Thief of Corinth

by Tessa Afshar

  CHAPTER 26

  YEARS BEFORE, I had planted a border of flowers in our courtyard, and it had always been my duty to care for them. I had neglected them too much of late, and dead blooms covered the anemones, lavender, and rosebushes. It was late in the evening. Too late for gardening. My strained muscles were in no shape for the simple requirements of spring flowers. But my mind proved too restless for sleep, and I settled before the plants, pulling off battered leaves and dead flowers in the light of the burning lamps.

  Low murmurs pulled me out of my reverie. I turned to find Justus walking toward me. Leaping to my feet, I grimaced as my back objected to the sudden move. He drew close, and for a long while studied me. Shadows danced over the golden skin and stained the green eyes. He looked weary and drawn. He looked wounded.

  There was a tiny taste of shame under my tongue.

  “Tell me why,” he said. “Make me understand.”

  It was the kindest thing he could have asked. He wanted to bridge the gap between us. To walk in my shoes, to taste of my fears. He hadn’t come in judgment or anger. He had come with a bid for understanding.

  Once, I would have tried to leverage his good opinion on the fulcrum of my justifications. No more. Love is not self-seeking. So I told him about my mother, about the years in Athens and living apart from Father. I had attempted to fill the void of my mother’s acceptance with every version of success I could carve out with my own hands. I had almost ruined myself with the effort. I did not excuse my actions. He had asked for understanding, and that is what I tried to give him.

  We were sitting near the hedge of flowers, and the scent of roses and lavender and the burning oil from the lamp filled our nostrils. The sun had long since set, and through the opening in the roof we could see the faint glint of a thousand stars. I came to the end of my words. The end of my explanations.

  I realized I was holding my breath, waiting. Waiting for Justus.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “That depends on God, and his plans for my life,” I blurted. I was starting to sound like Dionysius and wondered what Justus would make of it.

  “Paul has ensnared you in his net, I see.” I was relieved that he was smiling.

  “I jumped into it willingly.”

  He held up his hand as if in surrender. “I jumped into it before you.”

  “Truly?”

  He did not answer. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed me, very softly, on the lips. “I love you,” he said. I would have fallen over and cracked my head open on the rocks that lined the hedges if he had not pulled me into his arms. His mouth pressed against mine, a tender, searching touch. More than passion, that kiss bound us like a promise. A promise of belonging.

  He unclasped me long enough to gasp, “And you are never stealing again.”

  I would have agreed to hand-stitch his undergarments for the next fifty years to have his love. Pledging something I had already promised to God and myself was easy.

  “Don’t you have something to tell me?” he asked, finally pulling away.

  I recoiled, appalled. I had revealed every secret shame I could think of. What more could he need?

  He laughed at my expression. “Let us try this again.” He drew me into his arms once more. “I love you,” he whispered against my lips. “Now you try it.”

  Relieved, I smirked. “I think I need another demonstration.”

  He pulled away. “I think you have had enough practice.”

  I caressed his cheek, his jaw, the dark-golden hair at his temple. “I love you, Justus. I have loved you for so many years.”

  He grinned. “This is an improvement. Now I will give you another demonstration.”

  We stayed up late into the night, speaking, sharing our hearts, laying our secrets bare. The walls between us began to crumble; with words, we hammered them down brick by brick.

  “I knew your life in Athens had been hard,” Justus said. “Dionysius hinted at it once. I did not understand how those hardships affected you.”

  “When families are shattered, pulled apart by the force of bitterness, by anger, by disappointment, something dark slithers into the hearts of all who survive that division. Each one of us carries the wounds of my parents’ divorce.”

  Justus pressed a loose curl behind my ear. His touch was at once possessive and tender, as if he could not resist drawing close to me. “I wish I could undo that hurt.”

  “I am coming to trust that God is able to do so.”

  “Yes.” The thick brows knotted for a moment. “My mother and father treasured each other. But it is no small thing to lose a mother so young. I was only six when my mother died. My memories of her are scant. I remember her smile, her perfume. I remember how safe she made me feel. For the most part, I have a vague feeling, an unassuaged longing when I think of her. It was all too long ago. Yet it still holds sway over me.” He leaned against the stone ledge. “I suppose that is why I avoided you.”

  I gave him a puzzled look.

  “I always found you beautiful. Effervescent, strong, full of a vivacity that was hard to resist. When you first returned to Corinth, I found myself in a quandary. You were not a child. But you were too young for me. The more you attracted me, the harder I tried to resist you. I had all manner of excuses. You needed time to mature. You were my friend’s sister. Now I see that I was afraid.”

  I laughed. “Justus, I have seen you driving a chariot as if death were a myth. You are afraid of nothing, least of all me.”

  “I was not afraid of you. I was afraid of loving you. After my mother died, my father collapsed. With time, he tried to pull the pieces of his life together. But he was never the same man. Something of him died with my mother.

  “Losing my heart to you meant that I would become vulnerable as my father had. I did not want to court that kind of pain.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “It was no one thing. You wore me down, gradually.” I slapped his arm and he grinned. “Dionysius once told me that the followers of Christ believe there is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear. I suppose that is what began to happen in me. My love outgrew my fear.” He shrugged. “First, I had to come against an impassable obstacle. Do you remember the night Theo gave you that bracelet?” He pointed to the gold circlet I still wore about my wrist.

  “I remember.”

  “I knew that night that Theo was in love with you.”

  I drew a sharp breath. “You knew?”

  Justus nodded. “Everyone in the room saw it but you. He leaked adoration when he looked at you. I had seen you flirt with dozens of men. None of them tempted you. You seemed immune to their ardor. But that night, I was shaken out of my security. The conceited assumption that if I should want you, I could have you. With Theo pursuing you, I could no longer be so certain. Theo is a rare man. I suspected that you saw him as a brother and only a brother. If I was wrong, though, I knew I would lose you. Perversely, that was the night I realized I wanted you. It was also the moment I decided to step back. I would never hurt Theo by trying to supplant your affections. Not if I thought he had a chance to win you.”

  Something within me twisted. To love Justus meant wounding Theo. My Theo. I squeezed my eyes shut. I could not bear the thought. He had borne too many hurts in his short life, borne them with dignity and courage. That mine should be the hand to deliver the deepest gash almost unraveled me.

  Justus took my chin and turned my face toward him. “It’s no fault of yours.”

  I tried to smile and failed. “I ache for him.”

  “God will help Theo endure, Ariadne. He has other plans for his life. We must accept that. If our lives are not mere happenstance, if there is a divine plan weaving our mundane existence into the glory of heaven, then you must believe that God has a different future for Theo. One that will satisfy his heart more fully than you ever could.”

  I had not thought of that. The possibility that Theo would find deeper fulfillment by being with anothe
r, as I had found with Justus.

  Justus said, “You and I were not there when the physician set the bone in Galenos’s leg, thank the Lord. Dionysius described the procedure to me. Because of the fracture, the tendons and muscles in the leg had shrunk. Before he could set the leg, the physician had to stretch it. It took three grown men to forcibly extend that fractured leg before Celsus could set it.”

  I winced, imagining the horror of it. No wonder Father had been shrieking.

  “Galenos had to endure a deal of pain before the stretching of the sinews was complete. But after the procedure was finished, his agony subsided. The leg improved. I tell you this because it reminds me of what Theo is going through. The Lord is stretching him, heart and soul, to set what was broken in him. Broken by his parents who abandoned him, by Galenos and Celandine and your grandfather. In God’s hands, the pain of your rejection can turn into an instrument of healing. His heart is being stretched to make room for the intercession of God. Those old fractures can be set rightly now.”

  We sank into silence. Could it be true, I wondered? Could God use what appeared to be broken dreams as a means of healing for Theo’s shattered heart? Could he heal pain with pain?

  “You are exhausted. Come,” Justus said. “I will walk with you to your chamber.”

  I thought of a question I had meant to ask earlier. With an abrupt shift in mood I said, “Paul told you something as well.”

  He flushed. “I had hoped you missed that.”

  “Oh, I caught it. ‘Love is not jealous.’ I assumed he was wrong.” I raised my eyebrows in question.

  Justus rubbed his neck. “He was right. Jealousy is a bitter companion. At first, I was jealous of Theo. I envied your friendship with him and the exceptional closeness you shared. Then I heard the account of the robbery at Brutus’s house and grew convinced that you had another man wrapped around your finger. I was consumed by jealousy. A new experience for me, and one I hope I shall never partake of again.”

  “I will not give you reason.”

  “I know,” he said before kissing me one last time.

  Later, hours after he had left, joy lapped at the edges of my mind as I lay in my bed, too radiant to sleep. Regret, too, nestled in my thoughts, sinking its sharp fangs into my new happiness. Joy and regret tangled in my soul, uneasy companions. Neither was strong enough to dispel the other.

  Somehow mercy had won the battle. I had not received what I deserved. Paul would have called it grace. I just knew I was loved when I deserved to be spurned.

  The next morning, Justus and I confessed our love to Father and received his exuberant blessing. For the sake of Theo, we kept our betrothal quiet, a secret pledge known only by my brother and father. In time, we would share our happiness with the world. Until then, we wanted to offer Theo an oasis, a chance to heal, to adjust.

  That day, I received another undeserved gift. Celsus came to splint Father’s leg. He unbound the bandages. Instead of proceeding, he sucked his lower lip and stared. Hauling a long string out of his bag, he measured the broken leg against the healthy one. “This leg has not shrunk.”

  “That is good, I think,” Father said tentatively. Perspiration covered his brow. Unwrapping and rewrapping the bandages still caused him throbbing pain.

  The physician extended a hand. “It is marvelous. I can’t explain it.” He sounded short of breath, as if he had run in the Olympics. “That injury should have caused a shortening of the leg. Should have caused a permanent limp.”

  The world came to an abrupt standstill around me. I covered my mouth with trembling fingers. God had done this. This miracle that left an arrogant physician gasping with wonder. I took a few unsteady steps and sagged on the bed next to Father.

  “As the prophet Elisha once told an anxious king,” I said, “‘This is an easy thing in the eyes of the Lord.’” When Paul had spoken those words, I had not been able to grasp them. Not the marvel nor the hope they held. It is an easy thing in the eyes of the Lord to leave physicians confounded and heal crippled men. I was young in my faith. But like Father’s leg, I was growing into the right proportions.

  Celsus raised a bushy gray brow. “Which lord is that?”

  “The God of heaven and earth. The one who created you. He fixed my father’s leg. And even if he had not, he would still be Lord.”

  Father flashed all his teeth. “Don’t worry, Celsus. I won’t complain even though your medical predictions of doom proved faulty.”

  We were drawing close to July, the month named after Julius Caesar. Wearing the splint in the heat of summer would test Father’s temper. The thought made me smile. Three days ago, I had feared he would be maimed, in excruciating pain for the rest of his life. Now I merely worried about the discomfort of a fat bandage and a splint in warm weather.

  That was not entirely true. We still had our debts to consider. Added to our normal expenses were the exorbitant fees of the physician. These troubles, which a week ago had seemed crushing, now faded into the background of my mind. If we had to, we would sell our house. Our land. Move to a smaller home. None of it seemed too steep a price to pay for peace. For my father’s health. For God’s approval.

  That afternoon, Father told me that Theo had left for Ephesus. It saddened me to realize he had not bothered to bid me farewell. I wondered how long it would be before he grew comfortable enough to come into my presence. How many farewells would I miss, how many greetings? I prayed God would mend his heart with the same precision he had used with Father’s leg.

  “Justus sent him?” I asked, frowning. He had not mentioned it.

  “No. I did. For business.”

  “Business?”

  Father rubbed his hands together. “I am going to become a soap merchant.”

  “There is no such thing as a soap merchant.” I leaned over to examine his goblet of wine, which Celsus had medicated with his own tincture. “How much of this potion have you drunk?”

  He ignored my jibe. “I have discussed it with Justus and Theo. They both agree my notion may succeed. We aim to sell it as hair pomade first. Rome has nothing like it. Efficient, convenient, fragrant.” He counted off on his fingers. “It will become every woman’s bosom friend. Theo and I have become partners. We have agreed to a modest beginning. Our hope is to expand by early next year.”

  “Well. You have invented a new trade.” I wrapped a hank of hair around my wrist. “I had better start using the stuff if we are to be soap merchants.”

  Father intertwined his fingers and rested them on his belly. “Theo and I will give you a family discount. You have a lot of hair. You will probably require two balls of soap per wash. I hope you plan to marry a rich man.”

  “I shall do my best. Anything to afford your soap.” Then, unable to swallow my mirth any longer, I burst into laughter. “God has washed our sins and cleansed us from our iniquities. I suppose it is right that we should help the world become clean, at least in body.”

  I thought life held no more surprises. We had gone through the worst, and by God’s help, had emerged redeemed, more whole than before. I should have known God had not quite finished our restoration yet. I should have realized the God who used pain to heal pain would not flinch from allowing more hardship into our lives.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Dionysius and I were closeted together in Father’s tablinum, poring over his accounts, trying to find a way to salvage our home. Father could not manage the stairs yet, and the physician warned him against immersing himself in regular activity too soon.

  In three days, my brother would have to return to Athens. I had hoped he would consider moving to Corinth permanently. But Athens beckoned Dionysius the way Corinth called to me. He had delayed his affairs too long already and needed to attend to his duties as a member of the Areopagus.

  There were too many leave-takings in my life. This would never change now that Dionysius had committed to making Athens his permanent home. At least this time his departure would be the pa
rting between those whose affections were unbroken. Already we were considering plans for our next visit.

  “Mistress?” I had not heard Galatea as she entered the tablinum, her bare feet silent from her years of strict training under Aniketos. She stood, twisting her hands, her face flushed.

  “What is it, Galatea?”

  “There is a man at the door who insists he must meet with you and my master. I explained that Master Galenos is sick and cannot be disturbed. He had the impudence to smirk at me. ‘Broken bones, I expect,’ he said.”

  I tried to read a column of numbers on a sheet. “By now, it is probably common knowledge that Father has broken his leg,” I said. “You know how people talk, Galatea.”

  “Mistress, he refuses to leave. He is sitting in the vestibule, plucking roses from your pots. He insists on seeing you and Master Galenos together, and nothing else will do.”

  Offended by this abuse of my flowers, I set aside the scroll. “What is his name?” I asked.

  “Aulus Papirius.”

  “Never heard that name,” I said.

  Dionysius came to his feet. “I will deal with him.”

  Curious, I followed my brother, wondering at the temerity of the unwanted visitor. A thin man with dark, curly hair and a prominent, bony nose had collected a handful of my roses by the time we arrived. He smiled when he saw me.

  “The famous Ariadne of Corinth. You are lovelier in the light of day than you are in the cover of night.”

  I stiffened at this presumption. “I have never met you, sir.”

  “Not formally. This is true.”

  Dionysius stepped forward. “I must ask you to leave our house, Papirius. You intrude upon us. Nor does your manner commend you to our welcome.”

  “I believe your sister and father will feel differently when they discover the nature of my . . . business.”

  “If this is a matter of business, you should return later. My father is unwell, as you have already been informed.”

  Papirius’s overconfident air disturbed me. He seemed too sure of his welcome. It occurred to me that this might be the moneylender to whom Father still owed a considerable sum. But then why had he asked for me? And the loan was not due for another month. Still, it seemed the only thing that could explain his arrogance.