The Boy King: Part Three

NONE ENTERED BY AUTHOR

back to index

 	Mohul sat in a large embroidered cushion in the king’s 
bedchamber.  He watched as several servants attempted to put up some 
ropes suspended from several hooks on the ceiling.  Mohul took notice 
of the surroundings quietly, pretending he was in too much pain to 
even move.  He had been untied, his wrists and ankles bruised and cut 
from the ropes, but a guard stood next to him to make sure he would 
not attempt to run.  Mohul was furious, of course, he had been robbed 
of his manhood but he wouldn’t give in so easily.  If that little 
brat king thought the castration was going to calm him down, he was 
in for a big surprise.  Just watch, Mohul thought, just watch me tear 
this place apart.  I’ll be like a fire consuming all the expanse of 
the forest.  

	The ropes had been suspended near a window—which was all too 
perfect—Mohul thought.  Mohul let out an exaggerated sigh, and turned 
to look at the guard.  The guard had a scythe at his side, and he 
turned his eyes suddenly to look at his captor.  Mohul smiled, 
tilting his head.  The guard flushed and turned away.  The next 
instant Mohul had torn the scythe from the guard’s hand with such 
speed, the guard only realized it when the blade had gone through his 
belly.  One of the servants saw and screamed, running out the door.  
The other servant stood paralized beside the window.  Mohul rushed at 
him, grasping one of the ropes.  Then the servant attempted to run 
but Mohul had caught him, looping the rope around his neck once, 
twice—four times, and then giving him a mighty shove towards the 
window.  The windows crashed open—the servant screaming arms and legs 
flailing as he fell out.  The rope cracked loudly as it stopped 
suddenly and Mohul heard the snap of bone loud in the air. 

	Mohul turned, the pain between his legs making him wince and 
he nearly lost his balance.  

	“You fool!”

	It was the king—the twelve year old brat standing before him 
with an expression of shock on his pretty little face.  

	“How dare you!”  Naqee ran his fingers up the sides of his 
face in horror.  He ran his fingers through his hair, removing the 
turban in the process.  His hair fell across his face—the tiny 
glittering jewels in the locks of hair reflecting the sunlight.  “Why 
are you doing this!”  He continued.  “You’re destroying my palace!”

	“Oh?”  Mohul said arching a brow.  “I didn’t realize.”  

	“You can go to hell, you know that!”  Naqee screamed, 
stomping his foot as the tears flooded out of his eyes.  “You can 
just go to hell, you barbarian!”

	“Oh—but you are the one who picked the barbarian did you 
not?  You picked me!”  Mohul limped toward the king and slapped him 
hard across the face with the back of his hand.   Naqee staggered, 
blood dribbling from his bottom lip.  “Who is the barbarian—when it 
is you who cuts men like cattle!”  He slapped him again, harder and 
Naqee cried out, falling to his knees.  “I’ll show you barbarian!  
You know nothing about me to pass such judgement.  You know nothing 
about me to claim to be my god!  You’re a bloody child trying to be a 
ruthless man!”

	“Go to hell,”  Naqee whispered, his hoarse voice now deeper 
with suppressed sobs.  

	“You’re no king,”  Mohul said.  “Look at you.  You can’t even 
control your household, how do you expect to control a country?”

	“Oh?” Naqee looked up, gritting his teeth in fury.  “Are you 
going to teach me how to be king!”

	“I could!”  

	“In your dreams!”  Naqee laughed, shaking his head.  The 
blood was dripping from his chin and the sight of the two of them—
Mohul looming over Naqee’s kneeling figure looked like something of 
an execution.

	“What do you know,”  Mohul seethed.  “I was king longer than 
you!”

	Naqee’s hands turned cold at the statement.  Silence fell 
over the room like a heavy curtain.  Only the sound of buzzing flies 
outside in the courtyard disturbed the silence.  Naqee gulped, 
touching his split lip with his bandaged hand, and then he looked 
up.  Mohul seemed to sway on his feet, as if he were about to fall.  
Exhaustion seemed to come over him and his face was drawn and pale.  
Blood seeped out from the bandage between his legs and ran down his 
thighs.  

	For the first time Naqee realized that Mohul’s features were 
far too fine to be a commoner’s.  Naqee had chosen him for his 
exquisite beauty, but he never thought for a moment that he had been 
of royal lineage.  

	“What are you talking about?”  Naqee whispered.

	“Does it matter?”  Mohul said in a low cracked voice.  “I’m a 
slave now, am I not?  What do my words matter.”

	“Tell me what you were talking about!”

	The tone of voice angered Mohul and he glared at Naqee for a 
moment before a wave of dizziness came over him and he took several 
steps back.

	“Look at me,”  Mohul whispered, looking down at himself, the 
blood running down his legs and staining the marble floor.  He gave a 
weak laugh.  “The King of Persia.  .  .”  He shook his head, bringing 
his hands up to his head for a moment and then letting them fall at 
his sides.  “The King of Persia stands before you, Your Majesty,”  
Mohul said.  “And now he can have no heirs.”

	Naqee choked, his eyes widening, but before he could reply 
Mohul fell back and struck the floor hard.  He had fainted.  Naqee 
rushed to him, looming over him.  Mohul’s face was beautiful, and 
etched with pain.  Yes, Naqee had heard the news that the Persian 
King had disappeared.  .  .But he never imagined. . .Oh Allah. . .

 	Naqee bent down and cupped Mohul’s face in his hands.  
Mohul’s lips were parted, a shivering breath escaping them.  “What 
have I done,”  Naqee whispered.  A mix of fear and horror and anguish 
washed over him and he panicked.  His heart began to beat louder and 
louder until it pulsed in his ears like a mighty drum.  His face was 
hot and his fingers began to shiver.  Mohul let out a small moan and 
it echoed in Naqee’s skull, interlacing with the pounding of his 
heart.  Naqee groaned.  

   	“What have I done!”

	

	Mohul heard someone talking, someone was touching his 
forehead, and then a small argument commenced somewhere a little ways 
off.  He opened his eyes.  The first thing in his vision made him 
jolt and he sunk back into the pillows.  Naqee was looming over him 
with a worried look on his face.  

	“Oh good!”  Naqee said, letting out a quivering smile.  “I 
was worried you might die!”

	“Oh, where you now,”  Mohul grumbled turning away.

	“Mohul, the physician wants to see you—“

	“Don’t call me that anymore—that’s not my name.”

	“All right,”  Naqee said, crossing his arms and arching a 
brow.  “What is your name?”

	The boy hesitated and frowned.  He could smell a soft scent 
coming from the pillows, and he quickly identified it as Naqee’s.  He 
was lying on the king’s bed—in the king’s bedchamber.  Obviously all 
the dead people had been dragged out. . .how long had he been 
unconscious?

	“Well, what’s your name?”  Naqee insisted.  

	The boy sighed.  “Doesn’t matter.  Call me what you wish.”

	“Oh, come now!  It doesn’t matter anyway—because if you are 
the King of Persia, as you claim to be, then I already know your 
name.”

	“Oh, do you now?”  The boy said sitting up suddenly.  “Are 
you so learned in the matters of world politics—you who can’t even 
maintain a simple household—“

	“Don’t you start up, you. . .Well, I’ll refrain from calling 
you a savage for the moment.  But you are in my home now!  The royal 
palace and you would act properly!”  Naqee pouted his lips, crossing 
his arms as he tried to look very serious with his baby face.  He 
looked more like a little child who couldn’t have extra sweets at the 
market.  

	“What’s my name, then?”  The boy asked.

	“Why should I even say it?  What if you really are not the 
Persian King and are a mere slave boy trying to pass as royalty—who 
knows no prominent names whatsoever, and are just trying to fool me.”

	The boy laughed.  “You make a fool of yourself very well on 
your own, your majesty.  And my name is Tajammal, you brat.”

	Naqee frowned, arching a brow.  “Tajammal means beauty.  I 
think  I think I liked you better as Mohul.”

	“Oh ?  Well I think I liked you better on your knees--”

	They both stopped suddenly as Yusef walked into the room with 
the physician behind him.

	The physician looked Tajammal over quickly with his eyes.

	“He looks fine,”  he said with a frown.

	“Sorry to disappoint you,”  Tajammal grunted.  

	Yusef frowned and turned to Naqee.  “An investigation has 
begun,”  he said.  “We will find out soon enough if he is the missing 
Persian King.”

	Tajammal leaned forward suddenly, his face turning whiter 
than it already was.  “Has word gone out that I’ve claimed to be the 
king?”  he whispered.

	“How should I know,”  Yusef said.  “I just sent messengers 
and several court officials to the Persian palace and—“

	“Oh, no!”  Tajammal lifted his hands to his head and grasped 
it as if it would explode.  “The moment you start questioning people 
I’m dead!  I will be killed.  Those guards who brought me here to be 
looked over by Naqee were watching over me to see to it that I did 
not blurt out anything.”

	“Then how are we supposed to find out the truth?”  Naqee said 
aggravated.

	Tajammal sat back, crossing his arms.  “Sir,”  He said 
widening his eyes,  “I am the truth.”



	The summer sky was bright in its yellow silken tint, the 
trees swayed gently with the passing breeze and the air was full of 
the scent of flowers and grass.  Tajammal would stand in one of the 
many gardens of the palace sometimes and close his eyes and feel the 
breeze caress his skin.  Naqee would watch him from one of the 
windows nearby, covering his face with a veil to pass as a woman if 
Tajammal ever discovered him.  This particular afternoon, a lone 
woman sang in some far off room, and the undulating voice rode the 
current of the breeze as if it were a light silk shawl.  

	Naqee sat beside one of the windows looking out at Tajammal, 
who was now dressed in a simple white robe.  Precautions had been 
taken not to treat Tajammal too kindly—in the case that he had lied 
(even though the possibility that he had lied was getting smaller and 
smaller each day).  Several members of the Persian royal court had 
seen Tajammal and identified him as their king, and (this other news 
brought shiver’s to Naqee’s spine)  Tajammal’s bride was on her way 
to Instanbul and was just several weeks away.  

	Tajammal turned casually in the garden and Naqee saw his 
profile.  The months of humane treatment and supple nutrition had 
brought all Tajammal’s beauty to its fullest.  His skin seemed to 
shimmer in the sunlight and his long black curls were shinning, each 
curl perfect in its coil.  His eyes were large and almost black (they 
even glinted a metallic blue sometimes if the lighting was just 
right).  He had a prominent straight nose above full lips, and his 
chin sported an attractive clef.  He seemed glorious beyond anyone’s 
reach.  Naqee even envied him sometimes, and Yusef’s confident 
statements telling him that ‘Naqee’s beauty surpasses Tajammal’s by 
far’ provided no comfort.  

	Even though when Naqee looked in the mirror he did seem far 
more beautiful, but perhaps it was just the childish quality of his 
features.  The overlapping shingle-like layers of his hair made him 
look like something out of  Egyptian hieroglyphics and added an air 
of exoticism about him.  

	He tried to stop comparing their looks but often he couldn’t 
help it—he had been so used to being the only beautiful boy on the 
premises.  

	But his worries were quickly pushed aside when word arrived 
that Tajammal’s brother was attempting to seize the throne and get 
the army on his side.  Tajammal’s face turned pale at the account, 
and he turned quietly away.

	“What am I to do?”  Tajammal whispered, collapsing in Naqee’s 
bed that evening (it was out of habit to relax in the royal chamber 
that Tajammal went there, not out of any particular attachment to 
Naqee).  Naqee stood by the window with arms crossed.  “What am I to 
do, what am I to do,”  Tajammal continued.  “He can have heirs as 
opposed to me.  .  .”

	Naqee arched a brow.  “No one knows you’ve been castrated,”  
he said.  “They don’t know you can’t have heirs as of yet—“

	“Oh?  Then how will I explain to my people why I cannot have 
sons?”

	“Take one from the streets,”  Naqee grumbled, “they won’t be 
able to tell one savage from the other,”  he finished under his 
breath.

	“I should take your children,”  Tajammal said suddenly.

	Naqee hesitated at the statement and then smiled.  “Oh, you 
do have a good sense of humor---“

	“Who said I was joking?  You took my children from me, so 
I’ll just take yours in return.”

	“Don’t push your luck,”  Naqee said.  

	“I’ll push whatever the hell I like!” Tajammal shouted 
suddenly, jumping up from the bed.  “I’ll push your bloody nose in 
cow dung if I’d like!”

	“You watch your tongue!”

	“Watch my tongue?”  Tajammal said with a laugh.  “You’re not 
my father.”

	“No,”  Naqee stammered, approaching him and standing before 
him, “but I am a king also!  So it is about time you began to treat 
me accordingly--”

	He was cut off suddenly, when Tajammal grasped his face in 
his hands and bent down to kiss his mouth savagely with his own.  
Naqee’s breath was taken away as his lips were forced open and his 
tongue sucked out.  A loud humming sound filled his ears and he 
realized it was the blood rushing to his head.  Immediately he 
returned the kiss, sucking Tajammal’s mouth hard and wrapping his 
arms around his neck.  Tajammal lifted him off the floor, and they 
both fell back on the large lavender cushions of the bed.

	It had happened so quickly, Naqee was still in a daze when he 
saw his clothes strewn on the floor.  Tajammal had pushed him onto 
his back and grasped his ankles, lifting his legs straight back over 
Naqee’s head.  Naqee looked like an acrobat in the position, his toes 
caressing the hair that fell over his forehead, his legs neatly 

crossed at the ankles were Tajammal held them in one hand. Naqee held 
his breath and waited for Tajammal's next move. .  .