King of Thieves
If the king of the Two Lands was the proxy of the gods, then the the king of thieves was the hero of the common man struggling to survive on the cutthroat streets of Ancient Egypt. Shmuel, a Hebrew slave, is saved one day by Nekhtamin, a boy who says that he will become the greatest thief in all of Egypt. This is a story about the consequences of being powerless in a ruthless world and the despair of those whose lives are stolen by the cruel whims of the Heavens and their messengers.
Chapter One: Nekhtamin the Thief
The sun's life-giving light seared across his deeply tanned back as he silently toiled in the courtyard of a stonecutter's shop. Years of exposure to the merciless sun had turned the backs of all the stonecutter's men into lumps of sunbaked clay with no choice but to bow their heads to the dusty earth as they worked. The rough and murky slabs of limestone, granite, and alabaster that were to be shaped into the excessively lavish resting places of royal officials and nobles sat against a low wall where Shmuel paused to heave and take in the precious air all living things needed to live.
With lowered eyes he scanned the courtyard, spotting with practiced ease the firm and tall back of the overseer, the thin boyish forms of the apprentices, the bend but broad shoulders of the adult stonecutters, and the slaves who inched across the dirt like dying beasts. Shmuel turned to the equally familiar sight of his older brother and the other slaves who had paused to draw breath. Behind them a massive slab of half-formed alabaster dragged sat resolutely in the dust. It was cold but sharp to the touch, its pearly white surface glinting in the sun. To many it might soon become a thing of beauty, but to Shmuel it would always be as pale as death.
Before the overseer could turn to find them resting, Shmuel and his companions went back to work, tossing blood stained ropes back over their shoulders and digging their heels into the earth trying to move the stone. The younger kids who could not yet handle such a burden scurried around them, wedging heavy cylinders of unremarkable stone beneath the alabaster slab to allow its weight to move from one quarter of the shop to the next.
This was their never ending, fruitless work. Shmuel had never laid eyes upon the grand monuments and the extravagantly beautiful, finished caskets whose stonework they pulled. He knew that he would probably never be granted even the smallest gratification of seeing the finished product of their sweat and tears. Even the caskets carved in this shop were shipped away to be further embellished with paint and gold trimmings. No one in this stonecutter's shop was even capable of carving these slabs - all the workers could do was drill holes and scrape away the outer layers for the real craftsmen to later mould.
This was what it meant to be a slave. They were not allowed to do the work of the youngest of apprentices. Theirs was to labor as beasts of burden, to merely transport, lift, and pile one atop another until their backs broke under the harsh Egyptian sun.
The screaming sounds of metal tools against stone blasted through his ears. When they were finally allowed to return to their dilapidated homes at the end of the day, Shmuel and his brothers who worked in the shop still often heard the echoes of those sounds that pursued them into their dreams. He wondered if he would go deaf someday like his uncle had before he passed into the realm of God.
Shmuel's muscles burned hotter than the sun as they finally reached the shade on the other side of the shop. There, a blank-faced apprentice helped them undo the ropes tied about the stone and one of the old, wrinkled, and bent over workers shooed them away to begin his work of chiseling the alabaster further.
It was horrendously mind-numbing work, all of it. And yet, Shmuel knew that it made their master just as horrendously rich. Near the shop's front he could see the broad-shouldered form of the man's son, a slightly timid if intimidating youth who looked better suited to herding cattle than cutting stone. Shmuel did not know his name, but he did know that when the son's old man died, the entire business along with its slave workforce, would go to him. His chest burned at the thought.
The overseer's dark eyes narrowed in their direction as they trudged back across the yard to move the influx of limestone into the yard. Though the overseer did not move from his position standing over an apprentice he had been admonishing for the past five minutes, Shmuel and his workmates hastened their pace in understanding. Those who were too slow were soon to find a whip licking at their shoulders or a reduction of rations for all of them.
There were a few who muttered curses beneath their breath once they were away from the main complex of the shop, standing before the shipment of limestone that had arrived the other day, carried by yet more slaves who were owned by some other official. Shmuel shifted away from their groans and rebellious talk. He slid over to his older brothers' sides, flashing them brief and tired smiles. They had few words for each other as usual.
There was absolutely no point in complaining where their masters and overseers could hear them. All it would earn a man was a number of lashings. Shmuel saw the glares from the other slaves, the ones who thought it better to die under a whip than to be silent about their servitude. All Shmuel could feel towards them was disdain, for it was those men who received the lashings but the rest of the slaves who paid in heavier workloads and fewer rations.
High noon had already passed and with it, the slaves' only break of the day. The hours crawled across the sky, the path of the sun slowly beginning to signal the end of the day. As usual, one or two of Shmuel's companions had fallen to exhaustion and became too dazed to move until the overseer yanked the man to his feet and chastised him with the whip until his limbs became animated again.
It was during this display, a time when the slaves put down their burdens to watch one of their own punished for supposed laziness, when Shmuel heard the paid workers mutter to themselves, for the sounds of the stonecutter's world had fell to a low hum. The overworked man's cries replaced them.
It was the only word Shmuel ever heard from the world outside the workplace and the Hebrew slums. He listened intently, eyes focused on his dust smeared feet as he blocked out the sounds of the man being punished.
"A thief running through the night!"
"I heard he steals straight from the gods' temples!"
"Ha, what a brave and stupid soul! Pharaoh's men will catch him and see him hung by his toenails for his thieving ways."
So there were those in this world who had enough freedom to freely choose to commit crime, Shmuel thought as they went back to work.
The sky was painted golden red and Shmuel inwardly rejoiced, as this was the last block of limestone they would have to pull that day, when his younger brother Noam slipped and fell at his feet. Shmuel stumbled, hands slipping on the ropes slick with his own blood as his younger brother bumped into his legs. Shmuel, more than sturdy enough to take the blow despite his relatively young age of sixteen years, was far more concerned by the red-faced rage that had bloomed over the overseer's face like an unpleasant sore.
"Get up," Shmuel hissed at his little brother, sounding like a snake hidden in the reeds.
"Get up," hissed their older brothers while the other slaves turned their heads away in pity.
"Get up!" shouted the overseer, loud as a lion's roar. "Lazy dog, you don't even pull stones! Master Mehy has no need of weak, lazy slaves. Come here, boy."
Shmuel's already dry throat tightened with dread like he had swallowed sand. His brothers all turned their heads away, eyes flickering with the pain of acceptance and the smallest light of prayer that the overseer would merely whip him, or that at least he would die quickly and with as little pain as possible. It was the look of one who had lived as a slave for many years, knowing freedom came to them in only the briefest moments of happiness among family, and never again until their death. An eerie quiet fell over the shop, as quiet as a stonecutter's place could be at any rate. There was still the considerably loud clamor filtering in from the streets to break the stillness between everyone present.
The overseer pulled his younger brother's trembling form closer to him and examined his hands, raw and bloodied like so many others in this trade at the tender age of ten. Shmuel's older brother tapped him briefly on the elbow, dark eyes warning him not to open his mouth lest they all be punished.
Shmuel recited the man's words in his head as he watched his younger brother stand there, being examined like a sickly calf. He reached the horrid conclusion just as the overseer gave his brother's shoulder a shove back to the group, the blood stained leather whip lowering harmlessly. The man would not whip his brother to death.
"No use in killing a slave, even a lazy one," the overseer muttered with a brash sigh. Then, louder, in a voice as sharp and cold as the stones they labored over, "You'll just go to the market then. Not too damaged that another craftsman can't use those hands."
Shmuel heard his brother's terrified whimper and suddenly the words came tumbling out of his lips, "No, please don't! He just slipped is all, he's not tired or slacking off! H-he's only ten years old..."
The overseer's face did not redden again, but his sharp-featured face twisted in what seemed to be horror or pain. The sound that escaped his throat was that of deep and humorless laughter, though. "Ha, you're right! A flimsy ten year old brat like that doesn't belong in stonework! Should have sold him ages ago."
"T-that's not..." Shmuel stumbled backwards as his older brother yanked on his arm, but the overseer did not seem to notice. Instead, he lifted the worn leather whip in his hand and approached Shmuel's form, which had height but was by no means large.
"All ten year old brats are the same," the man declared with a low growl. "But a boy as old as you should know his place! Get on the ground and maybe I won't sell you as well!"
Shmuel's legs were certainly shaking and his first instinct was to do as he was told and fall to his knees. Even if he wanted to prostrate himself on the ground and beg for forgiveness, at the moment he could do nothing but stare at the man's merciless, wrinkled face with wide eyes and his heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought it would simply burst. Shmuel was no stranger to the whip, though it had dealt him far less damage than his daily toils ever could, but he remembered the sting of the leather and of the humiliation and shame that filled him.
Even a beaten dog had its pride, after all, even if only a little sliver was left.
So consumed by the threads of white hot fear for what would come after the beating - would he be sold or would he be killed and what of his younger brother - that Shmuel did not notice the noise outside the shop increase considerably while the overseer leered over him. If he noticed, he would have no doubt been as curious as the next. Such public spectacles were almost the only form of entertainment everyone was allowed to enjoy, after all.
Given that his ears were ringing with promises of separation from his beloved family, dwindling as it was these past few years, Shmuel did not notice the screaming of the crowds outside until there was a loud crash near the front of the shop. One of the apprentices who was busy replacing the stonecutting tools for the day shouted in terrified surprise, stumbling backwards as the figure that had come tumbling from over the shop's low stone walls rose.
The sounds of life returned to Shmuel's ears. Men were shouting on the other side, demanding the doors to open, and the overseer abandoned the whip to let the guards of the marketplace within their walls. The workers cast panicked glances at the stranger who had breached their workplace, the figure shrouded in a sand colored traveling coat that had seen better days. Behind him, Shmuel's brothers whispered harshly in his ear, insisting that they retreat to the shadows.
Before Shmuel could move, the cloaked figure leapt from the ruined worktable, darting across the courtyard with the swiftness of a cat, pausing to glance at the doors as they opened. All at once at least ten guards came rushing in with an assortment of swords and spears drawn, their bare chests heaving as they called for someone to stop the man who had broken in. The stranger in return reached under the cloak, drawing a simple dagger as he fell into a crouch.
"The man who catches that thief shall be granted his freedom!" bellowed the guard who stood before them all. "Don't let him get away!"
In retrospect, he probably only said such a thing because at least ten slaves and five paid workers stood between the stranger and the freedom of the backstreets and the Nile beyond. All at once, the men around Shmuel jumped to their feet with renewed vigor. How hard was it to catch a single man, after all?
Shmuel's heart no longer pulsated in terror as he recalled the workers' earlier gossip about a thief. His mind, so muddled by the heat of the day's work, could no longer remember any further information. He watched in a daze as the cloaked person slipped under the grasping arms of the strong slaves who should have been able to seize his shorter, thinner frame in less than a minute. The long pointed dagger in his hand skimmed the arms and sides of some, but succeeded in killing nobody.
"Shmuel, catch him!" His older brother's voice jolted him from his daydreaming.
The stranger was coming straight towards him, perhaps having sensed that he was completely out of it. Shmuel roused himself and reacted just in time to grab the stranger by the wrist, his wide eyes watching the path of the dagger in the other man's hand as the momentum from the running man made the two of them spin wildly out of control. The breath was stolen straight from Shmuel's mouth as he stumbled into the stranger's thankfully blade-less side, but this person was much sturdier than he thought he would be.
He thought he heard a furious hiss, but that may just have been the wind in his ears as the supposed thief took advantage of the flurry of movement to transfer ownership of the dagger to Shmuel.
At first he had no idea what had happened. He had just managed to register the sensation of warm, heavy metal in his palm when he also realized that the thief had broken free of his grasp, was running towards the wall, and the guards who had not seen the commotion were now free to think of Shmuel as a rebelling slave.
Just when he thought that his life could not get any worse.
Shmuel tripped over his feet as he whirled to find the man who had so suddenly turned his life upside down. He had no choice but to run after the cloaked figure, who was disappearing over the far wall, having climbed the blocks of limestone so quickly he was almost like a wild animal.
The grasping hands and spears at his back, the promise of a slow death for daring to oppose his masters, spurred Shmuel to complete the same journey. Though his muscles burned from the day's work, he found it much easier to push through the pain to reach the backdoor that led to the alleyways than it had been to pull those stones earlier.
The cloaked man was crouched at the far end of the alleyway, still but unharmed and unmolested, it seemed. He spared Shmuel a glance, perhaps eyeing his discarded weapon, and made a quick hand motion that Shmuel nearly missed. Follow me, it meant, and hearing the commotion back in the courtyard, the guards' angered shouts, the desperate cries of the slaves, Shmuel ran after him.
He soon found out that the stranger had not made it over the wall completely unharmed. Shmuel quickly caught up to him, noticing the awkward tilt in his gait that had not been there before. He did not ask for his dagger back and neither did he cast Shmuel suspicious glances. He couldn't help but wonder who this man was, why he had appeared when he did, and what would become of Shmuel himself now? Might this man also be a slave? It was impossible to tell with the cloak tossed over his head, his clothes smeared in dust, no doubt from the chase.
Shmuel had no voice. All of his energy was spent on running, taking sharp turns when required and jumping over piles of trash and over low walls when required. The hand holding the weapon burned, but he didn't let it go.
All at once, the stranger stopped and finally spoke, holding an arm out. "Wait, stop," he whispered, the sound of his breaths coming quick but not labored. Shmuel barely heard the words, but was surprised to find the voice they belonged to was quite soft, not the hard voice of an adult but someone of his age. "And be quiet."
However, he definitely spoke Egyptian with clarity. Maybe he was not a slave. But if he was not a slave, why was he being pursued so ardently?
Shmuel panted beside him. For a time all he heard were their heavy breaths, slowing as the seconds passed. He could not see beyond the building where they had stopped, but the stranger peered across the street every now and again.
"Wait here," he said in a low voice, disappearing with a billow of coarse cloth before Shmuel could say anything. As soon as the person's form disappeared from his sight, Shmuel was overcome by a sensation of despair. The man - no, boy - who had just doomed him to a bloody and horrible death had just abandoned him.
"Oh God, please..." Shmuel muttered more to himself than anyone else. Would God save him, as his mother and father always claimed?
"There are no gods here, only men."
A sharp whisper flitted above his head, a soft voice filled with flat mirth. Shmuel glanced up and found that the cloaked boy was atop a fine bronze coated horse. The shadows of the night had begun to fall over the city quickly, the torches not yet lit. He still could not see the boy's face.
Shmuel swallowed but there was no moisture in his throat. The boy maneuvered the horse, patting its rump expectantly. At last he could see just a bit of his face, which was smooth and the same golden brown hue as many other Egyptians. His eyes were constantly moving, flicking from Shmuel to the road behind him. "Well?" he said impatiently. "Hurry or they'll catch us standing here like stupid fowl waiting to get slain."
Shmuel spared one glance of longing behind him, for his home was in that direction. Their flimsy home might not have been much, but it was where he was born and where his family resided. He could not return now, he knew, even though he had done nothing wrong.
At last he accepted the strange boy's offer, pulling himself up and over the horse, nearly pitching over the side once or twice. He ended up grabbing hold of the boy's shoulders, having nothing else to hold onto. If he minded, he said nothing. He merely took up the reins, told Shmuel to hold on, and spurred the horse into a jumpy gait down the road.
What started as a bouncy trot soon melted into a brisk run, with the boy crouched over the horse's neck and Shmuel gripping him around the waste and closing his eyes tight, hoping that they wouldn't fall off and end up as splatters of blood on the road. A hand placed upon his own made him open them. Though he couldn't see the boy's face, he heard his voice clearly for the first time.
"Don't squeeze so hard," he said testily. "You're choking me."
Shmuel nodded and loosened his grip, though every time the horse lurched he ended up holding on tighter.
All around them he could begin to hear the sounds of people searching for them. It was surprisingly quiet, though.
"They'll be searching the riverside, no doubt," the boy offered at one point, when they had slowed to a fast trot. "Not even thinking that I'd return to the temple."
"We're going to a temple? Why? Don't you rob them?"
A scoff was all the answer he received for the moment. It was quite dark by this time, the clear white moon shining above them, the beginnings of the desert cold beginning to chill his skin. The lights of the city were coming to life, burning at uneven intervals. Whenever they passed under the light of the fire, Shmuel hid his face against the rough canvas of the boy's cloak.
The temple came into view, stunning in its height, though Shmuel could not really appreciate its form for any number of reasons, the least of which that it looked particularly ominous in the dark. However, they did not approach the temple any further. Instead, they traveled away for it for quite some time, until they reached an unmarked alleyway. Here, the boy climbed off the horse and motioned for Shmuel to do the same.
Shmuel noticed the other figured cloaked in the shadows too late, but his escort did not seem surprised or angry. Instead, the other person flipped back his hood to reveal a young face about the same age as Shmuel and the thief boy.
The new arrival sighed and shook his head in mock disapproval. "My little brother, whatever shall I do with you? I told you it was a bad idea to steal from a temple of the gods! And the temple of Amon, the god of this very city, at that! And who's this?"
"Shush, Renpet," said the thief with a dismissing wave. "You've got all the food and jewelry?"
"Yes, but-"
"Ah, I caused him considerable trouble. It would be quite inconsiderate of me to just leave him to get executed by the guards. Come on, we'll talk while we ride. It's a long way to Khmun."
"Ah, who is he though?" The other person, Renpet supposedly, stepped closer, but his dark eyes held no malice and none of that judgmental, evaluating stare of the overseer and Shmuel's former master. "Who are you and what life has my brother stolen you from?"
"I'm...I'm Shmuel," he responded uneasily at this new person's surprisingly soft voice. It held none of the brash, quick intonation of the thief, though they sounded rather similar otherwise. "I worked for Mehy the stonecutter as a..."
"A slave?" Renpet supplied when Shmuel had lost the words to continue. Renpet simply nodded and motioned to the two horses standing idle behind him. "No matter, you can switch on and off between my brother and I. Let's hurry. Khonsu of the moon will see us out of the city safely, but only so long as it's dark."
"But - I'm..." Shmuel breathed unevenly. "Doesn't it bother you that I'm a Hebrew and a slave?"
"Not if it doesn't bother you that we're cutpurses and just robbed the temple of Amon," said the thief boy, apparently the younger brother of Renpet, not that he could tell in this lighting. His voice was tinged with mirth again, this time far less dark and harsh. "There are far worse things you can be."
Shmuel nodded. Where did he have to go anyways? Maybe God had brought these two, however strange they were, to him for a purpose. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe it was okay to believe. "Just one more thing. What's your name?"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you?" said the thief with a voice that said he was perfectly aware that he had never divulged his name. He smiled, a gesture that Shmuel just barely saw by the half moon's light. "Well, as you heard, this is my brother Nefer-renpet, but most call him Renpet. As for me, I am the person who will become the greatest thief in all of Egypt, Nekhtamin!"
This story works under the assumption that both the Hebrew God and the gods of Egyptian mythology all exist in the same world to some degree. This story is not intended to say that both or neither exist at all. If you don't like it, don't read this story.
I'm not sure if Shmuel was a name that was used at that time; let me know if it's out of context or something.
Most of this story is populated by OCs, since there are practically no characters from a low social class besides the slaves in Prince of Egypt.
