Jewel of the Nile

by Tessa Afshar

  She forgot to fill her lungs with air. “What?”

  “Do you know, in Jerusalem, they would not even allow me to step into the Temple? Eunuchs have no place in the assembly of the Lord. That is what you wanted for a father?”

  “What do I care what they do at the Temple?” she cried.

  He took a gulping breath. “In the court of the Kandake, I have influence. She has given me a high position. But position means little elsewhere. I will always be less than other men.” He shrugged. “They respect me to my face and laugh behind my back.

  “I could not bear it. I could not bear the look of disappointment in your eyes. At least, as long as you were chasing after a phantom, you could dream of better things. Now, what do you have? When you introduce me as your father, you will hear sniggers and whispers. You will be the object of scorn. This is my legacy.”

  Chariline took a half step toward him. “Natemahar, it never mattered to me that you held such a high office. And I cared just as little about you being a eunuch. When have I ever looked down on you?”

  Natemahar’s gaze slid from her. “As long as we were only friends, it did not matter so much. But to have me as a father?” He shook his head. “I will only bring you shame.”

  Chariline drew herself up to her full height. “You think a few disdainful comments could sway me from loving you? You think I would be ashamed of you because of what the Kandake’s knife did to your body? Do you know me so little, Natemahar?

  “Well, I know you through and through. I know you are good, kind, wise, caring, godly. Most of the time, you are even honest. No derisive whisper is going to change what I know. If nothing else, all the years of having Quintus Blandinus Geminus as my grandfather have taught me not to care about the opinions of unworthy men and women. You give me too little credit.”

  For the merest fraction, Natemahar’s visage changed, became stamped with a wild hunger, as though for the first time in twenty-five years he was tasting hope. As though her words were an ax that had broken the root of something dark and dreadful. Then, in a blink, the hunger evaporated, and his face returned to its normal, smooth mask.

  Only then did Chariline grasp what Natemahar had hidden from her for seventeen years. Not merely his identity as her father. Something deeper and more powerful lay hidden in the soil of his heart.

  Under every decision for silence, for secrecy, lay something far subtler, like the snake in Paradise, slithering on its belly and making sibilant accusations.

  Natemahar judged himself unworthy. He considered himself a half thing, an eyesore, an object of scorn.

  And he expected her to do the same, not because Natemahar gave her too little credit. But because he gave his condition too much.

  She thought of Theo’s angel who looked in the mirror and saw reflected in his scars a strong tower of protection, pointing to God’s love. Natemahar only saw a pointing finger of accusation. Like the angel, some of Natemahar’s scars could not be hidden. His broken body forever marked him. When he stepped into a room, everyone knew what had been done to him. And because of this constant reminder, he had never been able to overcome his wound.

  With sudden insight, Chariline knew what she had to do. Knew why God had brought her on this long journey of discovery and disappointment.

  Chariline did not need a father nearly as much as Natemahar needed a daughter.

  The storm of her anger, the mounting tower of her rage, collapsed.

  They simply could not bear the weight of Chariline’s compassion and love.

  She lifted a hand to Natemahar’s cheek and cradled it gently. She turned his face slowly toward her, until his eyes grew level with hers, captured by the inexorable intensity in her gaze.

  “Father,” she whispered.

  The word sounded strange on her lips. “My father,” she said and kissed his cheek. “I love you.” Kneeling down before him, she kissed the backs of his hands. “I am proud to have you as my father.”

  Natemahar made an odd sound deep in his throat. A buried wail let loose after years of being shoved down, shoved so far down that his whole being shook as it wriggled out of him. His shoulders shuddered. It was as if his body were an earthquake and his heart the epicenter.

  He dropped on his knees, eyes level with Chariline. Several times, his mouth opened as he tried to speak. But no sound emerged. Not even a whisper. He could only produce tears, it seemed, as moisture leaked out of him, spreading across the expanse of his cheeks.

  “Father,” Chariline said and clasped him to her in an embrace that held the love and ache of years.

  She heard, finally, the words he was gasping, as they came broken and half strangled out of his lips.

  “My daughter.”

  Then some floodgate opened that he could no longer shut, and he gasped again and again, “My daughter, daughter, daughter.” A litany that changed to, “My girl,” “My child,” and back again, not stopping until his throat had turned so dry, it could not produce another sound. And still his lips moved, forming a single word.

  Daughter.

  Over his head, Chariline caught a glimpse of Theo, sitting paralyzed on Natemahar’s bed, his beautiful face frozen in an odd expression of wonder, eyes wide and unseeing, as if he had witnessed something not of this earth.

  In the covered litter that Theo had hired, Chariline slumped against the cushions, dazed. Her life had changed in the course of a few hours.

  If not for Theo’s insistence, she would not even have gone to the inn. She would not have discovered the wound that had shaped her father’s past.

  Like a shimmering comet arcing across the night sky, realization dawned. She straightened so abruptly, she hit her head on the roof of the litter. “You knew!” she said to Theo. “You knew he felt that way! That was why you pressed me to go and see him.”

  Theo smiled. “I suspected.” He straightened the edge of his tunic. “Yesterday, while we waited for the physician to come, he told me his story of faith. I noticed that he could not even say the word eunuch. It made me realize that apart from his concerns about your grandfather and the queen, Natemahar had a deeper reason for not wanting you to know he was your father.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “It was not my secret to share. This was a conversation only the two of you could have had.”

  “Didn’t you worry that I might make matters worse? Respond with the disappointment he feared?”

  “You?” Theo laughed. “Not for a moment. I knew you would never scorn him. You love him too much.”

  “I do love him.” She twitched the curtain and stared blindly into the bright street. It had been an unforgettable hour. But she felt wrung out.

  “All these litters and carriages must be costing you a fortune,” she said.

  Theo shrugged. “I am growing quite accustomed to the luxury.”

  “You hate being confined inside these things with the curtains drawn! Admit it. I have seen you stick your head out of the window, gulping down the air as if you are about to suffocate.”

  Theo scratched his chest. “It’s very disconcerting.”

  “What is?”

  “Your powers of observation.”

  “You know what else is disconcerting? The endless coin you are spending on my behalf. I have to find a way to repay you. And we need to catch this mercenary.”

  “Forget the coin. As to catching this annoying Cushite who hurls pots at women and dogs, you will find a willing accomplice in me. Have you any ideas how we can manage such a feat?”

  “Yes.”

  Theo turned half a revolution and studied her with interest. “Do enlarge.”

  “What does he want? Me. So, that is what we give him.”

  Making a disgusted noise in his throat, Theo turned away. “We are not using you as bait.”

  “Why not? With you and Taharqa there, it would be as safe as Nero’s palace.”

  “Dozens of people have died in that palace.” Theo plucked a fluff of lint from his t
unic. “Too many things could go wrong, Chariline. We will not play with your life.”

  She crossed her arms. “And I will not have you spend a fortune on carriages.”

  “We will ask your father’s opinion, shall we?”

  Chariline’s mouth popped open. “What?”

  “He deserves to weigh in on this conversation.”

  In all the weeks and days and hours she had dreamed of finding her father, Chariline realized, with shock, she had never considered this eventuality. A father would have a say in her life. Have opinions. Have authority. For years, Aunt Blandina had been such a tolerant and placid guardian that Chariline had grown accustomed to having her own way in most things. Those days might be coming to a quick end, it seemed.

  Desperation drove him to recklessness.

  His coin pouch had grown alarmingly light, and he could not send for more, not when he had no results to offer. The hours slipped by and the aggravating woman gave him no more opportunities. How he itched to throttle that pretty neck.

  Time, he decided, for drastic measures.

  When he saw the litter approach the house, he slunk close. Forget accidents. He would just use his long knife like a proper soldier. This cloak-and-dagger business suited women and courtiers. It fell beneath his dignity. He would cut her throat and take her purse and call it a robbery. One of a hundred in Rome. Close enough to the accident he had been paid to arrange.

  The vexing young man who had been shadowing her steps alighted from the litter. He had come close enough once to hear the woman call him Theo. The warrior approached, keeping his back glued to the wall, waiting for her to dismount before making his move. He would kill two for the price of one this day.

  He saw Theo reach a hand into the litter and prepared to surge forward. But before drawing her out, Theo turned to look carefully, surveying the pavement and the road. His gaze froze when it landed on the warrior.

  The warrior growled. He had lost the element of surprise. Theo yelled something and the litter took off, taking the woman out of his reach.

  He howled in frustration and drew his knife. With satisfaction, he noted that Theo was unarmed. This should prove quick and easy. With him out of the way, the girl would fall into his hands like a ripe date. Not a bad day, after all.

  He grinned and lunged.

  The warrior did not see Theo move, but somehow, the young man evaded the thrust, so that the long blade of the knife traveled too far, in a straight line that carried the warrior’s arm beyond Theo’s back. He managed to pull back just before Theo could grab his arm.

  The warrior thrust again, this time aiming for the heart.

  Again, Theo sidestepped with an easy dexterity that was almost insulting.

  The warrior felt rage rise up, clogging his vision, and forced it down with all his might. He needed calm in this battle. His victory depended on it.

  Taking a deep breath, he readjusted his balance. He had underestimated his young opponent. Not a mistake he would make again.

  Narrowing his eyes, he feigned dead center, but came in low, intending to cut Theo at the thigh, where a great vein, slashed at the proper angle, would cause him to bleed to death within moments.

  Feather light, Theo leapt into the air. Grabbing one of the poles that held the awning above the door, he pulled himself up, evading the knife’s sharp edge. Instead of jumping down again, he swung, drawing his hips backward while keeping his legs tucked behind to gain momentum. Before the warrior could move, he found a booted foot in his gut.

  Breath hissed out of him, and for a short moment his vision darkened.

  Regaining his equilibrium, he swapped the knife to his left hand. Lightning fast, he pulled out the dainty dagger strapped to his side. Taking aim, he pitched the blade at Theo. It was a perfect throw, and the dagger flew fast and true.

  The warrior’s jaw came unhinged.

  For a moment, he could not make sense of what he had just witnessed. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Was it even possible? The speed! The earth-defying movement as Theo let go of the pole, soaring upward instead of down like a normal human being, arms tucked close to his chest, twirling away from the path of the knife and landing with perfect economy of motion, one knee on the ground, balancing his weight with the tips of his fingers.

  The dagger lay buried harmlessly in the leather of the awning.

  The warrior’s mouth ran dry as the young man looked up, eyes burning feverishly.

  He was a warrior of Cush, and no odd, prancing boy would get in his way. Besides, he still possessed the only weapon here.

  He shifted his long knife back to his right hand and surged forward. Before he had reached close enough to attempt the choke hold he intended, Theo leapt up, twirled as he flew into the air, and somehow, by the time he was facing the warrior, he held the dagger the warrior had thrown at him.

  The warrior went cold. This fight was losing its appeal. And the girl had disappeared from sight. What was the point of facing off with Prancing Boy and gaining nothing?

  It tasted bitter, the decision to run. He never ran. Except when absolutely necessary. It did not sit well with him, he thought as he pumped his legs in the opposite direction, to turn his back on a fight.

  He ran faster when he heard the young man keeping up behind him. The sun had started to set, lengthening the shadows. Better even than the darkening sky was the fact that carts were allowed to enter the streets of the city once more. The warrior caught sight of a huge one, loaded with terra-cotta statuary, and threw himself in its path. He barely avoided getting crushed. The girl had used the same ploy on him, once, with annoying success. And it worked again, this time to his advantage. He was able to put enough distance between himself and Theo so that the crowds near Circus Maximus swallowed him, making it impossible for his opponent to track him.

  He returned his knife to the strap at his side, slowing to a walk. His favorite dagger lost, gods curse the man! He had filched it off a Roman and prized its light weight and perfect balance. Now Prancing Boy had it.

  His belly gurgled and he stopped to buy pork sausages and salted peas from a street vendor. Crouching at the base of a public fountain, he tried to plan his next step. The back of his neck still itched and burned from the bee stings, and as he rubbed at the spot absently, he admitted that he was not eager to face that odd leaping boy again. Not even to get his dagger back.

  Chewing on the spicy sausage, he realized he would have to distract Theo. Pull him away from her, somehow. He shoved another lump of sausage in his mouth and began a pleasant daydream.

  CHAPTER 28

  And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together.

  HEBREWS 10:24-25

  Chariline called a hasty instruction to the men carrying her litter, ordering them to stop a short distance from Priscilla and Aquila’s house. She wanted, desperately, to run back and help Theo but knew she would only distract him by her presence.

  Dismounting from the litter, she watched the ensuing drama with amazement. The skirmish lasted no more than a few moments, but to her, it felt like endless hours. The first thrust of the Cushite’s knife against an unarmed Theo made her cry out. She expected Theo to emerge bloody and wounded from that encounter. But he did not.

  She watched Theo’s body as it leapt in the air, twirled, and landed with impossible grace. Gasped as he parried the warrior’s vicious blade again and again. She had never seen anyone move like that. He looked like the famous frescos of ancient Mycenaean bull leapers, maneuvering with a tempo that defied human speed.

  Dumbfounded, she saw him pursue the warrior into the crowds. She had hoped that after vanquishing the man, he would give up the fight. Her shoulders dropped with relief when she saw him return unharmed. Chariline bade the drivers to carry the litter back to the house, where Theo stood at the door, dagger in hand, his face a grim mask as he searched the streets looking, no doubt, for her.

  Beyond words, beyond decor
um, she leapt out of the vehicle before the men could lower it properly to the ground and launched herself into Theo’s arms.

  “Watch the dagger,” he warned.

  “I thought you were going to die!” She wrapped her arms around his back.

  His face started to lose its grim cast. Slowly, he smiled. “Did you?” He shifted slightly to allow her body to fit more snugly against him.

  She realized how absurdly vine-like her arms twined around him and took a step back. Heat flooded her face. “Thank God you are not hurt.”

  “I can’t believe I let him get away.”

  “You weren’t even armed.”

  “I am now,” he said, flipping the dagger hand over fist. He cast a look toward Aquila and Priscilla’s awning and winced. “I’ll have to replace that.”

  “It could have been your throat!” Her voice emerged high and thin.

  Theo tucked the dagger into his belt. “No, sweetheart. He didn’t stand a chance.”

  Chariline’s lips parted. Had Theo just called her sweetheart?

  The litter driver stepped forward. “Nice fight, that. You should consider going to the arena.”

  Theo withdrew a few coins from his pouch and paid the man. “I appreciate how fast you moved.”

  The driver shrugged. “She don’t weigh much.” He counted the coins and tipped his head in acknowledgment. “You ever want a litter again, my brother and I will take you anywhere.”

  When the litter drivers had moved on, Chariline said, “That thing you did.”

  He arched a dark brow. “Thing?”

  “You know. The leaping and twirling. What was that?”

  Theo’s smile, lopsided and pleased, did something strange to her heart. “Just a bit of fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “A man from Crete used to visit the gymnasium where I trained as a boy. He could flip forward and backward and leap from a great height without being hurt. He encouraged us to learn the sport. Most of the boys didn’t bother after the first collection of painful bruises. But Galenos’s daughter, Ariadne, used to practice with me. Eventually, we became quite proficient. It has been a long time since I have really trained. I suppose after so many hours of practice, the movements sink into your bones and your body remembers.”