Jewel of the Nile

by Tessa Afshar

  He laughed. “Well? Eat up. You won’t get another chance. Not like I’m going to bake you almond cake.”

  Chariline carefully divided the cakes and, using Sophocles’s short knife, cut the pomegranate into two halves.

  “I’ve got my own,” the old man said.

  “It’s not for you. It’s for Theo. Since he did all the praying and the arduous work of keeping me alive, it seems he deserves at least half the winnings.”

  “Come to think of it, he does.”

  White flyaway hair blew into the old man’s wrinkled brow. The saucy grin, always so close to the surface, flashed, revealing mostly toothless gums. Chariline’s heart swelled with a burst of affection. She wished her grandfather were more like Sophocles. Warm-hearted and playful. Bringing her head close, she whispered, “Iesous sent Theo to find you when you were deserted in Alexandria, Sophocles. Sent him to save you. The Lord must love you very much.”

  The old mariner’s face fell. “I’m not worth saving, girl. Not worth loving, either.”

  “But you are. Theo almost died proving it to you.”

  The brown, opalescent eyes filled. “Since that day, I been trying to be a better man. When someone so good as the master is willing to die for you, it gives your life a new worth.”

  Chariline nodded. “Someone even better than Theo did die for you, Sophocles. Died so that all your past mistakes might be redeemed and your future made secure. Died to restore to you the worth you lost. His name is Iesous, or as your master calls him, Yeshua. And he loves you dearly, Sophocles.”

  Sophocles hung his head. He didn’t say a word, but in the reflection of the setting sun, Chariline saw a lone tear sparkle on his cheek.

  Two days later, they arrived at the harbor of Puteoli, marking the end of Chariline’s sea voyage. She was days away from Rome. But she could not leave the ship just yet.

  Theo had left to arrange a berth for his ship and to organize the short-term storage of his goods at a nearby warehouse. He had forbidden her from leaving the Parmys without him, and she stood in the afternoon sun, chafing at the required delay.

  Theo’s men were a whirl of activity around her, transporting the heavy amphorae of soap and grain onto the dock. Impatient to disembark, Chariline leaned against the sternpost and studied the harbor. Having grown up in a port city, she had expected to be met with familiar sights and sounds. But Puteoli proved a new experience. Not as charming or beautiful as Caesarea, the ancient harbor of Puteoli was sprawling and industrial.

  The sounds of dozens of exotic languages mixed with the shrill cry of seagulls. Dockers pushed barrels of wine; slaves loaded crates full of cloth and pottery; sailors off-loaded more wheat than she had ever seen in one place. The massive flat-bottomed ships that had carried the grain from Alexandria could not actually dock at the harbor. Immense as floating cities, the ships had to drop anchor in the open sea while smaller vessels carried their cargo to shore.

  A line of poorly dressed women caught her attention, and Chariline turned to study them more closely. Only then did she notice the chain that bound them together at the neck. Some were half naked, exposed to the sun and the leering gazes of men. They stumbled toward the quay, urged on by the cracking whip of the man who shadowed them. A slave trader.

  “A terrible sight,” Theo said grimly, startling her. She would never grow accustomed to how silently the man moved.

  “Appalling,” she agreed. The Roman world was built on the back of such horrors. She remembered that Theo’s own mother had been a slave, which explained the bleak cast of his features as he watched the deplorable scene unfold.

  He stepped away from the sternpost. “We can disembark now. Are you ready?”

  Chariline picked up her small bundle and waved it at him. He took the knotted sheet from her hand and helped her down the gangplank. And finally, after six long weeks, her feet touched land.

  Like a hawk tracking its prey, the warrior watched her as she made her way to the quay. He was not going to lose her this time. He recognized the tall man walking next to her as the one he had seen briefly on the ship. He preferred not to tangle with that one. He would, if he had to. But for the moment, he wanted to wait and see if a better opportunity presented itself.

  He did not have long to wait. His mouth opened in a satisfied smile. The man left the girl to speak to his Cushite captain. They were only a few steps farther up the quay. Enough for the warrior to accomplish what he must. He had looked forward to this moment for a long time.

  The girl stood at the edge of the water, staring at the elegant trireme that was preparing for departure, fifty oars up on each side. The oars came down in perfect unison, as if conducted by music.

  The warrior timed his movements with infallible precision.

  The trireme’s oars lifted out of the water and swung up.

  He grabbed the girl from behind in a hard grip, his fingers digging into her tunic and skin. Pulling her back, he gained all the momentum that the solid muscles of his arms and back gave him.

  She gave a strangled cry. In the cacophony of the harbor, no one heard.

  He heaved her body in an arc and flung her into the path of the first oar. Right where she would be hit a mighty blow to the skull.

  The oars came down just as she landed in the water, headfirst.

  CHAPTER 18

  He will send from heaven and save me;

  he will put to shame him who tramples on me.

  PSALM 57:3

  Chariline felt her body fly through the air. From the corner of her eye she noticed the trireme’s oars. Coming down.

  Her head hit the water. She was blinded for a moment by foam, her eyes stinging from sea salt and the flotsam of the port. The momentum of her fall had placed her in the direct path of the first oar as it descended toward her.

  There was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Having grown up by the sea, Chariline had learned to swim like a fish. But even her skills in the water could not save her from being struck by that oar.

  She felt them then. Forty-nine oars lowering as one, churning the waters around her, coming within a handsbreadth of bruising and breaking joints and bones. But the first oar, the one that was descending toward her head, stopped. For a tiny fraction, as time stood still, she saw it, jiggling just above her, as though caught, stuck on some unforeseen impediment, the rower frantically trying to loosen it.

  Every instinct demanded that she swim up, toward sunlight and breath and shore. But she knew that the safest way was down, below the striking reach of the oars. Any moment now, that solid piece of thick oak, created for wrestling with oceans, would manage to lower, and if she was not out of its way, she would get herself battered and likely drowned.

  Her lungs were still not working at full capacity, and they were beginning to burn already, demanding air. Chariline ignored their clamor and pushed toward the murky bottom. She swam past the giant hull, past the oars, which had pulled out and were descending again, once more directly headed her way. Feet scissoring, arms stroking rhythmically, she pushed herself lower, out of their path, until she started seeing black dots before her eyes.

  Finally, she saw that the slow-moving trireme had floated just beyond her. A cylinder of safe space opened up above her in the sea. With the last of her strength, she pushed toward the light. Clinging to the edge of the pier, she gulped in the air, her vision blurred. Theo and Taharqa flew to her side, almost slipping into the water in their haste to reach her.

  “What happened?” Theo cried as he fished out her dripping body safely onto shore. “Are you all right?”

  Chariline could only manage a slight nod.

  “Did you faint again?”

  She shook her head.

  “By the time I saw you, you were already pulling yourself out. It’s a miracle you weren’t struck by one of the oars of that trireme.”

  Thinking of the oar becoming stuck at the last moment, barely missing her head, she could only agree. A miracle, indeed.
/>   Theo had stripped off his light cloak and was wrapping it around her shivering body. “Did you trip?”

  She shook her head, again.

  Taharqa, who had crouched on one knee next to her, squinted. “What then?”

  “Someone pushed me,” she managed, finally.

  “You mean they ran into you, and you fell over?”

  “I mean they grabbed me from behind and shoved me into the water.”

  Theo’s face jerked back as if slapped. “Are you certain?”

  “I can still feel the marks of his fingers on my back.”

  “Did he rob you?”

  Chariline reached for the leather pouch tied to her belt. “Still here.” Her bundle also sat untouched on the quay, getting damp with sea spray.

  Theo shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Chariline bit her lip. “Natemahar warned me that trying to find my father would be a dangerous undertaking. He seemed to think the queen would not approve.”

  Hauling her to her feet, Theo pulled the edge of the cloak over her sopping head. “You think the queen of Cush sent someone to assassinate you?”

  “It sounds mad, I know. But someone did just try to kill me.”

  “How would the queen of Cush know you would be arriving at Puteoli?”

  Chariline’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know.”

  The warrior ground his teeth. He could not believe the girl had survived that fall. He had arranged for the perfect accident. She should be dead twice over. He had pitched her into the water at the perfect angle. He could not believe his eyes when the oar refused to lower, stuck in the air like a defective wing.

  After that, she had remained underwater for so long that he grew hopeful. Perhaps she had drowned in spite of the unfortunate obstacle. But the creature would not die.

  He wanted to crush her under his feet like a lizard. He wanted to squash her in his fist like a ripe melon.

  He would have to wait. Yet again.

  With those two goons standing on either side of her like a blockade of impenetrable muscle, he could not lay a hand on her now. Once again, he was reduced to stalking her in the shadows, looking, but not touching.

  He watched as the Cushite captain hired a two-horse rheda, and the three piled in with their baggage and set off on the link road north toward Capua. The warrior smashed his fist into a clay amphora. It cracked, spilling some smelly spice all over the wet concrete.

  “Hey, you can’t do that!” a docker cried. The warrior turned one revolution to face the man. Seeing the look on his face, the docker backed up several steps.

  “Where do I hire a horse?” the warrior snapped.

  It took four days, two roads, and three inns, including the famed Tre Taverne, before they arrived in Rome. Determined to put her chilling experience at the port of Puteoli behind her, Chariline started to enjoy herself more the closer they came to the great capital of the empire.

  They traveled most of the way on the famed Via Appia, its heavy stone and lime mortar foundation covered by lava blocks, which made for a relatively comfortable ride in the horse-drawn rheda. Passing a series of breathtaking monuments, travertine facades glowing like an oyster shell in the sun, the architect in Chariline sat breathless, studying the grandeur.

  The way grew more jammed with crowds the closer they drew to the city, the monuments flanking the road giving way to shops and hawkers. The sheer noise, smell, and denseness of the population was dizzying. Municipal law forbade the use of carts and carriages within Rome in daytime hours to help with the incessant congestion. Theo arranged for their baggage to be delivered to his friends’ home that evening, and they resumed their journey on foot. Clinging tight to Chariline’s hand, Theo made sure that the crowd would not sweep her away.

  Upon entering the city gates, Chariline spied a sprawling bathhouse immediately to their right, its slightly faded facade not detracting from its splendor.

  “They carry my soap,” Theo said, noting her stare.

  “When can I visit?”

  “There is a better one when we turn left on Via Nova.”

  “Do they carry your soap?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then they are worthy of my patronage.”

  The corner of Theo’s lips tipped. “We are entering the Aventine neighborhood. At its northern border, some residents can watch the chariot races at the Circus Maximus from their rooftops. You can even see the Caesar’s palace and gardens from some of the taller villas.”

  “Can you see them from your friends’ rooftop?”

  “No. Aquila and Priscilla’s house is on the south side of the Aventine in a more modest neighborhood. They are workers of leather. Their shop occupies most of the ground floor, and their private chambers are on the second story.”

  It dawned on Chariline that she was about to oblige two perfect strangers to welcome her into their home. “Are you sure my presence will not inconvenience them?”

  “Quite sure. They are used to welcoming strangers. Set your mind at ease on that score. They will know to expect you. I sent them a note ahead of us.”

  Priscilla and Aquila’s house, a rectangular, two-story building, had whitewashed walls that were brightened with clusters of pink flowers cascading from several oleander bushes. The main gate was flanked by two jutting chambers. Through the open shutters of large windows, she saw that one chamber housed a shop and the second a workshop where a couple of men were cutting a large piece of leather.

  A fine black awning embossed with a scalloped design at the edges hung jauntily over the gate, providing shade to visitors. Theo rapped his knuckles on the open door and called out a short greeting.

  A woman with dark red hair arranged in a coronet of loops and braids hurried toward them. “Theo! I am so happy to see you, my dear.” She spoke an elegant Latin, more suited to a senator than a worker of leather.

  Theo’s eyes seemed to melt at the sound of her voice. “Priscilla. It’s good to see you.”

  “And Captain Taharqa! How is your dear wife?”

  Taharqa was married? Chariline remembered to snap her gaping mouth shut.

  The big captain’s handsome features softened as he smiled at Priscilla. “She is well. Thank you. And she loved the red leather cloak you sent her.”

  Chariline stared at the woman whose mere presence seemed to have transformed her companions from men to puddles. Close up, she saw that Priscilla was striking rather than pretty, with an angular face, delicate lips, and skin so fair it seemed to glow.

  Her bright-blue eyes held more warmth than cordiality as they rested on Chariline. “You are most welcome, my dear.” She managed to imbue each word with such sincerity that Chariline immediately joined the puddle.

  “Thank you for allowing me to stay at your home.”

  “Where else would you stay?” She took a step back. “Where are my manners? Come inside, everyone. You must be exhausted from all your travels.”

  Walking through a passage, they approached a bright courtyard. An open door on her left gave Chariline a glimpse of the shop, which had two long stone countertops and neat shelves stacked with colorful leather samples.

  The long, narrow entryway led to a courtyard so fiercely verdant, it made Chariline stand still in astonishment. The scent of flowers mingled with that of mint, thyme, basil, and tarragon. Around a small fountain in the center, someone had created a garden made up of a profusion of herbs, climbing cucumbers, peas, beans, and fat squash plants whose wide leaves spread like a viridescent cloak. On the outer edges of the courtyard, flowers bloomed in rich clumps of color, roses, lilies, violets, and irises turning the small space into a canvas of purples, pinks, and whites. Silvery and mossy greens nestled against dots of yellow and orange.

  The combined explosion of color and perfume made Chariline gasp. “It’s breathtaking!”

  “And most of it tastes good,” Priscilla said.

  From one of the rooms lining the left side of the courtyard, the sound of fierce bar
king emerged.

  “That’s Ferox.” Priscilla made a face. “He has taught himself how to open closed doors, I’m afraid. Any moment now, he is going to bound out here. Forgive his enthusiasm. He’s entirely safe.”

  Before Priscilla had finished speaking, a large dog with black shaggy fur ran toward them, barking.

  “Ferox!” Theo cried, and the hefty creature rose to place his paws on his chest. His big tongue darted out toward Theo’s face, doing a good job as a face towel.

  Theo laughed, avoiding the missile. “Sit, you monster.” When Ferox obeyed, he rubbed the black floppy ears. “Still no manners, I see.”

  The dog stared adoringly at Theo, tongue lolling, before turning to Chariline. She gulped, thinking the beast might try to jump on her the way he had Theo. As if sensing her dread, Ferox merely stuck his black muzzle into her hand, sniffed, and giving her a friendly lick, settled down once more.

  “I apologize for our beast.” Priscilla rolled her eyes. “Come. Let me show you to your rooms. Chariline, we have put you in my son’s room. Marcus is visiting his steward at his country estate in Ostia.”

  Chariline frowned in confusion. Their son owned a country estate?

  “Theo and Captain Taharqa, you can share Uncle Benyamin’s chambers. He insisted on accompanying Marcus, saying the boy is too young to travel alone.”

  “I am sorry to miss Benyamin,” Theo said.

  “I think he was looking for an excuse to vacate the premises. We have a large order due, and the workshop has been toiling far longer hours than usual. Which is why Aquila is not here to greet you in person. He asked me to apologize. He will join us for dinner.”

  Priscilla turned to Chariline. “Are you hungry, my dear? Thirsty? Would you like to visit the baths? I want you to feel at home here.”

  Chariline decided that if Aquila was half as winsome as his wife, she might never leave.

  “What brings you to Rome, Chariline?” Priscilla asked, passing a dish of pear patina to Theo. The pears, stewed in sweet wine and honey before being smashed and cooked in eggs, melted on Theo’s tongue. They had gathered for supper in the long room on the second story of the house. Priscilla and Lollia had prepared a delicious meal of chicken seasoned with fresh dill, leeks, and coriander alongside carrots and parsnips, with a loaf of hot quadratus bread still steaming from the baker’s ovens. After weeks of eating fish and flat bread, every bite of Priscilla’s mouthwatering feast felt like a celebration in Theo’s mouth.