Chapter Thirteen

Those who play with fire,” Father once warned me, “are apt to be burnt.”

The words came back to me on a tide of memory, rippling through my mind as scores of curious observers watched the legionaries drag us away from the marble steps of our home. Neighbors in the Jewish Quarter stopped and stared as we stumbled down the street, and more than one man called Father’s name in consternation. I searched the crowd for Asher but did not see him. Like shameful criminals we were led past the synagogue and onto the wide Canopic Way, then through the gate at the city walls.

Finally we reached the Roman garrison. As a guard untied the ropes around our wrists, I prayed that someone would tell Asher what had happened and help him flee the city. Bad enough that Father had to suffer for my sake, I would not want Asher to be imprisoned as well.

Once my hands were free, a soldier pushed me toward a room and thrust me inside, then locked the door. At first I couldn’t see in the near darkness, but when my eyes adjusted I saw three other women in the windowless chamber. Father had been taken somewhere else. I hoped he would remain in the same building. Please, Adonai, keep him close.

The women with whom I found myself said nothing to me but stared at me with faintly accusing eyes. Clothed in the plain tunics of common Egyptians, they wore their hair either in simple braids or hanging free, with no adornment at all. Dressed as I was, in a fine linen chiton and a costly silk himation, I felt uncomfortable and conspicuous.

Unable to stand the pressure of the women’s eyes upon me, I stood facing the tiny window in the door, waiting for the guard to come tell me that the queen had ordered my release. I stood in that position for hours, then paced, ignoring the other women and trying to keep my chiton clean.

As the sun set and darkness thickened around me, I sat carefully on the floor with the wall at my back. Resolved to sleep sitting up, I closed my eyes, only to jerk awake every time my body listed and nearly surrendered to sleep.

I waited for relief that did not come.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith the following day, I had propped myself against the wall like the others, too weary to stand and too dirty to care about soiling my garments. That night I slept on the filthy floor, using my arms for a pillow and my thin himation for a blanket. Like the other women I relieved myself in a bucket and drank stale water from a communal ladle, grateful that the dim light in the room prevented the others from seeing the stains of humiliation on my face.

On the third afternoon, all four of us women were led out to face a magistrate. Egyptian justice was swift, and most punishments predetermined—common thieves were beaten, tomb robbers buried alive, and murderers executed. Since I did not know what charge had been laid against me, I had no idea what sort of punishment I might face.

The first woman had been arrested for stealing from her neighbor; the judge ordered the guards to beat her with a stick and send her home to her husband. The second prisoner had been accused of slandering the queen, but when no witness appeared to testify against her, the judge admonished her to mind her tongue and released her. The third woman, a common prostitute, stood accused of stealing from a customer. The magistrate ruled that she be released—after the guards had cut off her nose.

I covered my ears as a pair of guards held the harlot against the wall while another carried out the sentence. As my ears filled with the sound of frenzied screams, I imagined myself standing between a pair of guards while a third sharpened an ax to take off my head. Surely insulting the queen could not be answered by a light sentence.

I stood before the magistrate and lowered my gaze, bracing for whatever was to come. Would Cleopatra come here to testify against me? Surely not. She would never visit a garrison herself, so she would send word about my fate.

I fisted my hands when the magistrate’s eyes focused on me. “Your case has not been decided.” He gestured toward the door. “Back to the holding room with you.”

“And my father? Please, sir, what of him?”

My question seemed to harden the magistrate’s features, but he only pointed to the door. “We have not heard from the palace, so you and your father will remain here. Go!”

Not heard from the palace? What sort of game was Urbi playing?

As the guard led me back to my cell, I listened for the sound of familiar names. Father was here somewhere, and Asher might have been brought in. But though I strained to hear their voices, I heard nothing but the sound of rough laughter and belching as the legionaries took their ease at the end of the day.

By sunset on the third day, I had begun to believe that Cleopatra simply wanted to teach me a lesson. I had endured three full days in that dismal chamber without a change of clothing, a latrine, or my handmaid. I ate only when the Roman guards remembered to throw me a crust of bread or offer a bowl of gruel, and my hair had become a tangled mess.

She could not intend to leave me here forever. She had arranged for my father’s and brother’s arrest because she knew it would distress me to think of them suffering for my mistakes. But she respected my father, so at any moment we would receive a message from the palace, then we would be returned to our home.

As darkness filled my cell, I braced my back against the wall and picked at my fingernails, which were now mere stubs. By the time the first watch ended, I had to face a cruel reality: the queen had not forgotten my offense, and she did not yet want to forgive me.

How could Father have been so wrong? He had predicted that Cleopatra would regain her composure and forget about my offense, but she had not. But maybe the command to imprison us hadn’t come from Cleopatra, but from Caesar. Maybe the queen told Caesar that I’d called him an old man. Maybe such honest words were a crime in Rome, and I had committed a serious offense without even knowing it.

Perhaps I would sit here until Urbi took pity on me and ordered my release . . . or my execution. But surely she wouldn’t execute my father. He had done nothing to offend her, and Alexandria had always prized its scholars. Surely she would release him, if only for the sake of his reputation.

I worried about Father. He was not a young man, and he had to feel physical discomfort more than I did. He always walked stiffly in the morning, even after sleeping on two feather mattresses. How was he walking after three nights on a brick floor?

On the fourth day, the sounds of cheering outside the garrison broke the monotony. I begged passing guards to give me the reason for celebration in the street, but they did not respond. Finally, one young guard stopped by my door. “They are celebrating Caesar’s proclamation.”

My pulse quickened. “What did he proclaim?”

The guard shrugged. “To reward the Jew soldiers who helped him win the war, he asked the queen to give full citizenship to all Jews in Alexandria.” The legionary crossed his arms. “Oh—and she’s going to build a new synagogue in the Jew Quarter. Nice for them, I guess, but I did not hear any news worth celebrating.”

I listened to his report in astonished silence. Cleopatra was granting citizenship to Jews without forcing them to worship at the city’s pagan temples? Why had she agreed to do those things for strangers when she refused the same freedom for me and my family?

The answer arrived on a wave of intuition: Because Caesar had asked it of her.

She did as he asked, for she needed him more than she needed me.

I slid down the wall until I hit the dirty floor. Though I had no idea what had transpired between Caesar and Cleopatra, I could easily imagine a logical scenario. After Urbi ordered my family to prison, Caesar might have come to her chamber at the end of the day. Over a glass of wine, she would have confided the details of our encounter—how I’d refused her offer because I could not worship any god save the God of my fathers. Caesar, fortified by the wine and pleased by the sight of his child in Cleopatra’s belly, might have lifted her hand to his lips and said, “Why be so unforgiving, my dear? Grant citizenship to all the Jews, for we owe them a great debt. Require nothing from them, because they have already given their lives to our cause. We would not be sitting here if not for the Judeans who came to the aid of my legionaries.”

And Urbi, always eager to please the man she loved, would have acceded to his request while Father and I sat in prison and Asher ran . . . only HaShem knew where.

Would she ever order our release? Or had she completely forgotten about us?

Caesar’s proclamation gave me hope that we would be freed, because the entire city seemed caught up in a wave of magnanimity toward my people. But the day after the pronouncement, I overheard a soldier say that Caesar had sailed for Armenia, leaving three legions behind to guard the queen and keep the peace.

My shock yielded quickly to fury. How dare Cleopatra leave me and my father in prison for so long! Did all our years of friendship count for nothing? Or had she changed so much during our time apart that she no longer remembered our vow of friendship and our shared history?

That night I stretched out on the hard floor and begged Adonai to punish Urbi for her harshness. “I am here because I was being true to you, Adonai,” I reminded HaShem. “I was being faithful to the worship of only one God, and now I find myself in prison! Punish Cleopatra for her spiteful action and compel her to release me and my father.”

Two weeks later, I learned that Cleopatra had given birth to a boy. Invoking the titles of two great rulers, she named him Ptolemy Caesar.

“Ptolemy Caesar?” One of the guards spat the name with derision. “More like a little Caesar.”

“Caesarion,” another guard said, snickering. “A little Caesar to rule over us.”

As the words drifted through the window in my door, I let my forehead fall against the rough wood. If Cleopatra had just given birth, her thoughts would be centered on her baby. They were nowhere near the forever friend who languished in prison.

Joseph, son of Jacob, was imprisoned for years under one of the ancient pharaohs, but during our more civilized time, only rarely did a prisoner remain in captivity for more than a few months. Those who remained in the garrison while awaiting trial fell under the supervision of the Roman garrison commander.

The commander of Caesar’s remaining three legions was a man called Rufio. I met that officer after my first week of confinement and was immediately struck by the man’s blank expression. Anything could have been going on beneath that immobile face, and later I heard two soldiers talking about the reason for his inscrutability: the man had once been a slave.

I had a feeling that Rufio did not know what to do with me and my father. I could not fault his uncertainty—I didn’t have a rational explanation for our presence in prison, either.

“I have been waiting,” he told me one afternoon when he paused at my door, “for some communication from the palace, but I have heard nothing.”

“What of my father?” I asked, standing. “Is he well?”

Rufio grunted. “He is tolerable, but he has developed a cough.”

“Please.” I moved to the door and lifted my face to the window. “Will you fetch a doctor for him?”

I swallowed hard as another question lodged in my throat. I was desperate to know about Asher but did not want to remind this man that my brother’s name had also been on the arrest warrant.

I drew a deep breath and looked through the small opening. “We have friends at the synagogue,” I said, finding the commander’s eyes. “I am surprised none of them have come to inquire about us. But perhaps one of them could find a physician for my father.”

I studied the commander’s face, searching for a sign of compassion, but saw nothing beyond an inscrutable expression.

“Please,” I said again, lowering my gaze so the Roman would not see the tears in my eyes. “My father is not young, but he is a great scholar and teacher. HaShem will bless you if you care for him.”

“What god is that? I have my pick of ’em around here.”

“The God who sees and knows and is above all.”

Two days later, Rufio stopped by my cell again, but this time a guard opened the door. The commander stepped inside, startling me out of a shallow doze. Since I had no idea what his intentions were, I scurried to the back wall, determined to keep a measured distance between us.

Rufio gave me a quick head-to-toe glance, then cleared his throat. “Because I have heard nothing from the palace, I have written Caesar about the fortress prisoners. I hope to receive a reply within a few weeks.”

I released a choked, desperate laugh. A few weeks? Even if the answer came by the swiftest boat in the Roman navy, it would take several months to hear from Armenia.

I lifted my chin, gathering my courage. “Were you able to find a physician for my father?”

“I am sorry,” Rufio said, and something in his tone led me to believe he meant it. “I personally spoke to three physicians, but none of them were willing to come here. They know the risks of contagion are far greater than the odds of payment.”

I closed my eyes, unwilling to let the Roman see the anguish that seared my soul.

“I have a brother,” I said slowly. “Asher. Were your men able to find him?”

The commander’s gaze shifted and thawed slightly. “We never found him. We are no longer looking.”

I exhaled in relief. Had Asher left the city? I was fairly certain he’d been hidden by our friends in the Jewish Quarter. But if they had been afraid to be caught with him, they might have sent him south to fend for himself among the native Egyptians.

Rufio reached behind him for a torch, then brought it into my cell and held it aloft. The unexpected brightness caused me to look away, and even when my eyes had adjusted, I could do no more than squint at the man who stared at me, his eyes alive with calculation.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked. “Did you murder some nobleman? Did you steal from a wealthy merchant? Or from the queen herself?”

Looking away, I released a desperate laugh. “I am not certain of my crime,” I confessed, “but the day before I was brought here, the queen was my best friend. We argued. And here I am.”

Shock flickered over his face, then his features settled back into their natural stoic expression. Tucking one hand into his sword belt, he glanced around the filthy room that had become my home. “A lady should not be kept in such conditions,” he said, meeting my gaze. “I will have this room cleaned and furnished for as long as you are here. Do you require anything in particular?”

Such unexpected largess . . . why? I shrugged to hide my confusion and studied the man’s rugged face more closely. In his eyes I saw a look I had often seen in the eyes of other men.

I choked back a laugh. Urbi and I had often giggled about the effect of feminine beauty on the male species, but as I stood in that prison, my thoughts whirled in an odd mingling of gratitude and wariness. Wariness, because I knew what desire frequently led men to do, especially to unprotected women. Gratitude, though, for the soft concern I saw in the commander’s expression.

“I want nothing more than what my father is given.” I tucked a stray hank of hair behind my ear. “But water and towels for washing would be appreciated. And . . .”

“Yes?”

I pressed my lips together. “It may be my imagination, but sometimes I can smell something . . . delicious. Like meat on the fire.”

Rufio snorted. “It is a boy with a cart. He has begun to sell meat pies outside the garrison.”

“I do not suppose you could manage a meat pie for your prisoners every once in a while? My father and I are not accustomed to a diet of only gruel and bread.”

The Roman made a noise deep in his throat, then turned and left, locking the door behind him. But by sunset, my little cell had been swept and furnished with a straw mattress, a blanket and pillow, a basin, a linen towel, and a pitcher of clean water.

And that night I found half a meat pie in my bowl. I hoped the other half had gone to my father.

As I bit into it, I asked HaShem to forgive me if the meat had come from an unclean animal. I had to eat, but if He would forgive this sin, I would eat only clean meats for the rest of my life. If He would arrange for our release, I would pray five times a day and do anything my father asked, including marrying Yosef, if that was what Adonai wanted. . . .

Later, I asked Adonai to bless the commander for his kindness, and prayed that either Cleopatra or Caesar would remember me and my father and have pity on us.