by Tessa Afshar
Philip would bid her to pray. Philip, who had taught her about God and baptized her with his own hands in Caesarea’s harbor one misty morning. He always began and ended everything with the Lord.
Chariline tried to tame her stormy thoughts. Tame them long enough to speak to God. But her prayer rose up like a wisp of smoke with hardly any substance. God seemed far away and inconsequential just then. Grandfather had had more influence in her life than the Lord, it seemed.
Chariline hissed a breath through clenched teeth, then bolted up as a single name rose to the forefront of her mind. Natemahar! Natemahar could help her! He knew everyone in the royal household. Knew long-forgotten secrets. Some old whisper of scandal in the court may lead to the identity of her father. Tomorrow, she would meet Natemahar and begin her search in earnest.
The next morning, Chariline swallowed the accusations that burned in her throat and, schooling her features into a blank canvas, bid her grandfather a civil good morning before he departed for work. Time crawled until the women finally settled down to the noonday meal. Chariline managed to force down the yeasted Egyptian bread, swallow the vegetable stew, and drink her watered-down wine without choking.
If her grandmother noticed Chariline’s distraction, she made no mention of it. After the interminable meal finally finished, Grandmother and Aunt Blandina retired to their chambers for their customary afternoon rest.
No sooner had they closed their doors than Chariline slipped out of the house and made her way to the spice shop. The exotic scents and vibrant colors of Cush and Egypt greeted her as she entered the colorful store.
“Good day,” she said softly in Meroitic, smiling at the portly owner who stood behind his wooden counter, surveying his domain like a king.
Thick brows rose to the middle of his high forehead. “Look who has returned,” he answered in passable Greek.
Having grown up in Caesarea, Chariline spoke fluent Greek as well as Latin thanks to her aunt. She switched languages with ease. “Lovely,” she replied, bending to breathe in the scent of cinnamon, grated fresh in the shop.
“Like you.”
Her smile widened. In Cush, as in Caesarea, she was something of an oddity, her skin too light here, the golden streaks in her brown hair a match for her amber eyes. But the people of Cush were kinder when they stared, their curiosity often mingled with admiration.
“Thank you.”
“You want to send a message?”
“May I?”
“Of course. I have a new errand boy. He will get it to him in no time.” He snapped a finger and the boy from the boat ran in. What was his name?
“Arkamani!” she said, remembering.
The boy’s smile showed a double row of perfect teeth. “Honey lady. Told you I was your man.”
“You’ve come up in the world.” Chariline pointed at his clean linen skirt.
He shrugged. “Another uncle.”
The spice seller gave Arkamani a long set of directions, spoken too rapidly in Meroitic for Chariline to catch. “Give him your note,” he told her in Greek. Chariline gave the boy the tiny roll of papyrus, and tucking it into his skirt, he ran out the back door in a whirl of pumping muscles.
“How many uncles does he have?” she asked the spice seller.
“On his mother’s side, fourteen. But that has always been a small family. On his father’s side, our family is a lot more vigorous.”
In less than half the length of an hour, Natemahar walked in. At the sight of his dear face, the iron-hard band of control that she had wrapped around her emotions broke. She ran to him, and he opened his arms to receive her as if she wasn’t almost as tall as he. She felt the roiling agitation that had plagued her since the previous night break like a wave on the prow of a ship.
“Well now,” he rumbled against her cheek. “What’s this?”
“My father is alive!” Chariline blurted.
Natemahar took half a step back. He stared at her, his eyes wide. “How . . . how do you know this?”
“I overheard my grandfather last night.”
Natemahar rubbed the back of his neck. “You better tell me all about it. Shall we have a seat?” He looked to the spice seller, who bowed deeply and whipped aside a curtain leading to a tiny room. Two upturned wooden boxes served for stools, with a chipped concrete block in between functioning as a makeshift table.
“Thank you, friend,” Natemahar said, discretely passing a short stack of coins to the spice seller. “I think you could use a little rest? Say half an hour?”
“I will lock the doors on my way out, my lord.”
“Tell me all about it,” Natemahar told Chariline when they were alone, his soft voice covering her like the folds of a familiar cloak.
Tell me all about it. Those were the same words he had said when they met for the first time seventeen years ago.
And it seemed to Chariline that the years peeled back like a ripe fig while they sat in that tiny room, the sweet perfume of the spices of Egypt and Meroë swirling around them. An image of Natemahar, younger then, and less frail, looking down at her little frame, rose up in her mind, the memory sweet and slow like dripping honey.
As with most of the best things in her life, their meeting had taken place in the home of Philip in Caesarea.
Philip had four daughters, the youngest of whom, Mariamne, had been her best friend since she could remember. Like her, Mariamne had grown up without a mother. But unlike Chariline, she had been raised with the indulgent affection of three older sisters and a doting father who didn’t let the sun go down without praising his daughters. That house had become a refuge to a lonely orphan girl whose dark skin made her a stranger in her own family.
One afternoon, when she had been playing with Mariamne in the narrow atrium of Philip’s house, a tall man had walked in with their host, his greeting soft, dark eyes the kindest she had ever seen.
Chariline had promptly burst out weeping at the sight of him. He had knelt in front of her, placing an impossibly gentle hand on her head. “What’s this? What’s this? Tell me all about it.”
Through a wave of uncharacteristic tears, Chariline had wailed, “Your skin is darker than mine. I thought I was the only one in the whole world.”
Natemahar had laughed and pulled her into his arms. “You’re not the only one, little one. There is a whole land filled with people like us.”
“Like me?”
He had gazed at her, his eyes grave. “Well, more like me. You are very special; I can see that. Who is this beautiful child?” He had looked up at Philip, seeking answers.
“Her mother was called Gemina. Her grandfather is Quintus Blandinus Geminus. Come to think of it, he is a Roman official who serves in your country, Natemahar. Do you know him?”
Natemahar had stumbled back. “I know him.”
That day, a special bond had formed between the two. Over the years, they had managed to meet at Philip’s house whenever Natemahar traveled to Caesarea. They carved out time to be together in Cush and, in between their visits, wrote reams of letters that paved the roads and rivers that separated them.
“Why did you become my friend?” Chariline had asked once. “All those years ago, when you first met me at Philip’s house. Why didn’t you just forget about me?” It seemed such an incongruous choice for a man like Natemahar. A successful Cushite official befriending a Roman child with little to offer save a gap-toothed smile and a thousand pestering questions.
“I was a lonely man who was never going to have a child, and you were a lonely child who was never going to have a father. It seemed a good fit.” Natemahar had pulled her braid. “Besides, we are alike, you and I. You are surrounded by a family who always make you feel like an outsider, while I . . . I am surrounded by men who are whole. A palace full of them. Warriors and husbands and fathers. All the things I can never be. I am an outsider in my own land. So you see, we belong together.”
CHAPTER 3
In the shadow of your wings I will t
ake refuge,
till the storms of destruction pass by.
PSALM 57:1
Theo climbed the stout mast of his ship, muscles bunching as he propelled himself higher on the smooth pole. At the top, he coiled his leg around the sturdy timber, anchoring himself in place as he looked around him. The aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean surrounded them, no land in sight.
They had been at sea for seven days, and as much as he loved his ship, he had to admit that with a dozen men on board, it could feel cramped after a week. Parmys was dainty: from the tip of its up-curved bow to the tail of the stern, you could lay no more than eleven tall men, head touching toe.
Theo had fallen into the habit of climbing to the top of the mast when the winds grew still, as they had this morning. He had discovered this to be one of the few spots on the ship where he could enjoy some quiet. This had become his favorite spot to be with God.
Prayer came to him easily, after years of hard practice. Four years ago, he had come to God feeling tarnished. Feeling ruined at his very core. But his friends Priscilla and Aquila and Paul had taught him to look in the mirror and see the face of the Savior instead of the nightmares of his past.
He clung to the mast and prayed for his crew, for his family, for safety on the journey ahead. His soul settled into peace.
When he finally opened his eyes, he saw his captain, Taharqa, standing patiently below.
“How goes it?” Theo asked.
Taharqa shrugged a massive shoulder. “Slooow.” His lilting accent added an extra syllable to the word. “Still no sign of wind.”
The charioteer in Theo had to acknowledge that the ship’s speed left something to be desired at the best of times. Its deep keel, double planking to strengthen the hull, and additional ballast made the Parmys a reliable ship, the perfect vessel for a merchant. But it did not make her fast. Add to that fifteen hundred wide-mouthed terra-cotta jars full of the balls of soap they carried, and their pace had grown leisurely.
Even that steady, plodding pace had come to a complete stop when the winds ceased altogether several hours before. The ship’s massive, square sail had dropped down, limp and useless, leaving its tiny, triangular topsail listlessly flopping to no avail.
Merchant ships rarely used oars as a regular mode of travel. It simply required too many men for practicality. On the Parmys, Theo had devised a system of six men at the oars when the winds grew still or ornery. That number could never replace the strength of a good wind. But it was better than standing still.
Pulling oars was hard work in a cramped space, but his crew had enough experience not to get tangled as they rowed. To a man, he trusted the rugged bunch who worked for him. They had taught him the ways of the sea, taught him to contend with its dangers and delight in its beauties.
Theo turned his face toward the sun and closed his eyes, allowing his senses to expand. He felt the breeze, subtle and warm at first. Before long, it strengthened enough to cool his flushed face. With a shift in his leg muscles, he allowed his body to slide down, speeding without a break all the way to the deck. “Wind is picking up,” he told Taharqa.
The captain clapped his giant hands and rubbed them together in excitement. “Come on, men! We have a sail to hoist.”
Theo helped pull the rigging, which wove its way through small wooden rings sewn into the sail, guiding a series of lines until the canvas was hauled all the way up, slowly expanding as the breeze grew, turning into a good wind.
“Now we’re in business,” Taharqa said.
“Up you come, boys,” Theo yelled down the shallow steps to the belly of the ship where benches had been bolted to the floor. “We hoisted the sail.” Men groaned with relief as they set their heavy oars aside. Theo refused to use slaves on his ship. He preferred to hire seasoned sailors, who were worth every sestertius of their wage. These men knew the rhythm of the sea as well as they knew their own heartbeat.
Within the hour, the ship had glided into a smooth tempo, sailing through the serene waters at a ladylike pace. The crew slipped into an orderly routine, the six rowers lying down for a short rest, while Theo took over one tiller and Taharqa the other. The captain maintained an eagle eye on several men who were busy making minute adjustments to the rigging.
The old Athenian sailor they called Sophocles, on account of the tall tales he liked to tell with a poet’s relish, served the noonday meal on chipped plates. Stale bread softened in wine, cured olives, and fresh fish he had caught that morning with his tackle.
By the time the crew sat down to eat, the wind had increased considerably, and Taharqa loosened the lines, reducing the size of the main sail and adjusting the small, triangular sail at the bow.
When the rest had finished eating, Sophocles brought Theo’s plate to him at the helm—the same rations as everyone else. Theo had no use for special privileges.
“Saved you the best, Master,” Sophocles said, lisping through his missing teeth.
“Brought me the bones again, did you, Sophocles?”
The old man laughed, revealing a bank of naked gums and eight or nine rotting teeth. “Kept those for broth. You get the fish eyes.”
Theo thanked the man politely and took his plate. He knew Sophocles was having fun with him. Of course, on their first journey, the fish guts and eyes hadn’t been a simple threat. The men had wanted to know if their new master was made of stern-enough stuff to suit them, or if he was a linen-wearing daisy who would run screaming at the first sign of hardship. Theo had learned to eat fish guts without complaint.
“That wind is mighty strong now,” Sophocles said with a frown.
Theo sopped some wine with his bread using one hand, his other firmly on the tiller. “Been picking up steadily from the south.”
Sophocles stared into the horizon. “Don’t like the look of them clouds.”
Theo handed his plate to the old mariner and grabbed the tiller harder when the wind almost knocked it out of his hold. His brows lowered as he studied the clouds Sophocles had pointed out. Like deer chased by a mountain lion, they were moving rapidly, barreling down toward them.
“Taharqa!” he called. His Cushite captain had stepped away from the second tiller to oversee repairs to a broken line.
“I see them.” Taharqa came to stand next to him. Abruptly he turned, his movements agile for such a huge man. “Lower that sail!” he screamed. “Lower it down!”
A moment later, Theo understood the urgency in Taharqa’s voice. With incomprehensible speed, the wind had turned violent, a tempest that beat at them from every side. Before the men could lower the sail, it had torn in half, flinging the ship with it dangerously into the lee of the storm.
The waves started to surge in giant, mountainous crests, tossing the ship high one moment and casting it down violently into the trough the next, causing the sailors to slip over the deck, growing ineffectual in their attempts to subdue the ship’s wild flight.
A brutal burst of water loosed from the darkening sky, the downpour nearly turning them blind with its intensity.
Theo breathed a prayer as he tried to tame the tiller. He needed all his strength merely to hold on to it. Another monstrous wave broke against the bow and plunged over them, drenching them in cold water. The ship was filling too fast for the men to keep up, the meager bucketfuls of sloshing water they tossed overboard hardly making a dent.
Taharqa took over the second tiller. At the trough of the next wave, they dove down without warning, the ship listing sharp to its right. From the corner of his eye, Theo saw Sophocles slide, hit his back against the wooden slats, and as the ship rolled, pitch in a perfect somersault overboard.
Theo shouted his name and, releasing the tiller to one of his men, leapt to grab the rope they kept secured to the mast for such emergencies. He saw Sophocles’s head emerge over a wave and, aiming, threw the rope at him. But the water carried the old sailor just beyond its reach, and before Theo could try again, another wave devoured him altogether.
His wh
ite head broke through a moment later. Theo’s throat turned dry. The old mariner was barely holding on. He did not have the strength to make his way back to the ship. Not through that storm.
With no hesitation, he wrapped the rope around his middle, shouted Taharqa’s name, and without waiting to confirm that the captain had heard him, dove into the wild waters of the Mediterranean. The sheer force of the sea took his breath away. For a moment he hung suspended beneath the waters, barely able to tell top from bottom. He kicked hard, all his years of intense athletic training coming to his aid, helping him find his way to the surface.
Desperation drove him, and he swam against the force of the waves, looking for a glimpse of Sophocles. His heart pounded, a fierce drum that made him deaf to everything save the beating rhythm of his own blood.
Too long. Too long since the white head had surfaced.
There! The old sailor came up again, his flailing hands beating weakly. Theo dove toward him, pushing hard, ignoring a cramp that started in his toes and moved all the way up his calf. Putting one arm ahead of another, he fought the sea and made his way to the drowning man.
His man.
One more mouthful of air, one more push, and he had his arms around Sophocles. For a tiny moment, Sophocles clung to him, bloodshot eyes staring at him with wonder and disbelief. Then, promptly, he lost consciousness, lying against Theo, a dragging deadweight.
Theo looked at the ship and realized the worst still lay ahead. Calculating the distance with an expert eye, he realized they were too far. He wouldn’t be able to make it back. Not with him having to swim against the force of the wind. Not while he carried an unconscious man.
Taharqa must not have heard him when he jumped into the water. The captain was still wrestling the tiller, trying to keep the Parmys from drowning. No help from that quarter.
The rope Theo had knotted against his torso held, but he couldn’t simply pull on the tether and make their way to the ship. The old mariner’s dead weight would drag them under long before they made the hull.