Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (16 page)

The audience burst into laughter before Kaleb even took his reticent peek beneath its tunic.

Zenobia shouted to Patra over the boisterous assembly, “He’s brilliant! I love him!”

Foreboding tubas trumpet the beginning of another scene.

The Emperor jumps into action, rearranging his royal robes in the invisible mirror, splashing nonexistent perfumes on himself. An old woman’s voice sings a muddled, universal greeting off-stage, “Yooooohoooooo!”

Antonius uses a hand to sample his own breath, then doubles over, retching at the odor. Desperate, he searches the imaginary selection of objects, finally opting to gargle with perfume. He spits wildly, disgusted, attempting to clean his tongue on his robes as his
“mother”
appears on stage. Quintus follows behind with a tattletale’s scowl, tugging Mommy’s stola and pointing at Antonius.

No … oh, no.
He promised he wouldn’t … You
promised,
Kaleb!

As the oblivious mother (a large man with rosy cheeks, a red palla draped over his hair, and his face and beard powdered white) ambles about the stage, horns and strings playing her snobbish monologue, Antonius tries to discreetly eject Quintus from the room. He wants alone time with Mommy. The brothers wrestle, drag one another across the stage, pretend everything is fine when their mother glances back, and then resume their childlike spat when she looks away. The crowd enjoys each of the pair’s comical, frozen positions.

With every shove, trip, and fall, Alexandrian bellies shake with merriment, mouths gasping for air, gawking eyes, slapping backs, whistling, pointing.

Patra’s mind was a jumble of worry and pleasure. Joy for Kaleb and Philip—all their work practicing this ridiculous farce now rewarded with an audience elated beyond the duo’s most ambitious dreams—but terrified too, for this sort of insult wouldn’t merely flow through the city and stop at its borders. Certainly not with what Kaleb was
about
to do.

With the mother distracted (facing the audience and the invisible mirror as she tests the Emperor’s assortment of apparently feminine perfumes), Antonius produces a dagger, hiding it behind his back as he feigns capitulation to younger Quintus. And then, with the audience suddenly silent, Antonius slings a friendly arm over Quintus’s shoulder, kisses his cheek, and then slides the blade across his brother’s throat.

A number of stifled gasps break the amphitheater’s silence. A lighthearted tune rises once more from the orchestra.

Gratified and swollen with pride, the Emperor moseys back to Mother as Quintus—thick red stripe now painted across his throat—clutches at his neck and struggles in the background to grab her attention. Lengths of red silk dangle from between his fingers. The courtiers from earlier quietly enter, now clad in riding armor, as Quintus falls dead. His limp body is shuffled off-stage. A voice backstage whinnies like a horse, and then
clip-clop
,
clip-clop
…

The audience remained quiet; only a few nervous laughs rose conspicuously from the masses. Even they hadn’t taken this last scene lightly.

In actual recent news, Emperor Publius Septimius Antonius’s brother, Quintus, next in line to rule, had suffered a mortal accident in Rome. Upon falling from his chariot, he was mangled in the axle and then trampled by horses. His throat was said to have been opened by a splintered wood plank. Rumors of wicked secrets and alternate theories always pervaded after such events, but to see one portrayed, and in graphic detail, was striking and disturbing. Moreover, for such a thing to be being presented by the intellectuals of the Musaeum, by Prince Kaleb of Kush, it must be
true
.

Patra sneaked a glance back, observing Zenobia’s mischievous smirk and contented eyes. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the performance, relishing its brazen messages.

Suddenly, the laughter returned—the sort of delighted shock that pleased Kaleb to no end.

On the stage, Kaleb straddled the man portraying the Emperor’s mother, while two musicians battled below them—a frisky horn for Antonius’s eager advances, strings and a bow representing the mother’s halfhearted resistance. After wrestling through layers of embellished silk robes, mother hooting and giggling and slapping at his head, Antonius finally triumphs. The pair spends the next five minutes rolling and kissing, animating a series of outrageous sexual positions, from plausible to preposterous, their tempo and absurdity growing as the orchestra rises to a blaring climax.

Nairobi, Kenya – Presidential Palace

At the right time of day, the second floor veranda offered the most stunning of views. After a solitary lunch, Tuni often came here to look out on the panorama. Nairobi couldn’t compete with the splendors found in many cities—no epic coastline or riverfront, no crowd-drawing selection of landmark buildings with some signature architecture, or even a pervasive charming character—but whenever she gazed out beyond the presidential property’s wall and landscaping, she sought none of these charms. Out there, between sparse treetops, the cluster of shiny skyscrapers, the rust-colored rooftops of upper class and shantytowns, modern malls and dilapidated street markets, Tuni saw the delightful freedoms and hardships of real life.

When Tuni was Alexander’s age, her father had left her mother, and the two had to move into a house along one of South Africa’s slums. Even in her darkest days, her mind wouldn’t allow her to idealize that place. Sure, there were moments of joy, sips of carefree childhood, now-embarrassing pride at living in the neighborhood’s least dilapidated house. And there’d been thirst. And hunger. And people who’d wished to take her away, watching her from cars and through school fences.

When Tuni was eight, a friend had been taken. Tuni felt ashamed no longer remembering her name. The bad people planned to sell her, Mum had said, to a rich person, far away. How searing, the irony now—Tuni had thought her friend so lucky: a poor girl’s twisted fairytale dream.

Within the year, Mum had managed to get them out of Cape Town and into Tuni’s aunt’s house in London. Daddy still wanted no part, but his sister was more than willing to take them in. And there was state school, then prep school, on to university, and then a hop across the pond to finish in New York. It was up and up and up, and yet, here she was back in Africa, the property of a rich man, far away.

The noon sun’s angle had shifted enough to cast its glare on the balcony’s bulletproof shield. Now gone the illusion of an unobstructed view, Tuni rose from the lounge chair, stretched her back and neck, and went to the black-out tinted glass door. Thabiti slid it open before her hand reached the handle, chilled air whooshing out and pressing her flowy dress against her.

“A good sit, Mrs. Absko?” he said as she entered the hall.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied.

“The nursery?”

She nodded as she passed his looming bulk. He waited the usual five-second count before his footsteps followed.

The main hall’s glass doors parted and she stepped back into the thick midday heat. In the courtyard below, landscapers uprooted Tuni’s pink and yellow sorrels from the planters, tossing them into dirty heaps on squares of burlap.

Tuni went to the balustrade, calling down to them. “I beg your pardon. What’s this?”

The gardeners peered around, spotting her above. All but one turned back to their labors.

He removed his hat to answer. “Upandaji maua mengine, Mama.”

“Planting
what
new flowers?” Tuni demanded.

He pointed to the crates of red bulbs beside the fountain. “Damu lily, Mama.”

“Blood lilies?” Tuni murmured, then called back, “Aren’t they poisonous?”

The gardener shrugged ignorance.

“Toxic?” Tuni persisted. “Sumu?”

He replaced his hat, resuming his duties without another word.

“Rude turd,” said Thabiti’s deep bass. He, too, stood with a hand on the balustrade, observing the courtyard below. “You want me to stop them?”

“No, never mind it. Thank you, but no. Sometimes I forget I no longer care about such things.”

“But Alexander … You said the poison-”

“He’s not going to run down there and start eating them. Although I’ll not be the least bit shocked if, in a week, these flowers are lining every room and hall. And then, when my husband’s allergies go bonkers, we’ll see them removed with equal haste.”

She resumed to the nursery.

Blood lilies. How clever.

Through another set of sliding doors, back into the meat-locker cold, Tuni turned down the short hallway to the nursery. She peeked in the narrow window and spotted Alexander building a brick fortress with the nursery maid, Ngina, and the teacher, Kim. Tuni rapped twice on the window, waved to all three, and opened the door.

“I’ll see you in a moment, Thabiti.”

He nodded and scooted onto the stool at the end of the hallway. The man hated standing.

“Come look, Mama,” Alexander said in Swahili. “It’s a pirate ship!”

Tuni went to the colorful carpet, treading cautiously through the minefield of plastic blocks, and nestled into a small space behind her son. “I was just going to say what a beautiful pirate ship.”

“Not beautiful, Mama,” he said as he turned with a frown, and then switched to English, “cool and awesome!”

“Sorry, of course.” She shared a smile with the amused pair. “That’s what I meant. Cool and awesome.” Evidently, his ninja turtle DVDs were giving him more than just daily pizza cravings.

Alexander continued building and playing as they looked on. After a moment, Tuni glanced at Ngina, wondering if she had any news to share. A couple glances later, Tuni caught Ngina’s eye, and the young lady’s expression suddenly betrayed an uncharacteristic tension. Ngina stole a glimpse at the corner over Tuni’s head—where Tuni well knew a camera hung. She needed a moment alone with Ngina, but not here.

“Kim,” Tuni said, and the forty-plus Ugandan looked up. “I read an article the other day about women who only breastfed for a few months deciding to resume with children three, four, even five years or older.”

Kim made no attempt to mask her revulsion. She said, “Yes?” as her head shook
“Please, no.”

“Well, I’ve always felt guilty at stopping so quickly with him—it wasn’t exactly my choice—and I wondered if you had any suggestions as far as stimu-”

“I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs. Absko, no … It’s not something I’d, well, I wouldn’t … have learned of these things at university. If you’re
thinking
this is … perhaps speak to …” She motioned toward Ngina, who nodded affirmative.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Tuni smiled, embarrassed, and turned to Ngina. “You know of this practice?”

“Yes, my Lady. It doesn’t work for all, but warm compresses to begin, and then suction must be applied regu-”

“Ngina, please,” Kim interrupted, tilting her head to Alexander’s wide eyes.

“Oh,” Tuni said, and eyed the exit. “Should we …?”

Kim smiled broadly, careful not to insult her. “If you wish, that would be fine, a private talk.”

“Do you mind?” Tuni motioned to Alexander. Kim was a professional, not a babysitter.

Kim brushed it off, no problem, and reengaged with Alexander. “How many pirates do we have onboard now? Three fell off now, yes?”

“Three are dead,” Alexander replied. “
Blasted
off, psshh!”

Tuni and Ngina walked toward the door, and Ngina’s face revealed she hadn’t until just now realized what Tuni was doing. Trepidation curled her brow as Tuni opened the door.

“We need to chat a sec, Thabiti. Would you mind?”

He cocked an eyebrow, regarded Ngina for a beat, and slid off the stool. “No problem, Mrs. Absko.” He lumbered out of view.

“My Lady,” Ngina whispered, but Tuni popped her hand between them, and mouthed
“Wait.”

A count of five before Tuni tiptoed to the edge of the wall and poked her head out, spotting Thabiti a good distance away, hands in his pockets as he studied a painting on the opposite wall. She turned back to Ngina in the narrow passage.

“You have something for me,” Tuni hushed.

“I’ve been afraid … It’s not…”

Not what? Good news?

“Do you have it?” Tuni demanded, looking down at the apron pockets. Ngina nodded, repeatedly licking her lower lip. “Well give it, quickly.
Please,
Ngina!”

Ngina lifted a quaking hand to her chest, reached into her brassiere, and produced a folded square of pale-slate cardstock. Without a thought, Tuni seized the paper and wrestled with her eager fingers to unfold it.

The white ink had been stamped into the thick stock. Like a semi-formal wedding invitation, the lacy letters leaned rightward—a single sentence in quotes, split into two lines, and centered on the now-creased page. Tuni read the sentence, then she read each word. Unable to grasp the meaning, she squeezed her eyes shut, sucked in a breath, and read it again, slowly.

“Light may earth's crumbling sand be laid on thee, that dogs may dig thy bones up easily.”

“Can’t be … Where … Where did this come from?”

Ngina’s eyes had already welled with tears, and now two drops streaked down her cheeks. The girl was no idiot. This was the most cold-hearted rejection imaginable.
“Live, die, suffer—I couldn’t care less.”
No, worse! It dug deeper than apathy.

“It is from him. I had to destroy it, the envelope, but it was from your friend. I am so sorry my Lady. I didn’t wish to give this to you. I knew how much you’d hoped …”

Ngina knelt to pick up the sheet. Tuni hadn’t realized she dropped it. Her breath whistled into her nostrils. She’d clasped her hands over her mouth at some point. The woozy swirl in her head might’ve explained why she was leaning against the wall. The sick wouldn’t leave her throat.

“Mrs. Absko, are you all right?” It was Kim. Or maybe Thabiti. Or others.

The paper crossed her eyes once or twice, but she didn’t need it to know those words, now stamped into her being. She heard them again and again in her ears.

She was moving. Hands on her sides. Someone supporting her weight.