Bread of Angels

by Tessa Afshar

  He yawned. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “A few hours. How do you feel?”

  Eumenes scratched his cheek. “Better. Is it time for dinner yet?”

  Lydia smiled. “The stars are fading. It will be dawn soon. I have brought you hot bread with cheese and olives for your breakfast.”

  Eumenes rubbed his hands together. “The gods blessed me the day you were born. How goes the dyeing?”

  “Everything I have dyed looks purple.”

  Eumenes laughed. “That sounds promising.” He patted the mattress next to him. “Eat with me. It will be another long day for you. You will need your strength.”

  He studied her downturned face as she ate quietly. “Anxious?”

  She rubbed her aching neck. “It’s that I have never done this part of the process before. Now I must manage without help from you.”

  “You will do a splendid job. In fact, by the time you are finished, you will realize that you do not need your old father at all and put me out to pasture.”

  Lydia’s eyes brimmed with tears. She lowered her lids to hide them from him. “I will disappoint you.”

  He put a hand under her chin and lifted it. “You know more than most of the dye masters in the famed guilds of Thyatira.”

  “They must be very ignorant, then.”

  Eumenes’s smile was smug. “They are, compared to you and me. But that must remain our secret. We don’t want them to think us boastful.”

  Lydia gave a weak laugh.

  “That’s better,” her father said. “Listen to me, Lydia. I wouldn’t let you get your hands on my dye or my reputation if I did not believe in your ability to accomplish this. I would simply delay the work. But I have no such compunction. When that linen is delivered to the customer, it will have my seal on it. My name. I leave the work in your hands without a shadow of hesitation. I am satisfied that you will do as good a job as I myself would. I have taught you since you were a child, and never was there a more apt pupil, save for myself, of course.”

  “There is no hope for you. You are definitely veering into boastfulness.”

  He lifted Lydia’s heavy braid for a moment and pulled on it affectionately. “Unfortunately, your talent for dyes is matched by your talent for worry. When I cough and have a little fever, you wonder if I have a wasting disease. I have a tiny scratch—” he indicated the stitches in his leg—“and you conclude I shall surely perish. The very thought of travel is enough to turn you into a trembling mess.

  “But, Lydia, in spite of so much fear, you are still the bravest person I know. You press on, press through your anxieties and face the challenges before you. I could not run this workshop without you. I could not manage my travels if I did not have your help. Like a rock, you stay by my side, and no wind of terror overcomes you. You are my valiant, fearful girl.”

  “Cheap labor, too,” she said, her teasing words not managing to hide the catch in her voice.

  He tugged on her tunic, straightening the crooked collar with careful hands. His touch was a declaration without words. A declaration of love. Protection. Understanding. A declaration of belonging. “Sometimes you remind me so much of your mother. The same teasing tongue. Like you, she was beautiful. You have her coloring. The amber hair, the turquoise eyes. That is not from my side of the family.”

  Lydia smiled. “Only you would consider me beautiful. I am plain as yogurt and just about as pale.” She played with the darning in her tunic. “I had an odd dream last night. One I have had before. I think it concerned my mother. I can’t remember the details. It’s a jumble of disconnected memories. I know she was sick. I remember the sound of her screams. Snatches of short images that sometimes come back to me in nightmares. What happened to her, Father?”

  Eumenes sucked in a sudden breath and choked on the mouthful of soft cheese he had just put in his mouth. Lydia patted him on the back, trying to calm the coughing fit.

  “She died in an accident, as you know,” he said when he was able to breathe again.

  “When I was a child?”

  He nodded. His expression had grown stony and closed.

  Lydia pressed. “But how? How did she die?”

  “It was an awful tragedy. Lydia, this is not the time to speak of it. You have much to do. And I . . . It distresses me to dredge up that day. This dream. Put it away from your mind.”

  Remorse made Lydia flinch. Her father was laid low and in pain, and she added to his affliction with her curiosity. She pushed the images lingering from her dream to the back of her mind as she always did. “Forgive me, Father.”

  Eumenes pulled the blanket up against his chest, looking fragile in its folds. “You did nothing wrong, child. The fault is mine. I cannot bear to think of that day. I prefer to remember her as she was.”

  FIVE

  Establish the work of our hands for us—

  yes, establish the work of our hands.

  PSALM 90:17, NIV

  LYDIA GASPED AS she realized the lateness of the hour; the sun was making flaming streaks in the lightening sky as it rose. She cleared up the meager remains of their breakfast and gave her father a quick kiss on his discolored cheek. “I need to start the new vat of dye.”

  “I will come and sit with you soon.”

  Lydia shook her head. “You must remain in your bed until the physician pronounces you fit.”

  “Speaking of the physician, did you see the size of his gold pin? You’d better try to sell him some purple cloth when he is here. How about that length the moths got into last summer? It seems a fair exchange, given how many holes his needle put into me.”

  “You stand on your best behavior or he might add a few fresh holes to the ones he gave you yesterday.”

  At the well, Lydia filled two jars with clear water. As was her habit, she fingered the rough carving on the underside of the old stone wall. Her fingers found the Greek letter theta, followed by epsilon, and onward, until they spelled Themistius. Her mother’s father and the original owner of this land. He had carved his name into the stone as a young boy.

  Lydia loved touching that wobbly, stone-preserved signature. It felt like touching a part of herself, a rocky tracing that led back into her bloodlines.

  Her grandfather had been born to an ancient family whose roots went deep into Thyatira’s history. From the time the city had been under Lydian rule, members of her family had lived here, worked here, and raised generations of their children on its enduring soil. After the Greeks took over the land, her family, like other Thyatirans, had mixed with their conquerors, adopted their language and their gods, and become for all intents and purposes Greek. The Romans had inherited a Greek Thyatira, with its subtle and unique lingering touches of the Lydian culture. Many old families like Lydia’s had survived the changing of the guard and held on to their traditions.

  Her grandfather had been born into a wealthy family that, according to her father, had once owned large parcels of land throughout Thyatira. In spite of good intentions, Themistius had managed, in the course of a wild youth, to squander most of his inheritance. He had held on to this single piece of property by virtue of hard work.

  According to family legend, upon the birth of his only child, Lydia’s mother, he had been horrified by how little he had left to pass on to his daughter. For the first time in his life, he began to labor with single-minded fortitude in an attempt to save this final legacy, notable only for its well.

  On his deathbed, Themistius had gifted the land to his daughter, a small but proud gift, holding within every cubit not only the memory of generations of former ancestors but also his sweat and blisters and fatherly pride.

  Like her grandparents, her parents had managed to bring only one child into this world, another daughter. And now it was Lydia’s turn to fight for this last piece of her family’s inheritance, this tiny patch of land that represented everything good and safe and noble in this world. Home and her father and purple. Lydia was content if the world had nothing else
to offer.

  By noon Lydia’s hands were dyed as purple as the linen, and her face had grown red from exertion. Weariness had already begun to dog her steps, a dark shadow that would not waver.

  As it had the day before, the garden door opened without warning, making her jump a second time in two days. She wiped the frown from her face and walked toward her guests, trying to appear welcoming. To her consternation, she found that the physician still carried an aura of great expense, and Jason remained as graceful and charming as her memory insisted. Without thinking, she hid her hands, ugly and stained, in the loose fabric of her tunic.

  “How fares my patient?” the physician asked.

  “If you will follow me to the house, you will find him recovering. He ate twice already and insists on coming out to help with the work.”

  “We shall see,” the physician said.

  Jason fingered a wad of yarn hanging from a branch. “Your work?”

  Lydia nodded. “My father is the master. I merely serve as his assistant. This is my first attempt at working alone.”

  “You seem to have learned his trade well. This purple is deep and rich. And he uses no snails?”

  Lydia looked up in surprise. “You have learned much about us since yesterday.”

  He shrugged. “I find the name of Eumenes is well known. Perhaps I will purchase a few pieces from you. But I think I will wait until I can have a length of fabric dyed and woven by your own delicate hands.”

  Lydia burst into laughter. Suppressing her squirming vanity, she showed him her purple hands. “Hardly delicate. Everything here, you will find, is purple, including my fingers.”

  For a moment, Jason seemed taken aback by her abrupt honesty. “It’s a lovely shade,” he said gallantly.

  Lydia snorted. “I am glad you approve.”

  “Obviously your father has taught you his secrets.”

  “No dye master passes on all his trade secrets,” Lydia said. She breathed a silent sigh of relief as they arrived at her father’s door. “My father is waiting for you. I will fetch some wine and leave you to visit in peace.”

  “It would be more pleasant if you joined us,” Jason said.

  “Thank you. I must see to the work. With my father indisposed, we are falling behind.”

  The physician went into Eumenes’s chamber while Jason lingered outside. “Why don’t you hire a steward? Or another dye master? You might settle for an ordinary laborer, at least, to lighten your responsibilities.”

  Lydia sensed the censure in his voice. Not every man in Thyatira felt women should play a role in this or any other trade. She crossed her arms. “Because I love working with purple. Besides, I know more than most stewards.” She conveniently forgot her own objections to the contrary that very morning. “Please pardon me. I must fetch the wine.”

  The sound of his laughter surprised a smile out of her. She had expected him to take offense at her forthright admission of skill. Perhaps there was more to him than mere good looks and heroic reactions.

  SIX

  She dresses herself with strength

  and makes her arms strong.

  She perceives that her merchandise is profitable.

  Her lamp does not go out at night.

  PROVERBS 31:17-18

  HAVING NO TIME TO DAWDLE, Lydia delivered the wine and a few almond pastries to her father’s door before sneaking out. She had an important appointment with several vats, smelly solutions, and piles of soft linen.

  Less than an hour later, she saw Jason walking toward her. Over his arm he held a carefully folded piece of scarlet wool. “Your father sold me this. I couldn’t buy a purple handkerchief of this quality for such a price. But he refused a fair payment.”

  Lydia dried her hands on a towel she kept nearby. “That is a beautiful selection. My father dyed the wool and the weaver finished it last week. But we owe you far more than a piece of fabric. You were gracious to help him in his need. Without your intervention, he might have suffered a graver injury.”

  Jason waved his hand in the air, as if helping people in need were a daily ritual. “I told you what I really want. I would gladly swap this exquisite length of cloth for a small kerchief dyed and woven by your hands.”

  Lydia could hold an expert conversation with any man about the process of dyeing purple and to some degree even about weaving. But her life had left little room for assignations and amorous conversations. She went everywhere with her father. If any young men had felt the slightest attraction to her, they had not shown it before the sharp eyes of her parent. She found this flirtation, flowing so smoothly from Jason’s tongue, utterly bewildering. Staring at him, speechless, Lydia was half tempted to laugh at the absurdity of his words and half impressed by his shamelessness.

  “I see that you need more convincing. Tomorrow I will return to visit your father. And to persuade you of my good intentions.”

  The physician had the good grace to arrive at that moment, saving Lydia from having to answer. There was no large fold of fabric over his arm, she noted with disappointment. He would have paid full price. “How fares my father, sir?”

  “He is recovering well, as you reported. I have given him permission to join you in the morning. Only for light work, mind. No heavy lifting, or he will tear those beautiful stitches I gave him.” He bent to sniff the vat of mordant. “By Jupiter, that stench is offensive,” he said before leaving.

  Given that he had smelled her father’s urine not an hour past without a wrinkle to his brow, Lydia found his statement unfathomable. She would rather smell purple dye and mordant all day long than be surrounded by bodily emissions.

  Which was a good thing, since, in fact, she would have to smell mordant and dye all day and partway into the night for some weeks. Their survival depended on her now.

  Lydia worked alone for the next two days. She labored with slow deliberation, vigilant to avoid every possible mistake. Too vigilant. Her ponderous pace made them fall hopelessly behind.

  She had stopped sleeping at night, tossing and turning on her mattress, thoughts of her new responsibilities crowding her mind. She felt at war within herself. On the one hand, she delighted in the making of purple as she always had. There was nothing on earth quite so satisfying as kneeling before a vat of dye and trying to decipher its mysteries. On the other hand, the world of purple had suddenly become a place of terror. A battleground of unconquerable proportions. Her father thought her gifted. Capable. But what if he was wrong? In truth, she was quite sure that in his affection for her, he overestimated her ability.

  Purple could mean the wreck of every expectation directed her way. It could mean a broken heart, the crashing of every dream, the end of life as they knew it.

  In one swift and confusing stroke, Purple had become both her beloved and her enemy. Who could sleep through such a divide? Exhaustion tugged at her, making her even slower.

  Eumenes came to watch her on the third day, observing her as he leaned on the overstuffed cushions she had fetched for him. “What are you so afraid of, child?” he said after studying her silently for an hour.

  Lydia sank against the vat of dye she had prepared while he slept. “I am merely being careful,” she said, her voice rising defensively. “We have no time for errors. I must be attentive.”

  “This is beyond attentiveness. You have seen me do this work a thousand times. Helped me. You know it by heart. And yet you move as if you are a stranger to vats of dye. Why?”

  Lydia blinked. “You won’t understand.”

  Eumenes raised an eyebrow. “That never stopped you from talking before.”

  She clasped her hands together. “I am going to fail,” she said with certainty.

  “You are afraid you are going to fail. That’s a different thing.”

  “You can’t comprehend my anguish. You have never feared anything.”

  “I have never struggled with the spectacular array of worries you contend with, it is true. But this one fear—” he shoved the point of
his finger into the air for emphasis—“this, I understand. I had to overcome it myself when I was about your age.”

  Lydia whirled her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s the truth. I dreaded failing. Fear became like a chain that bound me. Then I realized that I would never achieve anything of worth until I wrestled with this monster in my heart. You know my dyes are different from everyone else’s here in Thyatira. Do you think I was born with the formulas already composed?” He shook his head. “By trial and error, I discovered them. I found them in the dark of confusion. I dithered. I wasted time and currency. I failed. But then, in the end, I found my way to places no one else had.”

  “You failed?” Lydia stared at Eumenes as if seeing him for the first time.

  “With striking regularity.”

  SEVEN

  For the righteous falls seven times and rises again.

  PROVERBS 24:16

  HER FATHER PULLED Lydia sideways until she toppled into his arms. “Child, let me tell you the secret to victory in this hard life. Strive valiantly. Dare to try, knowing that you will make mistakes. You will fall short again and again, because there is no effort without error. In the end, you will either know the triumph of high achievement, or if you fail, you will fail while daring greatly.

  “Embrace the knowledge that you will make a mistake sooner or later. Your work will have flaws—some grave, some superficial. Learn to accept this truth, and you will master your art.”

  Eumenes fetched a couple of balls of linen and began to play with them, juggling them one-handed. “You think failure is the enemy. The thing to dread. It isn’t. It’s your friend. It’s your teacher. It can teach you treasures no measure of victory can. On the way to success, you’d better get well acquainted with its bite.”

  To her dismay, he threw one of the balls of linen at her, and she had to scramble to catch it midair to prevent it from falling into the vat of dye before being properly untangled first.