by Tessa Afshar
Justus, motionless until that moment, became a sudden flurry of activity. Without a word, he strode out of the chamber, his cloak flapping behind him like a whip. I had gained my brother back. But my heart was lost. The fragile, newborn feelings Justus had begun to nurture for me could not withstand the weight of my dishonesty.
“It is too much to ask for more than one miracle,” I said, trying to sound strong. Inside, I felt mangled. Beyond repair. How do you live in a graveyard of dreams? How do you contend with the wreck you make with your own hands?
Dionysius returned to his chair. “The Lord is not stingy.”
As if waiting for that name, there was a knock on the door. I had a glimpse of unruly hair as Paul’s head appeared, his body hidden by the frame. “I have come to pray. May I enter?”
“Paul!” Dionysius cried. “Come! Come, and welcome. He is asleep, worn out from having the bone set. I am so grateful you have joined us.”
Paul walked in, that restrained storm of a man, and immediately the feeling in the sickroom shifted. It was as if his mere presence expelled fear. I found myself awash in relief and an unreasoning hope.
Paul studied my father. “As the prophet Elisha once told an anxious king, ‘This is an easy thing in the eyes of the Lord.’”
I sidled over. “The physician says it is a bad break. He fears it will go putrid.”
“Bah,” Paul said, waving a hand. “Physicians. They are only men, after all. What is to them an unsolvable case is to God a simple matter. We shall ask Jesus to touch your father.” He gave me a lopsided smile full of mischief. I wanted to grin back, like a carefree child, as if I were not carrying a millstone around my neck.
CHAPTER 25
THE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST prayed in a strange manner, for they offered no sacrifices. Not even a meager turtledove shed its blood for their petitions. Instead, Paul and Dionysius used the simple language of everyday men, their supplications more a conversation with an invisible being than a formal liturgy.
I began to understand what Dionysius had meant about the difference between their God and the impersonal force toward which the Stoics gravitated. They addressed their God as Father, and sometimes they even used a Hebrew endearment, Abba, which they said was the intimate term with which a Jewish child addressed a beloved father.
“We are his sons by adoption,” Paul explained. It was as children that they prayed, lifting my father up to the care of one who had knit his bones together in his mother’s womb. “Knit his bones together again, Lord,” Paul said simply. “Restore them where they are shattered.”
He anointed my father’s forehead with a touch of oil, whispered a benediction, and stepped back.
Hours before, that chamber had been a place of torment, of unendurable pain, of bitter confessions and rejection. As Paul and Dionysius wove their prayers about my father, a strange peace settled around us. It was as if they had swept out the lingering effects of those hours, swept away the dark agitation and distress that had occupied the room like a noxious fume.
Paul turned to me. “I would like to remain, if I may, and to continue to pray for Galenos.”
“Of course. You are most welcome.” During my father’s indisposition, Dionysius was the head of the household. Paul knew that he already had my brother’s invitation to remain. I found his polite inquiry touching. A single woman could easily be overlooked in our world. By asking my permission, he had shown that he cared for my opinion.
My time at Father’s bedside had reduced me to shivery exhaustion. I excused myself, thinking to rest for an hour.
Outside Father’s chamber, I found Galatea crouching on the floor, knees clasped to her breast. I came to an abrupt halt. Why had I not perceived it before? Starved of goodness, Galatea had been won over by my father’s daily kindness. She had been wooed by his generosity when he had set her free from that house of horrors for the sake of a promise few men would have kept. She had grown to love him because he had treated her like a human being rather than a slave.
“Galatea, you may go in.” The poor creature slid past me and rushed into the room as if life itself waited for her within.
Back in my chamber, I tried to rest my body, even though my thoughts raced as fast as Theo’s chariot. With surgical objectiveness, I pulled apart the open cuts in the flesh of my life. I examined my own actions, and for once, told the truth about the motives that drove them.
It seemed so clear now, my utter arrogance, my thoughtless disregard of others. I had insisted that I was serving my family, while in fact I had served my own desires.
I had wanted to be Father’s savior. To be the one person in the family who stood by him. I had wanted to show I was better than the rest.
But when I examined my decisions of the past few months all the way to their knobby roots, I saw a simple truth: I wanted to do what I wanted to do.
Five years had passed since I had left my mother and grandfather behind, and I was still rebelling against their dictates. Still pushing against their boundaries. Defiance ruled my life, not love.
I never considered the cost to my father. The anxiety I would cause him. The pain, were I to be caught. The utter disgrace my actions would win for our family. I had thought only of myself. Whitewashed my decisions with a handful of admirable excuses too thin to fool anyone but me.
In the court of my own mind, I dispassionately stood trial and judged myself guilty. I deserved the lofty price I paid. By insisting on having my own way, I had destroyed the budding affections of the only man I would ever love. And I had harmed the father who was the world to me.
I would have to live the rest of my days with these truths.
I pushed myself out of bed, intending to return to Father’s chamber. On the way there, I spied Paul sitting on a marble bench in front of the diminutive pool in the courtyard, twirling a sprig of rosemary in his hands.
Without thinking, I walked toward him. “May I sit with you?” I asked, not wanting to offend his Jewish sensibilities.
“I was waiting for you,” he said cryptically, sweeping his arm in invitation.
“Shall I order a meal? Some wine, perhaps?”
“I am content. It is your company I wish to share.”
I perched next to him, perplexed by this revelation. The silence stretched between us. For a man who had wanted my company, he did not have much to say. It occurred to me that I could trust this man, trust him with my life. I had no proof of this wild conclusion. I barely even knew him. And yet some deep-rooted conviction compelled me to confide in him.
I had confessed my sins to Justus and Dionysius. My brother had forgiven me. Justus had not. Now I made a perilous decision. I chose to confess to this man. There was no rational reason for a stark confession, nothing to be gained by such an action. But my soul longed to do it, to disclose my offenses to a man who called God Father without being impertinent.
“I am a thief,” I began. It grew easier after that.
I spoke as the shadow on the sundial in the middle of the courtyard lengthened. For a whole hour I confessed every sin I could think of, every vanity, every pride, every act of selfish rebellion. I laid it before him bare of excuses.
Finally, my story came to its conclusion. “Tell me, Paul, does your God have room in his heart for a thief?”
He gave me a lingering appraisal. “There were three crosses on Golgotha the day Jesus was crucified. He hung in the middle between two thieves. One of them, after acknowledging his guilt, said to him, ‘Remember me when you come into your kingdom.’
“That was enough for Jesus. That drop of faith, that simple admission. He said to that thief, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.’ In paradise! That thief, who by his own admission was guilty and justly punished, is at this moment enjoying peace you and I can only imagine. He is swimming in joy, brimming with contentment. He keeps company with the Son of God and his angels. He shall live an eternity without tears or sickness or despair. One day, he will enjoy a new body th
at is eternal, imperishable, unbreakable.
“Yes, Ariadne. Our Lord has a tender place in his heart for thieves who repent. You have confessed your sins. This is an important step on the road to repentance.” He gave a dazzling smile. “I told you once. God wants everything. Every part of you.”
Now I understood what Paul had meant that day. This God did not move in half measures. He did not want to hold my hand; he wanted to have my soul. He wanted me. The broken and the good in me. And he wanted to love me whole. What I had always hungered for, he wanted to give me. But the price was my life. The end of defiance and self-rule. The end of arrogance and vanity. He wanted a child who would burrow her face in his neck and trust him with her broken future.
“It does not seem like he is getting a very good bargain,” I said, thinking my life too tangled a mess to be worth much. “But I want what Dionysius has. The power to forgive. The desire to love. I want God.”
When I took my leave of Paul that day, I felt clean. Clean and right.
The following morning, I found to my amazement that Father was awake and cheerful for a lame man in danger of losing his leg.
As soon as he saw me, he asked everyone to leave the room so we could speak. “You need not concern yourself,” I said. “I have already told Dionysius and Justus the truth. Paul, too.”
His eyes widened in his wan face. “Ariadne, I wanted to protect you.”
I fell on my knees by the bed. “You are the best father a woman could have. I do not deserve you. But it is time I bore the consequences of my actions. Dionysius has already forgiven me. God, also, Paul assures me, for I have asked his pardon. Now it is your turn. I ask your pardon, my precious father.”
Tears clogged my throat. “I ask your pardon for my obstinate defiance, for my thoughtlessness, my selfish disregard of your wishes. I ask that you forgive me for causing you so much pain and costing you your health.”
He was shedding his own tears. “I grant it, freely.” He pulled me up from my knees and made me sit next to him. “You never met your grandfather—my father. He was a wonderful man. Died before you were born. Gone from me too soon.
“I have a memory of him teaching me to climb stairs. I must have been no more than a toddling babe. He had taken me by the hand and was helping me up. By the third step, I froze. I could not go up. I could not go down. ‘No!’ I said with all the vehemence of a child.
“My father did not force me to go on. He tousled my hair and said, ‘That’s all right, Son. You did well to come this far.’ He picked me up in his arms and carried me the rest of the way. Carried me safe. It never occurred to me that I had failed. I felt like a king who had conquered three steps by myself. That is what fathers do, Ariadne. They see how far you have come and cheer you, so you will learn to go the rest of the way.
“You have come so far, my girl. You will go the rest of this way as God gives you strength.” He stopped. His cheeks turned a ruddy color. “And now, I ask your forgiveness.”
“You have done nothing that requires my pardon.”
“Ariadne, you have always blamed your mother for the divorce. For the rupture in our family. The lost, hard years. Yet I bore as much responsibility in the matter as she did. I knew how she would feel if she found out about my thieving. I chose to do it anyway. Like you, I did what I wished, disregarding my own wife’s needs. The blame is more mine than hers.”
Before confessing to Paul, before asking God to take the reins of my life, I would have dismissed Father’s confession. I liked looking at things through the prism of my own interpretations. But I had grown more aware of the perverse way I twisted truth to suit my own needs. I thought of my mother, a young woman from a proud family, discovering her husband’s lawlessness. She had not been trained in the ways of grace. She would not have been able to cope with Father’s betrayal.
I saw then that Father, too, was broken. If he had chosen a different path, he might have influenced my mother to become a softer woman. A more loving mother. His absence had changed all of us.
“I forgive you,” I said, feeling the blood drain from my face. Forgiving him meant that I must forgive my mother, also. But that seemed an impossible task. She had hurt me too deeply. I realized I was no more equipped for grace than she. The bottled resentments of my childhood years presented an insurmountable block. How was I to get past them? I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. It was a good thing that God was patient. He would need to be if he wanted me as a daughter.
Father raised a hand. “I almost forgot. You said you told Justus the truth. What did he say?”
I pasted a smile on my face. “He walked out without a word. Hasn’t returned since.”
Father exhaled a long breath. “That is a pity. He may yet change his mind. Some men need time to navigate through their thoughts. If he rejects you, then he is not the man for you.”
“Who said anything about him being the man for me?” I squeaked.
His mouth tilted up. “Come now. I have eyes. I know you care for him. But, Ariadne, as I have learned to my detriment, a happy marriage can only come between two people who, knowing each other’s faults, continue to treasure one another. If he can know the worst about you and still love you, then he is right for you. If not, better for you that he should walk away.”
The problem with wisdom is that it is devoid of comfort. It cannot mend an aching heart no matter how much sense it contains. The two men who could offer me the greatest consolation were both gone. “You have not asked after Theo since he left,” I said.
Father closed his eyes for a moment. “I know why he left. And I know where he is.”
“He told you?”
“He did not need to. I had known what was in his heart for weeks. He could not hide his feelings from me any more than you could.” He pulled on the sheet, adjusting it. “This, too, is my doing.”
“You take too much upon yourself.”
“If I had adopted Theo as I ought to have done, then he would have seen himself as my son and your brother rather than a stranger. Instead, I created a world of uncertainty around him. Around all of us. In that uncertainty, you saw the world one way and he another.”
“You know where he is?”
“He is staying with a couple named Priscilla and Aquila. They are Paul’s friends.”
“Paul’s friends?”
“He needs a fresh start, Ariadne. A safe place to heal. And he needs God. Priscilla and Aquila will offer him those things.”
“You’ve met them?”
“I have. They are exceptional people. I hope you will meet them one day.”
I heard a commotion at the door and Galatea came in. “Forgive the intrusion, master. The physician is here.”
Celsus strode in, his young slave in tow, carrying a pristine leather bag. Within moments, he had laid out his instruments. I noticed a deadly looking saw and gulped.
He began to unwrap the bandages around Father’s leg. “These need to be changed every day,” he explained. He seemed surprised by the lack of excessive swelling in the limb. Frowning, he poked the location of the fracture, making Father wince. “I confess, you have progressed far better than I would have expected, given the condition you were in when I first examined that leg. I can hardly account for it.”
He made a motion to his slave, and the boy packed away the saw. I could have cried with relief. “If you continue to improve, I will splint the leg on the third day.” He mixed a tincture of oil and wine and dipped a large wad of linen bandages into the liquid. Methodically, he wrapped the first piece from the sole of the foot in a spiral upward. The second bandage was wrapped in the opposite direction, covering the area of the fracture. He then spread a broader layer of lint over the bandages, and another bandage began with several spiral turns over the leg.
“I will return in the morning.” He gave a narrow smile. “If you continue to mend at this rate, I shall claim myself a genius and raise my rates higher than they already are.”
“Not very
charming, is he?” I said when he had left.
“He does not need to be if he saves this leg.”
“He had help. Paul and Dionysius prayed for you yesterday while you were sleeping.”
“Paul?”
“For hours.”
“You sound as if you approve.”
“I do. He prayed with me, too.”
Father laughed, and I found myself joining him.
Paul returned in the evening, accompanied by Silas. We prayed together, thanking God for the good work he had already begun in Father, and asking him to complete it.
I arranged for a simple meal to be served in Father’s chamber, and we each found a spot to sit in the cramped quarters. Dionysius insisted that Paul should have the chair, while he sat on a stool. Silas and I settled on comfortable cushions, leaning against the wall. Galatea knelt at Father’s bedside, feeding him one careful spoonful at a time. I noticed Father did not seem to mind being reduced to an invalid while Galatea lavished so much tender attention upon him. Delia joined us at my urging. She had grown pale since Theo’s departure, and I worried for her.
When the door opened, I thought it might be one of the servants, bringing a fresh flagon of wine.
It was Theo.
Everything came to a crashing halt. Theo stood in the doorway, his eyes locked on Father. Unobserved, I could drink up the sight of that beloved face. Grief exploded in me. I felt as if someone had dug a crater into me. I could not approach him though he stood four steps away. I could not share my burdens with him, laugh with him, rejoice with him, hold his hand. He was forbidden to me now. My mere presence caused him pain.
Father lifted his arms in an invitation. Theo bounded to him and fell into his arms. Without waiting to be asked, we filed out, leaving them to talk in peace. This time, as I moved out of Father’s room, I noticed Galatea perched on one side of the door and Delia on the other. For a brief moment, I flirted with the idea of joining them.