Violya

Chapter 10 Ammad

10

AMMAD

“I’ve got no f*****g arms, give me more poppy,” Ammad yelled at the three healers who lingered around his bed.

The poppy was poor quality, disgusting even, but it gave him a high, however short-lived and tainted. His poppy supply had come from Peqkya. But, irritatingly, that had dried up after the failed invasion. They’d had to start cultivating it in the palace garden, but it was dire in comparison.

The healers looked to Jakira, ignoring his instruction, and he exploded. “I’m the Crown Prince, do as I say or face a violent punishment. Guards!”

The healers didn’t move. And neither did the two guards stood by the door. They were new. Watchful and silent. Not like old, trusty Qabull. He would’ve followed orders.

Ammad felt even more impotent than his broken c**k. Now, he was an invalid in his mother’s villa with no say anymore.

He kicked his feet, thumped his torso onto the bed, writhed from side to side.

Jakira watched him with pursed lips. He thrashed and kicked, became aware that he was drooling, that his entire body itched like a nest of ants crawling over his skin.

He yelled and with a final effort at jerking his body, managed to roll off his bed. He landed on the floor with a heavy, mortifying thud. The healers rushed forward to help but Jakira held out a halting palm then gestured for them to leave.

Ammad realised her motherly patience had finally worn thin as he cowered from her scowl. He knew that face from his childhood, knew what was coming.

“Flesh of my flesh. You are no longer in pain. Your injuries have healed and you do not need the poppy. This,” she waved her hand at his sorry body slumped on the ground, tangled in sheets and with his tunic wound up around his waist, “is the result of poppy withdrawal. I want my son back. This,” she indicated him again, “is not my son. This is a poppy-addled fool.”

“I have no arms, Mama,” Ammad whimpered into the cool stone tiles.

“No, you have no arms.” She pulled off a slipper, leaned over him and slapped his forehead with it. “But you still have a brain.” Then she bashed the slipper on his chest, “And lungs, and a heart and all your internal organs.” She hit his thigh. “And you still have legs.”

She hit him with her slipper until her breath quickened, then she took his chin in her other hand and squeezed her gold-painted fingernails into the flesh of his cheeks. “Ammad, you are the Crown Prince. Arms or no. Act like it.”

She replaced her slipper, and left him on the floor, slamming the door behind her.

Ammad screamed, attempted to get off the floor but the effort of manoeuvring without his arms was too much and he slumped back again, yelling in frustration.

***

Days later Jakira’s head slave Medi came into the room, pulled Ammad to his feet and walked him to the washing area outside the villa. Ammad sat on a stool whilst several male slaves washed him gently. He was pleased it wasn’t the female slaves, even his mother’s eldest female slave would’ve looked at him in pity, whereas before they always admired his beautiful body.

But had it changed that much? He looked down at his honed chest, the ripples in his stomach, the lean muscles of his legs. They had softened in the time he’d been lying in bed, but they were still defined. But what could he do? He couldn’t wield a weapon, ride a camel, or hold a polo mallet. Polo, the beautiful game. He’d never play it again.

The slaves oiled his skin and hair, massaged his feet, shaved and sculpted his beard and trimmed his eyebrows. He did not resist, he had always enjoyed the preening and pampering that enhanced his beauty. They dressed him in fine lounge clothes that had been adjusted, he noted, so that there were no sleeves. They fit him perfectly. His mother’s doing.

He knew he would look dashing, and he did, in fact, feel somewhat better. But the mirrors had been removed from the dressing area. And Ammad realised he hadn’t seen himself since his return from Peqkya.

Since that red-haired hisspit had taken his arms.

Medi, who had been standing discreetly to one side keeping an eye on proceedings, stepped forward and beckoned for Ammad to follow.

“Your mother,” the head slave said.

Ammad followed Medi to one of the lower floor rooms which had once been Ammad and Selmi’s playroom. It was at the back of the house, out of the sun and cooler. Ammad hadn’t been back to this particular room since he was about seven and had become obsessed with polo.

It was exactly as he remembered. Toys and playthings scattered about, the wall painted with bright motifs, intricate coloured glass depicting an orchid in the window. Two slaves monotonously fanned the room with large palm fronds.

Jakira sat in the centre of the room on plush cushions playing with a child. The Peqkian boy with red hair and black skin. Ammad had snatches of memories of the boy. His mother laughed as she handed a camel figurine to the boy and he galloped it along the thick carpet. A carpet from Peqkya, no less. How fitting.

Ammad frowned at his mother and she looked up at him.

“Ah, flesh of my flesh. Do you remember Artaz?”

Ammad shrugged.

“He arrived with Riv and Toya and I have taken him in as my own. He is a special boy.”

She said special in such a way that a pang of jealousy chimed in Ammad’s mind. He raised an eyebrow. She kissed the boy on the cheek and stood effortlessly from the cushions.

“I have business at the palace and will be away for most of the day. You will watch over your little brother.”

“I am no woman to mind a child,” Ammad said. If he’d had his arms, he would’ve crossed them.

Jakira’s tone turned sharp. “You have something better to be doing with your time? Somewhere else to go?”

Ammad remained silent and Jakira pointed at the cushions. “Make yourself comfortable. Medi will be here in case there is anything you need.”

To observe and report back on my conduct.

The child sensed that Jakira was leaving. He leapt up and started to cry, clutching at her exquisite silk dress with grubby hands.

“No, no, no,” he wailed.

She knelt so her face was in line with his. “I shall not be gone long, Artaz. Look, your big brother is here to play with you. Why don’t you show him your camels? He loves camels. Where are they? You’d better find them.”

Distracted, the boy scampered away and started lifting piles of toys and cushions to dig out his camel figurines. She shot a glance at Ammad and then nodded at Medi.

Both men watched Jakira leave. The slaves, trained impeccably to blend into the background, continued their fanning with neutral, unseeing faces. Medi took his place standing by the door.

Jakira’s scent of aniseed and nutmeg lingered in the room, and when Ammad thought he could no longer smell it he moved to some cushions piled in the corner and reclined, leaning his shoulders against the wall.

The child – with an armful of playthings, not all of which were camels – waddled over to Ammad, spilling toys. He dumped them on Ammad’s lap and looked up at him eagerly.

The boy had piercing blue eyes. He was attractive, bound to grow up to be a handsome man. Ammad glowered at him.

Artaz pointed at the toys. “Play,” he said with a huge grin.

“Get away from me, brat,” Ammad hissed.

Artaz’s face dropped at the tone. “Brat?” he repeated and continued to look up at Ammad. His expectant gaze turned Ammad’s stomach and the Crown Prince shoved the child away with a foot in his chest.

Artaz stumbled back and plopped down on his rump. He wailed, only pausing so his breath could catch up with his wailing.

“Shut him up, Medi,” Ammad said. But Jakira’s head slave ignored him and gazed at nothing as expertly as the fan slaves.

“Shut up,” Ammad shouted at the boy, but the child’s screams only intensified and gouged great caverns out of Ammad’s ears.

Ammad went to stand, to leave the room. Medi would have to move aside, no slave was permitted to touch a master unless granted permission, and even Jakira’s orders couldn’t cross that code.

But Ammad was wedged in such a position on the cushions that he couldn’t get his legs in the right position to heave himself up. “f**k,” he shouted.

After a number of futile attempts, he gave up.

The child had stopped it’s bawling and was watching him with wide-eyed curiosity, mouth gaping, head to one side.

“That’s right, brat, I have no arms,” Ammad said and glared at the child. “I can’t stand up.”

Artaz shrugged and turned to play with the nearest toys.

Ammad gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. But his eyelids refused to remain shut and kept opening so he could seek out the child and watch him.

In truth, Ammad was fascinated by this red-haired boy with the same hair colour as the warrior who had maimed him. He had only ever seen Peqkians with black hair, never red.

His mind, unfettered from poppy, functioned for the first time in months.

Was this child related to that warrior? Can I use him to hurt her somehow? How can I destroy Peqkya? We failed once, but not again. A minor setback. We now know our way in to the country, know the layout of Riaow. I can rebuild the army, find some way to overcome the hisspits. A weapon. I need a new kind of weapon. Swords won’t work because the Peqkians are skilled at swordplay.

His musing was interrupted by slaves bringing in lunch. The same old house slave propped Ammad upright and fed him, bringing a spoon from bowl to mouth. This had mortified Ammad previously, but he found today he didn’t much care. He was thinking. He was planning. He felt more like himself.

The child watched the slave feeding Ammad and then put down his spoon and pointed. The young slave who was holding his bowl glanced quickly and started to feed Artaz exactly as Ammad was being fed. After each mouthful, Artaz beamed with pride at Ammad.

The food was finished and taken away and Artaz yawned. Ammad slouched against the wall, all his thoughts on digesting. The child edged his way around Ammad’s legs, remembering the kick from earlier, and came closer to Ammad from the side.

Ammad, longing for his arms to swat the brat away, tensed as the child leaned in and rested his head on Ammad’s chest. The boy’s breathing slowed and as it did, his head slipped down to rest in Ammad’s lap.

Satiated by the food, Ammad too fell asleep.

Ammad woke to raised voices. Artaz was no longer in the room. Medi was also gone. And there was only the one fan slave now, different from earlier. The Crown Prince must have slept for hours.

It was his younger brother, Selmi, doing the shouting. Unusual.

“Those in power shouldn’t lie to their people,” Sel yelled.

“Oh, not this again, flesh of my flesh. Those in power should always lie to their people,” Jakira replied, her normally smooth, controlled voice sharp. Ammad knew from experience that she was reaching tipping point.

“I’ve had enough, I will not go to another polo match,” Sel retorted, and Ammad imagined him stomping a foot. “I told you, I do not agree with Mastiq’s rule, with the corruption of religion, with slaves, with how this country is so unfairly run. Father has the power to change this country for the better, not to continue to run it as it has always been run – as an oppressive regime where the rich get richer whilst the poor starve. He should be ashamed—”

A sharp crack sounded. Jakira no doubt slapped him, for his insolence.

“You, fan slave, get someone to help me up. Now,” Ammad said.

The slave, a teenage boy, jumped at being spoken to by a master and almost dropped his fan.

“Now,” Ammad bellowed and the boy threw down his palm frond and ran from the room.

How dare Selmi speak that way about our father! He’d reprimand the little runt.

“Mastiq must know by now that I’m not Ammad,” Sel continued in a lower tone that held a hint of a snivel. “It’s so obvious, I know we look similar but I’m taller than him. He must have heard by now about Ammad’s injuries. I refuse to pretend to be him anymore, it’s a stupid farce and I won’t lie to the people any longer. They deserve to know. I will say something!”

Pretend to be me? Taller?

A house slave arrived to help Ammad to his feet. He stomped out of the room in search of his mother and brother. When he reached the main lounge, which opened out onto the terrace overlooking the city, Sel had gone. Jakira was stood in the small breeze, her back to Ammad.

“Mama, what is all this about Sel pretending to be me?” Ammad said but Artaz ran past him and straight into Jakira’s legs.

“Mama,” Artaz sang.

Jakira turned and swept up the boy in a twirling embrace.

“Ah, Ammad, we have a polo match to attend in two weeks’ time. Sel has taken your place while you have been recuperating, but you’re ready. Mastiq expects you to play, but we will be spectators. Mastiq is not aware of the extent of your injuries. And neither is the public.” She skewered him with a meaningful glare. “And they shall never know.”

“Enter,” Ammad said as a knock sounded on his door much later that evening.

His mother’s head slave, Medi, entered.

“What do you want? It’s late.” Ammad puffed on a shisha pipe that had been rigged into position so he didn’t need to hold the hose. He blew smoke in long, fragrant streams.

“A gift from your mother,” Medi said and ushered in two women. Ammad knew immediately who, and what, they were. Expensive whores dressed in belly dancer outfits.

Medi left the room and closed the door as the two women grinded against one another seductively. One singing sweetly. Ammad watched the show. His mother had often sent him whores when he had pleased her or had a job to do and was about to please her by following her explicit instructions. He knew this gift was to appease him for Sel’s pretence, for doing as told during the upcoming polo match. Jakira no doubt had a plan for the event, she always did.

The singing ceased as the two women kissed and undressed one another, making their way slowly to Ammad. He shifted on the cushions. Looked down at his trousers. Nothing. Not even a tingle.

“f**k,” he growled and the whores took this as a sign to straddle him and seek out his c**k.

“Oh,” one giggled as she rubbed her palm between his legs, “We’ll need to work harder on this royal appendage.”

The second w***e pulled Ammad’s tunic from over his head. “Perhaps he needs our tongues tickling his skin,” she said.

The first w***e found the waistband of his trousers and hitched them down.

“Get the f**k off me!” Ammad hollered.

These two beauties did nothing for him. His c**k was dead. Had been dead since taking that hisspit warrior by force. He was starting to believe that he had been cursed by the Peqkian stone witch.

“Playing hard to get, are we,” one of the women said and nibbled at his neck, all the while continuing to rub his p***s through his trousers.

“Get the f**k off me,” Ammad repeated, this time with more force. “Leave this room before I have you both beheaded. Medi!”

The two women screamed and retreated to the centre of the room, gathering up their garments.

“Never again,” Ammad said as the head slave burst through the door.

Medi blinked twice at the Crown Prince in surprise, after all, women had been Ammad’s second favourite sport after polo, but then nodded. He grabbed both women and threw them out of the room.

Ammad yelled in frustration. Kicking his heels into the cushions.

***

“Your mother,” Medi said as he collected Ammad from his room and took him to the wash area the next morning.

Slaves carefully dressed Ammad in clothes that he used to wear to train in, which he found odd. They had been altered, and now had no sleeves. Once attired, Medi led him down the craterside to the camel stables and sand pit where Ammad had learnt how to sword fight. Is this another doomed gift from my mother after last night’s w***e debacle?

There was no one else around and Medi indicated for Ammad to sit on a bench in the shade.

Medi whistled and a young man came out of the stable and stood next to him.

“What is this? More rotten entertainment?” Ammad said.

The man was from the Affarah clan, evident by the large back hump and wide nose. His baggy yellow trousers marked him as a street fighter, his bare chest inked with line tattoos for every fight he had won. He was muscular, with thick legs and a torso that Ammad hated to admit that he coveted. Every defined muscle bulged, and his shoulders sloped up to his ears with a bulk of muscle around the neck.

The most ripped man Ammad had ever seen had no arms.

“This is Samark, otherwise known by his fighter name as Street Sam,” Medi said.

Ammad rolled his eyes. “Where’s Mama?”

“Jakira wanted you to meet Street Sam,” Medi replied.

“Because he has no arms? I want nothing to do with this Affarah street scum. He might be spreading diseases to me as we speak.”

“Not because he has no arms, but because of what he can do. What you could do,” Medi said.

Ammad let out a long, bored breath and pursed his lips.

Medi continued, “Sam was born with no arms—”

“My heart weeps with sorrow.”

“… his father was a street fighter,” Medi continued, ignoring Ammad’s interruption, “and his only son would also be a street fighter, there was no other choice. He adapted his training and strength equipment to accommodate Samark. And Samark is now one of the top fighters.”

“What a delightfully dull story.” Ammad made to get up off the bench.

Medi nodded to the lowly man who ran across the sand, turned and then ran back at them flipping his legs up and around and landing back on his feet.

Ammad sat back on the bench. The street scum had just performed a perfect tumble. Something Ammad had spent years perfecting as a young boy. Something he hadn’t dared attempt in a long time – even when he still had his arms.

“Can you do that?” Medi asked Ammad, a smirk on his face. “Are you telling me that this Affarah man is stronger, more powerful, better than you? Royalty no less?”

“A cheap trick,” Ammad said.

“As far as I’m aware, there are two men in this city with no arms. Samark and you. Samark is number one. How does that make you feel, Crown Prince?”

Ammad squirmed on the bench. He hated to be second best. “Those he fights take pity on him and let him win.”

Medi whistled again and Ammad’s weapons instructor came out. Gad was a large man who towered over Samark. Gad was also a man who would not take pity on an opponent. He had never taken pity on Ammad, often leaving him bruised and bloodied. But that was how Ammad had learnt to be the best.

Gad nodded at Ammad. The Crown Prince returned the gesture, he had nothing but respect for the man. The instructor lived comfortably in his own apartment in the servants’ quarters with his wife and two sons. He had taught Ammad everything he knew about fighting.

“These two men have never fought before,” Medi said. “Neither knows the strengths or weaknesses of the other. Your mother has offered a one hundred drimar payment to the winner of this fight, and a job here training you. Either Gad will win and continue to train you, or Samark will take his place. Gad and his family will be thrown out of the villa’s household. May the best man win.”

Medi came to stand next to Ammad as Samark and Gad squared up.

“Begin,” Ammad said.

Samark let fly a high kick that caught Gad in the jaw, dislocating it. Ammad couldn’t believe the diseased Affarah scum had reached so high with his foot, his legs scissoring so that his torso was parallel to the ground. Gad stumbled, threw a punch. Samark dodged it effortlessly and swung a low kick, taking Gad’s legs out. Once the weapons instructor was down, the street fighter was on him, wrapping his thick legs around Gad’s neck and squeezing his bulging thighs.

Gad’s face went red as he choked. He held out until Ammad thought he was seconds away from suffocating, but the man tapped out. Samark released him and stood to one side. Gad turned onto all fours, coughing and spluttering and gasping for air.

Ammad had the greatest urge to clap, and cursed when he realised he couldn’t. “Fine entertainment,” Ammad said. “I never thought I’d see you bettered, Gad, and by that scum.”

Crestfallen, Gad hobbled away.

Samark, not even out of breath, spoke for the first time. His voice was high-pitched, and not what Ammad was expecting from such a beast, but the Crown Prince was not about to mock him for it.

Street Sam said, “Your training begins now. Get up, you useless piece of camel shit.”

Ammad got to his feet.