Bread of Angels

by Tessa Afshar

  “Go on,” he said. “Dare greatly. Show me you aren’t afraid to fail.”

  Lydia grasped the yarn to her breast. “But I am afraid. What if we lose this customer?”

  “Then we will find another.”

  “What if he speaks ill of your shop because my work is flawed?”

  “I will produce fifty who will speak well of it.”

  “And if all this linen is destroyed?”

  “I know where to buy more.”

  “We don’t have any money.”

  “Then we will make more.”

  Lydia threw up her hand. “Be practical.”

  “I didn’t become a master at my trade by being practical. I became a master because I dared to face failure. Lydia, you are responsible enough for ten people. You shall never be in danger of growing shiftless and untrustworthy. You have talent, training, and knowledge. You work hard. This one thing holds you back: you would sacrifice greatness at the altar of fear. That road leads only to mediocrity. Believe me. It is a path many choose, and it leads only to disappointment in the end.”

  Pulling her knees against her chest, Lydia hid her face. “You are an odd man. Most fathers want their children to be a success.”

  “That’s what I am teaching you. True success. Besides, we have nothing to lose. At the rate you have been working, you are too far behind now to ever catch up without a miracle.”

  A week later, they sat in the workshop with the wooden door open to allow light and the semblance of a breeze into the cramped space. The first order was ready for delivery. They were one day early. Lydia could hardly believe the evidence before her.

  “Very good,” her father said, examining random pieces of dyed linen. “You did this all by yourself.”

  “You tricked me, didn’t you, when you said you were not well enough to help me?”

  “Perhaps a little. I am an old man now, you know. I need a holiday now and again.”

  Lydia flung a great clump of wool at his head. “I worked my fingers to the bone, you sly, conniving fox.”

  “You work like a dye master now, Daughter,” her father said, pride warming his voice. “Not just an apprentice, tiptoeing around every step, but a true master. I have taught you well.”

  Lydia put her hands on her hips. “You are just looking for free labor. Now I suppose you will demand that I complete the next order by myself as well.”

  Eumenes stretched his leg. “I told you to hire a helper. You refused.”

  She shook her head. “If you looked at the accounts on occasion, you would see that after paying our taxes we have little left for hired help. Rome takes its share very seriously.”

  “And very deeply. I am sorry I am not a Roman citizen. You would be spared all those taxes.”

  Lydia fetched a few tools from a shelf and added them to the pile she had been gathering in one corner. “You would look silly wearing a dazzling toga like Jason. I prefer you in your tunic.”

  “Speaking of that young man, he has visited often these past few days.”

  Lydia dropped her chin and pretended deep interest in a jar of madder. “He comes to see you.”

  Eumenes gave a deep sigh. “He comes to see you.” He leaned forward and picked up her hand. His finger traced a delicate blue vein on her wrist. “You have purple running through your veins. That, you inherit from me. And you love this little piece of land, the crumbling house, the meager workshop, the spacious garden with its well. That, you get from your mother.

  “When you marry, be sure you choose someone who loves them alongside you. A man who understands your talent and supports it.”

  Lydia snorted. “Marry! Who is talking of marriage? Did you hit your head when you fell?”

  “You are old enough to speak of these things. Your mother was your age when she married me.”

  “Are you ready to start these vats of dye, or do you plan to spin your yarn all day long?”

  Eumenes shrugged. “Speaking of dye, I have decided to teach you all my secrets. You know most of them already. Now I will show you those remaining touches that make our dye so unique. Keep these safe, Lydia, for they are your inheritance from me.”

  Lydia lifted her head. “Father, I should confess. I never did manage to overcome my fear as you wanted. It dogged every step. You said finishing this order on time would require a miracle. I suppose that’s what happened. I did not have a sudden spurt of daring confidence.”

  Eumenes shrugged. “I never expected that my words would change your heart overnight. Words have the power to inspire. But they cannot change a life. You will have to live out this lesson over and over again, push past the fear with one new job after another until my words take root in your heart. In time you will find your fears diminished in force. Fear is a coward. When you resist it, it flees.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I am sure of it. You are ready, Lydia, to take on the full mantle of my craft.”

  She felt a thrill that even Jason’s green eyes had failed to arouse in her. “Truly? You think me ready? Thank you, Father! I will guard your secrets with my life.”

  “One day I will be gone. It may be hard for you to prosper here in Thyatira as a woman alone.”

  “You are not going to be gone. Now let us stop speaking of tales and legends and begin our work, or . . .”

  “I know. The doors of Hades will open up and swallow us whole, for we shall run late.”

  EIGHT

  You shall not oppress a hired worker who is poor and needy.

  DEUTERONOMY 24:14

  JASON CONTINUED TO visit Eumenes’s workshop. He was a distraction. He was a joy. He was confusion and happiness in one beautiful, muscle-bound package. Even Lydia had to admit that he came for her. He betrayed no shyness in revealing his interest. His compliments grew more outrageous by the day, until Lydia surrendered and gave him a piece of purple fabric that she had woven herself.

  “How glorious. To touch what your precious hands have held and caressed for hours.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “Try to behave, Jason.”

  “This color is astonishing. Are you sure you used no snails?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did you use, then?”

  “Same as other purple dyers in Thyatira. Indigo. Madder. A pinch of this. A dash of that.”

  “Tell me. A pinch of what? I can see that you love this work. I wish to learn about it for your sake.”

  Lydia smiled, flattered. “It will take you a long time to absorb all the complexities of dye work. I have needed years to learn about each dye; every batch is unique, you see. One must learn proportions and order. It is not a simple formula that we follow. Nature creates its treasures with great variety. One year the indigo is deep; another it’s lighter. You have to learn, with your mind and heart, how to shift with every change, how to coax a certain shade out of different dyes.”

  Jason frowned as if displeased by her answer. “Surely a dye master can learn these things quickly. If he already has the knowledge, he merely has to grasp the subtleties of your father’s formulas.”

  “A dye master?”

  Jason grasped her hand in his, his fingers caressing hers with a boldness that made Lydia’s heart beat like a Roman drum. “You work too hard,” he said. “Look at these hands, almost ruined by hard work. Did you realize that my mother owns several businesses? After my father died, she took charge of his affairs and made them more successful than he ever could have. But she does none of the work herself. She hires capable managers, and they do her bidding.”

  Lydia sighed. “We cannot afford to hire a steward, Jason.”

  “Why do you not come to my house and meet my mother? Ask her to guide you. I am certain she would be willing to help.”

  Lydia heard nothing past the first part of his declaration. “You wish me to meet your mother?”

  Jason spread his arms. “Of course. For weeks I have spoken of nothing save Lydia. She is desperate to know the mystery woman who takes me
away from home every day.”

  Lydia could not hide her smile. “I will ask my father.”

  Jason’s home, a palatial, two-story villa, sat on a fertile plain on the outskirts of town, near the Rufus River. A fruit orchard bursting with blossoms was situated on its west side with a flower and herb garden to the east. In the back Lydia could make out the outline of a stable.

  A stone-faced slave welcomed them inside with a bow and led them to the rectangular courtyard in the center of the house. Lydia noticed the lack of a cheerful greeting, the absence of a friendly smile, the shadowed eyes, and wondered what manner of household Jason’s mother liked to run. A strict one, judging by the slave’s precise politeness.

  The open courtyard was surrounded by a generous portico that provided a covered walkway for visitors. Interspersed between delicately carved columns, beautiful wall paintings depicted familiar scenes from the lives of the Greek immortals. Lydia wiped wet palms against the fabric of her tunic. In all her travels with her father, she had never seen such a luxurious residence. And they were only in the atrium!

  To her bewilderment, Jason did not invite her inside the house but remained with her in the courtyard. Certainly the atrium was more opulent than the whole inside of her own home. But it would have been more cordial if he had asked her within. A house this size would certainly have a formal reception room, a tablinum where guests would be received. Lydia had little time to wonder at this odd breach of manners. Jason took her hand and coaxed her to walk along the portico, where in the cool shade of the tiled ceiling, he drew her attention to his favorite paintings.

  It became obvious to Lydia, as Jason began laboriously to tell her the tale of each scene, that he assumed her ignorant of Homer and Euripides and Herodotus. Although Lydia did not consider herself a scholar, she had a love for history and the ancient tales of the Greeks and read voraciously whenever she could borrow a copy of an epic poem or a scroll of history. Jason clearly had a great enthusiasm for the stories he told her. His hands whipped about his head as he spoke of the adventures of Hercules, his eyes lighting up with the drama of his tale. If his narrative lacked accuracy, she did not have the heart to correct him, though a few times when he deviated badly from the story, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

  His mother was late. She kept them waiting for half the length of an hour and arrived with languid steps and without an apology. Like her son, Dione was handsome, with large, round eyes that rarely seemed to blink and a smile that tipped one side of her mouth higher than the other. She received her son’s kiss coolly on one cheek and forbore to embrace Lydia, though she did invite their young visitor to sit near her on a marble bench.

  “Jason tells me that you help in your father’s business.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Purple dye, is it?” she asked, her eyes drifting to Lydia’s stained fingers.

  Lydia tucked her hands behind her. “Yes, my lady.”

  “You hire no manager or servants?”

  “Good stewards are expensive. An expense we cannot afford.”

  Jason’s mother swept the hem of her delicate tunic behind an ankle. “If you managed your business better, you would be able to afford a steward within six months. I could do it in one.”

  Lydia felt blood rush to her face at the implied criticism. “My father has little time for the accounts. He is truly gifted in his art. It is an absorbing business and leaves no room for account keeping.”

  Dione snorted delicately. “My husband used the same excuse. I took charge of the accounts and we saw a gratifying improvement. After his death, I multiplied his business many times over.” She spread her hands to indicate her luxurious surroundings. “You could do the same for your father. Leave him to his . . . art. Make his life more pleasant by increasing his success.”

  The marble bench with its feather-stuffed cushion grew uncomfortable. Lydia wriggled where she sat as the silence stretched. Finally she admitted, “I do not know how, mistress.”

  “Shall I help?”

  “I could not impose upon you.”

  Dione turned to gaze at her son, who stood patiently by her side. “Jason seems besotted. I think a little imposition might be in order.”

  NINE

  No one can serve two masters.

  MATTHEW 6:24

  “MY MOTHER HAS offered to become your father’s partner,” Jason said, his cheeks flushed with eagerness.

  “His partner?” Lydia’s voice emerged in a squeak.

  Mistaking her dismay for enthusiasm, Jason plowed through with his exuberant proposal. “She will take care of the accounts and the management of the business while your father continues to create his dyes. It is a perfect arrangement that would benefit everyone. She brings with her enormous advantages. Experience and knowledge, influential friends with greater wealth than what you are accustomed to. And because we are Roman citizens, you will have very few taxes to pay. Your income will increase overnight. You will be able to hire multiple servants to help your father. My mother is already looking for the right steward, one who could manage your father’s workshop and lighten his load.”

  “That is . . .” Lydia stumbled over her words. “That is very kind of your mother, Jason,” she said after taking a deep breath, grasping for words that would not insult her young suitor.

  “I know. She is exceptionally generous.” He squeezed her fingers.

  Lydia removed her hand from his hold. “I should warn you, my father has never had a partner. He does not believe in them.”

  Jason ran a finger through his short hair, setting the golden locks to charming disarray. “How will you afford to hire a manager and servants unless my mother helps you?”

  “I would welcome her advice. But I tried to explain to you. We cannot afford to hire a steward.”

  Jason began to pace, his steps agitated. They were in her garden, where she had started to work on a new batch of dye. Her implements lay in an untouched heap. Jason seemed to have that effect on her. When he arrived, work slowed down or ceased altogether.

  “Lydia. I care for you.” He knelt on one knee and gazed at her with molten green eyes. “You must know how much I care for you. I want us to have a future together. But my mother would never allow our friendship to grow if you continue to work in your father’s business.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t believe you do.” He curled his hand into a fist. “I am willing to make sacrifices for you. To set aside my own desires and support your work, because I know how precious your craft is to you. Why can you not forfeit a little on my behalf? My mother is willing to help you. She wishes you to succeed.”

  Lydia tried to speak. Her voice did not cooperate. She cleared her throat. “I . . . I care for you too, Jason. I would sacrifice for your sake as well. Only you must see that it is not my sacrifice to make. The business belongs to my father. It is his decision, not mine. And he would not wish for a partner, no matter how competent.”

  Jason’s smile was like a glimpse of the sun after a month of black clouds and unremitting rain. “Your father adores you. He will do anything to make you happy. Ask him for this favor, and he will give it to you. Promise me, Lydia. Promise you will ask him. So that we can be together always.”

  “I will try,” Lydia said, dazzled. As he took his leave, he looked at her the way a parched man in the desert might look upon a chalice of cool water. It filled her heart to the brim, that one look.

  She was quiet over dinner, her thoughts in turmoil. A part of her wanted the whole world to know that Jason—this splendid, valiant man—cared for her. Wanted to be with her always. Was willing to make sacrifices for her happiness. The idea was so bewildering that she wondered if her imagination had led her into the realm of delusions.

  When she remembered the condition to Jason’s overwhelming proclamation, however, her heart froze with dismay. How could she ask such a sacrifice from her father? It would never work.

  She c
ould not deny that there would be many advantages to Dione’s proposal. Even without the enticement of Jason’s love, Dione offered them financial stability beyond their dreams. No more fear of being destitute. No more struggle to survive. Her father could continue the work he loved without the unyielding demands of his trade. He was growing older. The pace their lives required was becoming too hard for him. Being Dione’s partner would offer him more assistance.

  Then again, what use was assistance and financial stability if he became unhappy? Eumenes liked to have his own way at work. Surely Dione would wish to exert her opinions on occasion. She would wish to save money where possible, whereas Eumenes desired to create beauty, often regardless of the cost. Their wills would clash. Eumenes would chafe under rules and rations.

  Lydia chewed a spoonful of beans without tasting them. And would she be happy? Never to have her hands in a vat of purple again, never to create the dye herself? Was she prepared to give up so much for a pair of bejeweled eyes that looked at her adoringly?

  She lifted an empty spoon to her lips, chewing before realizing she held nothing in her mouth. Jason had promised that she could continue to oversee the process. Even as his wife—for that is what he had intimated with his passionate speech—she would be able to direct the dye master and oversee every step. Perhaps that would satisfy her passion. With him by her side, it would surely be more than enough.

  “You are quiet tonight,” Eumenes observed.

  “Am I?”

  “Please. If you put anther empty spoon in your mouth and chew, I might choke. What ails you, Daughter?”

  Lydia placed her spoon back into the clay bowl. She frowned, trying to string words together that refused to be strung. What if she asked this great favor of her father and he capitulated for her sake and became miserable? How would she bear the burden of his anguish, knowing it to be her fault? And if she did not ask, how could she face Jason’s censure and unhappiness? There seemed no way out of her quandary. She could either have a miserable father or an anguished suitor.