotic woman in my bedchamber.

Henry would be so proud.

Amunet’s fingernails scraped lightly over the end of the senet box. I held up the box, but the drawer began to slide out. I caught it and shoved it back in.

Amunet vanished.

“What? No!” I dug at the drawer with my fingernails, snapping off one in the process. I dropped the box and shook my hand at the stinging pain.

How? Did she live inside, like some sort of Arab djinn? I crouched and picked up the box. I could still smell her; myrrh and balsam tickled my nose.

“Amunet? Come out,” I pleaded to the box, then in my rusty Latin, “
Ego vocarete
.”

No matter what I tried, I could not open the drawer again. Days passed, weeks, months. Had I imagined her? Perhaps my brother’s evil spirits were tormenting me. But whenever I held the box, the feeling came over me again as if I could hear Amunet’s voice inside my head, saying my name in Latin.

John es
?

I carried the box at all times. Henry threatened to take it from me, so I stopped bringing it along to mealtimes, though I felt weary with it so far away. I worried someone would steal it, or that Amunet might return while I was gone, and I would never see her again.