Bread of Angels

by Tessa Afshar

  “I was born in Rome to a patrician family long on pride and short on coin,” he said. “Our fortunes had dwindled over the decades so that by the time I was a young man, we lived in the crumbling ruins of a once-grand villa with little land left for farming and no more treasures to sell. My mother, Atia, had rough hands for want of a servant. I remember her washing our laundry herself, something a patrician woman is never supposed to do.

  “As an only son, I knew what was expected of me. The army beckoned. For the sake of the glory of Rome and in order to restore the fortunes of my family, I had to join the thousands who fought to secure Rome’s ever-expanding borders. I had no interest in the army and even less in warfare. From the time I can remember, I had a passion for building. Houses, bridges, libraries, aqueducts. It mattered not. The intricacies of design and structure drew me like the irresistible song of the sirens. My hope was that once I joined my division, I might be assigned to work with the engineers who often served in the Roman army.

  “When I turned sixteen, I boarded ship in the harbor of Misenum at the northern end of the Bay of Naples. Our galley was a long, narrow trireme, not large but fast. With two hundred men on board, including the oarsmen, we were jammed tight, sleeping on deck wherever we could find space to sit. We were headed first for Baetica in the Iberian Peninsula, where we were to deliver fifty men, and from there to pick up provisions and make our way to Britannia, where I was assigned to serve.

  “We never made it as far as Baetica. The wind was against us from the start of our journey. It took us seven days on the Mediterranean Sea traveling westward to cover the distance that should have taken two. On the seventh day, we came across a small merchant ship. It was packed with wheat and passengers, destined for Rome. Though many years have passed since that fateful afternoon, I remember the lines of that dainty ship, smaller than our trireme, and slow. Merchant ships use sails only. They have no room for oars and oarsmen.”

  Lydia smiled. “I can picture it exactly. It was on such a ship that Rebekah and I made our way to Philippi.”

  “Then you can understand our concern when we detected the second ship. It took us some time to recognize it for what it was. Pirates had not disturbed those waters for over fifty years. And yet here was an Illyrian quadrireme, sleek and fast, eating up the wind, heading for the merchant vessel.

  “Our commander did not hesitate. He ordered the captain to engage the pirates. What choice had we? We could not leave the merchant vessel defenseless.”

  Lydia set her napkin aside, her appetite forgotten. “Had I been a passenger, I would have welcomed your help most fervently. I cannot imagine being pursued by pirates, though I assume engaging them could have been no easy feat either.”

  “We were Roman, two hundred strong and ready for battle. None of us conceived of defeat. I thought they would turn and run when they saw us. Why risk engaging a fully armed Roman warship? I did not know the pirate captain then. He was Illyrian by birth, the son and grandson of generations of bold marauders. Far from running, he turned and rammed straight into us.

  “I had never been in a war, never even seen a skirmish. That day I saw a glimpse of hell in the chaos that ensued. Many died with the initial impact. The Illyrians boarded our galley within moments, undeterred by our arrows and spears. We fought with our swords and fists and whatever else we could lay hands on. Ill prepared for an engagement that came too fast, we did our best to overcome the pirates. Our best proved insufficient. We lost the battle. Many of my comrades died. Young like me and unseasoned for war, they were easy prey in the hands of rough men.

  “The Illyrians executed most of our experienced officers and captured thirty-seven of us as slaves. Pirates make better money through slavery than the seizure of goods.”

  Lydia was not the only one who gasped. Sounds of shock filled the chamber. Marcus spread his arms.

  “In the course of one hour, I went from being a proud Roman patrician to an Illyrian slave. Worse yet: they did not intend to auction me at some distant port, where perhaps I might find a way back home. For me, they had another plan.

  “Though we had lost the battle, we had inflicted a good deal of damage. Many pirates and the slaves who served them had died at our hands, their bodies floating in the warm waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The pirate ship needed new oarsmen. That became my assignment.”

  Wrapping her arms around her stomach, Lydia leaned back. She could not imagine a worse fate.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.

  JAMES 1:12, NIV

  “I FOUND OUT THE fundamental rule of rowing within the first hour of my new life. Rowing is pain. It exerts a brutal punishment upon every muscle you have. From the moment you pull on that long oar, battling the weight of water, every part of your body screams with agony. For protracted periods of time, you find no respite. Your only reality is the oar in your hand, the sound of the drum in your ear, and the sight of the man next to you, pulling in tandem, pulling to live.

  “They chained me to a man of middle years with a beard that reached his chest and a stench that could make you gag. Soon I would smell the same. But that first day, I did not know it. I felt superior to everyone. I was a Roman, after all.

  “For the first few hours, my oar mate said nothing. I stumbled with the oar, trying to learn the rhythm, trying to avoid the added punishment of the oar master’s whip. Then, as night fell, the ship dropped anchor, and we could finally rest. I collapsed forward, half-insensate from pain and exhaustion. ‘Drink this,’ a kind voice said in my ear, and my oar mate held a chipped wooden cup to my chapped lips and forced water into my mouth. ‘I am Jacob,’ he said. ‘Jacob Ben Samuel. I have served on this ship for four years. I have survived, and so shall you, young Roman.’”

  “Jacob?” Rebekah asked.

  “Yes.” Marcus’s lips softened for a moment. “He was one of your people. I told him that I was not serving any filthy pirates for four years.

  “Jacob Ben Samuel laughed softly and passed me a piece of bread. ‘Eat, then. You will need your strength if you are to walk out of here on your own feet.’

  “My fingers were a mass of blisters by the next morning. The blisters burst and turned into new blisters. I still carry the scars on my hands. Our days began with pain and ended with pain.

  “Pride is a powerful force. It shapes your view of the world, of yourself. For all its power, I found that it breaks easily and leaves behind nothing. By the end of the first month, my pride had crumbled. Courage, hope, confidence disintegrated in its wake. There is no greater shame for a Roman than to be reduced to slavery. Not only defeated but captured, shackled.

  “I gave in. I tried to wrap my chains about my own throat. Death by suicide was the only honorable option left to me.

  “Jacob saved me.” Marcus looked at his scars. “He was the kindest man I have ever met. Day by day, he gave me a reason to live.

  “At first he taught me the simple lessons of rowing. How to hold the oar. How to protect my back, my elbow, my shoulder from injury. Our Illyrian masters switched our positions from one side of the boat to the other, but they kept us chained to the same partners. So Jacob and I spent more hours together than most brothers.

  “There were days when we were pushed beyond what our bodies could endure, beyond weariness, so that every shred of strength left us. In those moments Jacob would whisper in my ear, ‘One more pull. One more pull. Don’t give in, boy. One more.’ And it was his voice, the warm concern in it, the sheer civility of it in the midst of unthinkable brutality, that pushed me to persevere. Jacob taught me resilience. He taught me that my mind could be stronger than my body.

  “With the brashness of youth buoyed by Roman pride, I had boasted to Jacob that first day that I would not serve a pirate ship for four years. I would not have served for four months if he had not cared for me. They w
ould have dragged my beaten body out of the hull of that quadrireme. As it was, I remained enslaved for three full years. Jacob began to speak to me of God when the first month had ended.

  “For three years, I heard of this God. How he had inclined his ear to the misery of the slaves in Egypt and sent them help. God, Jacob said, carried my tears in his bottle and would one day give me beauty for the ashes of my life. Like you, Lydia, I became a God-fearer. Driven day after day, past agony, past exhaustion, past the voice that whispered this thing could not be done, I pulled on the oar and gave my bitterness to Jacob’s God.

  “My friend saved my body from death on that ship, but he saved my soul from worse.”

  Lydia had never been enslaved, captive to brutal masters. But she had come close to giving in. She understood how Marcus felt about Jacob, for she felt the same about Rebekah. It was her kindness, her counsel, her love of God that had helped Lydia hold on through the harshest years.

  “How came you to be liberated from those wretched pirates?” she asked Marcus.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”

  LUKE 23:34, NLT

  “ONE MORNING WE came across a ship. I recognized it immediately. It was a Roman warship, a trireme, much like the one I had served on when I was captured. Something in me rebelled. I could not aid in the enslavement of other men like me. I could not participate, even unwillingly, in the killing of my countrymen.

  “There were other Romans who served as slaves on our vessel. I cried for their help. I encouraged them to revolt. The impending battle had forced the Illyrians on deck, leaving only one man below with us. As I screamed for rebellion, the oar master came at me with his whip, dagger drawn, intending to silence me. He miscalculated in one regard. Three years of pulling oars makes you strong. I was no longer a puny boy, easily overcome. In a moment, I had wrapped his bruising whip around my hand and pulled him helplessly to the ground. His dagger ground into my hand.” Marcus showed his palm, where the sun-shaped scar twinkled white in the firelight. “I knew how to keep my head in the midst of pain. Within moments, I held his keys in one hand, his dagger in the other.”

  Folding his palm into a fist, Marcus grinned. “Not a great price for escape. We freed ourselves from our chains and joined the fray on the side of Rome. The Illyrians were winning until we arrived. Our help turned the tide of the battle, and the Romans gained the upper hand. Not only did they overcome the Illyrians, but they also earned a rich prize from the holds of the pirate ship and returned to great glory at home. The shame of my slavery was washed by that triumph and the part I played in it.

  “The commander of the Roman vessel, Lucius Antias, knew he owed his life and victory to our intervention. When he discovered my role in the battle, he offered to give me any reward I wished. At the time, Jacob was still a slave by Rome’s reckoning. He would be placed on the auction block in Rome. As my reward, I asked for his freedom. Within days, Jacob had his certificate of manumission. He returned to his home in Caesarea a free man, though he took part of my heart with him. He will always remain my dearest friend.

  “Upon my arrival in Rome, I discovered that both my parents were dead. When he heard of my loss, Antias, who had listened to my story and learned of my dreams as we traveled together, insisted on giving me part of his share of the prize money for capturing the Illyrian ship. ‘I will still be a richer man than I was before I met you,’ he told me. ‘Not to mention less dead than I would have been if you had not led the slaves into a revolt against the slave traders.’

  “The money he gave me was sufficient to see me through the years of training as an architect and engineer. It paid for my education, my books, my equipment, my lodgings, and my food for the years that I studied. To him I owe a debt I can never repay, though I have tried many times.

  “When my training was complete, I decided not to remain in Rome but to travel throughout the empire in order to find the most interesting jobs. Wherever I went, on the Sabbath, I sought a synagogue, if one could be found. I continued to worship the God of Abraham, though in my heart, I longed for more. Where was this Messiah we were promised? Where the power of the prophets of old? Where did Gentiles like me fit in?

  “When traveling in Ephesus last year, I developed a cough I could not shake. Luke happened to be visiting Ephesus at the same time, and the members of the synagogue introduced him to me.

  “He healed my cough and told me of the Christ. As I recall, he had an iron clamp down my throat when he said, ‘You should live a long and healthy life, given the strength of your body. But would you not rather have eternal life, Marcius?’

  “I have a great respect for iron clamps, particularly if they are occupying my throat. So I said I would.”

  Everyone laughed. The architect could hold the attention of a bored three-year-old with his storytelling. He had led a fascinating life, Lydia thought. But beyond that, he had come away with a heart made stouter by loss and tragedy. That he had survived was a testimony to his strength. Yet there was more to him than a man who had survived an experience that would have killed others. The brutal existence on that ship had failed to twist him. Lesser men would have left bitter, filled with hatred. Marcus, she sensed, was a man at peace, unmolested by the storms of rage.

  “That is an impressive scar,” Lydia said, pointing to his hand. “But the tale behind it is even more impressive.”

  “I follow a scarred Redeemer. Somehow I think our scars become holy in the shadow of his. And his plans are made perfect in the demolition of our own devices. This is not the life I once thought I would live. But it has proven better than any life I might have chosen.”

  A scarred Redeemer, Lydia thought, and she was put in mind of her own scarred heart. Could the scars borne by Jesus transform her own scars? The ones she bore from the death of her mother, from Jason’s betrayal and the loss of her father, from the theft of her home? Could such monsters that pursued her dreams and shaped her waking moments with their darkness actually become holy?

  “What of the Illyrians? Do you despise them? Do you not wish to revenge yourself upon them?” she said.

  Marcus shrugged a shoulder. “I have forgiven my cruel masters.”

  “Forgiven them?” Lydia spit out the words as if they tasted bitter on her tongue.

  “While he hung on the cross, caught in the agony of such a death, Jesus found the strength to speak a handful of words. Shall I tell you my favorite? He said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.’ He said this about his tormenters and murderers. Roman and Jew. It did not matter to him. He spoke forgiveness over them, although they betrayed him and robbed him of life itself.

  “I say the same words when I am tempted to hate. Those poor Illyrians. Hell has a hold on their souls, and they are barely out of it, though they live on this earth. I will leave them safely in the hands of Jesus. Unforgiveness would only chain my heart to them. And I am a free man now.”

  After Lydia bid her guests a good night, she retired for the evening. In the quiet of her chamber, she relived the moment of her baptism and asked herself if she had committed an error. Had she rushed into this new faith? Was this Jesus to be trusted?

  Peace chased away doubt at the thought of his name. She thought of Marcus’s expression as he said, “I am a free man now.” He had meant it. He lived in freedom because of Christ.

  Could she be free of Dione and Jason? Of the boar? Of Antiochus? Of fear itself?

  The thought of Antiochus reminded her of the ruined indigo. Rebekah had said that God would send them his aid. He had sent Paul and his friends. They knew nothing about indigo, however. Perhaps her soul needed help more than her dye.

  She pushed her blanket aside and tiptoed past sleeping servants and down the stairs, avoiding her guests who slumbered in the atrium as she made her way into the workshop where the indigo was kept. Sinking to her knees, she stared into the ruined paste, trying to devise some way
out of her dilemma.

  Worse yet, she needed to discover the identity of the person who had destroyed the dye. There could be no true safety under her roof until she determined the means by which Antiochus had gained access to her home.

  FORTY-NINE

  He said, “It is finished,” and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

  JOHN 19:30

  THE MORNING HAD TURNED COOL. Early autumn had taken a hard, unseasonal turn toward winter. Lydia came out of the workshop, feeling pale and drawn. Earlier, when she had taken a moment to comb her hair before a polished mirror, she had noted dark shadows like soot smudging her eyes.

  “The peace of God to you, Lydia.”

  Her head snapped up. “Master Paul! I did not see you.”

  Paul waved a reassuring hand. “Trouble?”

  Was her turmoil written on her face, clear as the Latin alphabet? Was she so easy to read? She wondered if she should dump her worries upon the poor man. For all his generosity of spirit, he remained a relative stranger to her. He gazed at her with a steady calm, giving the impression that he could carry the weight of many a burden without breaking. His inviting tranquility loosened her tongue.

  “Our supply of indigo was ruined. I have ordered a new shipment, which won’t arrive for a week. Perhaps two. Too late for us to finish this order in a timely manner. Even if we work day and night, we will not complete it in time.”

  Paul sat on a marble bench and invited Lydia to sit on its twin near him. “Marcus told you one of the sayings of Christ while he hung on the cross. Do you want to hear another?”

  Lydia nodded.

  “He said, ‘It is finished.’ He was speaking of his work on earth. Of his victory over darkness. Of his conquest over death and evil. ‘It is finished.’

  “I find such comfort in that pronouncement. In the reality that the work of the Messiah is accomplished. Fulfilled. Completed. And therefore, all the works that my soul needs—its redemption and restoration and forgiveness, its renewal and re-creation and salvation—all this is now accomplished. The most important work in the world has been completed.