Jewel of the Nile

by Tessa Afshar

  They didn’t. Day followed night, an interminable journey on a boat whose rocking made him faintly queasy.

  Finally, just before they reached the harbor, as the boat became a hive of activity, he seized his opportunity. The girl had moved a few times to check on her aunt in the cabin. But she always came back to the same spot, her pen busily sketching something. He had sneaked enough looks at her work to know she had talent. Maybe he would keep this drawing. Better yet, maybe he could sell it for a bit of extra coin.

  He leaned over the edge, mindful of her perched on the deck a few steps to his left. He didn’t know if she could swim. A good swimmer could easily survive a dunking in these waters. He would have to bash her head against something before sending her into the river.

  “There is an ibis swimming right next to us,” he said to her.

  She smiled politely but said nothing.

  “Good omen. Come and see,” he prodded. When she didn’t move, he added, “Maybe you could draw it.”

  She rose and stretched before moving to stand near him. “I don’t see it.”

  He pointed and took a step closer. Gazing around furtively, he made sure no one was looking in their direction. His hand raised, a mighty claw ready to tangle in her hair. He heard a series of small thumps at his feet and glanced down, distracted for one moment. Too late, he saw the stones rolling at his feet.

  The boat moved with the water, swaying heavily, making him take a small step to steady his gait. The ball of his foot landed on a smooth stone, slipped, skidded on the deck until he was forced to move his opposite foot to purchase balance. Only to encounter another stone, another slip, this one causing his foot to come clear off the decking, flinging into the air.

  With disbelief, the warrior felt his body torque and flip, hovering between earth and sky. As he landed, he had a momentary impression of the boy’s face, grinning down at him. It was the last thing he saw before his head hit the edge of something hard. Stars exploded before his eyes, and he saw nothing more.

  CHAPTER 9

  You are the most handsome of the sons of men;

  grace is poured upon your lips.

  PSALM 45:2

  Mariamne squealed excitedly and pulled Chariline inside the house before she had a chance to knock on the door. “I’ve been waiting for you all day,” she cried. “What delayed you?”

  Chariline grinned and returned her friend’s enthusiastic embrace. She had arrived home two hours earlier, only taking time to wash away the grime of her long travels with a quick soak in the baths. She had donned a clean tunic the color of saffron, shoved an old length of yellow ribbon on her wet hair, and dashed to Philip’s house, desperate to see her friend.

  Aunt Blandina had insisted that she take along their old servant, Leda, not liking the idea of her niece traipsing about the streets of Caesarea alone. The poor woman would probably go bald with worry if she discovered all of Chariline’s comings and goings in Meroë.

  “So?” Mariamne poked her in the side before kneeling to wash her feet. Philip had no servants. His daughters managed everything, including the most menial of tasks. “How was your journey?”

  Chariline took the towel from her friend and finished drying her feet. “It was . . .” Astonishing? Life changing? Exasperating? “Unexpected,” she said. “I have heaps to tell you.” So much had happened in two weeks that Chariline felt as though she had been away from her friend for months rather than a mere fourteen days.

  Mariamne looked up. Abruptly, the blast of fidgety enthusiasm that often seemed to emanate from her grew still. “Important news,” she said softly, her words not a question. She had a disconcerting way of seeing through things.

  Chariline nodded. “Life changing.”

  “Oh, Chariline! I can’t wait to hear about it. But we will have to wait, I fear. We have guests, and Father has sent Irais and Eutychis to Jerusalem to keep our aunt company. Without my sisters here to help, Hermione has had to shoulder the dinner preparations on her own. You came just in time to help me serve.” She gave Chariline’s hand a quick squeeze. “But as soon as we finish clearing up, you and I will sneak to Hermione’s chamber, and you can tell me everything.”

  Chariline sighed. “It’s all right. I am growing quite good at waiting.”

  “You? What happened in Cush? An angelic visitation? One of the ten plagues of Egypt? A talking donkey?”

  “I could have used a talking donkey. But you will have to wait to find out. Who are the guests?”

  “Father’s friends.”

  “Anyone I know?” Chariline was accustomed to meeting all manner of people in Philip’s house. Having been chosen, along with six others, to serve the poor during the early years of the church, Philip had helped many in need, most of whom still held him in great affection and visited when they could.

  But Philip’s friendships extended far beyond the borders of Caesarea and Jerusalem. When the church had been scattered by the first wave of persecutions over twenty years earlier, the Holy Spirit had sent Philip on a wild adventure, the tales of which would fill a book. He had come upon Natemahar on the road to Gaza during that time.

  Philip and his four daughters had eventually settled in Caesarea, though the friends he had made around the empire, both old and new, still called upon him frequently. You never knew who you would meet in Philip’s house, as Chariline had good reason to know.

  Mariamne shook her head. “You haven’t met them. Their ship sustained heavy damage in a storm, and they have been staying with us for almost two weeks.”

  Chariline smelled the delectable aroma of Hermione’s cooking long before they arrived at the tiny kitchen, situated in the back of the small courtyard, with its chipped terra-cotta pots of herbs and spices. Hermione, Philip’s eldest daughter, used them in her cooking as well as in her medicinal remedies.

  Of Philip’s four daughters, Hermione resembled him most, a misfortune one forgot quickly. The bony nose, the thin lips, the crooked teeth all made for a dubious first impression. But after an hour in Hermione’s company, one was apt to overlook every imperfection. Such was the magic of Hermione’s grace that after a few days, you might even think her beautiful.

  Only the previous month, she had received a marriage proposal from a rich merchant. It was not the first she had declined. Hermione believed that the Lord had a different calling in store for her.

  She ran Philip’s small but busy household with the same sweet-natured efficiency that she employed in caring for the sick. It made her one of the most beloved women of the church in Caesarea.

  That uniquely nurturing quality also made her the closest thing to a mother Chariline had ever known. Hermione doted on Chariline with the same fierce affection she bestowed on her sister Mariamne, whom she had raised since the death of their mother.

  Along with her many other talents, Hermione had the ability to take meager ingredients and turn them into exquisite meals. Chariline’s mouth watered as she entered the kitchen. The aroma of roasting leeks, cumin, and garlic filled every corner. She arrived at the speedy conclusion that having to wait an extra hour or two to share her news with Mariamne might not require a great deal of forbearance, after all.

  “What can I do?” she said by way of greeting.

  Engrossed in the contents of a pot, Hermione promptly dropped a long-handled bronze ladle on the diminutive counter and flew to Chariline’s side, enveloping her in the kind of wholehearted, ample embrace only Hermione could give.

  “Missed you, little girl,” she said, tapping Chariline’s cheek. It was their private joke. Chariline had been taller than Hermione since the age of nine.

  “Don’t let the food burn,” Chariline instructed. “I am starved.”

  Hermione clucked her tongue. “The only things burning around here are the cooking fire and your bridges. Warning me not to burn food, indeed. The cheek!” But she turned back to her pot. “Can you carry this to the peristyle while it’s still hot?” She pointed her ladle to a copper pan filled wi
th steaming asparagus. “Mariamne can bring the olives and salad.”

  Chariline could smell lovage and coriander and fried onions mixed with the earthy perfume of asparagus under her nose as she carried the hot pan. But she forgot about the enticing aromas of Hermione’s cooking and the gurgling sounds her stomach had been making for the past hour the moment she stepped into the peristyle.

  Her first glimpse of Philip’s guest brought her feet to an abrupt halt.

  “Good evening,” he said, the words stretching with an extra syllable in the musical accent she recognized from long familiarity. Everything about him declared him a Cushite. She had traveled all the way from Meroë only to meet another Cushite in Philip’s house.

  By the way he gazed at her, his eyes unwavering and inquisitive, Chariline knew he felt equally curious about her. She greeted him in Meroitic, which sprang to her lips readily after her recent stay in his land.

  His brows drew together in puzzlement. “You are a Cushite?”

  Was she a Cushite? In spite of her incomplete knowledge and frustrating lack of success in locating her father, she could answer that question, at least. “I am half Cushite,” she said. “My mother was Roman.”

  “This is Taharqa,” Philip said. “He captains Theo’s ship, which almost drowned in a storm two weeks ago.”

  “I am sorry for your misfortune,” she said.

  “I consider it no misfortune to be saved from shipwreck and certain death by the hand of God,” a warm voice interjected.

  She turned to Philip’s second guest. And promptly forgot the Cushite.

  He had the physique of a born athlete, with wide shoulders and hard muscles that didn’t bulge so much as flowed. A straight nose and chiseled mouth in a longish face made him more than pleasant to look at. But it was his eyes that caught her. Gray eyes that had contended with storms far fiercer than the one that had almost sunk his ship. Old eyes, though he was young—no older than his middle twenties.

  Those eyes had known suffering. Had burned with the sting of unshed tears. They looked on her now with a curious intensity, and she felt her cheeks heat under their scrutiny.

  The Cushite ship’s captain had stared at her, too, though his gaze had done nothing to discomfort her. But the young man’s perusal made her mouth dry and her hands tremble so that she had to set the pot of asparagus on the table, the clatter of copper on wood making her wince.

  “Chariline, this is Theo,” Philip said. “My dear friend from Corinth, and as you probably surmised, a follower of our Lord. I met him last year when I visited the church that gathers at the house of Titius Justus.”

  “Salve, Chariline.” Theo’s smile offered an easy friendliness, as if he sensed her discomfort and wanted to allay it.

  Chariline managed to smile back.

  Philip plucked an olive from the platter Mariamne had brought. “I wish you could remain with us a little longer, Theo. We have so enjoyed your company. It’s too bad you have to depart for Rome soon.”

  Chariline’s head snapped up. “You are going to Rome?”

  Theo nodded slowly. “As soon as the repairs are complete.”

  Chariline’s throat clogged. Rome! He had a ship bound for Rome.

  “You carry passengers?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  He shook his head. “Only soap. And sometimes grain.”

  “Soap?” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “Wait. You are the one who makes that new hair pomade!”

  “Have a ship full of it.”

  Mariamne started to hand out plates. “My father brought some for Chariline and me when he returned from Corinth. Better than any Roman oil you can buy at the baths.”

  Theo flashed another smile. Chariline was already starting to realize that the combination of easy charm and the old ache hidden in the guarded eyes could be lethal. She tried not to stare.

  “My adoptive father, Galenos, is the genius who came up with the idea,” Theo explained. “He took what was a smelly invention from Germania and turned it into a glamorous pomade. I only deliver the thing.”

  “Ha! You are the one who has managed to turn soap into the new Roman craze,” Philip said.

  Mariamne sat on the edge of the couch next to her father. “I am not surprised your pomade has found its way into the imperial palace. For weeks, Chariline and I haunted the baths just so we could use it. We looked like crones, our skins wrinkled from too much soaking. But we smelled like the angels.”

  Theo came to his feet. “You must allow me to replenish your stores. It would be a relief to lighten our load a bit.” He grinned. “Then I can travel faster.”

  Disappearing into the small chamber Philip saved for guests, he returned bearing a basket. Sorting through the different colored balls, he chose a light green orb and offered it to Mariamne. “For you . . . verbena, I think.”

  Mariamne smelled the soap and pretended to swoon. “I love that tangy scent. How did you know?”

  His long fingers sank into the basket again, sorting through the pile until they found a dusky ball that looked like an overripe peach. “This reminds me of you.” He held his hand out to Chariline.

  She reached for the ball. For a moment, their fingers touched, sending a tiny bolt of lightning through her. She almost dropped the soap. To cover her reaction, she bent her head, nose glued to the slippery sphere, sniffing. “Rose?” Her voice emerged husky.

  “And cinnamon.” The words were mundane. Cinnamon. Nothing deep about tree bark that smelled good. It was mere happenstance, of course, that she always thought of her skin as the color of cinnamon. Good enough for spice, she supposed. But not, she had believed, for a woman. She had thought of it as a term of censure.

  Theo said it with admiration. He imbued the word with approval. As if he could think of nothing so beautiful as a woman who reminded him of cinnamon.

  Mariamne cleared her throat. “Shall we eat?”

  “Please,” Chariline said, although she had lost all appetite.

  Fortunately, at Philip’s house, awkward silences never lasted. Threads of amusing conversations ebbed and flowed throughout the room. Chariline barely heard them. When Hermione served her fluffy milk custard for dessert, Chariline realized that she would soon have to leave the company of these men. And she still had so much to discover.

  She turned to Theo. “You mentioned you don’t carry passengers. Do you ever make an exception?”

  “My ship is too small to accommodate them. Just enough room for my men and the shipments we carry. Why? Do you wish to go to Rome?”

  Chariline forced herself to laugh. “Doesn’t everyone?” Mariamne gave her a questioning look, no doubt wondering at this sudden curiosity about passage to a city that had never drawn her attention before.

  Picking up a purple grape, Chariline twirled it between her fingers as she tried to gauge the man before her. Could she change his mind? Convince him to welcome her as a passenger on his ship, without proper accompaniment or her family’s permission? No man in his right mind would take on such a responsibility.

  Besides, she did not have the coin to buy passage with him or anyone else.

  An idea was taking shape in the back of her mind. An idea that came dangerously close to madness. Still, she could not shake it. Had it been any other man, she would have already discarded the notion with a laugh. A woman alone on a small ship full of men?

  But this was not just any ship. It belonged to Theo. And whether because of his faith or his kindness or something in him that she could not even name, Chariline felt strangely safe with Theo. Taharqa, too, gave the impression of a trustworthy man. Perhaps she was fooling herself. She did not know either of them. Perhaps this sense of safety in their presence was nothing but self-deception.

  Then she thought of Vitruvia, of her father and mother. Of all that was at stake.

  Putting the grape in her mouth, she swallowed it, and with it, every cautionary hesitation. Casually, so as not to raise suspicion, she set about extracting as much information ab
out Theo’s ship as she could. By the time she slipped away with Mariamne, she had managed to learn its name—and the time of its departure in two days.

  CHAPTER 10

  Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known.

  JEREMIAH 33:3

  “What happened in Cush?” Mariamne asked when they were finally alone in Hermione’s chamber.

  Hermione, as the eldest, received the privilege of enjoying a private room. But she shared it freely with her sisters, allowing them to use the chamber whenever they had need. Before Chariline could begin her tale, Hermione herself slipped her head inside the door. “May I join you, or is this a private meeting?”

  Chariline beckoned her with a wave. “Come, please. I want you to hear this too.” The three women huddled next to one another on Hermione’s narrow bed. Chariline picked up a wool cushion, soft from years of use, and held it against her belly. “My father is alive,” she said.

  “What?” Mariamne’s voice rose in shock. “Who is he?”

  “That, dear Mariamne, is the crux of my problem.” She told her friends everything she had discovered about her family, showing them her mother’s box full of drawings and Vitruvia’s secret letters.

  “Then this is where you get your talent from.” Hermione squinted over the drawing of a villa. “This would make a beautiful hostel for the sick.”

  Mariamne gave her older sister an exasperated look. “We are not speaking about the sick now, Hermione. Forget about your villa for a moment. Focus on Chariline’s father.”

  “Pardon me, my dear.” Hermione flashed her sweet, snaggletoothed smile. “I lost myself for a moment. I do celebrate your good news.”

  “Celebration might be premature,” Chariline said. “I don’t yet know who he is.”