by Tessa Afshar
For a few moments, the driver’s boisterous spectacle had distracted the warrior. He had wondered if the skinny lad meant to sell the girl. Then, with an abrupt hiss of breath, he realized that she had disappeared right under his nose. There were no pretty girls for sale. The whole thing had been a ruse to divert everyone’s attention. But why?
Frantically, he viewed the jetty. Where had the girl gone?
Then he saw it. A shadow creeping down a hatch on the ship that was leaving the harbor.
It was her! He was sure of it. She had snuck onto the ship while half the sailors had been absorbed in their tasks and the other half had grown distracted by the cart driver.
That sly fox! She had stowed away on a ship bound for who knew where, with no one the wiser.
The warrior began to run, jumping over obstacles in his way. But even as he pushed himself until his vision blurred, he knew he would never make it in time. The ship was already gliding toward the open sea behind a small pilot boat. She had slipped through his fingers. Again!
He grabbed a sailor. “Where is that ship headed?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” The man shook his arm loose.
He grabbed another sailor, his fingers rough. “Where is that ship bound?”
“How should I know?”
The warrior’s ire became a red haze. Any moment now, that ship would hit open water, raise its sail, and vanish into the horizon, where he would never be able to find it—or the girl—again.
His fist became a hammer and he slammed it into the sailor’s face with a satisfying crunch. “Do you know now?”
The sailor raised his hands in surrender. “Didn’t mean to . . .”
Another punch. “Where?”
“Grrr.” A rivulet of blood carrying a tooth trickled down the side of a stubbly chin. “Thimmer down! I don’t know. But I’ll find out.” He held up both hands again.
The warrior stepped away. “Be quick about it.”
A few minutes later, the sailor returned, holding a dirty towel to his lip. “That’th the Parmyth. It’th headed to Puteoli. Thatithfied?”
This whole job stank worse than the dead fish floating in the harbor. “Where do I find a ship bound for Puteoli—now?”
Chariline wriggled down until her shoulders were reclining against the wall, the cache of terra-cotta amphorae hiding her body from the casual observer. The ship had left before sunrise, and in the cover of darkness, she had managed to slither her way into its bowels, undetected. She hoped that even Telemachus had not seen which ship she had boarded. If Grandfather ever managed to follow her trail to the harbor, she wanted to ensure that Theo would not catch the brunt of the blame for her disappearance.
The amphorae were stacked in the aft of the ship, shadowed by the curved cedar hull that surrounded them and the solid planking of the cabin floor above. Arranged in neat rows on the opposite corner from the oarsmen’s benches, they provided the best hiding place the Parmys offered.
Chariline thanked God for Hermione’s whispered direction. She had not asked if her friend knew this detail because she had been invited to tour Theo’s ship during his stay at their house or if the Lord had revealed it to her. Either way, Hermione had clearly heard from Iesous about Chariline’s intention to stow away on Theo’s ship.
The advice she had given was the only reason Chariline’s harebrained plot had succeeded thus far. In a diminutive ship populated by men, she had managed to find the only spot that was left alone much of the time.
Two hours into their journey, no one had yet ventured below. The wind had been strong enough to raise the sail as soon as they had left the harbor, and they were now traveling at a steady pace without the need to resort to oars.
For the first time in hours, Chariline took an easy breath. She had done it! She had stowed away on Theo’s ship!
Her heart exploded into a deafening rhythm. What had she done? She had stowed away on Theo’s ship!
Back and forth it went, elation followed by horror.
They had not traveled so far from Caesarea that she could not change her mind. She could march upstairs this very moment and ask Theo’s pardon. Accept his scorn. Bear his frustration. Be returned home and wait for a more honest opportunity to get to Rome in order to find her father.
Except that such an opportunity would not come. Grandfather would never allow it, which meant Aunt Blandina would not allow it, which meant that she would not be able to undertake the single most important journey of her life.
Once again, she was faced with a disagreeable choice. Choose a world without her father or face Theo’s loathing. The choice felt like a kick to her solar plexus. Her breath caught. The ship’s walls seemed to close in on her.
The thought of the aggravation she would cause Theo made her wince. He had clearly indicated that he had no desire for passengers. She would bring him a load of trouble by her mere presence, disturbing a crew of crusty sailors unused to female company.
She pulled her cloak over her head and hunkered down, the sound of the wind beating against her ears. From the clutch of amphorae surrounding her arose a confusing array of different scents: myrtle and pomegranate, cypress and rose, honey and sweet marjoram, yellow clover and ambergris. The overwhelming effluvia of too many perfumes made her dizzy and she closed her eyes.
She must have fallen asleep. When she came to, her hiding place had grown sweltering, making her tunic cling to her in damp, unwieldy lines. Through the opening in the hatch, she glimpsed a bright sky, the sun’s rays glaring hotly. Late morning, she guessed. They had been at sea for six or seven hours already.
Too late to turn back.
A man laughed and a long shadow fell across the opening of the hatch. Theo descended the seven steps that brought him to the lower level. Chariline ducked, bending and twisting until her joints ached. Through the thin spaces between the amphorae, she saw Theo walk toward her. He came to a sudden stop, hesitating before doubling back.
One of the oars had been knocked out of place and lay crookedly on the bench, its paddle hanging precariously off the end.
Chariline squeezed her eyes shut. She must have brushed against it on her way to her hiding place. Theo frowned, straightened the oar, tapped it a couple of times thoughtfully, then turned. Toward Chariline.
He sauntered to where the amphorae sat in stacks, leaning against the wall and each other. Chariline slipped even lower. Sweat trickled down her back. Theo bent over an amphora close to the front, sorted through the balls, and grabbed one.
“Sophocles,” he cried. “I found one that will make even you smell good.”
Sophocles yelped. “You might as well try to lather a dolphin with your soap. I won’t do it, I tell you.” The sound of raucous laughter came from above.
“You’re going to smell as pretty as Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt,” someone yelled.
“Cleopatra, sure!” said another. “All mummified and lying in her crypt.”
Theo grinned and threw the ball into the air, watched it twirl before catching it behind his back, then bounded up the stairs in two leaps.
Chariline exhaled, stretching her aching back.
She could not expect to remain hidden for the full duration of their journey to Rome, which would likely take weeks. She would run out of water long before then. But she wanted to avoid discovery for as long as possible. Once they found her, the whole crew would likely resent her for sneaking on board. Not to mention Theo’s displeasure. Besides, he could always drop her off at the next harbor and leave her to make her own way home.
Chariline doubted this outcome. Though she deserved it, she suspected Theo would not act with such callous disregard for her safety. She had sensed a deep kindness in him. And Philip had said he was a man of faith. Surely, he would not simply banish her from his ship and leave her to fend for herself?
The butterflies in her belly reminded her that she did not feel as secure in Theo’s response as she told herself. He would be well within his rights to aba
ndon her at the first convenient port.
The other possibility, that of Theo turning his ship around and returning her to Caesarea, seemed more likely to Chariline. She could only hope that Theo would feel honor-bound to keep his word to his important patron in Rome so that returning a stowaway to a harbor that lay far out of his way would become an untenable option.
She took a small sip of her watered wine, trying to soothe her parched throat.
Judging by the howls and shrieks coming from the deck above, the men had managed to get some soap on Sophocles. Chariline hoped it wasn’t the one scented with rose and cinnamon. For some odd reason, she had formed a proprietary attachment to that particular soap. She had come to think of it as her special scent. The idea of sharing it with some dour sailor who, save for a swim in the sea now and again, had probably not bathed in a decade, seemed wrong. Which was ridiculous, of course. Theo would be selling bushel loads of the stuff to any interested buyer across the empire.
Tearing off a piece of bread, she took a dainty bite and chewed slowly. A shadow fell across the opening of the hatch. Instinctively, she took a sharp breath, making the morsel of bread catch in the back of her throat. She choked. Eyes watering, she shoved a hand over her mouth, trying to suppress the tide of coughing that threatened to let loose.
Theo descended the stairs again. Halfway down, he stopped and turned to face the deck. “The lot of you stink. Couldn’t you have visited a bath before you boarded my ship?” he shouted.
Chariline could not hold the coughs back any longer.
By some miracle, Theo’s monologue covered the noise. A tiny piece of bread flew out, and she took a deep, steadying breath. While his back was turned, she slithered farther down against the wall, silent as a feral cat, hoping the top of her head remained invisible.
Theo descended the rest of the way, still speaking to the crew. “I am a soap merchant, not a pig farmer. In your present condition, you are liable to scare away all my refined customers.” He grabbed a handful of soaps from the first container before him and returned up the stairs again.
Chariline sagged, feeling exhausted. How was she supposed to live this way for days?
Above her, on the deck, extraordinary amounts of whooping and teasing and hollering went on for a good hour. Every once in a while, a man streaked across the top of her vision as he ran past the open hatch. After the shock of seeing her second set of naked legs, she learned to screw her eyes shut and keep them that way.
It dawned on her that the life of a stowaway was more complicated than she had imagined.
CHAPTER 12
Would not God discover this?
For he knows the secrets of the heart.
PSALM 44:21
On the fourth morning of her voyage, Chariline stared bleary eyed into the dark space before her and began seriously to consider surrender. Her watered wine would soon run out, and except for a handful of nuts, she faced a long battle with hunger.
Worse than hunger and thirst were the frequent and unforeseen interruptions. On numerous occasions, the sailors traipsed down the stairs, sometimes in the middle of the night, looking for an odd piece of tackle or rope they had stored there. This continuous and unheralded disturbance meant that Chariline could never lower her guard, never fully give in to sleep. Taking care of personal needs had turned into a nightmare.
Over against this nerve-wracking stream of disruptions was Theo’s inevitable anger. Every time she felt tempted to walk on wobbly legs up those seven steps, the thought of having to face him dissuaded her. What excuse could she offer that might win, if not his acceptance, then at least his compassion?
She had spent hours forming speeches for that first meeting. None seemed sufficient. In the end, she had settled for the truth. She would tell him everything and let him come to his own conclusions.
Her throat felt dry and swollen from thirst. She took a small sip of her warm, stale water. The wine had started to go sour, and it tasted more of vinegar than grape juice.
A set of feet rattled slowly down the stairs. An old sailor she had not seen before appeared, white hair matching billowy whiskers. He approached the terra-cotta amphorae in the back. Closer to the wall, separated from the soap containers, sat five or six narrow-necked amphorae, filled with cured olives, oil, and wine. Extra rations, Chariline suspected.
With sure steps, he negotiated around the vessels and approached the back wall.
Chariline’s heart stopped.
The old sailor stood so close she could smell the briny odor of fish wafting from his short tunic. Dragging a jar toward him, he shifted his body to allow the amphora to lie securely against him. His body turned to accommodate the heavy jar. His line of vision shifted, angled toward the stowaway he did not know they carried.
Chariline knew the moment he saw her.
Opalescent eyes widened. He screwed them shut, as if unable to believe what he had seen, before opening them again. His jaw grew slack.
“Oh, Captain!” he cried, his voice wobbling. “You better get down here. And bring the master.”
Chariline gulped, nausea clawing up her belly. The moment she had dreaded had finally arrived.
“What you want, Sophocles?” a voice cried from the deck.
“I reckon we caught ourselves a sea nymph,” the sailor said, not taking his gaze off Chariline.
She raised her fingers and waved half-heartedly at the old man, hoping to convince him that she was friendly. The wrinkled, leathery face, still sagging with astonishment, cracked into a grin, exposing more gums than teeth. He waved back.
“I think she’s sociable,” he called.
Taharqa’s massive shoulders darkened the opening of the hatch. “What are you spouting about, Sophocles? I don’t have time for one of your tall tales.”
“See for yourself,” the old sailor said. “A sea nymph, in the flesh.”
Chariline rose, preferring to meet her fate with a sliver of dignity rather than slinking on the ground like a dried-out earthworm. Her knees shook after four days of being bent into awkward angles.
“Captain,” she croaked.
Taharqa froze. A frown, ominous as the smoke emerging from the mouth of a volcano, darkened his face. “That’s no sea nymph,” he thundered. Pointing his chin at Chariline, he said, “You’re a long way from Caesarea. Or Cush. Or wherever you belong.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Theo!” the captain bellowed.
Theo rushed down the steps. “What’s all the . . .” He skidded to a halt. “Ruckus . . .” His voice tapered off. A mask of disbelief congealed over the sun-bronzed features.
After a long silence, he said, “You!” Incredulity, uncertainty, and shock wove through that single word. “What are you doing on my ship?”
Every word Chariline had painstakingly rehearsed for endless hours promptly vanished from her mind. She watched as astonishment and confusion turned into irritation on the handsome face. And was finally replaced by hot anger.
His gaze took in her rumpled appearance, wisps of flyaway hair sticking out from her untidy braid, and traveled to the sheet on the floor where she had been hiding for four days.
“I did not realize you were so fond of my soap that you wished to sleep with it,” he said dryly.
“I . . . I am sorry for this dreadful intrusion, Theo. If you allow me, I can explain.”
The sculpted lips grew flat. “I doubt that. I doubt that very much.”
The first time he had seen her in Philip’s house, he had thought her one of the most dazzling women he had ever set eyes on. She reminded him of an exotic bird, full lips and carved cheekbones and a smile that had melted something old and crusted in his soul. Listening to her low voice, he had felt feelings stir inside him that he had believed long dead.
Interest. Admiration. Fascination.
He had shoved all of it down, unwilling to complicate his life for a woman he would leave behind in a matter of hours. That she had shown up on his sh
ip—his ship!—in the middle of the sea was no less disconcerting than his first engrossed glimpse of her had been.
He gazed at her now, her tall, narrow-boned limbs folded awkwardly on the stool in front of him as if every muscle ached. They probably did, from her long hours of confinement in the bowels of the ship.
After finding her tucked among the soap amphorae, looking annoyingly composed and oddly regal in her wrinkled tunic, he had escorted her to this tiny cabin, the only place on the Parmys with a door on it. All the way here, he had smelled cinnamon and roses, his own soap, perfectly matched to something in her skin, wafting in a way that had disturbed him to his core.
As soon as he had stepped over the threshold of the cabin, he had slammed the door shut in a dozen inquisitive faces. By the time he reached the deck, every man on the ship had heard they had a stowaway and trailed after him like a giant cloud of hornets shadowing his steps. Shadowing her.
The cabin was stuffy and hot, one of the reasons he rarely used it.
What was she doing here?
“What are you doing here?” he barked, voicing his most pressing question. Truly, he did not need this mad complication. What was he to do with a woman on a ship full of rowdy men?
Her tongue darted out, trying to lick dry lips, and for the first time he noticed how chapped and painfully cracked they looked. He reached for the jug of water resting on a corner table and poured some into a goblet and held it out to her.
She gave him a grateful look before drinking down the warm water thirstily. “Thank you.” Her voice emerged a whisper. He noticed her fingers twisting agitatedly around the stem of the goblet. For the first time, he realized she was afraid. And something more. Something more heated than fear.
She was ashamed.
The line of his back, which had grown as ramrod straight as a general facing an enemy army, loosened a little.
“I beg your pardon, Theo,” she said, her voice trembling in spite of the way she held up her chin. “I know I am a terrible inconvenience. And I would never have presumed to impose upon you if I were not desperate.”