by Angela Hunt
The answer arrived on a wave of intuition: Because Caesar had asked it of her.
She did as he asked, for she needed him more than she needed me.
I slid down the wall until I hit the dirty floor. Though I had no idea what had transpired between Caesar and Cleopatra, I could easily imagine a logical scenario. After Urbi ordered my family to prison, Caesar might have come to her chamber at the end of the day. Over a glass of wine, she would have confided the details of our encounter—how I’d refused her offer because I could not worship any god save the God of my fathers. Caesar, fortified by the wine and pleased by the sight of his child in Cleopatra’s belly, might have lifted her hand to his lips and said, “Why be so unforgiving, my dear? Grant citizenship to all the Jews, for we owe them a great debt. Require nothing from them, because they have already given their lives to our cause. We would not be sitting here if not for the Judeans who came to the aid of my legionaries.”
And Urbi, always eager to please the man she loved, would have acceded to his request while Father and I sat in prison and Asher ran . . . only HaShem knew where.
Would she ever order our release? Or had she completely forgotten about us?
Caesar’s proclamation gave me hope that we would be freed, because the entire city seemed caught up in a wave of magnanimity toward my people. But the day after the pronouncement, I overheard a soldier say that Caesar had sailed for Armenia, leaving three legions behind to guard the queen and keep the peace.
My shock yielded quickly to fury. How dare Cleopatra leave me and my father in prison for so long! Did all our years of friendship count for nothing? Or had she changed so much during our time apart that she no longer remembered our vow of friendship and our shared history?
That night I stretched out on the hard floor and begged Adonai to punish Urbi for her harshness. “I am here because I was being true to you, Adonai,” I reminded HaShem. “I was being faithful to the worship of only one God, and now I find myself in prison! Punish Cleopatra for her spiteful action and compel her to release me and my father.”
Two weeks later, I learned that Cleopatra had given birth to a boy. Invoking the titles of two great rulers, she named him Ptolemy Caesar.
“Ptolemy Caesar?” One of the guards spat the name with derision. “More like a little Caesar.”
“Caesarion,” another guard said, snickering. “A little Caesar to rule over us.”
As the words drifted through the window in my door, I let my forehead fall against the rough wood. If Cleopatra had just given birth, her thoughts would be centered on her baby. They were nowhere near the forever friend who languished in prison.
Joseph, son of Jacob, was imprisoned for years under one of the ancient pharaohs, but during our more civilized time, only rarely did a prisoner remain in captivity for more than a few months. Those who remained in the garrison while awaiting trial fell under the supervision of the Roman garrison commander.
The commander of Caesar’s remaining three legions was a man called Rufio. I met that officer after my first week of confinement and was immediately struck by the man’s blank expression. Anything could have been going on beneath that immobile face, and later I heard two soldiers talking about the reason for his inscrutability: the man had once been a slave.
I had a feeling that Rufio did not know what to do with me and my father. I could not fault his uncertainty—I didn’t have a rational explanation for our presence in prison, either.
“I have been waiting,” he told me one afternoon when he paused at my door, “for some communication from the palace, but I have heard nothing.”
“What of my father?” I asked, standing. “Is he well?”
Rufio grunted. “He is tolerable, but he has developed a cough.”
“Please.” I moved to the door and lifted my face to the window. “Will you fetch a doctor for him?”
I swallowed hard as another question lodged in my throat. I was desperate to know about Asher but did not want to remind this man that my brother’s name had also been on the arrest warrant.
I drew a deep breath and looked through the small opening. “We have friends at the synagogue,” I said, finding the commander’s eyes. “I am surprised none of them have come to inquire about us. But perhaps one of them could find a physician for my father.”
I studied the commander’s face, searching for a sign of compassion, but saw nothing beyond an inscrutable expression.
“Please,” I said again, lowering my gaze so the Roman would not see the tears in my eyes. “My father is not young, but he is a great scholar and teacher. HaShem will bless you if you care for him.”
“What god is that? I have my pick of ’em around here.”
“The God who sees and knows and is above all.”
Two days later, Rufio stopped by my cell again, but this time a guard opened the door. The commander stepped inside, startling me out of a shallow doze. Since I had no idea what his intentions were, I scurried to the back wall, determined to keep a measured distance between us.
Rufio gave me a quick head-to-toe glance, then cleared his throat. “Because I have heard nothing from the palace, I have written Caesar about the fortress prisoners. I hope to receive a reply within a few weeks.”
I released a choked, desperate laugh. A few weeks? Even if the answer came by the swiftest boat in the Roman navy, it would take several months to hear from Armenia.
I lifted my chin, gathering my courage. “Were you able to find a physician for my father?”
“I am sorry,” Rufio said, and something in his tone led me to believe he meant it. “I personally spoke to three physicians, but none of them were willing to come here. They know the risks of contagion are far greater than the odds of payment.”
I closed my eyes, unwilling to let the Roman see the anguish that seared my soul.
“I have a brother,” I said slowly. “Asher. Were your men able to find him?”
The commander’s gaze shifted and thawed slightly. “We never found him. We are no longer looking.”
I exhaled in relief. Had Asher left the city? I was fairly certain he’d been hidden by our friends in the Jewish Quarter. But if they had been afraid to be caught with him, they might have sent him south to fend for himself among the native Egyptians.
Rufio reached behind him for a torch, then brought it into my cell and held it aloft. The unexpected brightness caused me to look away, and even when my eyes had adjusted, I could do no more than squint at the man who stared at me, his eyes alive with calculation.
“Why are you here?” he finally asked. “Did you murder some nobleman? Did you steal from a wealthy merchant? Or from the queen herself?”
Looking away, I released a desperate laugh. “I am not certain of my crime,” I confessed, “but the day before I was brought here, the queen was my best friend. We argued. And here I am.”
Shock flickered over his face, then his features settled back into their natural stoic expression. Tucking one hand into his sword belt, he glanced around the filthy room that had become my home. “A lady should not be kept in such conditions,” he said, meeting my gaze. “I will have this room cleaned and furnished for as long as you are here. Do you require anything in particular?”
Such unexpected largess . . . why? I shrugged to hide my confusion and studied the man’s rugged face more closely. In his eyes I saw a look I had often seen in the eyes of other men.
I choked back a laugh. Urbi and I had often giggled about the effect of feminine beauty on the male species, but as I stood in that prison, my thoughts whirled in an odd mingling of gratitude and wariness. Wariness, because I knew what desire frequently led men to do, especially to unprotected women. Gratitude, though, for the soft concern I saw in the commander’s expression.
“I want nothing more than what my father is given.” I tucked a stray hank of hair behind my ear. “But water and towels for washing would be appreciated. And . . .”
“Yes?”
I pressed my li
ps together. “It may be my imagination, but sometimes I can smell something . . . delicious. Like meat on the fire.”
Rufio snorted. “It is a boy with a cart. He has begun to sell meat pies outside the garrison.”
“I do not suppose you could manage a meat pie for your prisoners every once in a while? My father and I are not accustomed to a diet of only gruel and bread.”
The Roman made a noise deep in his throat, then turned and left, locking the door behind him. But by sunset, my little cell had been swept and furnished with a straw mattress, a blanket and pillow, a basin, a linen towel, and a pitcher of clean water.
And that night I found half a meat pie in my bowl. I hoped the other half had gone to my father.
As I bit into it, I asked HaShem to forgive me if the meat had come from an unclean animal. I had to eat, but if He would forgive this sin, I would eat only clean meats for the rest of my life. If He would arrange for our release, I would pray five times a day and do anything my father asked, including marrying Yosef, if that was what Adonai wanted. . . .
Later, I asked Adonai to bless the commander for his kindness, and prayed that either Cleopatra or Caesar would remember me and my father and have pity on us.
Chapter Fourteen
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The Nile flooded and Egypt celebrated, indulging in song, dance, and feasting while the inundation covered the land. Summer ended, the life-giving waters receded, and the farmers planted. Cleopatra must have been pleased.
But no word came from the palace, and none from Caesar.
I grew weary of praying the same prayers. My pleas for Adonai’s attention seemed to go no higher than the wooden ceiling. Grief pooled in my soul, a thick despondency I had never felt before. When my thoughts turned to the words of the Tanakh, I identified with Job, who suffered without explanation and yearned for death:
“I am just worn out.
By my life [I swear],
I will never abandon my complaint;
I will speak out in my soul’s bitterness.
I will say to God, ‘Don’t condemn me!
Tell me why you are contending with me.
Do you gain some advantage from oppressing,
from spurning what your own hands made. . . ?’”
I spent my days alone, with only Rufio for occasional company. Men and women prisoners were still brought to the garrison for trial, but rather than have the women disturb me, Rufio had them put in another room. I understood that he was trying to be kind, but after a while I yearned for the sound of other female voices.
I heard men at all hours of the day and night. In the hallway outside my door I heard them laughing, arguing, talking, whispering, ranting, and occasionally weeping. At least once a day, some guard would make his way to my door, press his eye to the square opening and stare in at me, calling out lewd encouragements and hoping for some sort of bawdy entertainment. I began to sit with my back to the door because I could not bear the touch of those intruding gazes.
With nothing to see in the dimness of my cell, my other senses became extraordinarily acute. I began to notice smells—the odor of my perspiration on my skin, the scent of rat urine on my mattress, the odor of sweaty men passing in the hallway. When Rufio brought in a meat pie—a luxury he probably bought with his own money—I could smell the aroma as soon as he crossed the threshold. And taste! I tasted the salt in the bread, the spice in the gravy, and sometimes I was certain I could taste the thin grass the cows had devoured before being butchered.
My fingertips also grew more sensitive. With my eyes closed, I could touch the wall and know if I was standing against the exterior wall or the cooler one that opened to a hallway in the garrison. My fingers could discern new straw from old and dirty linen from clean.
My chiton softened into rags, and only when I volunteered to help with the laundry did I find a way to get another one. Rufio looked at me in disbelief when I asked if I might help the slaves wash clothes, but after a moment of reflection, he allowed me that small bit of freedom. In truth, I did not mind helping, for the work of a laundress got me out of the garrison and into the sunlight. When the women came for the soiled laundry, a guard would clamp shackles around my ankles and lead me to the canal that skirted the city. There I basked in the sun while I helped a pair of Greek slaves scrub soldiers’ tunics and cloaks until our fingers shriveled. Occasionally I would find a long tunic in the pile of dirty garments—probably belonging to some other prisoner or a harlot a soldier had smuggled into the garrison—and then I was able to switch my ragged garment for one not quite so tattered.
Laundry work also meant an opportunity to sit with other women. Though my guards forbade me to talk to them, no one could stop me from listening. While our guards stood on the bank of the canal watching for crocodiles, I worked a short distance away from the slave women and absorbed every word, particularly when they mentioned Cleopatra.
“I hear the queen is leaving soon,” one woman said on a particularly fine fall day. “They need to sail before the winter winds blow.”
I stopped scrubbing as my pulse quickened.
“What’s so special in Rome?”
“She’s taking her son to meet his father.”
A vein of grief opened and welled within me. Cleopatra was leaving, and only HaShem knew how long she would be gone. What more evidence did I need? My former friend had completely forgotten me. She would not spare a thought for me now that she was preparing for Rome, and she certainly would not think of me while she visited Caesar’s country.
My father and I were finished. Despite my dreams, despite the promise HaShem had given me, I had become a laundry woman for the Roman army.
I picked up another tunic, gripped it in both hands, and furiously scrubbed the fabric against a broad stone. How could a woman call herself a forever friend and do such a thing? How could she abandon me and leave my father in prison? Caesar had been gracious and generous in victory, so why couldn’t Cleopatra respond in like manner?
I stopped scrubbing as my emotions veered from anger to something far bleaker. I felt as if there were hands on my heart, slowly twisting the life from it.
How could HaShem be so cruel? Why had He taunted me with the hope of meaning something to a queen, and why had He promised that I would bless her? I had told her about His promise, I had testified to the power of Adonai, but now Cleopatra had good reason to laugh at me and my God.
I dropped the pile of wet fabric onto the stone and stood, my heart hardening as the love I once felt for Urbi turned into something that burned hotter and far more furiously.
As the weeks passed, I tried not to think about the travel preparations that were surely taking place at the palace.
By the time I heard trumpets from the parade escorting Cleopatra and her son to their ship, I had resolved I would never again think of my former friend with affection. I would close the door on my past and bury my memories. And if ever granted an opportunity to find my way back into the palace, I would take it and stand before Urbi with eyes blazing.
A week after Cleopatra left Alexandria, I looked up at the sound of metallic jangling outside my door. Rufio entered, but his face was missing its customary blankness. His eyes focused on me with unusual intensity.
“I have heard,” he said, “from Caesar.”
My heart leapt. “He wrote about me and my father?”
“Indirectly. Since the queen will be in Rome indefinitely, he directs me to empty this garrison of all royal prisoners.”
I thought I might burst from a sudden swell of happiness. “We’re finally to be freed?”
He shifted to avoid my gaze. “All prisoners are to be sold.”
The words hung in the heavy air, and for a moment I could not make sense of them. Sold? Only slaves were sold. Father and I were not slaves; we were people of status and wealth, people who mingled with nobility and royalty. Slaves, on the other hand, were barely human.
When the back of my head touched
the stone wall, I realized how completely we had been debased. Not only had our status disappeared, but over the past year we had been imprisoned and forgotten. Caesar had almost certainly issued my father’s death warrant. Older slaves were not valued. When they became too weak to work, they were usually sold on the cheap or disposed of in some other way. . . .
A cry broke from my lips, followed by a sob. I buried my face in my hands and gave vent to my despair, not caring about the Roman only a few feet away.
“Do not weep,” Rufio said, and I heard the surprising sound of anguish in his voice. “This is not death. This is freedom . . . in a different guise.”
“You would call slavery freedom?” I looked up at him, disbelieving. “How free did you feel when you were a slave?”
A muscle clenched at his jaw. “Life abounds with worse situations than slavery. Everything depends upon your master—a good master will allow you to purchase your freedom if you earn enough silver. You and your father are literate and will command a high price at the market. No one harms or abuses a slave who cost them dearly.”
I trembled at the thought of being someone’s property. If Father and I were sold at the slave market, what were the odds we would be sold together? We would be separated, and I would never see my father again. We had already lost Asher, but if we were to lose each other . . .
“This cannot be happening,” I whispered, more to myself than to the Roman. “HaShem, what have we done to deserve this?”
I heard the wooden thump of the door closing and looked up to find the commander kneeling beside me. “Do not fear, Chava,” he said, using my name for the first time in my memory. “I will purchase you and grant you manumission.”
I stared at him in bewilderment. “Why would you do that?”
He looked at me with a perplexed expression, as if a question lay on his lips without the courage to ask it. Finally, he propped one arm on his bent knee and leaned closer. “I would free you . . . in the hope that you will become my wife when I retire from the army.”