by Tessa Afshar
“Celebration is very much in order. You left Caesarea an orphan and returned knowing your father lives. Isn’t that cause for praise?”
Chariline frowned. “I never thought of that.”
Hermione caressed her young friend’s hair with a gentle hand. “Sometimes, in the frustration of what we don’t have, we forget to rejoice in what we do.”
Chariline played with the end of the old hair ribbon dangling against her neck. “There is something else I haven’t told you.” She had not revealed Sesen’s secret until then. Now, she disclosed the full plot she had overheard. “I don’t know what to do,” she exclaimed. “What if that man is my father?”
“Poor Chariline!” Mariamne’s eyes widened. “What a responsibility. To bear the weight of two lives in your hands.”
Chariline nodded. “I must try and save both, whoever Sesen turns out to be. Though I have no idea how, and less than four months to do it in.”
“Such an outcome may not be in your power,” Hermione cautioned. “Let us ask the Lord what you are to do next.”
“I am to find my father, of course!”
“There is no of course about it, Chariline. In my experience, God starts to tell us something, and before the sentence is out of his mouth, we finish it off the way we prefer. We assume. We presume. And we jump to false conclusions.
“No. What we need is to ask Iesous. Ask him to show you the way.”
She pronounced the Lord’s name as the Greeks did, who, lacking the sh sound of the Hebrews, ended the word with a soothing inflection. Hermione’s diction made the very name feel like a balm.
Iesous.
As always, she began to pray as if she was conversing with her dearest friend. As if Iesous came to sit with her every morning and spoke to her in the watches of the night. All of Philip’s daughters prayed that way. Perhaps that was why God had blessed them with the uncanny gift of prophecy. Often, they were able to perceive pieces of the future, bits of God’s heart, revelations of Iesous’s intentions, insight that encouraged the soul more than mere words ever could.
When Hermione asked Iesous to guide Chariline’s next steps and waited in silence for an answer, Chariline did not hear anything. No words. No verses from the Scriptures. No mighty blanket of peace covered her. She saw no sign of Rome and no mystical image of her father. She took a deep breath. And just as she was about to give up, she saw a silhouette, like a shadow, reflected in a dark pool.
It was Theo.
“Well?” Mariamne pressed her fingers. “What did he tell you?”
Chariline felt too embarrassed to confess what she had seen had little to do with her father. They would probably accuse her of having formed an attachment to their father’s handsome visitor.
She shrugged and kept her lips closed tight. She did not tell them about the plan brewing in the back of her mind. The plan that involved Theo’s ship.
Hermione caressed her cheek. “My dear, I see danger ahead.”
Mariamne nodded. “But the Lord will shelter you from harm. I will pray for you daily and ask that he keep you safe, disarming every evil intention against you.”
Hermione grinned. “And God told me that he will reveal a hidden treasure.” She leaned forward and whispered in Chariline’s ear so that only she could hear. “There is a small space behind a cache of amphorae in the bowels of the ship, behind where the oars are. That is a good hiding place.”
Chariline’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Hermione pressed a finger to her lips and winked.
Aunt Blandina had three servants. Old Leda, who had once been nurse to Blandina and Gemina and had been present at Chariline’s own birth. Eurynome, a plump, middle-aged woman who cooked and cleaned and took care of the laundry. And Cadmus, the only man in a household of women, who acted as gardener, repairman, and general fetcher and carrier. As soon as she arrived home that evening, Chariline went in search of him and found him in the atrium, mending a cracked paving stone by lamplight.
“Cadmus? Does your son Telemachus still own that cart of his?”
Cadmus straightened, wiping dust from his hands. “Yes, mistress.”
“Could you take him a message for me? Right away. Tell him to meet me tomorrow before sunrise. Around the corner from the house, at the edge of the Roman wall.”
Cadmus’s gray brows rose to his hairline. “Before sunrise, mistress?”
“Yes, Cadmus. Exactly. Tell him not to be late, and I will have a whole sestertius for him.”
Cadmus rubbed a palm against his whiskered cheek. “If you insist, mistress.”
She bent her head close. “I won’t tell Aunt Blandina if you don’t. That way, neither of us will get into trouble.”
Cadmus’s craggy face broke into a wide grin. In truth, Aunt Blandina did not pose much of a threat. She was just as afraid of losing her servants, to whom she had grown accustomed, as they were of losing their jobs.
Chariline retired to her chamber. She thought sleep would evade her, given the whirl of excitement that lay ahead. But she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber as soon as her head touched the pillow.
A bright moon cradled the sky when she awoke. Donning her darkest cloak over an old tunic, Chariline slipped out of the house. She ran the short distance to the wall that surrounded the city of Caesarea. Turning the corner, she exhaled with relief when she spied the outline of Telemachus’s cart, the boy’s head nodding against his chest.
Chariline climbed into the back of the cart. “To the harbor, Telemachus,” she said, startling the young man out of his doze. He coughed, a deep, wracking sound that heaved his thin chest.
“Oh, my, Telemachus! Are you sick?”
The young man signaled his donkey to move. “Just a tickle in my throat, mistress.”
“Well, if you are not better by this evening, ask Mistress Hermione to give you one of her brews. You know she charges nothing.”
A thin grin split the pale face. “She charges plenty, mistress. Just not money. I will have to listen to one of her sermons.”
Chariline chuckled. “That you will. And it will be as good for you as her medicine. Besides, she cooked a delectable stew last night. If you arrive early, she might still have some left over.”
Telemachus expertly guided his donkey around a narrow bend. “That might be worth a sermon. Nobody in this city can cook like her.” His chest rose in another paroxysm of coughs.
Chariline gave him a concerned look. “Be sure to get that medicine soon. You sound terrible.”
In spite of his illness, Telemachus managed to drive his cart with easy skill navigating the broad roads toward the harbor.
Caesarea, an ancient city, had been rebuilt by Herod the Great sixty years earlier. Although belonging to the province of Judea, and the seat of the Roman governor, the city was in some ways more Greek than Hebrew. Its over 125,000 inhabitants included Hellenic Jews like Philip and Aramaic-speaking Jews, as well as Romans, and Greeks like her aunt’s deceased husband.
The city enjoyed wide roads, busy markets, sumptuous baths, and lavish public buildings like the hippodrome and theater that sat cheek by jowl with Herod’s luxurious palace. But in a city that boasted numerous wonders, by far the grandest wonder of Caesarea was its port.
The coastline itself offered no natural harbor. Herod had managed, through a wonderous feat of engineering, to create enormous breakwaters made of lime and volcanic ash. On one such promontory, he had built his own palace, extending straight into the sea, like a stubborn finger defiantly pointing at the briny waters.
Two massive jetties created the square Sebastos Harbor, arguably the most noble port outside of Puteoli in Rome. Within the giant man-made breakwaters, ships could take shelter, receive repairs, and be restocked before departing on their way.
It was to this port that Chariline had directed Telemachus. They passed the entrance to the harbor, the statue of Augustus twinkling pale and lifelike in the twilight. Just before reaching the harbor, Chariline directed Telemachus to
pull over.
“Wait for me in the cart.” She leapt down to the stone-paved road.
“Want me to come along, mistress? No place for a lady alone and in the dark of the harbor.”
“Thank you, Telemachus. But I won’t take long.”
The young man scratched his chin, looking uncomfortable. But Chariline did not want to bring Telemachus along in case he glimpsed the ship and informed on her after she left. The last thing she wanted was to cause trouble for Theo.
She walked onto the breakwater, a part of her marveling at the sheer scale and magnificence of the structure that defied the waves, sheltering ships against the sea’s unfriendly reception. A few sailors were starting to stir, though the port remained mostly quiet so early in the day.
She searched for Theo’s ship until she saw the name etched in blue-and-gold relief on the sternpost of a dainty vessel. The Parmys had only one large central mast, its great square sail hanging limp from its lines.
From Mariamne’s description, she recognized the distinctive carving of a windswept charioteer that occupied the ship’s prow. Mariamne had told Chariline that seven years earlier, Theo had won one of the most exciting chariot races in the history of the sport during the famed Isthmian Games. That race had instantly catapulted Theo into legendary success in Corinth. The carving had been a gift from his brother, another beloved winner of the Isthmian Games.
Hiding behind a large potted palm, Chariline stood as close to the Parmys as she dared and studied the ship intently. On one end stood a modest, square cabin with a flat roof, which sported a wooden railing, allowing sailors to use its added height as an observation deck.
Only one sailor seemed to be guarding the ship. He worked sleepily on a net, his fingers plying an iron hook to repair invisible tears. Chariline watched, motionless, looking for movement elsewhere on the ship and saw none.
Hermione had told her to seek the bowels of the vessel, where the oars were kept. She spied a rectangular hatch midway in the deck. She could make out a few steps leading down, melting into the dark. This must be the hatch that connected to the lower deck and the oar benches.
She lingered in her hiding spot, observing every detail of the ship and memorizing its lines until the sun started to rise. Not wanting to be seen, she made her way back to the cart and arranged for Telemachus to pick her up at exactly the same time the following morning.
Aunt Blandina loved poppies. Chariline took time to pick a dozen, weaving the bright blooms into a jaunty garland. At breakfast, she placed the wreath on her aunt’s brow, making her laugh. Romans had a particular fondness for garlands and often used them at their feasts. This might be the last day she saw her aunt for a long time. She wanted to leave behind a handful of joyful memories. She fluffed Blandina’s pillow on the couch, fetched her favorite wine, washed her feet after they walked around the garden, and listened to her complain about her corns.
She should have had more days like this with her aunt. But she knew the experience was bittersweet for both. Aunt Blandina would shut down at some point. Grow monosyllabic and withdrawn. And Chariline would ache from the rejection of it.
They had fallen into a rhythm of mutual isolation, living together and apart at the same time.
When Aunt Blandina retired for her afternoon rest, Chariline decided to visit the baths. It might be weeks before she could enjoy a proper soak again. She washed her hair with the rose-and-cinnamon ball of soap Theo had given her and, after a leisurely dip in the caldarium, decided to indulge herself thoroughly and used the soap to wash her whole body.
Inhaling the sweet scent of roses and cinnamon, she leaned against the side of the pool and let her eyelids drift closed. Was she truly going ahead with this insane plan?
She could continue to live the life she had known for twenty-four years. Forget what she had discovered in Cush. Settle back into the routine of living with her aunt, together but alone.
Or she could risk everything to find the father she ached to know.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the pool. Her plan might be perilous. But at least it opened a door to hope. A door to a fulfilling future. A door to love. Yet before she could grasp that future, she would first have to confront the past.
In the evening, after the household went to bed, Chariline gathered a few essentials in a sheet: extra tunics; some personal necessities; enough cheese, bread, dried fruit, and nuts to last three or four days; a small wineskin of watered wine; a modest purse of coins. She carefully packed her mother’s drawings and Vitruvia’s letters in her mother’s box, adding a thick roll of papyrus and a full inkpot for her own sketches. She tied a secure knot in the sheet and stuffed her bundle in the chest at the end of her bed.
Pulling out her stash of papyrus, she wrote two letters. The first she addressed to her aunt.
Chariline, your faithful niece, to my honored aunt, Blandina,
By the time you read this letter, I will be gone. I cannot tell you where, as I do not want Grandfather to come marching after me. Please don’t worry. I will be safe. And, no, I am not running away with some unsuitable fellow. Or any fellow. But I have good reason to go. I hope one day I will be able to tell you about it.
Your loving niece, always
She wrote another letter for Mariamne and Hermione and, sealing them, left both on the narrow shelf over her bed where they could easily be discovered.
CHAPTER 11
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
PSALM 139:9-10, NIV
He came awake with a throbbing headache and a bilious stomach that demanded to be emptied. It took a few moments for the double vision to clear. He remembered the stones rolling under his feet. Remembered hurtling into the air, followed by a spectacular fall. Touching the back of his head, he winced at the tender bulge the size of an ibis egg that ached under his exploring fingers.
It didn’t take long to discover that all the passengers on the riverboat had already disembarked, including the girl. And the boy with the stones whose neck he wanted to wring had vanished as well.
Thoughts of revenge would have to wait. He had a job to do. His master would not be pleased with his failure.
The warrior managed to pick up the girl’s trail after a few hours. She had boarded another vessel headed for Caesarea. He paid passage on an Egyptian ship full of grain but had to wait until the next day before they set off for Sebastos Harbor.
By the time he arrived at the girl’s house, it was the dead of night. He sat hidden by a clump of shrubs, watching from the shadows. Weariness and the pounding in his head finally wore down his reserves and he fell asleep. A slight sound roused him from his restless slumber. His senses instantly alert, he picked out the slim, tall figure, wrapped head to ankle in a dark cloak, emerging from the house.
At first, he dismissed her as a servant, leaving the house before sunrise to run the daily errands of a small household. Then something in the girl’s gait caught his attention. The height was right. He crept out of his hiding place and followed the lone silhouette a few steps. A flutter of wind blew aside the cloak and bright moonlight caught the length of a calf. He smiled slowly, recognizing that distinctive skin.
The gods were smiling upon him, after all. Here she was, handed to him on a platter, utterly alone in the dusky predawn hour. What kind of accident should he arrange? He could throw her in front of a cart. But that wouldn’t assure her death. He could break her neck first. He was considering the merits of this plan when she turned a corner. Following behind, his eyes bulged when she climbed into the back of a cart.
What is she doing?
He had assumed he would have plenty of time to fake an accident as he followed her on foot. This unexpected and clearly prearranged ride turned his plan on its head. Instead of a leisurely pursuit, he now had to run behind the cart to keep up. With every step,
tentacles of pain shot through his injured head.
He couldn’t wait to get rid of the girl.
As the cart gained speed, he fell behind, until he lost sight of it. Cursing under his breath, he pushed harder, trying to catch a glimpse of them.
At the next intersection, he came to a stop, panting heavily, dry throat burning. Should he turn right toward the aqueducts, or left toward the harbor? He hesitated for a moment, undecided. There were more shops near the harbor. He turned left.
In the distance, he spied the cart again, pulled over to the side of the road. It was empty.
He stopped and cast about uneasily, looking for the girl and the driver. He spotted the driver first, speaking to a couple of sailors at the entrance to one of the breakwaters.
Just behind the cart driver, he finally spied the girl standing behind a potted palm tree, barely discernible in her dark cloak. Breathing a sigh of relief, he began to run in their direction.
By now, he had drawn close enough to hear the driver, who was speaking in the loud voice of a hawker. A pale boy with thin arms and a bony chest, he yelled enthusiastically, his arms spread wide for emphasis. “Pretty girls? Anybody want a visit by pretty girls?”
Heads were turning his way. On the ships that bobbed up and down in a tidy line ahead of them, sailors hung over the sides of their vessels, grinning.
Noticing their attention, the driver bellowed even louder. For a puny lad, he had a surprisingly deep voice. “I know beautiful girls. I can arrange to have them here before your captains arrive to ruin your fun.”
The sound of hooting and catcalls from multiple decks broke the predawn peace.
On a ship docked toward the end of the breakers, an athletic man advanced toward the prow of the vessel, leaning against the railing, his mouth a grim line. A dark-featured giant joined him at the helm, taking hold of the tiller. The warrior noticed he looked like a Cushite. “I am the captain,” he called out to the driver, “And I don’t like your kind of fun. Keep your pretty girls. We’re casting off. Raise that anchor, boys!”
