by Tessa Afshar
He grimaced. “I remember nothing.”
“You lost consciousness. I closed the door to protect you from prying eyes. Your mouth may be a little sore. I had to place a stick there to prevent you from choking or injuring your tongue. The seizure did not last long.”
“How did you know what to do? Another woman would have run, shrieking.”
“It’s only the . . . what do you Romans call it? Morbus caducus. The falling sickness. Hippocrates taught that it was merely a physical disorder due to natural causes. No demons involved, unlike what some Romans claim.”
Rufus took another sip of water. “For one so young, you seem very knowledgeable. Are you a physician as well as a dyer of purple?”
“My father suffered from the disease. I took care of him many times.”
He grimaced. “It doesn’t happen to me often. Sometimes I forget I have it.” He turned his head toward the wall. “It was decent of you to close the door.”
Lydia straightened his tunic, which had grown tangled against his leg. “Let your mind be at ease, Rufus. What happened here remains between us. No one will hear of it from me.”
A spark of new life entered his eyes. “I have an idea. I will send my handsome son here tomorrow. He will charm you into working for me. He charms everybody.”
A trickle of the ice from Lydia’s heart seeped into her voice. “You will find I am immune to the charms of handsome sons.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Remember not the former things,
nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
ISAIAH 43:18-19
TO LYDIA’S AGGRAVATION, Rufus did send his son over to the shop the following day. The man’s annoying presence was mitigated by the fact that he arrived bearing a basket the size of a Phoenician ship, filled with foods she hadn’t tasted in long months. Or ever. Walnuts and almonds, jars of olive oil, fresh cheese, pomegranates, raisins, quince. And best of all, roasted lamb and goose.
While Lydia and Rebekah drooled over the contents of the basket, Rufus’s son, Antiochus, pored over their merchandise. Every now and again, as he touched some yarn or a piece of dyed wool, Lydia caught a flash of raw hunger in his eyes. He was a few years older than Lydia, twenty or twenty-one at most. Under the carelessness of his comments, she sensed a lurking intensity that was too old for his years.
“Where do you process your dye? And your wool? Where do you wash it? Dye it? Dry it? There is no space in this chicken coop.” He walked restlessly from one wall to another, fingering merchandise as if the feel of purple comforted him.
“For some things we go to the river. For others—” Lydia pointed to the back of the shop—“there’s a courtyard back there.”
He opened the back door and examined the space she indicated. “My bath is bigger than that. I can’t imagine how you manage. You should work for us. We will give you everything you need to create magnificent things.”
“I have everything I need here.”
“You have no room to grow here. You will remain negligible, barely making ends meet for the rest of your life. If you don’t go broke first.”
Lydia frowned. “Your father said you were charming. I see he exaggerated.”
Antiochus laughed. “I can be charming if I choose.” He bent over her basket and grabbed a handful of almonds, crushing the shells with his fingers and discarding them unheeded on the floor.
Popping an almond into his mouth, he said, “I understand my father made a fool of himself yesterday.”
Lydia stiffened. “He was ill, if that’s what you mean. And the basket was unnecessary. But please let him know I am grateful.”
He studied her for a moment. “You did my father a good turn. Now let me repay your kindness. Let me show you Philippi. And introduce you to some important people. People who can be useful to your trade. If you really want to succeed in this city, you need more than talent. You need connections. And you need to get into the dyers’ guild. You won’t be able to do that without help.”
“Why would you want to help me, a stranger to you and to Philippi?”
He shrugged. “As I said, you did my father a good turn.”
Lydia pressed her lips together. “Your father told you to do it.”
“He may have. What of it? Do you want my help or not?”
Lydia knew the offer could prove invaluable to her business. But she wished Rufus himself had offered to accompany her. Antiochus made her uncomfortable. Then again, any young man would. “Can Rebekah come?”
Antiochus turned to observe the silent girl for a moment. “Whatever suits you. Tomorrow then. I will come in the morning.”
“We will have to close the shop if we both go with him,” Rebekah said after he left, as she swept the floor clean of almond shells. “What exactly happened with Rufus? You said he was ill and you let him rest here awhile. But he is acting as if you saved his life.”
Lydia waved a hand. “He makes too much of my help. I closed the door to preserve his dignity. Men don’t like to be sick in public. I think he feels he owes me a debt for that. In any case, he is a pleasant old man. Perhaps he can help us.”
Antiochus arrived in the afternoon without an apology for his lateness. Lydia had donned her best clothes—a dark-purple tunic that showed off the superior dye produced in her workshop, covered lightly by a thin cloak. She had given her second-best tunic and new shawl to Rebekah. They had risen early and dressed one another’s hair in loops and braids and curls. They could not hide their youth, but at least they looked respectable.
“Where are we going?” Lydia asked as she tried to keep up with Antiochus’s brisk steps.
“My father’s workshop. You might as well start there. The other shops are not far. We are bound to run into one or two members of the dyers’ guild while we are there.”
Rufus’s shop was located on a long street near the city walls, only a stone’s throw from the Egnatian Way. There were iron grates on the windows of the ground floor, and the facade of the building looked like it was made of marble. At the main entrance there were two Doric columns with a stucco of Minerva, patron goddess of art, stretching between them.
Lydia gulped. For a moment her desire to establish herself as a successful seller of purple seemed like nothing but the rash dreams of youth. How had she ever believed she could compete with grand establishments such as this? Workshops with long histories and powerful connections. There was no room for her in Philippi. She wondered if that was the reason Antiochus had brought her here. To teach her humility. To show her the futility of her desires.
Antiochus must have read her thoughts. “Can’t compete with all this, can you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed and shining.
“I am not trying to start a rivalry. I merely want to make my own purple.”
“You waste your time. Before the year is up, you will be out of business.”
Lydia pressed her lips together and refused to answer. To her relief, Rufus arrived to welcome them with a smile. He showed her about the shop with its built-in marble counters and rows of shelves full of beautiful textiles—yarns in every imaginable shade of purple, scarlet cushions, cloaks lined with fur, tiles stained in shades of lavender and periwinkle and magenta, clothes decorated with gold and silver. His manner lacked Antiochus’s disparagement. He acted like an amicable host, happy to have their company.
“What do you think?” he asked Lydia like a boy hungry for affirmation.
“It’s the most impressive shop I have ever seen.”
“Now will you come and work for me?”
For a moment, Lydia was tempted. Truly tempted to give up her dream of building her own workshop. Tempted to enter into Rufus’s employment instead. How much easier life would be if she walked away from those cherished longings. If she stopped saving and worrying. Here, she wo
uld have a simple life. She would oversee other workers. Her hands would stop feeling rough and calloused. No more dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights.
An image of her father’s face floated to the forefront of her mind. The wild hair that he often forgot to comb, the thick brows shot through with white, the mischievous grin that goaded her to laughter, the arms that held her like an anchor, securing her in the midst of every storm.
He had labored and struggled for years to create the best purple. He had fought to keep that formula from falling into other hands. Lydia had to try to succeed, not only for her own sake. She had robbed him of his dream with her stupidity. She would not rob him again in order to live a life of ease.
“Thank you, Master Rufus. I will work for myself.”
He wagged a thick finger at her. “I like you. You have spine, Lydia of Nowhere. And you know how to keep a confidence. A rare quality, I have found.
“Come. Let me introduce you to some of my friends. They will raise their eyebrows at you and make snide remarks about the fact that you are a slip of a girl with no husband or father behind you. Do not allow them to shake you. You must win them over if you wish to succeed in Philippi. You will need these new associations. I will open the door. It is up to you to walk through. Earn their respect. Make them forget your unusual circumstances. Mind you don’t put me out of business now.”
They both laughed. But under the jest, Lydia sensed that Rufus really believed she could succeed. Succeed enough to be a threat to him. Rufus’s belief settled in her veins like a warm spray of hope.
On her way out, he bent his lips to her so only she could hear. “I have come to a conclusion about you. You hail from Thyatira. They are famed for their production of purple.”
Lydia forced herself to smile. In Thyatira she was known as the daughter of a thief. As unjust as the accusation may be, it still had the power to rob her of this fragile new start. “Perhaps I am.”
“No shame in that. It is no Philippi and it certainly is not Rome. But it is not so bad that you need to hide the fact under a bushel.”
If she could buy a bushel big enough to hide her past, she certainly would. She hoped Dione and Jason’s vile lies would not chase her all the way into Macedonia.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Yet he commanded the skies above
and opened the doors of heaven,
and he rained down on them manna to eat
and gave them the grain of heaven.
Man ate of the bread of the angels.
PSALM 78:23-25
ELEVEN MONTHS AFTER the workshop opened, Aemilia walked in to inspect the fruits of her investment. Leaning heavily on a cane, jewels adorning her sparse hair and sagging throat, she arrived with her harried slave in tow. “It’s not very large, is it?” she said, wrinkling her already-wrinkled brow.
“No, Patroness.” Aemilia’s judicious investment had been stretched to its limits. A larger space would have been impossible.
“Varus would not be impressed with this shop.”
“The size of my workshop may not thrill him. But its purple shall.”
“You could at least install a marble shelf somewhere.”
Lydia stared at her shoes. There was neither money nor space for a single marble tile, let alone a whole shelf.
The old lady sniffed. “I received your final payment this morning. You may have no marble in your shop, but you have discharged your debt to me. And a month early, too. I do admire a woman who keeps her word.”
“Thank you, Patroness.”
“You still need a bigger shop.”
“With marble shelving.”
“Precisely. Then I can bring Varus and enjoy myself at his expense.”
“I will try my best to oblige you, Patroness.”
“Well, don’t take too long about it. At my age, when my mind wanders, it doesn’t come back.”
Lydia tapped her forehead with the flat of her palm. “We still cannot manage to pay the membership dues for the guild. If we were part of the dyers’ guild, I would be able to buy our wool for a better price. As it is, I pay more than the other dyers but have to sell my merchandise at the same rate as they, or lose my customers.”
With a restless motion, she came to her feet and paced to the open door. Gray clouds had not broken all day. “What an unsolvable conundrum! If I want to save money, I need to become part of the guild. But I cannot afford to become part of the guild unless I save more money. It’s been a year, and we have made no breakthroughs. We are floundering, Rebekah. I don’t know how to overcome this obstacle.”
“You paid off your loan to Aemilia and put a smile on her face when you added a beautiful wool tunic to her payment. You have established your own workshop, and, though modest, it creates the best purple in this city. We have a roof over our heads. Food in our bellies. I would not call that floundering.”
Lydia shrugged. “We barely survive. After I pay taxes to Rome, taxes which my colleagues do not have to pay thanks to the privileges of citizenship, there is little left. The guild membership would improve our circumstances. We cannot grow without it.”
“Have I told you about manna?”
Lydia turned to her friend. “No. Why? Can he solve our problems?”
“Manna is not a person.” Rebekah stretched her feet to make herself more comfortable as she prepared madder roots for a new batch of dye.
“I have told you how my people were once enslaved in Egypt. After four hundred years of captivity, their lives grew unbearable. The Lord could not abide their suffering any longer, and he sent them a prophet named Moses who would lead them out of Egypt.”
“I remember this story. The ten plagues in Egypt; the hard-hearted pharaoh who refused to free them; the death of the firstborn sons. And that dramatic rescue, when God parted the sea for his people. The Hebrews passed safely to the other side, while Pharaoh’s army was crushed under the waves.”
Rebekah nodded. “After they escaped, they remained in the wilderness for forty years, living like nomads, cultivating no fields of their own. They had some cattle, which they had brought from Egypt. But they had no wheat, no barley. Nothing for their daily bread. Nothing to fill their stomachs. They started to fear starvation. They even complained that slavery in Egypt was better than this uncertain life in the wilderness.”
“What happened?” Lydia asked, drawn into Rebekah’s story in spite of the strain of worry that tugged at her thoughts. For over a year, Rebekah had spoken to her of her God. Lydia found him both fascinating and incomprehensible.
“God had not brought his people all the way out of Egypt to starve them in the wilderness. He had other plans for their lives. So he sent them manna.”
“What is manna?”
“I don’t know the precise answer to that question. I can tell you what our Scriptures say. Every morning, the campsite of the Israelites would be wet with dew. When the dew evaporated, in its place a substance as fine as frost, white like coriander seed, blanketed the ground. This was heaven’s food, sent to them by God every day.”
“What did it taste like?”
“I have never tasted it myself; the Lord stopped sending manna when Israel conquered the Promised Land. We are told that it tasted like honey wafers.
“In the mornings, families were supposed to gather as much as they needed for one day. No more, for the following morning, God promised to provide the necessary measure for that day.
“Some people did not trust this promise and gathered more for later. To their disgust, they found that the additional manna turned putrid, crawling with maggots.”
Lydia scrunched her nose. “Maggots infested the manna within one day?”
“Only the food of those who did not follow God’s directions.”
“So this food—this manna—would not last more than a few hours before going bad?”
“Yes and no. Once a week, on the Sabbath, which is our day of rest, God commanded the people to do no work. Not even to collect manna.
On those days, the manna lasted an extra day, and they could eat their fill from what they had gathered the morning before.”
Lydia returned to her stool and started to work on the pile of madder alongside her friend. “I see where this story is headed. God wanted the people to trust him for their daily needs. Trust him to provide for them not just once but continuously.”
“You have understood the heart of the matter.”
“You want me to wait on God’s manna? For the workshop?”
“Sometimes, in the wilderness of life, that is your greatest act of faith. Trusting that God will provide for each day. One of our poets by the name of Asaph called manna the ‘bread of angels.’ Can you imagine? He said, ‘Man ate of the bread of the angels.’”
“Is that what angels eat? Manna?”
“I don’t know if the angels eat anything. They are not flesh and bone like us but creatures of fire and spirit who come into the presence of the Lord freely. I think Asaph was speaking not of physical manna but of what it represents. Perhaps what fills the angels’ hunger is trust. Trust in God’s faithfulness. In his provision. In his goodness. Perhaps an angel’s longings can be assuaged only when he places all his confidence in God.
“Do we not have this in common with the angels? Do we not suffer a hunger that can only be alleviated with faith? In a way, we have to learn to eat the bread of angels. Every day, trust God to give us our sufficiency for that day. Not just with food, you understand? But with everything. Your business. Your future. Your heart.”
Lydia dropped a madder root unheeded back on the pile. “Bread of angels for my heart,” she whispered.
“If you want, we can pray and ask for it.”
“You pray. I will listen.”
Rebekah waved a hand. “You have listened to me pray for over a year. It’s time you learned to do your own praying.”
“But I don’t know how! I don’t know Scripture by the scroll-full, as you do.”
“You don’t have to pray like me. Pray like yourself. God will be happy to hear from you after all these years.”