Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  I blinked. Marry an ex-slave and a pagan Roman? I knew I was in no position to bargain, but still, the idea rankled. I had not promised myself to Yosef, but I had always thought that if Adonai gave me the freedom to marry, Yosef would be my husband.

  And freeborn women of status did not marry ex-slaves, no matter how celebrated the men had become. While Rufio seemed pleasant and had treated me kindly, still . . . an ex-slave! And a pagan! Time and time again, HaShem had warned us not to marry idolaters. How could I join myself to a man who worshiped gods made of stone and wood?

  And why would such a man want to marry me? I would have to be a fool not to notice that he liked looking at me, but why marry me? He knew nothing about me, not really. He had no idea who I was.

  “Why would you want me for a wife?”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Does a man need a reason? I want you; let that be enough. Let me free you from this place. Live with me until I am free to marry.”

  I should have refused; if I had been my old self I would have refused immediately. But I was no longer the girl I had been, and I had fewer options.

  “And . . . when would that be?”

  His smile diminished slightly. “Five years, but time does not matter. I will provide for you until we are married according to Roman law. We will sail to Rome and establish our home there.”

  I shuddered at the thought, and my dismay was not lost on him. “You do not like Rome?”

  “I have never been there. But I cannot imagine any city as beautiful as Alexandria.”

  “Rome is not beautiful,” he admitted. “It is brick, not marble, and most of the time it is crowded, dirty, and noisy. But if you do not like the city, we’ll move to the country. The Senate has promised acreage to army veterans, and in the country we can raise goats and oxen and plant a vineyard. Would you like that better?”

  Would I like the country better than slavery? Who wouldn’t?

  But I was not born for the country any more than I was born to be a slave.

  “I appreciate your kindness,” I said, carefully choosing my words, “but I cannot leave my father behind. If I am free, I must do all I can to secure his freedom. He did nothing to deserve prison, and he deserves slavery even less.”

  Rufio drew a deep breath through his teeth. “Even a commander cannot afford to buy two slaves.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. But my father is a scholar—a very learned man—and one of his friends might be able to redeem him. Please, have some of your men spread the word among the Jewish community. Tell them Daniel the scholar will be sold at the slave market, so he must be redeemed.”

  Rufio nodded. “I can ask . . . but if no one comes forward, you will have to let your father meet his fate.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “You walk away.” For an instant his eyes hardened. “You say good-bye to the things and the people you loved, and you surrender to the fates. They take you where they will, and you make the best of your situation. Your father will do the same, trust me.”

  “My father will trust in HaShem.”

  Rufio did not reply but examined my face with considerable concentration. He might have wanted to ask if I would trust in HaShem, too, but how could I? HaShem had made me a promise and not kept it. He had led me to believe certain things were possible and then dashed my dreams. For over a year I had been praying for our release, watering my pillow with tears, begging the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to hear and answer my prayers.

  And HaShem had not.

  I wanted to be free.

  I wanted freedom to walk into the palace and let the queen see me standing tall, unbroken and resolute. “You know you were wrong to insist that the Jews worship at Alexandria’s temples,” I would declare. “That’s why you gave them citizenship without that requirement. You treated me unjustly after I had pledged my life to you.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine her response, but I could not. After so many months in this windowless room, I could barely picture her face.

  “Chava,” Rufio said, his voice a low rumble that was both powerful and gentle, “I can protect you from slavery if you will promise to become my wife.”

  “So be it,” I whispered, my voice broken. “Let it be so.”

  I woke in darkness and listened to the sounds of legionaries shuffling outside my door. As the golden stream of torchlight faded to the faint gray of daylight, the guards changed positions and the halls quieted.

  Then Rufio’s face appeared at my door. “The time has arrived,” he said, his voice gruff above the jangle of his keys. “Your father is coming.”

  I sat up, smoothed my sweat-stained tunic, and combed my hair with my fingers. I despaired at the thought of meeting Father in such a ragged condition, but it couldn’t be helped.

  I shivered as I approached the door. I should have been calm and confident of Rufio’s promise, but I dreaded looking Father in the eye knowing he might not be set free.

  The door swung open, and Rufio waved me forward. I stepped out, then turned toward the commander as a sudden thought struck. “How do I know”—I leaned toward him—“that you will keep your promise?”

  In answer, he pulled a dagger from his belt and offered me the hilt. “Plunge this into my heart now if you do not believe I am a man of my word,” he said, his gaze moving into mine. “By Jupiter’s stone, I will set you free, even if it takes every denarius I have earned in service.”

  I did not take the dagger, but stepped back. An instant later, a pair of guards brought Father into the vestibule, and my heart thumped so heavily I thought it might burst. A guard stood ready to clamp shackles around my wrists and ankles, but Rufio held up a restraining hand, allowing Father and I to embrace for an all-too-fleeting moment.

  “Now step aside,” Rufio commanded, and Father and I reluctantly parted. Standing at a distance, able to examine my beloved parent for the first time in over a year, I gasped at the change in his appearance. His beard had grown longer and gone gray; his broad face had narrowed, and his eyes seemed to peer out like animals in a cave. The arms he extended for shackles trembled, and his shoulders bent forward at an awkward angle.

  The man was a ghost of the father I had known, but the smile he gave me was more warming than the Alexandrian sun.

  “Are you well?” I asked in a low voice.

  I strained to hear his hoarse reply: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb . . . and naked I will return. Adonai gave; Adonai took; blessed be the name of Adonai.”

  Adonai gave, Adonai took . . . and Adonai promised. Who would hold Adonai accountable?

  “He does not complain,” a soldier behind me said. “If anything, these hardships have made him more focused on HaShem.”

  I startled to realize the guard was Jewish. Then I remembered—some of the relief forces from Judea had remained in Alexandria.

  “It is an injustice,” I said, careful not to raise my voice to a level that would attract unwanted attention. “And it is all my fault. I brought this trouble on us.”

  My father jerked his head in my direction. “No, Chava. This is from the hand of Adonai.”

  “This?” My sharp answer earned a scornful glance from the legionary at my left, so I reined in my temper. “Why would Adonai do this to faithful people?”

  Father’s shoulder lifted in an eloquent shrug. “Perhaps . . .” He paused to release a cough. “Perhaps we were not faithful enough.”

  And as we followed the legionaries out of the garrison, Father quoted words from the Pentateuch:

  “See now that I, I am He!

  There are no other gods beside Me.

  I bring death and give life,

  I have wounded, but I will heal,

  and none can rescue from My hand.”

  As the chinking of our chains punctuated our steps to the slave market, one phrase kept repeating itself in my ears: I have wounded, but I will heal.

  May it be so.

  The swollen orb the Egyp
tians knew as Ra was dangling like a burning plum in the west when I spotted a man moving cautiously among the enclosures at the auction yard. He wore the long, untrimmed beard of a Jew, and when he came closer I grabbed my father’s tunic. “Father, wake up! Is that not a friend from the synagogue?”

  Father opened his eyes and blinked, then peered in the direction of my pointing finger. “Who?”

  “It is Avraham the butcher,” I answered, my spirits rising at the sight of Yosef’s father. “What is he doing here?”

  Father pulled himself upright and stared through the woven iron bands that formed a cage around us. He did not call out, but waited until Avraham looked in his direction, then he gave his old friend a discreet wave.

  Relief melted Avraham’s stern face as he quickened his step and hurried forward. “Daniel! Chava! I had hoped to find you here.” He took Father’s hands through a gap in the iron weave and lowered his forehead to meet Father’s. “When Asher told us they had taken you and Chava away, I couldn’t believe it. But two of your slaves came to our house and told us what had happened.”

  “Is Asher with you now?” Father asked.

  Avraham shook his head. “We hid him a few days, but we knew the legionaries would keep looking. So we sent him away with Yosef.”

  Yosef was with Asher? “Where are they?” Unable to resist, I stepped up and met the older man’s gaze. “Please tell me if they are safe.”

  “They are.” Avraham’s eyes softened as he smiled. “My Yosef and your brother are in Jerusalem. I have received messages from them, so I know they are well.”

  Father closed his eyes. “Praise be to Adonai. I have been so worried—”

  “Asher asks about both of you in every message,” Avraham went on, shifting his attention to my father. “So I have been paying a boy to sell fried meat pies outside the garrison. He has kept his eyes and ears open, and this morning he told me you had been taken to the slave market. I came as soon as I could.”

  “Thank you, Avraham.” My father clasped the older man’s gnarled hands. “Though I do not know what will happen tomorrow, your news has brought comfort and encouraged our faith. Knowing that Asher lives, and that he is in Jerusalem, gives us great peace.”

  I closed my eyes, suddenly aware of just how relieved I was—not only for Asher, but for Yosef, as well. Why on earth had I refused him when he declared his desire to marry me? If I had not been so caught up in my pretension to royal grandeur, I might have recognized happiness when it was staring me in the face.

  “I wish I could free both of you at the auction tomorrow.” Avraham hung his head for a moment, then looked up, tears shining in his eyes. “But I will pray. I will ask HaShem to keep you safe and strong until your family is reunited.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The bright morning shot a shaft of sunlight through the iron weave of our holding pen, startling me into wakefulness. Like animals, Father and I had spent the night in a cage with two small children—Gauls, someone called them. Last night a slave girl had slid a cup of water through the bars. The four of us shared it, but in other nearby enclosures the first to grab the cup greedily devoured all, creating fierce squabbles among the occupants. The only pens that remained quiet were those with inhabitants who were too sick or too exhausted to fight.

  I forced myself up from the ground and pushed hair out of my eyes. Beyond the slave market, people had already begun to move about, setting up tents and tables to sell their slave-oriented wares: cheap tunics, matching costumes for litter bearers, papyrus sandals, wooden bowls, leather whips. Soon this area would be swarming with well-dressed Alexandrians who would carefully pick their way through the less desirable population as they sought fine foods, exotic animals, and capable slaves.

  Urbi and I used to shop the market together, occasionally pausing to stare at the unfortunates who waited to be sold. I always felt slightly sick after viewing humans in cages, and I certainly never imagined that one day I might be one of them.

  Father and I had been fortunate to remain at the garrison until yesterday. Some of our fellow captives looked as though they had spent days broiling in the sun.

  I turned back to where Father lay curled on the ground, a piece of thin fabric shielding his face. He had crossed his arms over his chest, a posture that reminded me far too much of death. “Father.” I gently prodded his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

  His hand rose to pull the fabric from his face. He smiled. “I am now.”

  “Sorry,” I said with a grimace. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I have an eternity to sleep.” With difficulty he rose to a sitting position, bent his legs and lowered his forehead to his knees. “Sh’ma Yisra’el, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai echad,” he began, and continued to say his prayers.

  I felt a stab of guilt as I looked at the two children, both of them wide-eyed. Did they understand what he was doing? They probably did not speak Greek, let alone Hebrew. I had never been terribly fluent in Hebrew, though Urbi was. How ironic that she would be able to understand some of Father’s writings better than I.

  His writings . . . what had become of them? Had one of the slaves collected and preserved his manuscripts, or had they been tossed out when someone else took possession of our home?

  My throat ached with regret. Perhaps I never should have become close to Urbi. In the beginning, I should have realized that royalty could not mix with common people. Someone should have explained that Urbi could hurt me as many times as she wished, but the first time I hurt her, our relationship would end and I would pay a painful price.

  When Father finished praying, we sat in silence and listened to a concert of sounds, all of them different from what we had heard at the garrison. From somewhere outside the city wall came the mournful call of a jackal; from the crowd, laughter and the slap of sandals; from farther away, the steady crash of the tide against stone pilings.

  “Do you think about her?” Father asked. “Do you ever ask yourself why she abandoned you?”

  “Every day,” I whispered. “And every day I ask HaShem to grant me an opportunity to stand before her again.”

  “Are you thinking of vengeance?” His eyes filled with disappointment. “Because if you are—”

  “What vengeance can I take against a queen? I only want her to see . . . and know that she could not destroy me.”

  Father stared blankly at the merchants’ tables in the distance. “Urbi is queen now, just as HaShem told you she would be.”

  I blew out a breath. “Apparently I was wrong about HaShem.”

  Father gave me an enigmatic smile, then tilted his head. “I have had time to think, daughter. I have come to believe that I was jealous. I wondered why HaShem would speak to you, a mere child, and not to me.”

  I stared at him.

  “Over the past few months, I realized something.” A shade of wistfulness stole into his expression. “I had been so busy working, writing, studying, that I had forgotten how to listen to HaShem’s voice. But listening came naturally to you. Perhaps it always will.”

  He extended his wavering hand until it covered mine. “I am sorry, daughter. I was wrong to doubt you.”

  “Maybe you weren’t.” I swallowed, forcing down the bitterness that filled my throat every time I thought about my foolishness. “I went around telling everyone—even Urbi—what I thought HaShem had told me, and none of it has come to pass.”

  “She is queen.”

  “But that is all! I am not with her, she doesn’t care about me, and there’s no way I can bless her. I no longer want to bless her. If she were here now, I would curse her.”

  “Hush.” Father patted my hand and glanced around, probably terrified that someone would overhear my rant. His gaze roved over the other cages, where men, women, and children stood or squatted and waited for their lives to change. “At the garrison, I heard you speaking to the commander.”

  I froze, suddenly at a loss for words. How could I tell my father that Rufio could only afford to buy o
ne slave? “The commander,” I finally said, finding my voice. “He sent a man to ask if someone from the community could purchase your freedom, too.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “He doesn’t even know me. I think he longs for the sound of a woman’s voice.”

  Father chuffed softly. “I can understand that.”

  “I think he ought to buy you, not me—”

  Father released such an abrupt laugh that the effort triggered another round of coughing. I leaned toward him, wanting to help, but he held up his hand and turned until his coughing had quieted.

  “Daughter,” he said, wrapping his frail hand around mine, “do not be foolish. What would the commander want with an aging man on his way to the grave? Let him buy you, let him free you, and do not forget to thank HaShem for His provision.”

  I remained silent, grateful that Father hadn’t heard all the details of my conversation with Rufio. I could not imagine any situation in which he would approve of my marriage to a heathen.

  As the horizon shimmered in a heat haze, the auctioneer’s men opened our cages and led out the captives.

  I had visited auctions where the traders took great care with the men and women for sale—men were bathed and their bare chests polished with oils; women were groomed and displayed in undergarments to show off their natural attractiveness. But the only preparation this auction master made was to powder our feet with chalk dust. Even I knew the dust was intended to warn buyers that we were first-timers, and first-timers had a tendency to be intractable and eager to run.

  As I listened to the first several auctions, I realized that his sales reflected a lack of effort. I had seen adult male slaves sell for as much as five hundred drachmas and females for as much as six thousand, but the first few males at this auction sold for less than three hundred.

  Gripping the metal weave of our cage, I watched a tall, stately woman reluctantly submit to the auctioneer’s demands to remove her clothing so buyers could better see what they were purchasing. I averted my eyes, unwilling to participate in the humiliation of another human being. What had that lady done to deserve a place here?