Jewel of the Nile

by Tessa Afshar

  When Grandfather had discovered Chariline’s interest in architecture, he had forbidden her from pursuing it in any formal way. “For the love of Venus, girl! Why don’t you occupy yourself with some feminine enterprise? Whoever heard of a woman wanting to study engineering?” He had promptly banned her from continuing any endeavor connected to the design and construction of buildings.

  It wasn’t as if Grandfather worried that her “unfeminine” interests would drive away admirers since she had none. As the patriarch of the family, the responsibility of finding a husband for Chariline lay with her grandfather. But he had never mentioned the matter, nor had he attempted to open doors of opportunity for his only granddaughter to meet eligible men. Not once had she attended a palace function with him or met the officials who sometimes visited him from Rome and Egypt.

  Not that she trusted Quintus Blandinus Geminus with her future happiness. The marriages he had arranged for his own daughters had not been successful. Her mother had chosen to break her arranged engagement to elope with a man, who did not have Grandfather’s approval, presumably because she had found her betrothed objectionable. And Aunt Blandina never spoke of her departed husband with particular fondness.

  No. Quintus Blandinus was not the man to choose a husband for Chariline. Just as well he seemed entirely disinterested in such an enterprise. She suspected his lack of interest was due to his belief that no respectable Roman would want her, an orphan girl with skin that declared her an outsider and parentage that seemed questionable, at least on one side.

  Chariline sighed. Her life had grown small and limited in Aunt Blandina’s house. If not for her friendships with Philip’s daughters and Natemahar, she would have become a recluse like her aunt.

  Which was why she had ignored her grandfather’s demands that she give up her passion for architecture. She refused to allow him to strip her of everything that mattered to her. No doubt, he had forbidden poor Aunt Blandina from whispering a word about Gemina’s interests lest they encourage her daughter’s fervor. And Blandina, as always, had been unable to stand up to him. No wonder her mother had never told Blandina that she planned to elope. As close as they were, Gemina had known her sister would not be able to keep such a scandalous secret from their father.

  Chariline ran a gentle finger down the lid of the beautiful box and wondered why, after all these years, Grandmother had chosen to defy her husband and share these drawings with her. She suspected that Grandmother had thrown her a bone out of pity. As far as she knew, Chariline had no idea that her father lived. If she was to be cheated out of a father, at least she might have this crumb from her dead mother.

  But Chariline wanted more than crumbs. With almost no chance of marriage and a family of her own, her desire to know her father grew by the hour. He would be her true family, her heart’s home. Chariline smiled slowly. This box was only the beginning. She did not intend to allow Grandfather’s schemes to stand in her way ever again.

  CHAPTER 5

  For you created my inmost being;

  you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

  PSALM 139:13, NIV

  Aunt Blandina walked into the courtyard, waving her giant ostrich fan. “I could melt into a puddle. How hot the sun grows in this place.” She sat next to Chariline and dipped her fingers into the warm pool. “What do you have there?”

  Carefully, Chariline turned the box and showed it to her aunt. The light-green eyes dilated with alarm. “Where did you find that?”

  “Grandmother gave it to me.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.” She snapped the lid open and unfurled the drawings for her aunt.

  A sigh slithered its way from Blandina’s depths. “She was always brilliant.” Wiping her hands on her stola, she reached for the drawing of a villa. “So brilliant.” A single tear coursed down her pale cheek as she held the aged papyrus in reverent fingers.

  Chariline’s mother had been nine years younger than Blandina. In that dry, emotionally putrid household, the two girls had turned to each other, more than sisters, becoming friends and family and home all in one.

  Blandina looked at her niece, and for a moment, Chariline saw love well up in the wilting eyes. Her aunt’s lips softened and she reached a hand to Chariline’s hair, fondly patting the curls, seeing Chariline as her sister’s daughter, her precious Gemina’s child.

  For an instant, hope rose up in Chariline. Hope that, for once, the love would linger. Would win out. But, as always, the corners of Blandina’s faded green eyes crinkled, her mouth tightened, and she withdrew her hand. Chariline knew the old pain was devouring every claim of affection on her aunt’s heart.

  Chariline’s mother had brought her into the world on a wave of tears and blood, her screams of agony ringing through the whole neighborhood. Gemina’s anguish had shocked her sister, who watched in mute horror as the babe’s fat body ripped her beloved sister to shreds.

  Moments after giving birth, the dear woman who had brought Blandina the only true happiness she had ever known held her daughter in weak, shivering arms and pronounced her beautiful, so beautiful. She named her Chariline Gemina, kissed the top of her head, bid her sister to look after her child, and with the last of her strength told the babe that she loved her more than the world, and that her father would love her too, once he saw her, love her beyond what she could imagine. And with a sigh, Gemina had left them, Chariline and Blandina both orphaned by her death, though in different ways.

  Blandina had stared at the long form of her cinnamon-brown niece, wriggling with life as she cried lustily in the arms of the nurse, and whatever they were to each other, whatever love and goodness and belonging was meant to weave them to one another, cracked. She wasn’t looking at Gemina’s daughter. She was gazing upon the murderer of her sister.

  She had kept her promise to Gemina. She had raised Chariline, provided for her, shielded her from harm. But her love had been tarnished by the babe’s birth. She could never quite separate the blame of Gemina’s death from the joy of having her daughter.

  Chariline understood. Truly, she did. The guilt she usually managed to push down deep raised its head and sank its sharp fangs into her heart. She winced. How could she blame Aunt Blandina? She had been the cause of her mother’s death.

  With sheer force of will, she shoved the guilt back down, down, and locked it away again. It left behind, as it always did, a hollow place, an emptiness that nothing seemed to fill.

  She reached a trembling hand to caress her aunt’s drooping cheek. “She loved you dearly, Aunt Blandina.”

  Blandina’s tears overflowed, fat and salty, dribbling down her short chin. “She loved you too, child. More than anything.”

  Chariline nodded. She believed that. For years, she had thought that the only people in the world who could love her, love her with the wholehearted attachment she had yearned for since the day she had opened her eyes to gaze upon this broken world, were lost to her.

  Her grandparents had not even sought to meet her until it had become evident that Blandina would remain a childless widow, never destined to remarry, making Chariline their only grandchild. Grandfather finally sent for her as a last resort, the desperate act of a man with a dying family line. He barely tolerated her. Not once, in all the years she had known him, had he kissed her cheek, held her hand, ruffled her hair.

  But now, she knew that her father was alive, and that changed everything.

  On her deathbed, her mother had promised that he would love her, and she would not lie, not as she lay dying. Not as the last words on her lips. Her mother had believed to the depths of her soul that the father of her child would love his daughter. And Chariline trusted that dying promise.

  She rolled up the papyri carefully, tucked them into her box, and snapped the lid shut.

  She was not an orphan. She was not unwanted. She was not abandoned. Her father would love her. She would find him and prove it.

  It took Chariline two days before she was able to get a
way to the spice seller’s shop again. She carried her mother’s box, carefully wrapped in a clean sheet, and set it on the table in the back room. When Natemahar arrived, she pulled the sheet away with a flourish.

  “Lovely,” he said. “Cushite. Looks old. Where did it come from?”

  “It was my mother’s.” Chariline opened the lid and pulled out the drawings. “She copied some of these from existing buildings. But most are her original designs.”

  Natemahar’s mouth grew slack. “Your mother’s?” He pulled a papyrus roll close, studied it carefully, his fingers running over the drawing.

  “They remind me of your work,” he said, finally.

  “Do you think so?”

  He nodded. “There is something in the general style. That blending of good structural sense with beauty. You both have it. Although your work is finer, more detailed.”

  “I’ve had more years of study. She died when she was only twenty-one.” Chariline twisted the ribbons at her waist. “I never knew she loved architecture as much as I.”

  “Where did you find these?”

  “My grandmother gave them to me.”

  “Your grandfather won’t approve.”

  Chariline shrugged. “Do you have any news for me?”

  Natemahar rolled his eyes. “It’s been two days. You have to be patient.”

  In her secret search for her father, Chariline had expected to contend with danger, with difficulty, with menace even. You could not go against a man like Grandfather without preparing for some manner of retaliation. She was beginning to realize that none of that compared to the sheer agony of simple patience.

  She wanted to argue, push against Natemahar’s plodding exploration, and demand that he hasten his search. Before she could get a word out, he drew one of her mother’s drawings toward him and lowered his head to examine it more closely.

  With a light touch, he ran his finger along the surface. “Your mother used an unusually thick papyrus for some of these. I wonder why. Do you think they helped the quality of her work?”

  Chariline was not fooled. After so long a friendship, she recognized Natemahar’s blatant attempt at distraction. On the other hand, anything to do with her mother’s work seemed worthy of being a little distracted.

  She bent over the drawing. For the first time, she noticed what Natemahar had so quickly surmised. The papyrus seemed exceptionally thick.

  “That’s strange,” she murmured.

  He gave her an I-told-you-so grin. Rolling the papyrus, she waved it at him. “It doesn’t make up for your slow progress. Find me a thread. A clue. Anything, Natemahar.”

  “Be patient,” he said again. He reached for her hand. “Chariline, let us ask the Lord for guidance.”

  Like her, Natemahar had been discipled in faith by Philip. But he had been a much better pupil. Chariline heaved a sigh and dropped to her knees.

  Natemahar began with silence. A quiet that stretched. She knew his mind was finding its way to a different realm. A place of peace. A kingdom where the dealings of the earth faded and God alone remained.

  In that silence, Chariline fidgeted, her thoughts running amuck. She wanted to move to the asking. Move to the part where she told God what she wanted. And better yet, she wanted to get up and do something.

  Natemahar began his prayer with simple words of gratitude, like a child bringing a posy of weeds to his mother or wrapping sticky fingers of love around his father’s neck. Chariline softened, aware that Natemahar’s prayer bore a more beautiful perfume before God than all the spices in that shop.

  When, finally, Natemahar asked God to help her, the tenderness in his voice pierced Chariline. “Dear Lord, show your daughter the way. You know the desire of her heart. Grant her that desire according to your will and keep her safe on every side.”

  After Natemahar left, Chariline lingered in the spice seller’s back room. The chamber had changed by Natemahar’s presence, somehow. Become safe. Become a haven. Unwilling yet to return to Grandfather’s cheerless house, she examined her mother’s drawings with a closer eye. Why had she used such thick sheets for some? It almost seemed as though she had glued two or three pieces of papyrus together for each drawing.

  Delicately, her touch as soft as the wings of a moth, she pulled on the edge of one drawing. The corner of her nail split the pulpy sheet and she gasped, terrified that she had torn the papyrus. Then, squinting, she saw that, indeed, two separate rolls of papyrus had been adhered to one another.

  At first, she thought to leave things as they were. She could visit the library in Caesarea to discover the benefits of using two sheets of papyrus as her mother had done. But she noticed that the center of the drawing was slightly thicker even than the edges.

  Curiosity drove Chariline on. Once again, she began to pull delicately on the edges of the papyrus, separating the two sheets from each other. She was puzzled when she realized that the glue had only been adhered around the perimeter of the sheet, no more than the length of half a finger. When she reached the inner part, the sheets of papyrus separated with ease.

  Revealing a third sheet.

  Chariline gasped when she realized that the unexpected sheet was in fact a letter, hidden inside her mother’s drawing in the clever pouch she had created. With trembling fingers, she freed the letter and began to read.

  Vitruvia, your faithful friend, to my dear Gemina,

  Greetings from a hot and humid Rome! How I wish you were here so we could pore over my grandfather’s books together and discuss the virtues of his teaching.

  Chariline froze. Her mother’s friend was named Vitruvia. The feminine version of . . . Could it be? Could her mother have been friends with the famed Vitruvius’s granddaughter? The Vitruvius who had authored the most magnificent series of books on architecture ever written? Heart pounding, Chariline read on and soon became convinced that, indeed, the man she had idolized for over ten years had been closer to her family than she could ever have dreamed!

  Much of Vitruvia’s letter concerned the construction of new buildings and the importance of functionality, beauty, and stability. One passage, however, made Chariline laugh.

  I know my grandfather believed that nature’s designs ought to serve as a model for proper ratio, and that the human body, above all, displays perfection in proportion. But if he had seen my woefully small chest and ample hips, he would have thought twice about believing the body’s proportions to be a model of perfection. Since we last saw each other twelve months ago, I have grown, and in all the wrong places. I can’t seem to refuse those stout wedges of hot quadratus bread I so love! You, no doubt, remain as lovely as ever.

  As quickly as she dared, Chariline began to pry loose the edges of the papyri whose unusual thickness indicated another hidden missive. Plucking the glue apart gingerly so as not to damage the drawing on the cover page, she managed to release the letters that had been held captive in their secret pouches for a quarter of a century.

  In all, she found four written in Vitruvia’s elegant Latin. The first three were in much the same vein. Vitruvia discussed architecture, spoke of her grandfather’s military career, dreamed of the possibility that they might one day, as women, be able to design and build worthy monuments of their own, and expressed a desire to be reunited with her friend soon. Chariline felt as though she were sitting in an adjoining room, overhearing the young women’s conversation. She read the words over and over again, flushed with pleasure at this glimpse into her mother’s hidden life.

  Vitruvia’s fourth letter made Chariline snap to attention. Obviously written in haste, it began with no greeting.

  I pray our friend will be able to place this in your hands without delay. By all means, flee to Rome, and I will do what I can to help you. You shall be a married woman when next we meet!

  I cannot blame you for following your heart. Given all you wrote of him in your very long letter (Egypt must now be facing a shortage of papyrus), he is a man worthy of you. But I fear for your safety. One t
hing everyone learns in Rome from infancy: never tangle with the ruler of an empire! If by marrying you, your beloved displeases his queen, there is no telling how she will retaliate. I do not believe the fact that his mother is an old and dear companion to the queen will help you in any way. Likely the opposite. She is liable to feel more betrayed by a friend than a mere stranger. So please, please do not get caught.

  Come quickly and we shall build a palace together. Oh, have it your way. A grand library, then. I know how much you like your books. Only come and be safe. I write no names in case this letter should fall into the wrong hands.

  Chariline exhaled. Not only had she discovered a precious glimpse into her mother’s life and heart, she had found another clue to her father’s identity. His mother was an old companion to the queen. How many officials at the palace could claim that? Surely not many. He had to be at least forty-five. Perhaps older. Once she shared this detail with Natemahar, it would be a matter of days—hours, even—before she found him.

  CHAPTER 6

  My times are in your hand.

  PSALM 31:15

  Natemahar raised a dark brow as he examined Vitruvia’s letter. “Clever hiding place.”

  “I wouldn’t have found the letters if it weren’t for you. You were the one who noticed the unusual thickness of the papyrus.” Chariline pressed her hands together. “Don’t you see what this means, Natemahar? Armed with that piece of information, you’ll be able to find my father.”

  “You don’t know the court of Cush. Everyone claims friendship with the queen.”

  “But not everyone can say they are a close companion!”

  Natemahar blew out a breath. “A pile of gold, and you can be anything you want.”

  “Natemahar!”

  “Fine. I will continue to seek him for you. Only, tame your expectations. It’s not as easy as you imagine. I have to tread with care.”