by Tessa Afshar
“It must have been a successful gathering. Thirty years later, and still they buy their dye from you.”
“They were not convinced at first. My father’s purple was a risk to the merchants of Judea. They did not know him; nor could they accept his word that the color would last. I gave Elianna a piece of purple cloth I had dyed myself. In truth, it was no more than a shameless attempt to convince her to purchase my father’s wares.
“Months later, Ethan’s father, Master Ezer, placed a small order with us. Our first from Judea. But Ezer could not sell it. No one would take a chance with an expensive dye from an unknown merchant. Not until Elianna created a collection of fabrics, all in various shades of purple. It became an instant success in Jerusalem, and they could not keep enough of my father’s purple on their shelves. Other sellers of cloth did not wish to be left behind, and the orders started to come in.
“Later, Elianna wrote a short letter to thank me and to say that my simple gift had been the inspiration of an idea that had saved her father’s workshop from ruin and helped her family in a difficult time. I still remember every line. I felt so important.”
“Is that when you started to love this work? You don’t do it for your father’s memory alone. It’s like purple runs in your veins.”
Lydia leaned back against a wall. “Long before that letter, I loved purple. I love its dark secrecy, its murky appearance in the vats, more black than blue. I love that I can create something that no one else can equal. I love that I can change color and shade and hue with a wave of my hand and turn something ordinary into something unforgettable. I even love the acrid smell of the mordants.
“No, that letter did not make me love this work, though it made me appreciate the value of it more. I think I was created for this. I think God made me to do this work.”
Rebekah poked her in the side. “God might have a few other plans for you besides dreaming up shades of purple and building a successful shop. Now tell me, what made you keep in touch with Elianna all these years?”
“Elianna grew sick for a long time and stopped her work. I never knew the details. But upon occasion, she would write me a letter to ask how I fared. After my father died and we came to Philippi, I could not afford to send a letter to the house next door, never mind all the way to Judea! Some years passed, and I thought I had lost her. Then I wrote her a letter, and to my surprise, she began to correspond again.
“She gave our name to her friend Viriato, and the orders from Judea started coming in again. Though she knew my father was dead, she trusted me to make a good dye and run the business well. She had done as much for her own father’s workshop and understood my challenges as an unmarried woman. In every letter, Elianna encouraged me. From her I learned wisdom and perseverance. I learned women could achieve their dreams as well as men.
“Imagine my surprise and joy when I heard that she had married Ethan after many years of waiting and that, together with Viriato, they run her father’s old workshop again.”
“You are surrounded by Jewish friends. You see? This is God’s way of drawing you even closer to himself.”
Lydia laughed. “You may well be right, for they write to tell me that they will be coming to Philippi in a few weeks, all three of them.”
FORTY
For the thing that I fear comes upon me,
and what I dread befalls me.
I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;
I have no rest, but trouble comes.
JOB 3:25-26
LYDIA TOSSED THE BLANKETS to the foot of the bed and climbed out. Was there ever a mistress so fickle as sleep? The room had grown chilly with the evening air; she wrapped herself in the soft wool of her shawl and ambled over to the narrow window. The moon was full, a large ball of light in a sky on fire with stars. Below her, the world rested in stillness, dozing dreamily through the night watches. Inside her, a tempest gathered. No moon-bright light was luminous enough to penetrate the darkness of fear that threatened to engulf her.
The problem was that she had taken on the responsibility for her own safety as well as the protection of those she loved. She had hired herself for a God-sized job, and she knew she would fail. This world was redolent with danger and pain. Even if Antiochus did not breathe threats and menace down her neck, another peril would take his place. Sickness, accidents, financial disasters, death. Suffering knocked on the human door in endless shapes, bearing boundless faces.
Did Lydia really think she could be wise enough, strong enough, astute enough to shield herself from pain? Insulate her loved ones from disaster? Of course not! She knew she was not qualified for such an impossible task. Knew one day she would fail.
Rebekah often reminded her that she needed to discharge herself from the job of being everyone’s protector. “Leave that work to the only one qualified for it, Lydia. Entrust the Lord with your security. With your future.”
Lydia knew Rebekah was right. But how could she teach her heart to change its ways? How could she teach it to trust the Lord’s mercy above the world’s sorrows?
She leaned her forehead against the cool stones framing the window. Lord God, release me from this need. Release me from being the guardian of everyone’s safety.
Barefoot and silent as a cat, she wandered out of her chamber and stopped briefly in the next cubiculum, where Rebekah slept. Her breaths came steady and deep. Nothing short of an earthquake would wake her up once she fell asleep. Lydia envied her friend’s talent for easy, uninterrupted slumber.
Affection rolled over her like an immense wave as she studied Rebekah. Faithful to the bone. Brilliant as a Greek philosopher. Wise. Unflappable. What a gift God had sent her the day she found Rebekah, bruised and half-broken, starving on a side street in Thyatira. No one had recognized her worth then, abandoned and alone, thrown out like refuse. God alone had recognized the precious jewel, covered by grime and besmirched by the abandonment of those who should have loved her. He had known her value and had used Lydia to rescue her.
She closed the thick curtain over the window, both to keep out the cold and to allow Rebekah a few extra moments of rest in the morning. She had worked long hours that day, helping to complete a large shipment of purple linen, and had not crawled into bed until long past midnight.
Lydia lingered in the chamber and said a short prayer of thanks for her precious friend.
Next, she went to check on Chloris, whose pallet had been set up in a small antechamber attached to Rebekah’s bedroom, away from the other servants and household slaves. The girl seemed restless. Lydia knelt by the side of her mattress and placed a soothing hand on her forehead. The soft skin, damp with moisture, burned like a kitchen fire.
Fetching a lamp, Lydia looked at the girl more carefully. She had pushed away her covers and lay restless and shivering, her old tunic twisted about her body like a rope. Every few moments, she moaned as if in pain. Heat emanated from every part of her; she burned like a tiny, lightless sun.
Lydia swallowed.
Though loath to interrupt Rebekah’s hard-won rest, she raced to fetch her friend.
“Do you think it’s serious?” she asked when Rebekah had examined the child.
Pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, Rebekah nodded. “I haven’t been able to rouse her. I think we should fetch a physician right away.”
“I will send Epaphroditus,” Lydia said, already running toward the stairs. “Agnodice is in town, thank the Lord. I saw her yesterday when I went to the agora. She will know what to do.”
Agnodice was the only female physician in Philippi, and highly skilled in the healing arts. Her expertise was so widely acknowledged that wealthy residents of other cities in Macedonia often asked for her services. Years before, when they were both young and struggling to establish themselves in their respective professions, the two women had formed a firm if unlikely friendship. Agnodice was a woman of strong opinions. To disagree with her on any matter was to be wrong. But she seemed to tolerate Lydia’s notions, ev
en when they were not in absolute accord with her own.
The physician arrived in rumpled clothing, with red, swollen eyes, her large medical bag clutched in the bosom of her latest servant, a tousle-haired boy of twelve.
“Who’s dying?” she said. “Someone better. I had finally fallen asleep for the first time in two days when your servant roused me.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Agnodice. The child is only ten, and she is burning with fever. We can’t rouse her.” Lydia led the way to Chloris’s room.
The physician sighed. “Well, let’s have a look.”
Calm, expert fingers began their examination of Chloris. “Bring me more light,” she barked. “I need to know if she has a rash.”
Chloris mumbled in her feverish dreams, but she did not awaken. Most of her words were too slurred to understand. Upon occasion she would mutter a phrase or word that the rest of them could make sense of.
“Did she just say Antiochus?” the physician asked, a thread of amusement running through her voice. “That’s enough to bring on a fever to any pretty young girl.” She sat back and washed her hands in a bowl of water held by her assistant. “She has no rash.”
“Is that good?” Rebekah said, her voice tight with anxiety.
“That is good. Now we wash her with cool water and pour herbs down her throat and hope she will keep them down.”
“Is she in danger?” Lydia entwined her fingers together until they turned bone white. She could not bear the thought of Chloris being taken by fever. She had only just been rescued from the clutches of Antiochus.
Agnodice gazed up for a moment before returning her attention to her patient. “I will not lie to you or give you false comfort. You might wish to pray to your god. Who knows? If he exists, he may show pity for her youth and beauty.” Her tone made it clear that she did not hold out much hope in any god’s intervention. “In the meantime, I will do what I can with my own remedies.”
Years ago, Agnodice had confessed to Lydia that she had lost her faith in the gods. “In my youth I worshiped Asclepius and his daughters like a good little physician. I honored his snake-entwined staff in every aspect of my practice.” She had taken a long swallow of her wine before going on. “I saw no mercy. No cure. No healing. No matter the size of the offering, the length of the prayer, the depth of the faith. Asclepius, bless his cold heart, never did care. So I turned to my own herbs and created better remedies.” She had finished the dregs of her wine. “Those work, upon occasion. No, Lydia. I am done with gods.”
“The Lord is not the same as other gods, Agnodice. His love is unfailing.”
“Yet as many Jews perish through painful, incurable diseases as do people of other nations. So either this god of yours is powerless like the rest, or he doesn’t care about his people. You keep your god, merchant. I’ll hold on to my herbs.”
Lydia had leaned forward. “Will your herbs comfort you when you have no peace? Will they counsel you when you struggle through the quagmires of life? Will they be your companion when you are lonely and afraid?”
For a short moment, Agnodice had looked bleak. “No one can give you those things, Lydia. Now pour me more wine and keep your mouth shut about the goodness of your god.”
Over the years, Agnodice and Rebekah and Lydia had had many more discussions about the Lord. But none had been as raw or revealing as the first. At least now the physician did not argue against prayer and sometimes actually asked for it, claiming that it cost her nothing and did no harm, even if it did no good.
“When will you know if she will recover?” Rebekah asked, bringing Lydia back to the present.
“When the fever breaks and she awakens. I make no promises, mind.”
A passage Rebekah had once quoted from Scripture came to Lydia. “The thing that I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me.” Chloris lay burning and unconscious, caught in the dreams of her fever, and Lydia could do little to help. How well she understood Job’s anguished words.
“Then we will pray that God will break her fever.” Rebekah caressed Chloris’s flushed face. “We will pray that he will guide your hands, Agnodice, and bless your medicines with his healing.”
Lydia nodded her assent. But beneath her willingness to seek God’s help ran a river raging with helpless dread.
When the light of the moon had grown wan and distant, Agnodice called for Lydia and Rebekah. Abandoning their intercession, they ran to Chloris’s bedside. Lydia did not have to ask why the physician had hailed them. The girl’s breathing came shallow and fast, her chest rising and sinking in its battle to retain air. Every few moments, she would skip a breath, as if her lungs no longer bore the strength to move. Lydia had the eerie feeling that the child’s soul was already moving away from its fragile shell toward whatever lay beyond.
Lydia swallowed convulsively. She had seen this strange respiration once before. Hours before her father had died, he had started to breathe like this, hollow breaths too tired to hold on to life.
“She is dying,” Agnodice said in a drained voice, as if she had read Lydia’s mind. “I can do no more. Say your good-byes.”
Lydia sank to her knees. She had feared the worst. And it was coming to pass.
FORTY-ONE
Its teeth are lions’ teeth,
and it has the fangs of a lioness.
JOEL 1:6
REBEKAH NEVER CEASED PRAYING. Time passed, the moments lazy and sluggish, while Lydia squatted next to Chloris and counted the girl’s breaths. One, two, three, skip; one, two, three, four, skip; one, two, skip, skip. By some inexplicable miracle, Chloris held on to her feeble grip on life, hour after hour.
“She should be dead by now,” Agnodice said, placing a warm poultice on the girl’s chest. She had long since given up trying to dribble her medicines down her patient’s uncooperative throat. “I don’t know what keeps her alive.”
“God,” Rebekah cried, “save this child from the hand of death.”
Who can overcome death? Who can save any of us from its immutable clutch? Lydia buried her face in her hands. Had she not watched her own dear father succumb to its savage hold? Now it clamped its teeth on Chloris, and no one could change that. Even God stood back and allowed the great enemy to have its way.
She went back to her counting. One, two, three, four, five, six. She arrived at twenty-three before she realized there had been no skips. No breaths lost. Had her attention wavered? She started to count again and arrived at fifty. And then one hundred.
“I think she is breathing better,” she said, holding her own breath as Agnodice bent over to examine Chloris. The physician threw a startled glance in Rebekah’s direction.
“I don’t know how, but her breathing is much improved.”
“Will she live?”
“An hour ago I would have said impossible. But now?” She flung her hands in the air. “Ask her.” She pointed her thumb in Rebekah’s direction. “Where my medicines and poultices have failed, her prayers seem to be succeeding.”
Rebekah raised her arms aloft. “Thanks be to the God of heaven and earth!”
Daybreak brought golden sunshine and a sky empty of clouds. As if unable to resist that blue, luminous expanse, Chloris awoke, weak and confused, her voice a croak, her head full of pain. But she awoke. And her fever broke. Agnodice, after another careful examination, assured them that she would live, though she could not explain the girl’s recovery.
“I would like to take the credit, but I don’t deal in the realm of miracles. I can at least tell you that it is not the Roman fever; it won’t return to plague her.” She washed her hands in a basin swimming with scented petals. “Give her broth and cooked pears today. Mix wine with water and honey, and add this bag of herbs. It should help keep the fever at bay.” She began to pack her bag. “I will come tomorrow to see her. Now I am going to bed. Try not to wake me. If you have another emergency, send for her,” she said, pointing her chin at Rebekah.
Dizzy with relief, Lydia clasped Agnodice i
n her arms. “God bless you,” she said with feeling.
“You should ask him to bless you. I am going to send you a bill so big, you will have to shear a whole flock of sheep and dye the wool into the colors of the rainbow to pay for it.”
By the following morning, Chloris had recovered so much that keeping her still and in her bed as Agnodice had commanded became a Herculean task. Rebekah looked ashen from nursing her two nights in a row, and Lydia, fearful that her friend might fall victim to the fever next, sent her to bed.
“If you stop fidgeting, I will read you a marvelous story. It is called The Odyssey,” she told the girl.
“What’s it about?”
“About a man who wandered from home for twenty years. A man with a very distinctive scar.”
It had been a long time since Lydia had thought about Odysseus’s scar. Many years had passed since she had been a fragile child. Her life had changed beyond recognition since then. She lived in a different country, spoke a different language, had different friends. She had lost everything she once held dear and had found, to her amazement, that the Lord had brought new attachments and provided her with a different home, no less precious than her first.
She had succeeded in a competitive business without the partnership of a man. She had earned respect and influence among her colleagues. She thought of her many accomplishments by the world’s standards. Her shop, which she had started from nothing, had grown to be much more lucrative than her father’s business had ever been. She had been awarded Roman citizenship, garnered influence in Philippi and beyond.
And yet not a single one of these realities had managed to disguise that old wound or the throbbing scar it left behind. Not all the purple in the world could hide it. Not all the years in the fabric of time could bury it. In a field of beautiful lilies, a wild boar had stolen her mother and robbed Lydia of security. Its scar would never be healed, she thought.