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Jewel of the Nile

By Tessa Afshar

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CHAPTER ONE


The boat glided past the famed statues of Pharaoh Amenhotep, two stone giants that had guarded the western shores of the Nile for over a thousand years. The first had been badly damaged by an earthquake, its face unrecognizable. But the second seemed to gaze upon Chariline with regal eyes, as if weighing her mettle. She gave the old Pharaoh a lopsided smile. After years of Grandfather’s baleful glares, Amenhotep could not intimidate her.
The vast breadth of the Nile spread before Chariline, its smoky blue waters as mysterious as the guardian statues of Memnon. She felt the rhythm of her pulse change, growing faster, harder, and a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the weather seeped beneath her skin. No matter how many times she made this journey, traveling on the Nile never ceased to exhilarate her.
The river itself was a battlefield, its currents moving north, while the wind blew south, and their vessel became the object of a tug of war between them. Chariline watched the white sail as it caught the breeze and bellowed tight, the winds proving stronger than the waves, carrying them determinedly away from Egypt.
Just as the sun was sinking, a huge golden slab turning the sky into flames of crimson, they came upon the island of Elephantine, a huge landmass that had once marked Egypt’s most southerly border. They would dock in its modest pier and spend the night in the anchored boat.
Her aunt’s pale face appeared at the door of the cabin built into the aft of the barge. “Are we stopping for the night?”
“Yes, Aunt Blandina.”
Chariline helped her aunt off the boat, guiding her up the stone staircase that had been carved directly into the river as a means of measuring the water’s levels. Some enterprising merchant had built Roman style latrines in the marina. For a modest fee, Chariline and her aunt availed themselves of the facilities before returning to the narrow cabin to retire for the night. Chariline would have preferred to sleep on the deck under the bejeweled stars like most of the local passengers. But her aunt, who would have to make a full report of their journey to Grandfather, forbade what the old man would consider an indignity.
Chariline sighed and slipped into her pallet. Every year, since she had turned ten, as soon as traveling by water became relatively safe after the ides of March, Chariline had traveled from Caesarea to Cush to visit her grandparents for exactly two weeks. Fourteen days and not an hour longer. Grandfather had established those rules the first time he had sent for her. He had never wavered from them in the ensuing years.
Chariline had not wanted to change those rules, either. Although she loved Cush and its capital city of Meroe, the company of her grandparents strained her nerves after the second hour. By the end of the second week, she felt as ready to take her leave as they were to be rid of her.
Her grandfather, a mid-ranking civil official acting as an agent of Rome, had been assigned to Cush over twenty-five years ago. He had expected to rise in his career. Expected Cush to be a stepping stone to greater things. Instead, his career had stalled, and rather than a modest beginning, Cush had proven a dead end. He had become the one permanent fixture of Rome in a small kingdom. Men with greater potential and influence were sent to better posts in Egypt.
Whether his disappointment had caused Grandfather to become a sour man, or his disposition had been the reason he had never risen high, she could not tell. She had tried to understand the man from the day she met him, and never succeeded.
Taking one last longing look at the indigo sky through the skinny window, Chariline closed her eyes with a sigh, and fell asleep to the enthusiastic music of frogs.
The gentle sway of the boat as it raised anchor just before sunrise woke her. Careful not to disturb Aunt Blandina, she slid silently out of bed and made her way onto the deck. Even this early in the day, the wide, swirling waters of the Nile were host to a plethora of tiny and large vessels. Their captains, familiar with the deceptive eddies and sandbanks hiding under the river’s seemingly hospitable waters, guided their vessels with watchful expertise.
An hour later they came upon the First Cataract in the river. The cataracts, unnavigable sections of the Nile where boulders littered the surface of the river’s bed, could not be crossed except during summer’s flood season. The passengers had to disembark and walk on foot, while men carried the barge on the soggy banks with the help of two bony oxen.
After the boat resumed its journey south, a boy with jet skin and a beaming white smile approached Chariline. She recognized him as one of the hired hands on the boat. He had helped carry their baggage onboard and ran errands for the passengers. Thin, naked torso glistening in the sun, he crouched down, dropping twelve smooth stones between them. With a hand, he gestured an invitation. Chariline grinned back, and glancing over to ensure her aunt remained safely ensconced in the cabin, squatted to face the boy.
She had seen him play the stones with a handful of other passengers, his fingers nimble and lightning fast. He would beat her, she knew. And although, in general, she had an aversion to losing, she would not mind it this time. Losing meant she could give the boy a coin without violating his pride. A coin that would help feed him for a day or two.
“Your name?” she asked in Meroitic.
The boy’s grin widened. “Arkamani,” he said, pushing out his chest.
“I am Chariline.”
They drew lots to determine who should begin the game. Arkamani won and started, throwing a single stone in the air with a smooth motion. The object of the game was simple. Throw a stone in the air, pick up one from the ground and catch the flying stone before it dropped. The next round, pick up two stones from the ground, then three, and so forth, until you held six in your palm. The second round, you threw two stones in the air, and began again.
The game didn’t change hands until the one playing fumbled. Arkamani did not drop a stone until the third round. Chariline held her own for a few throws, but she lacked the boy’s agility and practice. With astonishing dexterity, he won the game in the next round. From her bag, Chariline extracted a small coin and one of Aunt Blandina’s special cakes. “Honey,” she said, indicating the pastry.
Arkamani’s eyes rounded. He shoved the honey cake into his mouth, turning his cheeks into two round lumps. Chariline laughed.
“You need something in Meroe, you call me,” the boy said, swallowing. “Call Arkamani.” He slapped his narrow chest noisily. “I am your man, honey lady.”
Chariline hid her smile. “You’re a little too young to be my man.”
“I’ll grow,” he assured her.
The captain yelled the boy’s name. “Better go before you get into trouble, Arkamani.” Chariline pointed her chin toward the captain.
The boy shrugged. “He is my uncle. No trouble, honey lady.” Gathering his stones with care, he gave her another smile before running to do his uncle’s bidding.
The next afternoon, her aunt emerged from the cabin to partake of a brief respite on the deck. The heat had turned her delicate skin the color of a mature beet, and she waved her ostrich fan in front of her face with an air of desperation. “It feels too hot to breathe.”
“It’s cooler outside than in that stuffy cabin,” Chariline said. “Stay with me and enjoy the breeze from the river.” Chariline saw a sleek silhouette slither past, a good distance from where they stood leaning against the side of the boat. She drew a sharp breath. “Look, Aunt!” she pointed.
“Gods! Is that . . .?”
“A crocodile. Yes! Isn’t it wonderful?”
Blandina shuddered. “Monstrous. I can’t wait to get off this contraption.” She frowned as she turned to study her niece. “You will roast your skin in that sun. Hold your parasol higher.”
By which she meant that Chariline’s already dark skin would grow even darker. An unforgivable offence, as far as her grandparents were concerned. With a sigh, Chariline adjusted her parasol. It wasn’t as if the little bit of papyrus and wood could magically transform her complexion into the same pale shade as her aunt’s.
From the first time Chariline had looked into a mirror, she had known that she would never fit into her family. Her skin looked like cinnamon with a hint of cream. Her tight brown curls with their sprinkling of dark gold refused to be tamed into a silky fall. Her full lips, long, toned limbs, and high cheekbones all set her apart from her chalk-white, fair-haired family. Perhaps that was why her grandfather never looked her in the eyes.
Even a short stroll through the narrow lanes of Meroe was enough to show that although her mother had been a Roman through and through, half of Chariline belonged to Cush. Her mother must have met her father there.
All her life, Chariline had been told two things about her father: that he was dead, and that she was never to mention him. More than once, her curiosity had prompted her to ask the forbidden questions her heart could not set aside. Who was he? Did he know of her existence? How did he meet her mother? Did he still have family living in Meroe? How did he die? An endless litany of questions that had never found an answer. In her grandfather, they had met with stony, disapproving silence. In her grandmother, a fearful and equally silent grief. Only her aunt had responded to her badgering.
“I never knew him, Chariline. I only know that your mother loved him dearly. And ran away to marry him without permission.”
That was the sum total of her knowledge of the man who had fathered her: that like her mother, he was dead. That he was a Cushite. And that her mother had loved him.
And now, she would likely not discover anything else about him. After over twenty-five years of unremarkable service to the empire, her grandfather had received his marching orders. He was to retire later that spring. Leave his house in Cush and begin a quiet life in the countryside of Italia somewhere. With his imminent departure, Chariline had to discard whatever hopes she had nurtured over the years of one day discovering her father’s identity. Grandfather would never crack the wall of secrecy he had erected around her parents’ marriage. And with Meroe far behind them, she would lose all access to any Cushite resources. Not that it really mattered. The man was dead, whether she knew his name or not.
Arkamani interrupted the dark train of her thoughts by sidling up, armed with his stones. “Come to thrash me again?” she said, cracking a small smile at the urchin’s eager expression.
“If you insist, honey lady.”
This time, Arkamani won even faster than before.
She studied his grinning face for a moment. “No one will play with you twice if you beat them too quickly,” she warned.
“Apologies, honey lady. Uncle needs my help soon.”
“Hold one moment,” she withdrew another honey cake from her bag, which found its way into Arkamani’s mouth as quickly as before.
Two days, four honey cakes, and several coins later, they arrived at the Fifth Cataract. The river, which flowed narrower this far south, had turned a pale willow green, heralding their proximity to the city of Meroe. The Capital of Cush occupied a gentle bend on the banks of the Nile between the Fifth and Sixth Cataracts.
After they navigated the rocks and piled back into the boat, Aunt Blandina lingered for a rare moment with Chariline. “Not far now,” she said, wrapping the edges of her stola closer about her. Never talkative, she became quieter still in Cush.
“Grandmother will be happy to see you.”
Aunt Blandina made a non-committal sound.
“I love Meroe. I don’t understand why Grandfather loathes it here. If he were a little less demanding, he might find himself enjoying the place.”
Aunt Blandina bit her lip. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” She allowed herself a tiny smile. “You sound like your mother. She, too, loved Cush.”
“Did she?” Chariline pressed eagerly, hoping to hear more about the mother she knew so little.
A curtain drew over her aunt’s face, wiping away every trace of warmth. “Hold up your parasol,” she admonished before turning her back and heading for the cabin.
Fishing her roll of papyrus out of her bag, and grabbing her ink pot and stylus, Chariline settled down to work on the palace she had been designing for her friend, Natemahar.
It had become a tradition between them. Every year when she came to Cush, she designed an opulent building for him. He loved her designs and told her she had rare talent. He was one of the few who did. Most believed a woman had no business wanting to be an architect. Wanting to learn engineering and construction. But Natemahar encouraged her to pursue her training. Over the years, he had sent her seven of Vitruvius’s ten famed books on architecture. They had become the foundation of her growing knowledge.
The reminder of Natemahar’s extraordinary support made her heart lift. She might not have been blessed with the love of a proper family, but when it came to friendships, God had more than favored her.
A few hours later, as the boat navigated a sharp bend, Chariline’s attention was captured by movement on the bank. A black and white ibis pecked at the dark mud with its long beak. In the distance, something red caught Chariline’s eye on the eastern shore. Setting her drawing aside, she leaned forward to catch a better glimpse. There it was, the first pyramid of Meroe, coming into view, followed by dozens more in bright reds, yellows, and ochres. They were nothing more than a cemetery. A burial ground for the aristocracy and royalty of the kingdom. But the pyramids of Meroe held a fascination for her that went far beyond their prosaic function. Their curious construction and enduring mystery never ceased to captivate her. Not long after, the sailors began to lower the sails and prepare to drop anchor.
Chariline headed for the cabin. “Aunt Blandina, we have arrived at the port.”
Blandina came to her feet carefully, frowning at the sharp rocking motion of the boat. Signaling the captain, she arranged for their luggage to be carried to the city gate, and led the way gingerly to the narrow, wooden pier.
Stout walls constructed of dressed stone encircled the whole city of Meroe. At the main gate, two angular stone towers jutted out like stubborn jaws, flanking the entrance into the city, giving the guards a better vantage point as they monitored the river that brought life and goods past their city.
Chariline and her aunt entered the massive wood and iron gates after the soldiers gave their papers a cursory examination. Past the tower, they sat by the wall, leaning against their piled baggage, and prepared for a long wait.
Chariline stretched her neck, surveying the crowd. She knew better than to look for her grandfather. He would not meet them for another hour. He never left work until the afternoon regardless of the time of their arrival. Since their boat often anchored at Meroe earlier, they were expected to tarry at the gate and wait for him patiently.
Chariline searched through the busy throng, trying to spot her friend, Natemahar. She swallowed a smile when she caught sight of him striding toward them. Not once, in all the years of her visits to Cush, had he missed her arrival. He stepped in front of Aunt Blandina and gave her a formal nod of acknowledgement. His rich clothing, as well as the young servant who stood deferentially at his side, carrying a carved alabaster box, declared him an important official.
Aunt Blandina’s eyes widened a little. Natemahar smiled reassuringly. Every year, he arranged for this charade, and every year Blandina forgot.
“A small gift for the daughter and granddaughter of our honored Roman official, Quintus Blandinus Geminus,” Natemahar said in perfect Latin, his words made more exotic by his soft, musical accent. “Compliments of the great Kandake of Cush.” He managed to say the words with a straight face, though his ebony eyes sparkled.
Chariline bit her lip. The Kandake, or Candace as the Greeks and Romans referred to her, was the title of the queen mother who exerted more power in Cush than her own son. And if the Kandake had ever sent a present to her grandfather, Chariline was willing to eat her leather sandals. The queen had never shown the Roman official any special favors. But as her Chief Treasurer, Natemahar had the authority to impart gifts in her name.
“Thank you.” Blandina reached for the box. She flipped the lid open and gave a faint smile. “Oh. How nice.” Dried fruits and nuts had been packed in a precise pattern of arcs and triangles. Dates, figs, raisins, peaches, and almonds had been turned into an edible painting.
“That’s beautiful!” Chariline exclaimed and reached for a plump date. “And delicious. Our thanks to your most thoughtful and gracious Kandake.”
Natemahar bowed to her, enveloping her in the warmth of his smile. “I am honored you are pleased, mistress.” Was there more grey at his temples? Deeper lines radiating from the corners of his eyes? Had he been unwell? None of his letters had mentioned an illness. But she knew that Natemahar often struggled with his health, a lingering side effect of the procedure that had rendered him a eunuch so long ago, when he had been a boy.
Chariline could not help worrying for him. Hiding her anxiety behind a smile she said, “I couldn’t imagine a better welcome to your delightful land, my lord.”
“And I couldn’t imagine a lovelier addition to our ancient kingdom.”
This hidden dance of words had become one of Chariline’s favorite games. Every time they met in public, they had to pretend not to know each other, and yet find ways to communicate. Natemahar had a genius for it, she had discovered. A byproduct of spending his life in the complexities of a scheming royal court.
“May I offer you ladies my chariot?” Natemahar suggested politely.
“Thank you. My father will be here shortly,” Blandina said.
“In that case, I will take my leave of you.” He bowed with the grace of a life-long courtier, and melted into the crowd. He would not be far, Chariline knew, but hide himself close enough to keep an eye on them lest someone in the packed press of people should attempt to accost them.
“Who is that man?” Aunt Blandina asked. “He seems familiar.”
“I believe he is one of the Kandake’s officials. He delivered a welcome gift to us last year, you may recall.” And the year before. And the year before that. Fourteen years of imaginative welcomes.
“Oh yes. Now that you mention it. What a good memory you have, Chariline.”
“Thank you, Aunt.”
Then again, since Chariline had known Natemahar from the age of seven, and they had been communicating via secret letters for years, she was not likely to forget him.
 

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