Bread of Angels

by Tessa Afshar

  She pointed at him, her fingernail filed to a sharpened end, like the tip of a spear aimed at his heart, Lydia thought. She felt a chill go through her. Through the girl’s small pupils, something dark and malevolent stared at Paul. “Servant of the Most High God!” she shouted.

  “What are you doing?” Luke asked, a desperate edge creeping into his voice.

  “Setting her free from her misery. And us from ours.”

  Luke clasped his shoulder. “Consider, Paul. Consider what you do.” Lydia looked from one to the other, sensing an unspoken danger.

  “I have considered,” Paul said. “Silas, come and help. Pray while I get rid of that filth.”

  Damalis herself was hardly more than a child, her face fresh and youthful beneath the thick coat of cosmetics she had applied. But her eyes were ancient, Lydia thought as she studied the girl. In those eyes she sensed fear and a hideous hatred. She took a hasty step back, running into the steadying arms of Marcus. “What is happening?” she whispered.

  “Paul is evicting the demon,” Marcus said, his voice grave.

  “I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her.” Paul’s tone was measured, lacking fanfare.

  The girl staggered and blinked as if coming to herself after a long sleep. She placed a hand to her head. “Is it gone?”

  “Yes, child. And good riddance to that rubbish. Jesus has set you free.”

  “Gone? Am I really free?”

  “What do you mean she is free?” a man yelled, striding forward. He wore a large gold ring on one hand and a bigger one on the other. “What have you done?” he demanded of Paul.

  “Here comes the storm,” Lydia said, cringing.

  Paul shrugged. “She was troubled by a demon.”

  “Troubled! That was no trouble! That was income, you foreign imbecile. Great piles of it.” He turned to the girl. “He is a fraud, and knows nothing. Come. Tell me my future.”

  Damalis frowned. She pulled on a loop of hair. “I cannot, master.”

  Her master’s face turned the color of grapes. “Trachalio!” he yelped. “Where are you hiding, partner? Come and see what has become of our poor Damalis.”

  If there had been commotion when Damalis had followed them with her loud proclamations, now there was a genuine horde. Shoving and thrusting, the crowds gathered close, sensing entertainment.

  Marcus shook his head. “There goes our hope for a quiet afternoon.”

  A sweating man, bald except for a halo of dark hair, dug his way into their circle. “What’s the ruckus? What are you screaming about, Gaius?”

  “These men—” he pointed at Paul and Silas—“have ruined our Damalis.”

  “What’s that you say? Ruined?”

  “She has lost the demon and can no longer predict the future.”

  “Impossible.” The man named Trachalio caressed Damalis on the cheek. “Come now, little mouse. Show us your demon. Tell my future. Better yet—” he glared at Paul—“tell his. Tell him the manner of his death. Don’t miss the gory details. That will cheer up your master Gaius.”

  Damalis bit her lip. “I cannot, Master Trachalio. The demon is gone. My head does not hurt. My stomach is not churning. I don’t feel it ripping inside me.”

  Trachalio roared. “Put it back!” he demanded, raising a fist at Paul. “Put the demon back immediately.”

  Paul pulled on his beard. “I cannot.”

  “If you can take them out, you can put them in,” Gaius said.

  “It does not work that way. Besides, even if I could, I would not subject the girl to that misery again.”

  The crowd exploded with disapproval, threatening voices intertwining to make a rumbling noise.

  “Such an uproar in the midst of our usually civil city,” said a familiar voice. “What have we here?” Antiochus asked, his voice a pleased drawl.

  Lydia drew in a sharp breath. They did not need Antiochus in the midst of this volatile company.

  “Antiochus! Just the man to help us,” Gaius said, striding forward. “You will not believe our misfortune. These foreigners have by some nefarious means cast out Damalis’s demon. You know from personal experience how accurately she could tell your future. With the demon gone, she is useless.”

  Antiochus thrust his chest out. “What do you mean? Who has power to be rid of demons?”

  “These men do. By some trickery or other, they have cast a spell on Damalis. Or squeezed the demon out of her. I know not. But our great investment is gone! Our hopes for great wealth are shattered.”

  “These men? They are guests of Lydia.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Lydia. “They are indeed my guests. But—”

  Trachalio scratched his white pate. “That’s awkward.”

  “Lydia should know better than to entertain such ruffians in her home,” Antiochus said. “I would almost say she is responsible. They certainly should pay for this damage, which has not only harmed Trachalio and Gaius but should be seen as an unacceptable insult to all the good people of Philippi. Who are they to abuse our ways?”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Trachalio loosened the neck of his tunic. “Either they restore Damalis to her former self, or they repay us.”

  “Repay with the skin of their backs,” Antiochus said, his eyes shining with an odd light.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Yet I am confident I will see the LORD’s goodness

  while I am here in the land of the living.

  Wait patiently for the LORD.

  Be brave and courageous.

  Yes, wait patiently for the LORD.

  PSALM 27:13-14, NLT

  “COME, MEN AND women of Philippi,” Antiochus shouted. “Let us drag them to the authorities and give them a taste of Roman justice.”

  Several men grabbed Paul and Silas roughly and dragged them along. Lydia tried to intervene, but no one listened to her. Rage seemed to welter in the air. The crowd was tainted by it. They screamed insults at Paul and Silas as they marched them deeper into the agora. Finally they arrived at the forum, where heavily armed Roman guards were stationed, a centurion in charge.

  “What’s this?” The centurion stepped forward, his cloak flapping crimson behind him.

  Antiochus stepped forward. “These men—these Jews—are causing a riot in our midst. We demand to see the praetor.”

  This, at least, was an improvement, Lydia thought. She would make her case with the praetor and convince him to set her guests free.

  The centurion, who had been about to bite into a fat pancake covered in fig paste, groaned and set the pancake aside. He tilted his head toward one of the soldiers. “Fetch the praetor. Tell him we have trouble.”

  The praetor, a man born and raised in Rome, carried himself like a prince. His immaculate toga swayed about him in the wind, while his hair, drenched with aromatic oil, remained undisturbed even when a blustery gust arose. “What commotion is this?”

  Gaius struck Paul on the shoulder, causing him to stagger. Before Paul could open his mouth, Gaius yelled, “We want justice. The whole city is in an uproar because of these two men. You can see for yourself, we almost have a riot on our hands, and all on the account of these Jews.”

  The praetor glanced at Silas, then Paul. “What are they guilty of?”

  “They are teaching customs that are illegal for us Romans to practice,” Trachalio said.

  “Rabble-rousing traitors,” Antiochus added. “They preach some god who performs miracles. A god above all other gods. It’s against Roman decency.”

  Lydia stepped forward. “They are honored guests at my home. This is a misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding, nothing,” Gaius howled. “They have harmed our Damalis. She can’t divine the future anymore. They used a terrible magic, and now she is useless.”

  The mob swelled in the force of its anger. “Punish them! Punish them!”

  The praetor held up a hand. “Calm yourselves, people of Philippi.” He motioned to the centurion. “Get them s
tripped.”

  “What are you doing?” Lydia cried, horrified. “Please listen to me. They are my guests.”

  “I am sorry for that. But unless we give this crowd what it wants, it will not settle. Can you not sense their taste for violence? Your guests should not have meddled with the slave girl.”

  Paul struggled against those holding him. “Wait. Men of Philippi, hear me!” The centurion slammed an elbow into his mouth. Paul fell to his knees.

  Through a haze, Lydia heard Silas shout, “Wait, brothers. What my friend was—” He went no further, as he too received a brutal blow.

  Lydia ran to the praetor. “Please! You must stop this. You are making a mistake.”

  The Roman shook his head. “Can’t stop now. Do you want a real riot? I will give them a beating to cool tempers and dispatch them for a night in our jail. By dawn, when the crowd has calmed, I will set them free.”

  Lydia staggered back and stood shuddering, powerless to help her friends.

  In a matter of moments, Paul’s tunic was stripped from his struggling body. The noise of the crowd had grown to such a crescendo that his attempts at speech were drowned by its cacophony. The centurion, thick wooden rod in hand, delivered his first strike. Paul’s whole body shook. Before he had time to take a breath, the rod pummeled his back again. He screamed.

  Lydia cried out, shaking with horror. It was her father’s fate all over again. Marcus pulled her into his arms, cradling her face against his chest to protect her from seeing the worst.

  “They are strong,” he whispered into Lydia’s ear. “They will recover.”

  The strikes did not slow. Lydia could hear the sound of the rod striking flesh and the groans of her dear friends as they struggled through a hurricane of pain. She wondered if they would ever walk again.

  When the flogging finally stopped, Paul and Silas fell on their faces. Lydia’s vision was blurred with tears. Through a veil of consternation, she saw a small figure bend toward Paul for a short moment.

  Damalis.

  Her eyes were streaming, her face streaked with dark kohl and smudged cosmetics. “Thank you,” she said. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

  Paul smiled.

  “What do you have to smile about, you troublesome rat?” Antiochus asked before delivering a vicious kick to his side.

  Paul grunted. He spit a thin rivulet of blood where he had bit his lip. His smile widened. “I am smiling because it was worth it.”

  Antiochus pulled his leg back to deliver another kick. Lydia shoved a fist in her mouth to keep from crying out. The centurion pushed Antiochus aside. “He’s had enough. He’s bound for prison now.”

  Paul and Silas were hauled to their feet. Battered they might be, but they had both survived their brutal treatment.

  Lydia and Marcus, along with Luke and Timothy, followed their friends as they were marched to prison. Lydia was crying openly, thinking of her father, remembering his fate and convinced that the same awaited her guests.

  The prison was a stone building at the base of a hill. To get there, they had to navigate a set of steep stairs. The jailer, a short man with muscular arms, came out to meet them. “Good day, Centurion. What do you have for me today?”

  “These men caused a riot in the agora.”

  Antiochus, who had walked ahead of the soldiers to the prison, added, “They are slippery, these two. No doubt they will try to escape.”

  “Make sure they don’t get away,” the centurion barked at the jailer. “And no visitors, understand? Or you’ll have to answer to me and my men.”

  “No, Centurion. They will not be escaping my jail, and that’s a promise. I will put them in the inner dungeon. Not even a cricket can find its way out of there.”

  Lydia watched them vanish through the narrow doors of the prison and down a set of narrow steps. She felt as if her past were conspiring to choke her. The memory of her father, sick after a short stay in prison, beaten and broken in body, rose up like a specter to haunt her. Not Paul and Silas, Lord!

  Before Marcus could catch her, she sank on the cracked stone of the pavement in front of the prison.

  “I warned you not to make an enemy of me,” Antiochus hissed. “This is just the beginning.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.

  ROMANS 8:28, NLT

  MARCUS CONVINCED Lydia to return home. “The praetor promised to set them free come sunrise. They will be home in a few hours. Luke will care for their wounds, and you will feed them one of your delectable meals. By tomorrow night, all this will be a memory.”

  Since the jailer refused to allow visitors, Lydia saw no benefit in lingering. Marcus, Luke, and Timothy began to pray for their friends as soon as they arrived home. Lydia and Rebekah joined them, though Lydia felt numb, weary to her marrow, and unable to dredge up hope.

  “How could you offer a miracle for my indigo and not intercede on behalf of these men, Jesus? They are yours! Your soldiers. Why would you abandon them?” Lydia railed, angry at God for what seemed like an incomprehensible betrayal.

  Marcus watched her, his eyes heavy with worry.

  At about midnight, the earth shook. That was the only word for it. It trembled under them and grumbled with a savage noise. Lydia and Rebekah cried out. As if unsatisfied with the first tremor, finding it too insignificant, the ground shook again. The very walls moved. They could hear a crack shattering one of the massive stones on the floor of the courtyard.

  The earth grew still, and peace reigned for a few moments. “Earthquake,” Marcus said, his voice steady.

  No sooner had the word left his mouth than there was another tremor, the worst yet. The foundations of the house heaved beneath them. Lydia toppled sideways and rammed into young Timothy. He was so muscle-bound that he probably did not even feel it.

  Finally the world quieted down.

  “When we prayed, Lord, move, we did not quite have that in mind,” Luke said with a lopsided smile.

  The quake had erased all traces of sleep, and the small company stayed awake through the night, interceding on behalf of their friends.

  An hour after dawn, Paul and Silas arrived at Lydia’s house, moving gingerly but grinning as if they had been at an all-night feast instead of in a rat-infested jail.

  Lydia rushed forward to welcome them, kissing Paul’s hands first, then Silas’s. “We were so desperately worried.”

  “Well, she was,” Luke said, laughing. “I knew you would be fine. I will take care of your wounds as soon as you have eaten something.”

  “We are quite full, thank you. Our jailer, Valerius, already fed us a hearty meal. And he had our wounds cleansed too, though I would be grateful for one of your curative salves, Luke.”

  “Your jailer, Valerius, fed you?” Marcus said. “You are friends, are you?”

  “Valerius is as a son to me,” Paul said, laughing. “Give me a bath and a change of clothes, and I will tell you all about our adventures.”

  Lydia stared, confounded. How different this seemed from her father’s experience. Like Eumenes, these men had received a violent and unjust beating, more demeaning even than what had happened to her father, for theirs had been a public flogging. And yet, in spite of their dreadful trial, they stood on their own two feet and bantered. She shook her head, impatient to hear their tale, wondering how they managed to seem joyful.

  “You saw us delivered to prison, I believe,” Paul began. “We were taken to the inner dungeon, where the jailer clamped our feet in the stocks. A stifling, nearly complete darkness fell, filled with the moans of our fellow prisoners and a stench that hit you like a punch. The reek surpassed anything your imagination could have thought possible. The smell of wounds turned putrid, vomit, and human excrement mingled with the odor of unwashed bodies. I was thinking what a place of misery we had landed ourselves in when Silas said, ‘Thank God it is not too h
ot. It’s quite comfortable, overall.’”

  Everyone laughed.

  “‘You’ll be wanting to sing songs of praise next,’ I said. And this fellow God chained me to proclaimed it an excellent idea and mourned the fact that he had not thought of it himself.”

  Lydia’s mouth fell open. “What did you do then?”

  Paul shrugged. “We sang songs of praise and prayed. That dank, malodorous place became quite cheerful. Then the earthquake hit. Did you feel it here?”

  “Hard to miss,” Timothy said. “Mistress Lydia fell on top of me.”

  Lydia colored. Marcus slapped Timothy playfully on the arm. “Try to behave, pup.”

  Silas nodded. “I tumbled around quite a bit myself. When the heaving of the world stopped, we found that everyone’s chains were broken and the doors had flown open. We were free to walk out if we wanted.”

  “The other prisoners were either too weak to move or too scared,” Paul took up the story again. “Silas and I remained for the jailer’s sake. We figured Antiochus’s wrath would have no end if we escaped in spite of his warning.

  “Then I saw a sight that froze my blood. Valerius, our jailer, convinced his prisoners had flown, was gripping his naked sword. It pointed at his belly.”

  “For a Roman, dereliction of duty carries a sentence of death,” Marcus said. “Killed by his own hands, at least the jailer would leave his family a measure of honor. They would not be stripped of their home or inheritance.”

  “Exactly.” Paul nodded. “I shouted to him, ‘Stop! Don’t kill yourself! We are all here!’ The jailer turned, a look of astonishment on his face. Still holding the sword, its sharp end keeping perilously close company with his innards.

  “Finally I convinced him to put the sword down and come and see us for himself. He was astounded to find that we had not escaped, and fell down trembling before us.

  “‘Why did you not escape, you and your friend?’ he asked. ‘The doors were open, your fetters loose.’

  “‘My God will release us from this place in his own time. We did not wish to see you come to harm for the sake of our liberty,’ I told him.