by Tessa Afshar
He took another breath that shivered down his body. He sounded as if every inhalation was an effort. I thought it was fear lingering in him, robbing him of breath, and tried to calm him. But with each moment, he seemed to grow worse. His wheezing became harsher and unremitting. Confusion caused me to delay. He had had no difficulty breathing the last time he was stung. Was this panic?
I should have helped him sooner, come to his aid at the start, when the bee first began to pursue him. And then it occurred to me that the bee might have been attracted to the scent and powder of the flower I had pressed on his face. Perhaps it would not have come near Joseph at all if not for my silly prank.
I saw that he was growing worse and picked him up in my arms. “I am so sorry, Joseph. I’ll take you home. You can have a honey cake, and Mother will make you an herb potion to soothe your pain.” Against me, I could feel his thin little chest battling for every breath. I began to run. Somewhere down the hill, my sandal came off, caught on a stone protruding from the ground. I stumbled, then righted myself and kept on running without tarrying to retrieve the lost shoe.
“Sick,” Joseph said, his voice weak. Before I could turn him, he threw up, soaking my shoulder and my chest. Normally I would have groaned with disgust. But terror had seized me. I sensed that against all reason the bee had caused my brother’s tiny body inexplicable damage. It was as though the poison in that accursed bee somehow robbed him of the very air. I was desperate to arrive home, to give him into the care of my parents, who would know what to do.
I barely stopped to wipe his befouled mouth, only shifting him to my other shoulder so I could start my race again. He was heavy, too heavy for me to carry all that way. My heart pounded in my chest like a metalsmith’s anvil. The strain of holding on to his sagging body made my arms tremble. “Joseph! Joseph, speak to me!”
He moaned. I staggered to a stop, unable to continue my haphazard run, and fell to my knees with him still in my arms. My head swam with a wave of dizziness when I saw his face. His eyes had swollen shut, and his lips had become an unearthly blue. His whole mouth had turned into a tender, purplish bruise. I bit down on a scream and hefted him up again, forcing my legs to run, faster than before.
Pray, I thought, my soul frantic with the horror of what I had just seen. Pray something. But all I could think of was Eli, Eli, the first part of my own name. My God! My God!
When I saw the large wooden door to our house, I loosed the scream I had swallowed for the past hour. My voice emerged as a broken croak and no one heard me. “Help me! Father, please help me.” Joseph had gone limp in my arms. I knew he had fainted some time before, fainted from lack of air.
I kicked at the door with the last of my strength and fell against it. One of the servants pulled the door open and I slumped backward, Joseph still held tight in my grasp. The woman cried out, and before long we were pulled inside together. I was still clutching him, his face pressed to my shoulder. My parents came running.
I saw my father’s face as he pulled his son out of my arms. He turned white. My mother started to scream. I didn’t think I could feel more fear. But her cries—shrill, unnatural sounds that pierced the courtyard—filled me with a chilling dread that robbed me of speech. Why wasn’t she helping my brother? Why did she stand there, screeching, pulling at her veil, pulling at her hair?
My father collapsed, Joseph held against him. His head drooped over the unmoving child. “My son,” he moaned, rocking to and fro. “My boy.”
I turned in shock and saw my younger sister, Joanna, sitting against the wall, sobbing quietly into her hands. The servants wept. My father, shaking and silent, convulsed around the inert body of my brother while Mother’s screams continued to fill every corner of the courtyard, piercing me like jagged shards of broken glass.
That’s when I knew. My brother was dead. The bee had killed him.
I reached out to cling to my father, in disbelief, in horror, in desperation, hoping for a miracle, seeking comfort. He looked up and the blank despair in his eyes lifted for a moment, only to be replaced by a coldness I had never seen there before. “What happened? What has done this to my child?”
I stepped away from him. “A bee . . . It stung Joseph. On his temple.” Perspiration dripped down my sides and with a trembling hand I wiped my brow. “It was my fault. We were playing . . . And I . . . I shoved a flower in his face; I think the bee was drawn to its scent. I should have come to his aid sooner, but I was distracted by a lost sheep.” I remembered that I had merely thrown words at Joseph, as if my instructions were enough. I owed Joseph the truth no matter what punishment I faced. He deserved that much, at least.
My father swept the hair away from Joseph’s swollen flesh with tender fingers. I flinched when I saw his beautiful face, distorted by the obscene hand of death, and swayed where I stood.
“But you knew how sick he became last year, after he was stung. You knew how scared he was. Why didn’t you just swat it away? He was a little boy. He was helpless.” My father moaned. “My little boy!”
“I should . . . I should have . . .”
His words grew iron-hard and sharp. “You were supposed to look after him. What did you do? Just stand there and watch it happen?”
“No! It wasn’t like that, Father! I did help. But I was too late. I was too late!”
“This wouldn’t have happened if you had watched him better.”
I was struck dumb with guilt. He had grasped the heart of my failure. I had not tried to get rid of the bee from the start. “Father, please . . .”
“Be silent!”
I closed my mouth. Swallowed my excuses. He was right. I had failed Joseph. I should have taken better care of him. I should have wiped the pollen from his face, swatted the bee sooner, come home faster. I should have saved him.
“Get out of my sight.” My father’s voice emerged scratchy soft and bitter as gall.
I gasped. With broken movements, I forced myself to stand, to walk. I went inside the house, leaving a faint trail of blood with every step where I had cut my foot on the jagged stones during my flight home. Huddling in the corner of the room where I slept with my sister and Joseph, I finally gave vent to the tears that I had quenched earlier. Joseph’s blanket was neatly folded in a corner. I grabbed it and, pushing my face into its folds, breathed in the scent of him and knew that I would never hold my precious brother again.
And it was my fault.
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A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
SOME LIVES SEEM TO burn with a transcendent light, leaving an inexorable mark on history. Lydia’s was such a life. The first convert in Europe, she succeeded in the realm of commerce where men dominated and ruled. Her home became the first church on the continent, one that yielded great influence in the spread of the gospel for centuries. The world changed, you might say, because of Lydia’s intrepid generosity and leadership.
A few notes on this novel. The Bible is silent on the issue of Lydia’s citizenship. However, while the ancient world was deeply impressed by Roman citizenship, biblical authors remained indifferent to it and only seemed to mention it when it became a relevant detail in a particular story of faith. We never hear about Paul’s citizenship, for example, until he is unjustly beaten. I felt, therefore, that it was not unlikely for Lydia to have been a citizen of Rome, given her level of success.
A historical person named Antiochus, a seller of purple, really did live in Philippi around this time period. The city officials liked him so much that they dedicated a plaque in his honor. Beyond these facts, however, the whole story surrounding Antiochus is fictional.
My apologies to Epaphroditus (Philippians 2:25) and Syntyche (Philippians 4:2) for usurping their unknown stories and coloring them with my imaginary pen. One day in heaven I will have a lot of explaining to do.
Some additional explanations on locations are in order. The Agora in Philippi may not have been built by AD 50, though we have evidence of its completion not too long afte
r this period.
The ruins of Thyatira lie under a modern Turkish city and have never been properly excavated. There is little written about the city, and the narrow information we possess comes to us courtesy of limited archaeological finds. However, there is some indication that a thriving Jewish community lived in Thyatira at this time.
The use of the terms Lady, mistress, lord, and sir are inaccurate, as the Latin language does not commonly use such terminology. But the titles of esteem used by Romans—such as excellent Antonios or very strong Silvanus—sound awkward to modern readers, so I chose to use more common honorifics that capture differences in station.
The first recorded mention of tree rings was in the third century BC, by a Greek botanist named Theophrastus. But not until Leonardo da Vinci’s treatise in the fifteenth century do we come across written evidence of the significance of the rings. So Marcus’s discourse on the matter may be anachronistic. Similarly, the legend of the patient stone, though a story I personally heard as a child, is most likely not as old as the first century.
As I always do, I have used a couple of quotes in the writing of this book, although this time I veered from my usual practice of using material from classical writers. In chapter 7, I quoted Theodore Roosevelt. His exact words were:
The credit belongs to the man . . . who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.
Paul’s words “There is nothing in the world so damaged that it cannot be repaired by the hand of Almighty God” in chapter 45 are a quote from “Appointment with Death,” a television production based on Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot as portrayed by David Suchet.
For Elianna’s full story, please refer to my novel Land of Silence.
While the Bible provides profound inspiration for novels like this, the best way to study it is not through a work of fiction but simply by reading the original. This story can in no way replace the transformative power that the reader will encounter in the Scriptures. For Lydia’s story, please read Acts 16.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IT’S NOT EASY BEING newly married and facing that toothsome dragon named Deadline, which makes me all the more thankful for my precious husband, John. His unwavering support, gracious patience, and constant strength made writing this book possible.
Every once in a while God brings someone across your path who changes your life for the better. My agent, Wendy Lawton, is such a person. I am grateful for her in more ways than I can express.
I remain profoundly thankful for my publishing home at Tyndale. The incredible fiction team, led by Karen Watson, has become like a beloved writing family. What a joy to work with Stephanie Broene and Kathy Olson, whose gracious counsel and direction transformed Bread of Angels into a much better story. It’s a privilege to work with such wise editors. Maggie W. Rowe, Cheryl Kerwin, and Shaina Turner, how can I thank you for all your creative work in helping make these books available to more readers? I am indebted to Mark Norton from Tyndale’s Bible team for taking the time to answer my convoluted historical questions. And not least, rich blessings to the sales team, which works so hard to get these stories into the right hands.
I am grateful for dear friends Lauren Yarger and Cindy McDowell who remain my writing partners and continue to help me with the thorny process involved in creating a new book. To Lauren I also owe the idea for one of my favorite lines in the book: Apparently there was more than one way of making purple. Her version of the line was much funnier. Molly Chase, thank you for your marvelous editing. You are a lovely gift. Deryk Richenburg, warm thanks for your sharp insight as a first reader and pastor.
I am indebted to my church in New England that is beautiful on the outside, while radiating the glory of Jesus within. For my boss and coworkers, without whose support I could not start a single book, let alone finish six, I am more appreciative than I can express.
Special thanks to every single one of my readers who keep buying these books. Simply, I write for your heart.
And finally, I am thankful for my beloved father, who went home to Glory as I was writing Bread of Angels. There is a little piece of him in this story.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Were you familiar with the story of Lydia from the book of Acts before reading this novel? If so, how well do you think the author incorporated the biblical account into her novel?
Lydia first encounters fear as a young child when she sees her mother die after a grisly accident. What are some of the ways this fear affects her? Are there experiences in your past that still affect you today? What role does Lydia’s childhood experience play in her journey to faith in Jesus Christ—and yours?
Jason’s betrayal left Lydia unwilling to trust her own heart. Can you describe a time when someone betrayed you or pulled you down? What was the effect in your life—tangibly and emotionally? How have you dealt with it since?
When Lydia flees Thyatira, she takes with her the stone with her grandfather’s name, eventually using it as a cornerstone for her new shop. Do you have any tangible mementos from your past or family heritage? What are they? What is their significance to you?
Rebekah was mistreated and even disowned by her father, and yet she never lost her trust in God. Did this seem realistic to you? Do you know anyone who has gone through something incredibly difficult and still maintained a vibrant faith? What is it, do you suppose, that determines whether a tragedy makes a person “bitter” or “better”?
Should Lydia and Rebekah have taken action when they first learned of Antiochus’s sadistic cruelty? When is it necessary to step forward and shed light on secret dangers? Has there been a time in your life when you acted too rashly in this regard? When you failed to act soon enough?
What made Lydia so ready to hear and believe the message of Jesus’ salvation?
Lydia kept a part of her life secret because she felt she would be judged and even ruined if others found out about her past. What do you think is the effect of long-held secrets on a person’s life?
Consider the examples of generosity in this book: Eumenes, Atreus, Lydia, Rufus, Aemelia, and others. What do they have in common? How are they different? How can you be generous with what you have?
Compare and discuss the following verses about wealth: Ecclesiastes 5:19, Matthew 19:23-26, 1 Timothy 6:17-19. How can money be a blessing? How can it be a danger? How should a follower of Jesus feel about profit and wealth?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TESSA AFSHAR is the award-winning author of Land of Silence and several other historical novels. She was voted “New Author of the Year” by the FamilyFiction-sponsored Readers Choice Awards in 2011 for Pearl in the Sand. Her book Harvest of Rubies was nominated for the 2013 ECPA Christian Book Award in the fiction category and chosen by World magazine as one of four notable books of the year. Her novel Harvest of Gold won the 2014 Christy Award for historical fiction. In the Field of Grace, based on the biblical story of Ruth, was nominated for the Grace Award.
Tessa was born in Iran to a nominally Muslim family and lived there for the first fourteen years of her life. She moved to England, where she survived boarding school for girls and fell in love with Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, before moving to the United States permanently. Her conversion to Christianity in her twenties changed the course of her life forever. Tessa holds an MDiv from Yale University, where she served as cochair of the Evangelical Fellowship at the divinity school. Tessa has spent the last eighteen years in full-time Christian work in New England and the last fifteen years on the staff of one of the oldest churches in America. Visit her online at www.tessaafshar.com.
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