Hostage Princess

Part 1 - the Tower

The drums of war were pounding. Alarm bells clamoured. The screams of dying men on the distant city walls carried on the air, thick with dust.

Securely locked away inside the highest tower, right in the centre of the palace, the princess and her women prayed. Kneeling in a semi-circle before a polished statue of Pinikir, the mother goddess of Elam, the five ladies murmured hushed invocations to their benefactress, begging her to intervene, to preserve their husbands and children, to hold back the invading host at the city gates.

Of them all, only the princess was serene and unconcerned. Sustained by the knowledge that no man in the land was the martial equal of her beloved, she radiated peace and tranquillity. Her husband had sworn to return to her and their son. In seven years of perfect marriage, he had never broken a promise to her; from the day he had promised to claim her as his bride, to this day, he had never given her cause to doubt him. Why would she begin now?

At four-and-twenty years of age, she could still stop a man in his tracks with a flicker of her almond-shaped eyes; a flutter of black lashes against cheeks smooth as buttermilk, a curve at the corner of her rose-petal lips, and a man was hers to command. But after she captured her husband, she had no need of such power. He had been just twenty years of age when his eyes first lit upon her, but he had never looked at another woman since.

She was utterly suffused with love. She had borne him one strong son, and another grew within her. Awan did not know it yet – she would tell him when he returned victorious from battle, intensifying his joy. As mumairu, commander of Elam’s army, the triumph and glory would be all his. Throughout her prayers, she longed to embrace him, to see the elation in his eyes when she gave him her news. She was four moons gone – she could not have hidden the secret for much longer. Perhaps she would have told him sooner, but she could not bring herself to trouble him with her condition when he had pressing matters of war to attend to.

A warm, wriggling body nestled against her right arm, disturbing her thoughts; she opened her eyes. Her four-year-old son squirmed beside her, distressed by the sounds and smells of the battle, eager to escape the tower room that had been their prison for two days.

‘Hush, child,’ she smiled down at him. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ the prince lied, his little brow furrowed. ‘Father wouldn’t be afraid.’

‘No, darling. He wouldn’t.’

‘Will he be back soon?’

‘Yes,’ she ran a gentle hand over his head, through the tangle of his hair, looking lovingly at the face that was a miniature copy of her husband’s. ‘Why don’t you practise your fighting with Nazaru?’

The boy shook his head, ‘Nazaru plays too hard. Look!’ he pulled up his tunic to expose a purple bruise covering half of his left thigh.

She laughed softly, ‘That is just his way. Nazaru is a strong young man. When you fight an enemy who wants to hurt you, he will give you far more than bruises. You must learn to block his cuts.’

‘I will,’ her son nodded vehemently, tugging his tunic back down, suddenly ashamed of his bruise; a badge of failure. He jumped to his feet, threw his arms around his mother’s neck, and ran off to badger their young bodyguard to fight with him.

She watched him go with pride in her heart. He tugged at Nazaru’s tunic, and they were soon up and running through the basic drills, the boy fighting his giant opponent with renewed determination.

The bodyguard, broad and muscular, towered over even the tallest of her ladies. At just seventeen years of age, he promised to be the fiercest fighter that Elam had ever known. He already had a reputation for ruthlessness and brutish behaviour. It made him the perfect sparring partner for her young son – he must learn that his victories would not be handed to him easily. Nazaru would ensure that the little prince always took a lesson from each bout.