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100 AD

A commotion buzzed at the edge of the trading souq next to the harbor of al-Mukha on the southwestern coast of Arabia. All eyes of the spectators followed a slender galley of ebony fringed with gold and inlaid ivory as it slid and anchored beside one of the earthen quays. On its billowing crimson sail glowered the gold face of a ram supporting the sun on its horns, the royal insignia of Kush.

It was by no means unusual for a Kushite vessel to dock at al-Mukha. Plenty of merchants from all sides of the Red Sea and beyond would flock to the Himyarite port to sell their wares and restock for the next trip. Yet the black galley that had come in was a rare giant that would have dwarfed the typical merchantman, never mind the puny native dhows. Above the deck glimmered the iron-bladed spears, axes, and swords of the soldiers aboard.

Once they laid the gangplank down, there descended a svelte woman whose skin was dark as the galley itself, with her short ringlets of frizzy hair reddened with ocher. The black-spotted red sashes over her bosom bound a bow and quiver to her back while a slim sword rested along her white linen skirt. From her neck hung a string of ivory fly-shaped medals that honored her as a fighting champion of Kush.

After the woman followed her entourage of spearmen with oval cowhide shields. As she and her bodyguards advanced up the quay, the audience that had watched their arrival parted to give them as broad a berth as they could, with nervous murmurs in Himyarite Arabic passing between the spectators.

Placing both hands on her hip, the woman cleared her throat with her head held up. “I am Nensela, Admiral of Kush. You need not fear anything, for we mean you no harm. We come to al-Mukha with only two purposes: to resupply and to find information.”

From the ranks of the crowd, a white-bearded local shot his bony hand up. “What do you mean by ‘information’, my lady?”

Nensela pulled out a scroll of papyrus from her belt and unfolded it, revealing a painted illustration of a blue scorpion with claws serrated like a lobster’s. “Have any of you ever heard of the Scorpions of the Sea?”

Most of the people dispersed back to the souq while the old man squinted at the scroll, his tawny face blanching a shade paler. “By Rahmanan, who in al-Mukha hasn’t? They come here every season. Are they wanted?”

Nensela marched to him with her hand clenched on her sword’s hilt. “I hope you are not feigning ignorance with me, old man. You ought to know they’ve been a menace for generations. Why, I lost my little brother to them! So, please, tell me everything you know!”

The old Himyarite scratched the back of his keffiyeh and shook his head. “The truth is, I recall not when they last dropped by. But Hussein the pot merchant may know. He’s done business with them more than once. I’d look for him in the northeast part of the souq, over there.”

He pointed his walking stick in the direction of the souq‘s far corner.

Nensela tossed him a bag of silver. “May Amun bless you for your aid, then.”

The souq of al-Mukha was a bustling maze of people thronging between rows of stalls that were shaded with awnings of sagging cloth. Most of the traders and their customers were native Himyarites and other Arabs, along with similar-looking peoples such as Judaeans, Phoenicians, and Mesopotamians. Yet speckled amid the bronze-faced majority were darker-skinned nationalities such as Kemetians, Aksumites, and even a few Kushites, the latter of whom saluted Nensela and her men as they passed. The fragrances of perfume, fresh fruit, and cooked meat mixed in the air with the less pleasant odors of fish, musty cloth, and camels being dragged about on rope leashes.

Over the chatter of the customers and the music of trilling flutes, twanging lyres, and banging drums, Nensela heard a man yell about having the finest collection of ceramics along the Red Sea. That must have been the pot merchant the old man at the docks had cited.

Taking advantage of her feminine wile, she smiled and swayed her hips as she sauntered towards his stall. “You wouldn’t happen to be a handsome gentleman by the name of Hussein, would you?”

A toothy grin spread across the man’s pudgy face as he nodded. “Well, aren’t you a welcome sight around here! Of course, it is I, Hussein bin Abdullah. Why, did someone recommend my wares to you?”

All over his stall and beside it stood stacks of almost every ceramic form that could be found all over the known world. Wide-topped Kemetian jars inscribed with hieroglyphic texts sat beside orange-and-black Greek vases, Chinese porcelain, and native Arabian oil lamps with elongated nozzles. Nensela noticed there were also some Kushite bowls on display, distinguished from the rest by their black tops grading to red towards the bottom. She could not help but pick one of them up, for it had reminded her of the bowls her mother would make for her and her brother Akhraten to eat from when they were children.

Those were simpler, happier times. But they had fallen into the past. With them had gone Akhraten, all courtesy of the vile Sea Scorpions.

“My mother made pots like this,” Nensela said. “Where do you get these, my dear Hussein?”

Hussein’s eyes twitched sideways. “I’m afraid my suppliers wish to remain anonymous.”

“Oh, is that so? Because I’ve been informed that you have connections with those known as the Sea Scorpions…”

“What? Don’t be silly, woman!”

Nensela slammed her hands onto the stall, shaking the stacks of pottery until some of it fell and shattered on the ground. “Tell me the truth, Hussein bin Abdullah. When did you last deal with them?”

“I can’t say, but it isn’t them! I swear by Rahmanan, I would never profit from piracy!”

Nensela grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and hauled him off his feet. “Do not lie to me anymore! Tell me, for the safety of all around the Red Sea, whom you get your goods from. Do you hear me? Talk!”

Hands clapped as loud as the crack of thunder, and then the whole souq fell silent.

The one who had clapped was a stout Himyarite man, robed in black, with a white keffiyeh draped over the sides of his head. Everyone else in the souq stepped back to make way for him as he hurried towards Nensela and Hussein with a gentle smile under his gray-streaked mustache.

“There is no need for violence, my child,” he said. “Please put him down.”

Nensela obeyed with a grumble. “Please, do not call me ‘child’, for I am the Admiral of Kush. And I’ve good reason to believe this Hussein character is collaborating with pirates!”

“It is a lie, I assure you!” Hussein yelped.

“I will assess the truth of the matter later, Hussein bin Abdullah,” the black-robed man said. “Pardon me for my condescension there, O Admiral of Kush, but I am the Sheikh of al-Mukha. These are all my people, so I must implore you that you treat them with care while you are here.”

“You are the Sheikh?” Nensela bowed at the waist before him. “Then I must apologize for my behavior. I must admit I have little love for pirates, or those I am told are involved with their crimes.”

From the corner of her eye, she cast a glare at Hussein while he was picking up pieces of broken pottery. He repaid with a rude look of his own.

“You speak of pirates, Admiral? It so happens that I have information of my own on them,” the Sheikh of al-Mukha said. “And unlike that gentleman over there, I’ll be more than willing to share it…within the privacy of my own home, mind you. Why don’t you and your men come over for some refreshment after your long voyage?”

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The palace of Faruq bin Hakim, the Sheikh of al-Mukha, blazed a blinding white beneath the Arabian sun, with a dome of gold crowning its highest roof. It reminded Nensela of the dazzling temples and palaces in her native Kush, but this was no less brilliant. When she was a child, she had grown up imagining Arabs like those of Himyar to be marauding barbarians prowling the desert for prey and sleeping in simple goat-hair tents, but people like that could never have settled down to construct an edifice like that which reared before her.

“Your home is quite beautiful, O Sheikh of al-Mukha,” she said as they passed through the palace’s arched entrance.

“Trust me, my lady, you have only seen it from the outside,” the Sheikh said. “As the old saying goes, the greatest beauty is found within.”

He led Nensela and her men into an open courtyard shaded by date palm and frankincense trees around a central pool of sparkling water, with columned arches forming galleries around the courtyard’s flanks. Vivid blues, greens, and yellows made up elaborate geometric patterns on the tiled floors.

From one of the side galleries wafted a multitude of appetizing aromas.

“Your servants sure set up lunch quick,” Nensela said.

The Sheikh laughed. “It would be more accurate to say we prepared ahead of time. The moment your ship was sighted before landing, we anticipated special guests. Why else would I have come down to the souq in the first place?”

Under the cool shade of the gallery, carpets held down by cushions surrounded a longer rug on which awaited a variety of pots, bowls, and plates holding a rich assortment of Arabic cuisine. On the Sheikh’s request, Nensela seated herself on one of the cushions, letting herself sink into its velvety plushness. From one of the bowls, she snatched a pomegranate, savoring its sweet and juicy flavor, while her men helped themselves to kebabs of mutton and beef.

The Sheikh clapped, and a veiled serving girl arrived with a pitcher from whence a stream of steam floated out. She winked and exchanged flirtatious words with some of Nensela’s Kushite guards while pouring dark brown liquid into their cups.

When Nensela received a filling of her own, she noted its unique scent. “May I ask what this is?”

“Why, we call it coffee,” the Sheikh said. “It’s a popular Aksumite beverage which livens the spirit.”

Nensela took a sip of the coffee and grimaced from its intense bitter flavor. “I guess I need to let it cool for a bit. Do you have any wine or beer around here?”

“I am afraid not. We of Himyar spurn any drink that clouds the mind. As for your coffee, why don’t you add some cream and honey to improve the flavor? It is what I do.”

Nensela shrugged. “Now, about the pirates…what do you know about them?”

The Sheikh’s expression faded to a grave frown as he lowered his head. “If you mean the Sea Scorpions…I am ashamed to admit it in front of my people, but my own connections to them run deeper than trade. You see, I bear some of the responsibility for their current prominence—though I did not intend it. Let me explain…

“Once I had a beautiful daughter named Yasmina, who should be about your age now. A good father should cherish all his children equally, but I couldn’t help but adore her as my personal favorite, even more than any of my sons. Indeed, I cared for her so much that I sought the wealthiest merchant in all of al-Mukha to have her hand in marriage.

“But how Yasmina despised him! She thought him too frail, greedy, and lecherous, and she might have been right all along. To this day, the last words she ever told me taunt my memories. ‘I would sooner die old alone than in the bed of that old dog!’ And then she ran off, never to set foot here again.”

“And what does that have to do with the Scorpions?” Nensela asked, though she had a nervous feeling brewing within.

“As you should know, it can be very difficult for an unwed woman to make a living in this unjust world,” the Sheikh continued. “At least through honest means. Instead, it seems that Yasmina turned to crime. I know this because, loath as I am to recognize this truth, my daughter has become none other than the very mistress of the Sea Scorpions.”

The banter and laughter between everyone gathered in the gallery gave way to a solemn silence. Nensela’s cup of coffee fell and broke apart on the floor, spilling the hot drink over it.

“Haven’t you at least tried to do something about her?” she asked. “Surely, you can’t let your own daughter run amok around a whole sea, burning towns and sending people and ships down to the bottom.”

The Sheikh hesitated. “The forces we have here in al-Mukha are not as strong as yours, Admiral of Kush. She’d crush them the way a tigress could crush a cur with one swat of her paw. And, I should not lie, I worry about letting a single finger harm my beloved daughter. Yet, if you must hunt her down, I can disclose to you where I believe she operates now.

“When Yasmina was a small girl, we would sail together to the island of Socotra every year to marvel at the landscape and the local dragon’s blood trees. How she admired that place like none other in the world! I also know that the waters around that isle have more pirates than the rest of this sea. So, if I were you, I would sail southeastward to Socotra.

“But make me one promise, Nensela of Kush. If you do come upon my daughter, please bring her back to me. I don’t care whether she returns alive or as a severed skull. Living or dead, I must see my child’s face one last time.”

Nensela could see the rivulets of tears flowing down the Sheikh’s weathered face. She could read into them the same sorrow of familial loss that she had experienced over her own brother. For both she and the Sheikh had lost someone they cared about to the same gang of pillaging cutthroats.

She laid a hand on the Sheikh’s and nodded. “By the grace of Amun and all the other gods of Kush, I make my promise to you. We will conquer the Scorpions of the Sea, and we will bring your daughter back, alive or dead.”

“Then may Rahmanan bless you on your adventure,” he said.

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