by Bryan Litfin
“My husband is a weak man,” Sophronia said at last, gaining strength as she voiced what she had been afraid to reveal until now. “He wants to do right, but whenever he’s pressed, he chooses poorly. Now he has abandoned Flavia, just like he already aban—” Sophronia stopped, feeling that perhaps she was speaking too personally in front of a holy man.
“You should speak your mind, dear sister. Say it aloud, for words spoken into the light of day have great power.”
“He has abandoned me too,” Sophronia said flatly. “And since that withdrawal began, I am not certain he has kept the marriage bed undefiled. It is common for a wealthy man to have mistresses. And certainly to have the slaves, if he wishes.”
“Indeed.”
“I feel so alone,” Sophronia continued. “At least when Flavia was around, I had one family member whose faith was strong. Together we would encourage Neratius to walk in the ways of God. But now—where is my daughter? Where is she, Holy Father? Should I keep hoping she will return? Should I have faith like a mustard seed and just press on? Or is it time to start mourning? When should I begin to rejoice that her earthly sufferings are over?”
Miltiades took Sophronia’s hands in his own. “These questions cannot be answered today, can they?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Nevertheless, I will stay with you, each and every day. I will walk alongside you until we learn where this difficult road will lead. In fact, all the brethren are laboring with you in fervent prayer. Even the apostles pray for you! Are they not alive in God’s presence? It is a marvelous thing to Realize the body of Christ has no dead members within it. Did the Resurrected One have gangrenous limbs? Of course not! No spot of death mars his holy body. The living head of the church nourishes every organ and part. The Spirit gives breath to all who are in Christ, even those departed from us to the other side. Yes, my sister, the communion of the saints is a living, breathing thing.”
The words of Rome’s bishop surrounded Sophronia and gathered her into the warm embrace of the catholic church. She could feel strength returning to her battered soul as the pain of her loneliness receded. Raising her eyes, she looked into Miltiades’s face and addressed him with new resolve: “In the scriptures, King Solomon wrote, ‘There is a time for mourning,’ but I do not believe that day has yet arrived. Until I know for sure what has become of Flavia, I shall feast before the Lord, living in hope and not in despair.”
Sophronia turned and beckoned to her doorkeeper, who stood a few paces away. Onesimus was his name, a faithful household servant who had insisted on accompanying her through the streets of Rome today. Though his shoulder had been slashed a few days ago when the Praetorians stormed the house, a doctor had sewn up the wound, and now Onesimus could move around with his arm in a sling. In his free hand, he held a coin purse, which he brought to his mistress and laid in her lap. Bowing, he backed away.
“What do you have there?” Miltiades asked.
“Do you recall the day last summer when Flavia asked to schedule a refreshment feast for the needy?”
“Ah, yes, I do. She wished to have it at the Apostolic Monument in the presence of Peter and Paul.”
“I am glad you remember. Here now is the money taken from her dowry that she set aside for the banquet. Let us call together the one body of Christ, whose beautiful harmony you just described. Rich and poor alike shall feast and pray together. We will ask the blessed apostles to join us in our petitions for Flavia’s safe return. Do you believe this to be a godly desire, my bishop?”
“Splendid! Indeed, it shall be done.”
“When do you advise?”
Miltiades smoothed his whiskers as he thought it over. At last his eyes lit up. “The ninth day before the Kalends of December shall be the day! It is the feast day of Bishop Clement, the second pastor of Rome, who was ordained by Peter himself. Such a day will be most fitting to celebrate a banquet in the presence of the apostolic relics.”
Sophronia held the coin purse for a moment, then passed it to Miltiades. “So it is decided! We shall have the refreshment banquet at the Apostolic Monument, just as Flavia wanted. Until then, let us pray that she still lives.”
“My precious sister,” Miltiades said, “Flavia belongs to the Lord Jesus Christ. There is no question but that she lives.”
The town of Tibur sat on a ridge of the Apennines at the spot where the Anio River tumbled over a cliff, splashed into the valley, and began its final run across the flatlands around Rome. Flavia could see the settlement ahead on the Tiburtinian Way—not far now, though much higher than she wished. The road had grown steep over the past few miles.
“Why did we sell that mare, again?” she asked Rex as she trudged beside him under the hot sun.
Laughing, he put his hand to his hip and shook the moneybag beneath his tunic, which made a jingling sound. “You want to eat tonight, don’t you?”
“I’d skip the meal as long as I can have a hot bath.”
“With what we’ve got here, you can have both. And a bed. And fresh clothes. By tomorrow, you’ll be a new woman.”
Another hour of uphill walking brought the travelers into Tibur, the famous resort town celebrated for its stunning views, healthy air, and picturesque waterfalls. Rich aristocrats had long considered Tibur their favorite country escape, including the great emperor Hadrian, whose ancient villa here was renowned for its luxury. Tibur was a very old settlement, dating back to the mythical times when the Greeks still had a foothold in Italy. That Greek heritage accounted for the prominence of the god Hercules Victorious, whose opulent sanctuary was the most eminent building in town.
A few inquiries pointed the way to the public thermae. Across the empire, the bathhouses were a focal point of everyone’s afternoons—though less so for Flavia, whose home had its own private facilities. Still, even the richest senators, men who had deluxe baths in their mansions, would often visit the public bathing complexes of Rome. In contrast to those palatial establishments, the one here at Tibur was much more modest. Even so, like all thermae, it was a beautiful and impressive centerpiece of civic life.
Flavia stared up at the ornate facade of the bathhouse. “Rex, if we ever make it safely back to Rome, you’ll have to see the Baths of Diocletian. Absolutely amazing! They’re brand-new, commissioned by Augustus Maximian only a few years ago.”
“The former augustus, you mean. He’s dead now. Has been for more than a year.”
“So they say. But maybe not.”
“No, I’m very certain he’s dead.”
“Really? How do you know?”
Rex paused, then glanced over at Flavia. “Because I hung him by the neck from the rafters of his daughter’s bedroom. His face turned bluer than I’ve ever seen on a man.”
Now it was Flavia’s turn to shift her eyes toward Rex. “What are you talking about? You shouldn’t even say a thing like that!”
Rex shrugged. “You’re right. Sorry about that. It was a bad joke. Come on, let’s go inside.” He went through the door, and Flavia followed—but only after shaking her head to clear her mind of Rex’s disturbing attempt at humor.
The interior of the bathhouse had a high dome over its central hall and beautiful marble floors. Here and there, carved nymphs and satyrs frolicked in fountains with tumbling waters that created a gentle, soothing sound. A courtyard surrounded by arcades gave access to a swimming pool that sparkled in the bright sunshine. Inside the bathhouse, beneath the shade of the lofty dome, a second pool—heated to a pleasant, tepid warmth—offered refuge to swimmers who had reached their limit of basking in the sun. The steam room was located to the left of the dome, and the cold plunge to the right. Although the sexes were free to intermingle in the main areas, Flavia was relieved to learn that separate changing rooms were provided for men and women. And for those who desired it, single-sex bathing in smaller facilities could be purchased for a few copper coins.
“This is going to feel great after all we’ve been through,” Rex said. �
��Meet you back at the tepidarium after we undress?”
Flavia held up her two palms. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t like that between us! Just to be clear, Rex, you do understand all that talk about lovebirds and turtledoves was a pretense, right?”
The recollection of the mischievous banter with Uranio made Rex chuckle. “Of course, yes, I knew that,” he said soothingly. “I was playing along too. I don’t normally call my lovers sweet honeybee. I might be a barbarian, but I can do better than that.”
“I did think it was rather awkward,” Flavia agreed.
“So are you saying you don’t want to bathe together because of the nakedness?”
“Exactly! I’m not letting you see me naked! I know it’s considered normal in bathhouses, but not for us Christians. I believe that’s something for only a husband to see. I’ll pay the extra fee and bathe with the women.”
“Suit yourself,” Rex said. “I’m so dirty, I’m going straight to the scraper. Although what I’d really like is some good Germanic soap.”
“Soap? What’s that?”
“It’s made with animal fat and ashes. It smells bad, but it gets you clean. Better than oil and scraping. All the Germani and Gauls use it.”
“That sounds disgusting. We Romans are too civilized to ever use soap.”
“Trust me, soap works. But people down here don’t like it. That’s why I have to settle for scraping. As the rabbi once said, ‘When you enter a town, follow its customs.’”
“Who said that?”
“It was an old rabbi from long ago. I forget his name—Meir, maybe? My mother taught me that. She was a great lover of books. We used to stay up at night and read for hours.”
Flavia couldn’t help but stare at the tall, blond mercenary—this killing machine who once read Jewish books with his mama. For a long moment, she was speechless. At last she said, “You confound me, Rex.”
He gave her a cocky wink. “I tend to have that effect on women.” He started toward the men’s changing rooms, then called over his shoulder, “Meet you back here in two hours. Clean and fresh.”
Flavia proceeded to the female area, where she left her tunic, breast band, and loincloth in a cubbyhole. Although thieves were known to frequent such places, she didn’t think anyone would be tempted to steal the clothes she had gotten so dirty in her recent escapades. And even if she had reason to worry, she didn’t have the necessary coin to pay an attendant to keep watch. Rex had the moneybag with him.
Oh! The coin in my hem . . .
The silver argenteus was far too valuable a coin to be left in an open locker. Muttering to herself, Flavia redressed so she could go back into the public space and give it to Rex for safekeeping. She could also obtain the copper coins for private bathing that she had meant to get from the moneypouch. Flavia smiled as she walked across the hall. What is it about Rex that always makes me forget what I’m doing? That man has a way of flustering me, even when he doesn’t intend it!
The bathhouse scrapers typically plied their trade in a designated part of the tepidarium, an area marked off by a waist-high divider of dark-red marble. Rich patrons of the thermae brought their own slaves to do the job, but for those visitors who had no assistants, a scraper could be hired to apply the curved tool called a strigil to a well-oiled body. If the olive oil had been worked deep into the muscles, the scraping action of the bronze instrument would take off the top layer of grime, sweat, and dead skin. With a couple of good soaks, a hard scraping, and a massage, followed by a cold plunge and the application of scented lotions, a Roman bather would come out much cleaner than anyone using that ridiculous soap Rex had mentioned.
As Flavia approached the red divider, she was suddenly reminded of the difference between her typical bath experience and that of the common masses. In contrast to the privacy of her home, the people here were in varying stages of undress. A few bathers of both genders wore loincloths, and several women wore breast bands, but many others were completely nude. Though the light was dim and the mood was practical rather than erotic, Flavia, nonetheless, began to second-guess her decision to look for Rex. And then she saw him.
He was standing in a shaft of light from a high window, as if the sun were trying to spotlight this perfect icon of masculinity. Rex’s long hair hung loose over his shoulders, giving him a wild and rugged appearance. One of his arms was raised to cradle his head—a gesture Flavia found strangely exciting, though she knew he was only giving access to the attendant who knelt at his side to scrape his ribs. The oil had slicked the muscles of Rex’s torso, defining his physique in exquisite detail: the square cut of his chest, the ripples of his shoulders, the gridiron of his stomach. Veins traced their lines down the rock-hard contours of his arms. The bulges of his biceps were rounded like pomegranates, and to Flavia they seemed sweeter than any fruit could be. This was a young man in his prime—as lean and fierce as any savage beast. She stared at him for longer than she intended, then finally looked away.
Then she turned back and stared some more.
Although the divider Rex stood next to obscured his lower body, Flavia knew if she walked forward, he would come into full view. Suddenly her right foot took on a life of its own—lifting, extending, and finishing the step despite the warning voices in her head. The rapid flutter of her heart made her dizzy, though not enough to stop her progress. Aghast at what was happening, yet also thrilled, Flavia felt her disobedient left foot take another stride toward the oblivious bather glistening in the sunlight.
Just a few more steps, and then— No!
Flavia finally halted, unable to retreat, yet prevented from advancing further by her long-cultivated habit of holiness. A war raged in her soul, the ancient battle between lust and self-control.
You have to drop off the valuable silver, she told herself. And you need this bath. He has the money for the fee. Go get it. Just ask him. It won’t take long. Nudity is considered normal here. No harm done.
Flavia, don’t be crazy! You can’t have a conversation with a naked, oily man!
But the money is actually for modesty—it’s for the women’s area. This is just a brief conversation so you can bathe in private. It’s all for the right reason.
No! Your mind will never forget what you see!
“Choose wisely, daughter,” said a voice.
Who said that? Mother? Bishop Miltiades? God? Was it even real?
“Lady Junia! I’m over here!”
It was Rex. He was waving at her, his expression uncertain. “Do you need something?” he asked.
Oh no. He’s coming toward me!
Flavia started toward Rex in return, hoping to meet him at the dividing wall before he left the partitioned area. Eyes up, she reminded herself. Yet she knew he would step into the open before she reached the wall. That meant his approach was going to be . . . what? All there. Her heart was racing wildly now.
The tinkle of metal against stone sounded at her feet. Flavia glanced down to find that the silver argenteus had slipped from her hem where she had hidden it. The coin had landed on its edge and was rolling away. A man passing in the opposite direction noticed it too. He started to pick it up.
“That’s mine!” Flavia exclaimed, darting to the coin and snatching it from the ground. She stared at it in her palm—the price of at least a hundred private baths at a facility like this. Rex’s money really wasn’t necessary. She had known it all along. With that coin, she could buy an individual bath and hold the change in her hand the whole time. Whirling, she hurried to the women’s dressing room and closed the door behind her. No one else was there.
A travertine bench lined one side of the room. Flavia sat down and put her head in her hands, exhaling a long breath as she gazed at the marble floor. Even now, seated on the bench, her legs were trembling. Why? Out of fear?
Yes, fear.
And also desire. No one had ever made her feel like this before.
�
�You confound me, Rex,” she whispered into the empty room. The honest admission was terrifying to Flavia. Yet one vital truth had now become clear.
Rex represented not just rescue but peril too.
It was the sound of the chickens that first alerted Uranio to the arrival of more visitors. He still hadn’t managed to get all the birds back in the henhouse after the two young lovers left earlier that day. With the new mare to care for, he simply hadn’t found the time to round up the last of the scrawny hens. Now their squawking signaled that more guests had shown up. It was turning into a busy day at the cottage.
Uranio set down the currycomb with which he was brushing the mare’s coat and walked to the barn door. As soon as his eyes fell on the arrivals, he sucked in his breath and retreated into the shadows. But it was too late. The four Praetorians had seen him.
“Come over here,” one of the men barked. “We’d like a word with you.” Uranio obediently shuffled into the cottage yard. The soldiers remained astride their horses, their expressions stern and unreadable. Each man rested a hand casually on the pommel of his sword. Uranio decided to say no more than necessary, giving the visitors reason to leave quickly.
“We’re patrolling the area looking for a couple of fugitives,” the squad leader said. “We believe they might be in the countryside east of the city, so we’re checking every cottage and farm.”
“The Tiburtinian Way is only a short distance from here,” Uranio observed. “Many people are coming and going all the time. Occasionally they stop at my place to buy a meal. I am glad to feed them for a coin or two. But I don’t deal with outlaws, sir.”
“These two wouldn’t have looked like outlaws. We’re searching for a tall German with long yellow hair and a pretty little Roman girl.”
A chill ran through Uranio as he realized the soldiers were looking for Rex and Flavia. The mare must have been stolen! Do I conceal it or confess? Can they see the fear on my face? Venus Victrix, help me!