Counted With the Stars

by Connilyn Cossette

  When the barge finally floated around a curve on the canal and toward the main body of the Nile, I told the children we must return to the villa.

  Liat dragged his feet and pouted. “I wish Mother and Father were not having this banquet tonight.”

  “Do you not enjoy the feasts?” I squeezed his hand.

  “I don’t like going to bed while everyone is still having fun. And I hate wigs. Mother always makes me wear a wig when we have guests.” He scratched his head at the memory. A smudge of kohl streaked up to his hairline. It would need to be reapplied when we returned. When I’d been Liat’s age, Salima had to all but tie me down for my daily cosmetic regimen.

  I laughed. “Well, Master Liat, in a few years you will be old enough to stay awake until the early hours of the morning as well. I know the wigs are irritating—believe me, I had my share of wearing them for parties, and I do not miss them, but”—I winked and tugged on his forelock braid—“just think of all the lovely leftover treats for tomorrow!”

  A grin lit Liat’s round little face.

  “I adore banquets.” Sefora’s brown eyes twinkled. “All the ladies with their beautiful gowns, the flowers, the wonderful food, the music, the dancers . . .” She swung her arms back and forth, tripping out a little dance on her toes. “Besides”—she clapped her hands—“tonight I get to wear the gown Father bought in Thebes. I cannot wait!”

  My afternoon with the children had seduced me into feeling normal, as if I retained the same footing as they did. In spite of their position—and their mother—they were sweet children. They seemed, thanks be to the gods, to take after their father, Shefu. An attentive and affectionate parent, he lavished upon them their hearts’ every desire.

  Tekurah, on the other hand, was more concerned with raising her standing in society than in raising her children. She spent her days shopping for luxuries and gossiping with well-connected friends, gleaning information useful for climbing the social ladder. The children were an afterthought—a commodity to be trotted out at parties to impress the guests with their beauty, talents, and fashion.

  In only a few years, Sefora would be given to the wealthiest and most powerful man Tekurah could manage. Liat would marry the daughter of someone whose power and status his mother coveted.

  The two older children, Kemah and Talet, were already married. Kemah, only a year older than myself, had been given to the son of a powerful priest. Talet, the oldest son, had married the daughter of a steward in the house of Pharaoh, which gave Tekurah endless pleasure—and a direct line to court gossip.

  By the time we returned to the villa, Sefora and Liat were whining for food. I reminded them to protect our secret and then led the children to the kitchen to beg for a few sweet rolls. We took their treats to the main courtyard and sat by one of the pools in the shade of the regal date palms. The children devoured the apricot and raisin bread, licking the honey off their fingers. My mouth watered at the memory of the sweet taste, and I looked away.

  With a fresh coat of limestone whitewash, Shefu’s sprawling villa gleamed. My family’s home had been grand, but Shefu’s put it to shame. Servants carrying pillows, mats, oil lamps, and flowers climbed the outer staircases, preparing the roof for guests needing an escape from the oppressive heat of the main hall. Many would sleep off the night’s drinking there, enjoying what little breeze might stir up from the river in the early hours.

  Shefu employed the most talented master gardeners in the city. A vast array of colors flooded the garden. Lilies floated in the courtyard pools, and the walls dripped with many varieties of grapevines and climbing roses. I entertained a fleeting notion of lingering here in the dappled shade of the palms with the children, breathing the sweet air and soaking in the divinity that inhabited the fragrances of the lovely flowers—but Tekurah waited. I slipped into the house again and fetched a pitcher of water to wash the children’s hands and feet.

  As I knelt to untie Sefora’s sandals and rinse her feet of the day’s grime, she asked, “Kiya, why do you wash our feet?”

  I laughed and tweaked her big toe. “Because they are dirty.”

  “No, I mean, your family came to the festival last year, and the servants tended you then.”

  I looked up into her wide eyes, smaller versions of Shefu’s kind ones. My family’s misfortune, the shame of losing our position, our wealth, and our worth, the jealousy Tekurah held for my mother—I bit it all back. Instead, I offered the part of the truth she would understand. “Because the gods turned from me.”

  They had abandoned me. Abandoned my whole family.

  The gods had ignored my mother when she begged for Jumo’s healing, disregarding daily offerings to Isis and Thoth. Yamm, the god of the seas, had not prevented the waves from swallowing my father’s magnificent ships. And no matter my allegiance to all the gods, slavery became my lot.

  What curse had been cast upon me? Why had such black luck fallen on my path? I did not know.

  I owned nothing now except the clothes on my back, a small brass mirror, and a little box of cheap cosmetics. How could I earn Ra’s mercy when I could not provide the tributes he demanded? I had nothing to offer—no goat, no bull, not even a dove.

  I dried Sefora’s feet with a soft linen towel. When I glanced up, her whole face had crumpled into a frown.

  “Now, Mistress Sefora”—I patted the top of her foot—“don’t be sad today. My luck is gone, but yours is not. Remember your new gown.”

  Her little face brightened. “I wonder if Hattai has it ready!” She skipped off toward her bedchamber, my misery forgotten.

  3

  The slate cooled my bare feet as I scurried down the hallway, a welcome respite from the blazing limestone pathway in the courtyard. The few slaves I encountered averted their eyes as they passed. A reaction I was used to, but still, I bristled at the slight.

  I pressed open the door to Tekurah’s chamber, wincing at the squeak of the bronze hinges. Shira was slathering coconut balm over Tekurah’s arms and legs.

  “Where have you been?” Tekurah pushed a glossy black cat from her lap. He strutted off with a quick backward glance, as if annoyed with my tardiness as well.

  Tekurah’s host of cats ruled this house, second only to their mistress. Sleeping on the hard floor while a pampered feline sprawled on a goose-down cushion, and eating scraps as the cats enjoyed choice morsels from Tekurah’s plate, infuriated me. Tekurah had long ago selected the cat-headed goddess Bastet as her patron divinity. She treated her pets as if they were the goddess herself—to ensure prompt acknowledgment of her prayers.

  “The master asked that I take the children to the processional to keep them out of the way,” I said.

  Obligated to do whatever Shefu asked of me, even ahead of Tekurah’s wishes, I needed no further excuse. She gaped at me for a moment before a slow, malevolent smirk stole across her face.

  “No matter.” She dismissed me with a flick of her wrist. “The guests will arrive soon. I must be in the main hall to greet them.” She stood and swept from the room. Shira and I glanced at each other in confusion before running to follow, both of us skittering along to keep up with her long stride.

  House slaves washed the feet of the early arrivals and placed perfumed wax cones on their heads. They would melt all evening, dripping and cooling, adding to the intoxicating mixture of fragrances from the abundance of flowers.

  Tekurah ordered us to wait behind the head table. Turning obedient eyes to the floor, Shira and I became fixtures in the room along with the tall candle stands gracing the large, columned hall. My stomach twisted. Who would be here tonight, gawking at me?

  As more guests arrived and the noise level in the room rose, I forced my breath to slow, blocked out the voices around me, and let my mind wander into a memory.

  Knee-deep in the canal . . . cool mud squishing between my toes . . . breathing deeply and savoring the swirl of the water around my legs . . . the rush of the gentle current curling through my outspread fingers
. . . birds in full song . . . cicadas thrumming in the whispering rushes . . . the sun’s delicious rays on my upturned face, breathing Ra’s life into my weary bones.

  Still. At rest. Free.

  A sharp laugh startled me, yanking me out of my daydream. At least forty people sat at low tables or on cushions scattered around the room, with servants at attention behind them or lurking in the shadows near the walls.

  Ushered in by their nursemaids, Liat and Sefora entered the room. I stifled a giggle at the sight of Liat’s wig, perched askew on his head. He would be scratching at it all evening. His eyes grew as large as plates as he surveyed the luscious food. Sefora stood next to her father, leaning against him as he talked with another man, but she scanned the room. When she caught my glance, her eyebrows arched with excitement. I tipped my head down, and my heart sank.

  I could not be a friend tonight.

  Through lowered lashes, I surveyed the room for people I knew—and there were many. Old business partners, friends, even some distant relatives of my mother and father were in attendance. None looked my way. Either they refused to acknowledge a common slave, or they mercifully ignored my existence as they reveled in the privileges that I was now denied.

  I was at Tekurah’s mercy because of such decadence—the food, the dresses, the jewels. My father had always hosted the most extravagant of parties, our villa packed with people arrayed in their finest. And when the time came to repay his debts, he sold my freedom, not his own. Though I’d once delighted in the parties, the wigs, the cosmetics, the gold and silver, now the abundance made me ill. All the vapid people who had once filled my world, seemed to hang on my every word, now refused to meet my eye.

  As the night wore on, snatches of conversation about my family and our demise reached my ears. Each time the discussion would steer that way Tekurah glanced back at me, brows high. She took each opportunity to regale her guests with tales of my incompetence. “. . . can’t even figure out how to dress me . . . about strangled me with my dress earlier . . . nearly poked my eye out . . .” They all laughed, some more heartily than others, but none looked my way. I dug my nails deeper and deeper into my palms. Cowards.

  My stomach snarled. My paltry ration of bread, a few vegetables, fish, and barley beer each day never satisfied. Rare bits of beef or game were permitted at times, but two weeks had passed since we’d enjoyed such a treat. The abundant array of roast duck, grilled beef, fish, and goose prepared with savory spices caused my mouth to water. Shefu’s guests dined on the finest succulent fruits, gathered from his orchards, and drank wine from his own vineyards.

  Shefu’s bountiful vines produced the sweetest vintages in all of Lower Egypt. My father’s boats had carried their yield as far away as Phoenicia. My tongue remembered the exquisite wine and pined for a drop of it again.

  A familiar laugh interrupted my covetous fantasy, and my head snapped up to search for its source.

  Now I understood Tekurah’s demand that I attend tonight, as well as her strange attitude and triumphal sneer. For there, not fifteen paces from me, smiling, laughing, and unaware of my presence, sat Akhum. Tekurah must have heard my intake of breath. She turned in her seat, painted brows arched high.

  Akhum’s regiment must have returned in the last couple of days. I always kept diligent watch for his men about the city. An army campaign had taken him north to Canaan well over a year ago, before my downfall and only weeks before my father’s boats surrendered to the waves.

  My most ardent pursuer, Akhum had surpassed all other suitors who had approached my father. Handsome, regal, and from one of the wealthiest families in the city, he stood a head taller than most others in his regiment. He had showered me with jewelry, beautiful gowns, and the finest perfumes.

  Head of his regiment and aspiring to a generalship like his own father, he commanded avid admiration in his soldiers. My father, of course, loved him, his power, and his influence. Akhum paid more than the usual bride-price in his determination to secure my hand. My father accommodated him by permitting the betrothal to extend until Akhum returned from the incursion in Canaan to deal with rebelling chieftains.

  But when Akhum had returned from his long journey, his intended bride was a slave, not fit to tie his sandals, let alone to be his wife. The floor beneath me seemed to quake violently. Did he know about my family? What had he heard? What did he think of me now? Did he know I stood here?

  He must have felt the weight of my stare, for after a few moments he turned his attention my way. At first no recognition lit his eyes, but he held my gaze, perhaps curious about the audacity of a slave gaping at him, until shock flashed across his face. My legs trembled with such violence I fought to continue standing. It took every ounce of will left in me to lock my feet in place.

  A sharp command from Tekurah jolted me. “Kiya, Shira, fetch my cosmetic box and refresh my makeup, I am melting in this heat. And bring a fan, I need some air.”

  By the time I plowed through the door of Tekurah’s room, tears blinded me. My own makeup would need to be reapplied. I found myself kneeling on the floor, sobbing and moaning, Shira hovering over me.

  “Kiya . . . oh no, Kiya, what is wrong? What can I do?” The Hebrew girl smoothed my hair and patted my back.

  I shook my head, unable to speak. She knelt and put her arms around my shoulders, rocking back and forth with me as I wept.

  Fetching a box should not take so long. The last thing I needed tonight was an upbraiding in front of the guests—one in particular.

  I shrugged off Shira’s arms, avoiding her sympathetic gaze. Safe in the knowledge that Tekurah was occupied at the banquet, I used her makeup to outline my tear-swollen eyes. I replaced the pink alabaster kohl pot in the ebony box and closed the lid. The ivory inlay on top reminded me so much of a chest my mother had given me long ago that even in my anguish, I thought of her.

  My mother’s honey-gold eyes looked back at me in the mirror. What would she do in this situation? I had watched her in the marketplace, bartering with her old neighbors or their servants. Many former acquaintances came to her stall, driven by curiosity, or pity, or simply to revel in her downfall. My mother, however, always held her head high. She did not look at the ground. She did not hide. She plied her goods and smiled, thanking them for their business. They left, unsatisfied in their gloating.

  Her blood flowed in my veins, and I would banish any thought of what my life would have been, what it should be, and hold my own head high. Tekurah would not prevail.

  I picked up the cosmetic box, swallowing hard to steady my voice. “We need to go back.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait a few more minutes?” Shira peered at me, seeming to gauge whether I might cry again.

  “The last thing I need is Tekurah screaming at me tonight.” I lifted my chin and hastened toward the door. But before I could cross the threshold, my foot slipped on a reed mat. I stumbled. Tekurah’s treasured cosmetic box flew out of my hand.

  In horror, I tried to grab at it, but my fingers found only empty air. The box cracked against the wall, and the lid broke away. Both pieces crashed to the floor, and the inlay shattered. Ivory shards and splintered ebony skidded across the tile.

  What have I done?

  4

  My heart stuttered, then rushed loud in my ears as I braced myself against the doorway.

  Shira’s pale face appeared in front of me. “Shh.” She put her hand over my mouth, anticipating the anguish threatening to pour out of me.

  I bit my cheek hard, until I tasted blood, forcing myself to stay calm.

  “Let me clean it up.” She arched her brows. “Can I let go?”

  I nodded, and she released me. Then, in silence, Shira retrieved a small woven box from the vanity chest, knelt down, and placed Tekurah’s kohl pots, rouge, brushes, and the application stick inside. She cleaned the mess from the destroyed cosmetic box, fetched a peacock-feather fan, and then held out a hand and beckoned me to follow.

  In a daze, I trailed behind he
r, dreading each footstep and sifting my thoughts. What could I do to lessen the blow? How could I protect myself?

  Nothing. I could only endure as my mother would. Stand tall. Accept the verbal lashing. Submit to the punishment.

  A graceful Syrian dancer performed for the guests in the hall, her enormous feathered headdress swaying in rhythm with the dance of the drums and pipes. Tekurah motioned for us to hurry and bring her the box. I drew in a deep breath and moved forward, but Shira stepped in front of me, walked up to Tekurah, and handed her the little woven basket.

  “What is this?” Tekurah opened the lid. “Where is my ebony box?”

  I opened my mouth, but Shira spoke faster. “Mistress, I must apologize. I caught my foot on the mat and dropped your box. It is broken. I am so sorry.”

  Tekurah’s face flushed scarlet. “You did what? That cosmetic box was a gift! How could you? You stupid slave!” Her voice spiraled louder and louder, and everyone stared at the three of us. “I would expect this out of Kiya, but you know better than to be careless with my belongings.”

  Tekurah glared at me. Did she know?

  But the Hebrew girl stood fast, her voice calm and firm. “It was entirely my fault, mistress. It is my responsibility.”

  I fixed my eyes on my bare feet, avoiding curious stares, but my mind reeled. Why would Shira put herself in the way of Tekurah’s wrath? Accept the inevitable punishment?

  Tekurah demoted Shira to the kitchens immediately. Then, without a blink, she ordered me to reapply her cosmetics. She must have done so with trepidation after the last incident. However, adept after months of applying my own kohl, this time I refreshed her makeup with ease.

  Shira must have assumed our mistress would be less severe with her. But how foolish! Standing in the way of another’s chastisement—and for an Egyptian who ignored her most of the time, no less. Although confusion and guilt warred in my gut, relief washed through me as well. There would be no reason for Tekurah to shred me in front of the guests.