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“Ah, Heba my child…if only you had been born male. You would make a great ruler one day. Perhaps the best these lands have ever and will ever see.”
Heba looked away then, peering back out of the litter.
The weight of Papa’s gaze was too heavy for her small shoulders to carry. She was only a girl, a carefree royal princess.
As Mother drilled into her from the cradle, she was meant to marry princes and kings to legitimize their rule. That, and produce healthy male offspring. Those were her only tasks.
Everything else was pointless conjecture. A way to while away the time as she fulfilled the purpose of her life.
She knew she was privileged. She had nothing of which to complain. As royal princess, she had access to tutors, toys, clothes, the most delicious foods—every luxury she could ever desire. She didn’t need to labor in the fields all the long day; she didn’t have to serve others or do chores.
Hers was a life of idyllic leisure. She didn’t even have to be pretty, as other girls who wanted to secure husbands did. Her future was guaranteed.
And yet…
Something inside of her had always yearned formore.
Suddenly, aggravated shouts and the loud cracks of whips drew her attention to a makeshift stage where slave traders were trying to control one of their heathen wares.
“Stop,” she breathed, more thought than word.
But the slaves heard her, apparently, or Papa gave the signal to pause, for the litter swayed to a standstill.
They were just a short distance away from the wooden stage, on the periphery of the crowd that had gathered before it. A lanky, dirty creature bound by rough ropes around his neck, chest, arms and ankles struggled against three grown men who held his leash, pulling in opposing directions to make him stand still.
He looked to be only a few years older than Heba’s eight summers, but his height already eclipsed the men surrounding him.
His muscles were lean and vibrated with tension, his naked body covered in blood and dirt. Matted dark hair straggled down to his shoulders and over his face, further concealing features already caked with filth.
It was clear he had the build of a foreigner. One of those “Sea Peoples” Heba read about and saw engravings of. Much taller and broader than the average and even the tallest Egyptian. With olive skin that turned to honeyed bronze in the sun.
Why did the boy-man fight so fervently? Uselessly?
He would be traded just like any prisoner of war to the highest bidder. He only made things more difficult for himself by struggling. They would punish him severely to teach him a lesson.
And yet…
Something about the stranger drew Heba’s eye.
Perhaps it was the proud, undefeated tilt of his chin. The fierceness glinting in his wild eyes. The strength that he radiated out of every pore.
Bound and beaten though he was, his spirit would never be broken. Somehow, she knew that without a doubt.
“I want him,” she whispered to herself, barely aware that she spoke, her eyes wide and rivetted on the slave.
But Papa heard her, for he said, “I can see why. He has the makings of a great warrior. Best to keep that type of strength close rather than on the other side of battle.”
He snapped his fingers, and the litter was put down. Two soldiers dismounted from the side facing the stage and pushed their way through the crowd.
Heba couldn’t hear what was being said when the royal guards mounted the stage and entered in a gesticulating exchange with the slave traders. The boy-man had stopped fighting, at least, his chest heaving from the exertion.
One of the guards handed a trader a pouch of coins. He then took hold of the slave’s leash and started to draw him away.
But the boy-man resisted yet again, digging in his heels. Both soldiers grabbed the ends of his ropes to pull now, practically dragging him.
The foreigner was terribly strong, even as a boy standing against two fully-grown men. He held his ground and refused to budge.
Before Heba knew what she was doing, she’d stepped out of the litter and walked to the stage, two guards immediately flanking her at the side and from behind at a low command from Papa.
