Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra by Angela Hunt

Author:Angela Hunt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biblical Fiction;FIC042030;FIC042040;FIC027050;Life change events—Fiction;Christian fiction;Love stories
ISBN: 9781441231239
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2017-04-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

I woke in a hut built of rough mud bricks. Weathered branches formed the roof over my head, dried leaves still clinging to the limbs that rustled with every breath of the wind. The odor of manure flooded my nostrils, mixed with the acrid smell of smoke, but I found the combination strangely pleasant compared to the stink of the slave ship.

I watched as a stout woman kneeled beside a cook fire in the center of the room. Smoke rose through a round opening in the ceiling, and what did not rise curled and crept down the back wall where I saw the girl who had been with me in the wagon.

“Ah, there you are.” The beginning of a smile tipped the corners of the stout woman’s mouth. “Glad you woke up. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

With an effort, I pushed myself up into a sitting position. I had been lying on a pile of rags and cast-off tunics, with a rough piece of burlap serving as a blanket. “Where am I?”

The woman left the fire and sat on a low stool next to me. “You’re on the Octavii estate. We grow food for the market and provide them with a good living.”

“And . . . who are you?”

The woman grinned, exposing a mouthful of brown teeth. “The vilica, charged with seeing to the health of all the slaves kept on the farm. I had my doubts about you when the wagon pulled up.”

The word was new to me. “Vilica . . . you are a healer?”

She chuckled. “The vilica is the wife of the vilicus, the overseer. I oversee the women’s work, but mostly I oversee the overseer.”

She turned back to the fire, where a fragrant stew or something bubbled in a cauldron. “I am stirring a pottage that will set you to rights and put a little flesh on your bones. I’ll have you on your feet in no time.”

My stomach growled in anticipation. I tried to sit a little straighter but winced at the touch of the rough burlap against my skin.

The woman gave me a sympathetic look. “You’ve got a case of sores on your backside—comes from rubbin’ against the ship’s planks. But I have already applied salve, and you’ll—”

“Be on my feet in no time,” I murmured, finishing her thought. I looked at the child, who hadn’t said a word but watched me with large gray eyes. “And who are you?” I asked.

The girl did not reply, but her eyes widened and something that might have been a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“We do not know what to call her,” the woman said. “She doesn’t speak.”

“Not at all?”

“Not a word in any language.” The older woman sucked at the inside of her cheek a moment. “I was afraid someone had cut out her tongue, but it is still there. So maybe she will talk, someday.”

“You ought to call her something,” I said, staring at the child. Her golden hair had once been cut, perhaps even shaved off.

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