by Tessa Afshar
That was the sum total of her knowledge of the man who had fathered her: That like her mother, he was dead. That he was a Cushite. And that her mother had loved him.
And now, she would likely not discover anything else about him. After over twenty-five years of unremarkable service to the empire, her grandfather had received his marching orders. He was to retire later that spring. Leave his house in Cush and begin a quiet life in the countryside of Italia somewhere. With his imminent departure, Chariline had to discard whatever hopes she had nurtured over the years of one day discovering her father’s identity. Grandfather would never crack the wall of secrecy he had erected around her parents’ marriage. And with Meroë far behind them, she would lose all access to any Cushite resources. Not that it really mattered. The man was dead, whether she knew his name or not.
Arkamani interrupted the dark train of her thoughts by sidling up, armed with his stones. “Come to thrash me again?” she said, cracking a small smile at the urchin’s eager expression.
“If you insist, honey lady.”
This time, Arkamani won even faster than before.
She studied his grinning face for a moment. “No one will play with you twice if you beat them too quickly,” she warned.
“Apologies, honey lady. Uncle needs my help soon.”
“Hold one moment.” She withdrew another honey cake from her bag, which found its way into Arkamani’s mouth as quickly as before.
Two days, four honey cakes, and several coins later, they arrived at the Fifth Cataract. The river, which flowed narrower this far south, had turned a pale willow green, heralding their proximity to the city of Meroë. The capital of Cush occupied a gentle bend on the banks of the Nile between the Fifth and Sixth Cataracts.
After they navigated the rocks and piled back into the boat, Aunt Blandina lingered for a rare moment with Chariline. “Not far now,” she said, wrapping the edges of her stola closer about her. Never talkative, she became quieter still in Cush.
“Grandmother will be happy to see you.”
Aunt Blandina made a noncommittal sound.
“I love Meroë. I don’t understand why Grandfather loathes it here. If he were a little less demanding, he might find himself enjoying the place.”
Aunt Blandina bit her lip. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” She allowed herself a tiny smile. “You sound like your mother. She, too, loved Cush.”
“Did she?” Chariline pressed eagerly, hoping to hear more about the mother of whom she knew so little.
A curtain drew over her aunt’s face, wiping away every trace of warmth. “Hold up your parasol,” she admonished before turning her back and heading for the cabin.
Fishing her roll of papyrus out of her bag, and grabbing her inkpot and stylus, Chariline settled down to work on the palace she had been designing for her friend Natemahar.
It had become a tradition between them. Every year when she came to Cush, she designed an opulent building for him. He loved her designs and told her she had rare talent. He was one of the few who did. Most believed a woman had no business wanting to be an architect. Wanting to learn engineering and construction. But Natemahar encouraged her to pursue her training. Over the years, he had sent her seven of Vitruvius’s ten famed books on architecture. They had become the foundation of her growing knowledge.
The reminder of Natemahar’s extraordinary support made her heart lift. She might not have been blessed with the love of a proper family, but when it came to friendships, God had more than favored her.
A few hours later, as the boat navigated a sharp bend, Chariline’s attention was captured by movement on the bank. A black-and-white ibis pecked at the dark mud with its long beak. In the distance, something red caught Chariline’s eye on the eastern shore. Setting her drawing aside, she leaned forward to catch a better glimpse. There it was, the first pyramid of Meroë, coming into view, followed by dozens more in bright reds, yellows, and ochres. They were nothing more than a cemetery. A burial ground for the aristocracy and royalty of the kingdom. But the pyramids of Meroë held a fascination for her that went far beyond their prosaic function. Their curious construction and enduring mystery never ceased to captivate her. Not long after, the sailors began to lower the sails and prepare to drop anchor.
Chariline headed for the cabin. “Aunt Blandina, we have arrived at the port.”
Blandina came to her feet carefully, frowning at the sharp rocking motion of the boat. Signaling the captain, she arranged for their luggage to be carried to the city gate and led the way gingerly to the narrow wooden pier.
Stout walls constructed of dressed stone encircled the whole city of Meroë. At the main gate, two angular stone towers jutted out like stubborn jaws, flanking the entrance into the city, giving the guards a better vantage point as they monitored the river that brought life and goods past their city.
Chariline and her aunt entered the massive wood-and-iron gates after the soldiers gave their papers a cursory examination. Past the tower, they sat by the wall, leaning against their piled baggage, and prepared for a long wait.
Chariline stretched her neck, surveying the crowd. She knew better than to look for her grandfather. He would not meet them for another hour. He never left work until the afternoon regardless of the time of their arrival. Since their boat often anchored at Meroë earlier, they were expected to tarry at the gate and wait for him patiently.
Chariline searched through the busy throng, trying to spot her friend Natemahar. She swallowed a smile when she caught sight of him striding toward them. Not once, in all the years of her visits to Cush, had he missed her arrival. He stepped in front of Aunt Blandina and gave her a formal nod of acknowledgment. His rich clothing, as well as the young servant who stood deferentially at his side, carrying a carved alabaster box, declared him an important official.
Aunt Blandina’s eyes widened a little. Natemahar smiled reassuringly. Every year, he arranged for this charade, and every year Blandina forgot.
“A small gift for the daughter and granddaughter of our honored Roman official, Quintus Blandinus Geminus,” Natemahar said in perfect Latin, his words made more exotic by his soft, musical accent. “Compliments of the great Kandake of Cush.” He managed to say the words with a straight face, though his ebony eyes sparkled.
Chariline bit her lip. The Kandake, or Candace as the Greeks and Romans referred to her, was the title of the queen mother who exerted more power in Cush than her own son. And if the Kandake had ever sent a present to her grandfather, Chariline was willing to eat her leather sandals. The queen had never shown the Roman official any special favors. But as her chief treasurer, Natemahar had the authority to impart gifts in her name.
“Thank you.” Blandina reached for the box. She flipped the lid open and gave a faint smile. “Oh. How nice.” Dried fruits and nuts had been packed in a precise pattern of arcs and triangles. Dates, figs, raisins, peaches, and almonds had been turned into an edible painting.
“That’s beautiful!” Chariline exclaimed and reached for a plump date. “And delicious. Our thanks to your most thoughtful and gracious Kandake.”
Natemahar bowed to her, enveloping her in the warmth of his smile. “I am honored you are pleased, mistress.” Was there more gray at his temples? Deeper lines radiating from the corners of his eyes? Had he been unwell? None of his letters had mentioned an illness. But she knew that Natemahar often struggled with his health, a lingering side effect of the procedure that had rendered him a eunuch so long ago, when he was a boy.
Chariline could not help worrying for him. Hiding her anxiety behind a smile, she said, “I couldn’t imagine a better welcome to your delightful land, my lord.”
“And I couldn’t imagine a lovelier addition to our ancient kingdom.”
This hidden dance of words had become one of Chariline’s favorite games. Every time they met in public, they had to pretend not to know each other, and yet find ways to communicate. Natemahar had a genius for it, she had discovered. A byproduc
t of spending his life in the complexities of a scheming royal court.
“May I offer you ladies my chariot?” Natemahar suggested politely.
“Thank you. My father will be here shortly,” Blandina said.
“In that case, I will take my leave of you.” He bowed with the grace of a lifelong courtier and melted into the crowd. He would not be far, Chariline knew, but hide himself close enough to keep an eye on them lest someone in the packed press of people should attempt to accost them.
“Who is that man?” Aunt Blandina asked. “He seems familiar.”
“I believe he is one of the Kandake’s officials. He delivered a welcome gift to us last year, you may recall.” And the year before. And the year before that. Fourteen years of imaginative welcomes.
“Oh yes. Now that you mention it. What a good memory you have, Chariline.”
“Thank you, Aunt.”
Then again, since Chariline had known Natemahar from the age of seven, and they had been communicating via secret letters for years, she was not likely to forget him.
CHAPTER 2
For everything that is hidden will eventually be brought into the open, and every secret will be brought to light.
MARK 4:22, NLT
“Let me hold that. It’s heavy,” Chariline told her aunt, taking the carved alabaster box from her hands.
“That is kind of you, dear.”
Chariline placed the box on her lap and opened it. She looked at the tempting offerings inside and marveled at the hands that had managed to use fruit as a canvas for art. Her fingers traced the patterned cotton lining the lid, a replica of the design inside, before replacing the cover.
The sun scorched down on her head in spite of her parasol, making Chariline’s scalp itch. In her attempt to tame Chariline’s curls, Aunt Blandina had poured enough scented oil on her hair to bury a man. She had pulled and scraped and braided and looped and sculpted the stubborn tresses into some semblance of order, trying to make it look Roman rather than Cushite. But the arrangement was a miserable ache against Chariline’s scalp, and she reached a finger to try and loosen a particularly tight loop.
“Leave it!” Aunt Blandina snapped with unusual vigor. “Here comes your grandfather.”
“I think you mean to say here comes your father.”
“Hush.” Blandina stood straight, like a soldier before his general, getting ready to be inspected.
Chariline made no effort. It would only be wasted, anyhow. In truth, Grandfather did not awe her the way he did Aunt Blandina. She supposed it was because she had only spent two weeks a year under his roof, and that after the age of ten. Poor Aunt Blandina had grown up under his tyranny and still bore the brunt of it when they came to visit him. Her one act of rebellion had been to refuse to move back into her parents’ home after she had been widowed. She had chosen to remain in her husband’s house in Caesarea, and after Chariline was born, raised her there alone.
“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Grandfather said by way of greeting. “Of course not,” he answered himself before they could. “That boat ride down the Nile is never agreeable.”
Chariline, for whom the only unpleasant part of the journey had been to bake in the hot sun while waiting for him, said, “I found it most enjoyable.”
“Don’t be contrary,” Grandfather snapped. “Your grandmother has prepared a big supper for you two. After you eat, you can help with the packing. Plenty of daylight left.”
“Packing?” He meant for their move from Cush, she realized. “Grandfather, don’t you have servants for that?”
“You must have baked in the heat too long. I wouldn’t allow those fools to touch my things. What they don’t steal, they will break.”
Chariline, who had come to know Grandfather’s four servants well, and thought highly of each, frowned. “They have been packing and unpacking my baggage for years and nothing ever went missing.”
“That’s because you have nothing worth taking.”
Chariline could not argue with that. “I will help Grandmother. Aunt Blandina needs rest tonight. It’s been a long journey.”
Blandina sent her a grateful look.
“In that case, Chariline, I hope you are prepared to do twice the work.” As always, her grandfather winced when he spoke her name. Chariline. It had no family connections, no respectful nod to their ancestors. It did not even have the refinement of being Roman. Her mother, for some inexplicable reason, had chosen to give her a Greek appellation. Her grandfather, Roman to the bone, abhorred it.
Dinner, which they ate in the atrium, proved a strained affair. Grandfather felt that conversation at meals impaired his digestion, and everyone was expected to maintain a rule of strict silence. After finishing their simple meal, Chariline accompanied her aunt to her chamber and, after tucking her into bed gently, reported for duty in the tablinum.
Following her grandfather’s very particular instructions, she began to wrap his extensive collection of fragile ivory carvings in rags, packing them in layers of fresh straw, while her grandmother worked silently next to her. For half an hour, Grandfather supervised their efforts like a sharp-beaked hawk, always ready with a ripe criticism.
When he finally left them to their own devices, Chariline gave her grandmother a conspiratorial smile. “I think he missed his calling. He should have been a general, ordering soldiers by the dozen.”
Her grandmother placed her index finger on thin lips, as if trying to keep a smile from escaping.
Picking up a figurine, Chariline covered it with a thick layer of rags. Knowing these were her final days in Cush cast a shadow on every activity. A part of her belonged to this land. Felt a nostalgic attachment to it, an odd connection that went beyond the familiarity of annual visits. A connection that flowed from her own mysterious history.
“Grandmother, did you ever meet my father?” The words leapt from a deep place, refusing to be silenced.
Her grandmother jumped as if prodded by the sharp end of an arrow. “What?”
“My father. Did you know him? He was from Meroë, wasn’t he?”
“He is dead, Chariline. You know you are forbidden to speak of him.”
“Why? I am not a child. I have a right to know.”
“Ask your grandfather. It’s time I retired.” Grandmother’s fair skin looked spectral white in the lamplight as she turned on her heels and left.
Chariline’s back drooped. Setting aside the packing, she made her way to her chamber. Her legs felt wobbly with exhaustion. The hours in the hot sun of the Nile had sapped her more than she had realized. Yet, in spite of a weariness that went to her bones, sleep proved elusive. She lay scratchy-eyed on the bed, tossing uselessly.
Venting a sigh of defeat, Chariline slipped out of bed, thinking to enjoy the star-filled sky of Meroë in the quiet of the atrium. Her bare feet made no sound as she passed her grandparents’ chamber.
“Chariline must never know.” Her grandfather’s voice penetrated through the timber walls. “You understand? She must never find out.”
Chariline’s feet froze in place. What must she never know?
“She continues to pester me about him.” She could picture Grandmother twisting her handkerchief in nervous fingers, not quite able to look at her husband.
“I don’t want that . . . that degenerate anywhere near Chariline. He has no right to her. He ruined my daughter’s life! Every time I see him at the palace, I want to vomit.”
“After so many years, couldn’t we tell her? Chariline is desperate to know her father, Quintus.”
“She has no father!” Grandfather shouted.
Chariline heard the tap, tap of feet on the stone floors, approaching the door, and stole into the dark corridor before Grandfather caught her eavesdropping. Forgetting about the stars, she crept back to her room and sat slack-jawed, thinking through the conversation she had overheard.
Her grandfather’s voice reverberated in her mind. Every time I see him at the palace. See him? But that
implied . . .
Impossible! And yet those words could only mean one thing. Her father was alive. Alive!
He must work at one of the palaces in Meroë, within walking distance of this very house. Work in a public-enough position that forced Grandfather to see him when he attended the court.
A slow fire began to burn in her belly, radiating upward, setting a blaze in her veins. For twenty-four years she had been told that her father was dead. Twenty-four years of lies. Of subterfuge. Twenty-four years being cheated of knowing her father.
She punched a fist into the pillow beside her. Grandfather had no right! Shoving the covers aside, Chariline leapt out of bed, intending to march to her grandparents’ chamber to demand the truth.
Her hand stilled as it reached for the door. Grandfather would remain as unmoved by her fury as he had been by her entreaties over the years. That man couldn’t be reasoned with. He would simply bundle her on the earliest available boat out of Cush and force her to return home.
It wasn’t as if she could travel back to Cush on her own. Meroë was not a popular destination. Even from a major port like Caesarea, it required two separate voyages by boat to get to Cush—and a small fortune, which she lacked. Supposing she had the funds, as an unaccompanied woman, she would not be safe traveling so far.
No. If she wanted to find her father, she had to be shrewd like a fox.
Slowly, she climbed back into bed, realizing that she could not afford to give in to rash impulses. She had to keep her wits about her and plan carefully. She only had fourteen days to unearth the identity of the man. And she would have to use every moment wisely.
Her father lived! That notion both thrilled and terrified her. A thousand questions churned in her mind. Did he know of her existence? If so, why had he never sought her out? And if he had never been told of her birth, how would he feel about her sudden appearance in his life? Why did Grandfather blame him for ruining her mother’s life? The questions swirled in her head, a dizzying whirlpool of inexplicable mysteries.