by Tessa Afshar
He examined the western shoreline, thick with date palms and vegetation, and blew out a relieved sigh when he spotted a familiar thin figure.
“He is here,” he told Gemina and she turned.
The nomad waved at them, his arm an enthusiastic banner pumping in the sky.
Gemina smiled. “He seems friendly.”
“His mother was a nomad. They like Cushites.”
He pushed away the knot of worry that twisted and turned in his gut. They were almost free. Before the skiff hit the bank, he jumped out, water dancing at his thighs, black mud sucking at his feet. The nomad came to his aid, and together, they pulled the boat onto the shore.
“I see you made it,” the thin man said, his smile revealing two rows of dazzling white teeth.
“Barely,” he said, pointing to the row of guards, still standing immobile on the opposite shore.
“What are they doing? Making sure you don’t return?”
“I suppose.” He helped Gemina out and shouldered the heavy saddlebag containing all their worldly goods.
“Pretty skiff,” the nomad said, pointing.
“She’s yours. We won’t be able to lug her on our backs as we travel into Egypt.”
“That’s what I was hoping you would say.” Their guide flashed another happy smile and bent to cover the boat with reeds. An odd, strangled sound escaped his lips. Without warning, the thin body pitched over and sprawled facedown into the shallows of the Nile. A long iron-tipped spear protruded from his back.
Gemina screamed.
He swerved, hand reaching for his sword. Twelve armed guards stepped forward from the shadows of the palm trees in a precise, symmetrical line. The sun glanced off their bare arms, turning flesh into ebony statuary.
A tall woman slithered through the unmoving rank, her muscular body covered in an ankle-length white gown, decorated with a pleated sash that draped across her right shoulder. Henna stained her long fingernails and hair, flashing red under the sun. On her head, she wore a metal skullcap, which supported a royal diadem.
“You did not really think you could outsmart me?” she drawled.
The manners of a lifetime transcended his shock, and he fell to his knee, arm at his breast. “Kandake.”
She took a long spear from one of the guards and shoved the sharp iron point under his chin, making him wince. Blood dripped onto his tunic.
“Don’t!” Gemina shouted, scampering toward him. One of the guards moved, his toned body a blur of motion, and captured her before she could reach him. Or the queen.
“Be silent, girl,” the Kandake growled.
Gemina struggled harder, and the guard clenched her arms, his fingers turning vicious.
He forgot about the point of the spear at his throat when he saw her skin turning red, bruising under the guard’s rough handling. With a twist of his torso, he freed himself from the queen’s weapon and leapt to Gemina’s defense.
“Leave my wife alone!” His voice sounded strange in his own ears, a lion’s roar rather than his usually soft intonation.
He managed one step, evaded two guards to take a second, almost reaching Gemina. But a wall of hard-muscled bodies met his next stride. Fists pummeled him to the ground, knees bruising his ribs until his breath became trapped in his chest and he turned dizzy. In the background, he could hear Gemina weeping hysterically.
The Kandake’s face filled the sky as she stared down at him. “Wife, is it?”
“We are married,” he said through swelling lips. “Nothing you can do about it now.”
“Is that so?” She gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “I can make her a widow.”
“You wouldn’t!”
She had been like an aunt to him all his life. His mother had been her closest friend. A trusted confidante in a world filled with enemies. Would she kill him because he had married without her permission? Married the daughter of a Roman official?
“You embarrassed me. I have killed men for less,” she said, as though reading his thoughts.
“Forgive me, my queen.”
She nodded to one of her men, and before he had time to take another breath, the royal guard had uncovered two barges from their hiding place in the reeds. They trussed him up like a captive slave, his ankles and elbows in iron chains, bound together behind his back so that his whole body folded painfully into itself, his calves pressed into his thighs, his feet touching his elbows. His muscles screamed in protest as two guards picked him up like a sack of grain and threw him into the barge. A greater agony seared his heart as he watched them drag Gemina into the second royal ship.
At the last moment, the queen stepped into the barge that carried him and signaled their departure. She would not want to be discovered on this side of the Nile. The Libyans had gained a strong foothold on the west shores of the river and had no love for her. If they caught her surrounded by so few men, they would treat her with no more compassion than she was treating him.
“Please, Kandake,” he begged.
Dark eyes fixed on him. She was his senior by sixteen years, only. But the mantle of authority had added to her what years could not. She seemed at once ancient and ageless as she considered him, her lips a ruthless line.
She held up a finger. “First, she is a Roman.” Another finger rose in the air. “Second, she is betrothed to some highborn Roman idiot who sits seething in my throne room at this very moment.” Another finger. “Third, her father is the emperor’s own official, now frothing at the mouth, flinging threats at me.” Another finger. “Fourth, you sneaking little snake, you went behind my back.” Another finger. “Fifth, you set a bad example for all the young men in my palace. In my kingdom.” She kicked him in his exposed side, the hard point of her leather shoe making him grunt in pain. “I am running out of fingers, you fool. And I still have to deal with that blockhead father of hers.”
He took a deep breath. She hadn’t killed him yet. That seemed hopeful. “We should have asked your permission.”
“You think so?”
“We should have asked for your help.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “No, you should not. If you had dared breathe a word to me, I would have slapped you so hard, your brains would have fallen out of your skull.”
“Help us now, Kandake!”
“Help you? I’d as soon squeeze the life out of you. Don’t you understand? Rome is sitting at our door like a hungry lion. We barely hang by a thread, holding on to some measure of autonomy, staving them off with our rich taxes. All they need is an excuse to swallow us whole. What you did could hand them that excuse.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. Once, Cush had been a powerful nation. Seven hundred years earlier, its kings had ruled over Egypt. For a whole century, the two kingdoms had been united under the banner of Cushite monarchs. Those days were long gone now. Cush’s mines and jewels as well as its wily queen had managed to hold off the sticky, acquisitive fingers of Rome from snatching them up entirely. They still had their independence, of sorts. Their riches bought them, if not the power of old, then certainly enough influence to count.
“The girl is her father’s affair,” the Kandake said. “But you. You are mine to deal with. And trust me when I tell you this: I will mete out a punishment you will never forget. You will learn to put your nation before your heart.”
“I love this land. But I also love Gemina. I am married to her,” he insisted.
“And how will one pathetic, hastily performed rite stand against the might of your queen and the grievance of Rome?” Again, she held him in her implacable stare. He had seen that look on her face before. The look she gave when she had made up her mind. The look that meant no power on earth would move her. The look that came before blood spilled.
Whatever kernel of hope he had held onto withered.
He turned his head painfully until he could see the other barge sailing just behind them. At least they did not seem to be mistreating Gemina. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her back ramrod s
traight.
She would not know, yet, that she had parted from him forever.
I love you, he whispered soundlessly, knowing he would never say the words to her again. Knowing the Nile carried away his heart, and he could do nothing to stop it.
CHAPTER 1
Behold, if the river is turbulent he is not frightened.
JOB 40:23
25 YEARS LATER
The boat glided past the famed statues of Pharaoh Amenhotep, two stone giants that had guarded the western shores of the Nile for over a thousand years. The first had been badly damaged by an earthquake, its face unrecognizable. But the second seemed to gaze upon Chariline with regal eyes, as if weighing her mettle. She gave the old pharaoh a lopsided smile. After years of Grandfather’s baleful glares, Amenhotep could not intimidate her.
The vast breadth of the Nile spread before Chariline, its smoky blue waters as mysterious as the guardian statues of Memnon. She felt the rhythm of her pulse change, growing faster, harder, and a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the weather seeped beneath her skin. No matter how many times she made this journey, traveling on the Nile never ceased to exhilarate her.
The river itself was a battlefield, its currents moving north while the wind blew south, and their vessel became the object of a tug of war between them. Chariline watched the white sail as it caught the breeze and bellowed tight, the winds proving stronger than the waves, carrying them determinedly away from Egypt.
Just as the sun was sinking, a golden orb turning the sky into flames of crimson, they came upon the island of Elephantine, a huge landmass that had once marked Egypt’s most southerly border. They would dock in its modest pier and spend the night in the anchored boat.
Her aunt’s pale face appeared at the door of the cabin built into the aft of the barge. “Are we stopping for the night?”
“Yes, Aunt Blandina.”
Chariline helped her aunt off the boat, guiding her up the stone staircase that had been carved directly into the river as a means of measuring the water’s levels. Some enterprising merchant had built Roman-style latrines in the marina. For a modest fee, Chariline and her aunt availed themselves of the facilities before returning to the narrow cabin to retire for the night. Chariline would have preferred to sleep on the deck under the bejeweled stars like most of the local passengers. But her aunt, who would have to make a full report of their journey to Grandfather, forbade what the old man would consider an indignity.
Chariline sighed and slipped into her pallet. Every year since she had turned ten, as soon as traveling by water became relatively safe after the ides of March, Chariline had traveled from Caesarea to Cush to visit her grandparents for exactly two weeks. Fourteen days and not an hour longer. Grandfather had established those rules the first time he had sent for her. He had never wavered from them in the ensuing years.
Chariline had not wanted to change those rules either. Although she loved Cush and its capital city of Meroë, the company of her grandparents strained her nerves after the second hour. By the end of the second week, she felt as ready to take her leave as they were to be rid of her.
Her grandfather, a midranking civil official acting as an agent of Rome, had been assigned to Cush over twenty-five years ago. He had expected to rise in his career. Expected Cush to be a stepping stone to greater things. Instead, his career had stalled, and rather than a modest beginning, Cush had proven a dead end. He had become the one permanent fixture of Rome in a small kingdom. Men with greater potential and influence were sent to better posts in Egypt.
Whether his disappointment had caused Grandfather to become a sour man or his disposition had been the reason he had never risen high, she could not tell. She had tried to understand the man from the day she met him—and never succeeded.
Taking one last longing look at the indigo sky through the narrow window, Chariline closed her eyes with a sigh and fell asleep to the enthusiastic music of frogs.
The gentle sway of the boat as it raised anchor just before sunrise woke her. Careful not to disturb Aunt Blandina, she slid silently out of bed and made her way onto the deck. Even this early in the day, the wide, swirling waters of the Nile were host to a plethora of tiny and large vessels. Their captains, familiar with the deceptive eddies and sandbanks hiding under the river’s seemingly hospitable waters, guided their vessels with watchful expertise.
An hour later they came upon the First Cataract in the river. The cataracts, unnavigable sections of the Nile where boulders littered the surface of the river’s bed, could not be crossed except during summer’s flood season. The passengers had to disembark and walk on foot, while men carried the barge on the soggy banks with the help of two bony oxen.
After the boat resumed its journey south, a boy with jet skin and a beaming white smile approached Chariline. She recognized him as one of the hired hands on the boat. He had helped carry their baggage onboard and ran errands for the passengers. Thin, naked torso glistening in the sun, he crouched down, dropping twelve smooth stones between them. With a hand, he gestured an invitation. Chariline grinned back and, glancing over to ensure her aunt remained safely ensconced in the cabin, squatted to face the boy.
She had seen him play the stones with a handful of other passengers, his fingers nimble and lightning fast. He would beat her, she knew. And although, in general, she had an aversion to losing, she would not mind it this time. Losing meant she could give the boy a coin without violating his pride. A coin that would help feed him for a day or two.
“Your name?” she asked in Meroitic.
The boy’s grin widened. “Arkamani,” he said, pushing out his chest.
“I am Chariline.”
They drew lots to determine who should begin the game. Arkamani won and started, throwing a single stone in the air with a smooth motion. The object of the game was simple. Throw a stone in the air, pick up one from the ground, and catch the flying stone before it dropped. The next round, pick up two stones from the ground, then three, and so forth, until you held six in your palm. The second round, you threw two stones in the air and began again.
The game didn’t change hands until the one playing fumbled. Arkamani did not drop a stone until the third round. Chariline held her own for a few throws, but she lacked the boy’s agility and practice. With astonishing dexterity, he won the game in the next round. From her bag, Chariline extracted a small coin and one of Aunt Blandina’s special cakes. “Honey,” she said, indicating the pastry.
Arkamani’s eyes rounded. He shoved the honey cake into his mouth, turning his cheeks into two round lumps. Chariline laughed.
“You need something in Meroë, you call me,” the boy said, swallowing. “Call Arkamani.” He slapped his narrow chest noisily. “I am your man, honey lady.”
Chariline hid her smile. “You’re a little too young to be my man.”
“I’ll grow,” he assured her.
The captain yelled the boy’s name. “Better go before you get into trouble, Arkamani.” Chariline pointed her chin toward the captain.
The boy shrugged. “He is my uncle. No trouble, honey lady.” Gathering his stones with care, he gave her another smile before running to do his uncle’s bidding.
The next afternoon, her aunt emerged from the cabin to partake of a brief respite on the deck. The heat had turned her delicate skin the color of a mature beet, and she waved her ostrich fan in front of her face with an air of desperation. “It feels too hot to breathe.”
“It’s cooler outside than in that stuffy cabin,” Chariline said. “Stay with me and enjoy the breeze from the river.” Chariline saw a sleek silhouette slither past, a good distance from where they stood leaning against the side of the boat. She drew a sharp breath. “Look, Aunt!” she pointed.
“Gods! Is that . . . ?”
“A crocodile. Yes! Isn’t it wonderful?”
Blandina shuddered. “Monstrous. I can’t wait to get off this contraption.” She frowned as she turned to study her niece. “You will roast y
our skin in that sun. Hold your parasol higher.”
By which she meant that Chariline’s already dark skin would grow even darker. An unforgivable offense, as far as her grandparents were concerned. With a sigh, Chariline adjusted her parasol. It wasn’t as if the little bit of papyrus and wood could magically transform her complexion to the same pale shade as her aunt’s.
From the first time Chariline had looked in a mirror, she had known that she would never fit in with her family. Her skin looked like cinnamon with a hint of cream. Her tight brown curls with their sprinkling of dark gold refused to be tamed into a silky fall. Her full lips, long, toned limbs, and high cheekbones all set her apart from her chalk-white, fair-haired family. Perhaps that was why her grandfather never looked her in the eyes.
Even a short stroll through the narrow lanes of Meroë was enough to show that although her mother had been a Roman through and through, half of Chariline belonged to Cush. Her mother must have met her father there.
All her life, Chariline had been told two things about her father: that he was dead, and that she was never to mention him. More than once, her curiosity had prompted her to ask the forbidden questions her heart could not set aside. Who was he? Had he known of her existence? How had he met her mother? Did he still have family living in Meroë? How did he die? An endless litany of questions that had never found an answer. In her grandfather, they had met with stony, disapproving silence. In her grandmother, a fearful and equally silent grief. Only her aunt had responded to her badgering.
“I never knew him, Chariline. I only know that your mother loved him dearly. And ran away to marry him without permission.”