Broken Vessels (volume 2 of Jars of Clay)

by Lee Strauss

  BROKEN VESSELS

  Volume Two of Jars of Clay

  a novella by

  Lee Strauss

  BROKEN VESSELS

  A novella

  by Lee Strauss

  Copyright © 2012 Lee Strauss

  Cover by Steve Novak

  ISBN 9781927547045

  This is a work of fiction and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously and nay resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual event or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Jars of Clay + Broken Vessels = Romeo and Juliet in Ancient Rome

  Jars of Clay (volume 1) and Broken Vessels (volume 2) contain strong religious themes and scenes of sensuality and violence. Recommended for ages 15 and up.

  *based on a true story*

  With no way to prevent Helena from marrying another, Lucius flees to Rome to seek his fortune and mend his broken heart.

  In a loveless marriage with a child to care for, Helena finds comfort in the most unlikely place--with her brother amongst the Christians. The religious group is mostly ignored by the Pagan populace, until the Emperor returns to the city and celebrations are planned. There's a shortages of criminals for the games and Christians are now sought out for arrest.

  Fate brings Lucius back to Carthage, where his only wish is that he will get a glimpse of the girl he still loves. But when he finally sees Helena, it's under the worse possible circumstance...

  Chapter One

  LUCIUS

  Lucius held limply onto the rail with another round of gagging as vomit spewed from his mouth and overboard, becoming chum for the fish in the sea. A deep seated moan erupted from his belly as his knees folded beneath him.

  Blasius, a shipmate who walked with a limp, tossed him a mop. His greasy hair was tied back with a piece of string, and a sneer of contempt crossed his narrow bird-like face.

  “If you don’t stop with this filth,” he said, “I’m going to toss you to the sea gods myself.”

  Lucius leaned against the mop like a cane. He breathed deeply of the briny air, filling his lungs and hoping for respite from the onslaught of seasickness. But he resisted offering a prayer to the gods for help. They were of no help to him, and if he were going to get back on his feet, it would be by his own strength.

  He braced himself against the rail and mopped up his filth.

  He was glad of one thing: that Helena hadn’t run away with him after all. This ship was no place for a lady. He could barely manage to take care of himself, much less her, and in the way that she deserved.

  When he’d forced himself to flee from her side that morning three days ago, his chest had felt like it was on fire. His legs pumped toward the sea in a failed effort to outrun the torment.

  He was glad he’d had the foresight to say his farewells to his family before he’d delivered breakfast to her, and also to be greeted with some good fortune when he arrived at the docks. One of Captain Decimius’s three slaves had died suddenly creating a timely vacancy.

  “Your name!” Captain Decimius demanded. He was a tall, bulky man with legs like cedars from years of balancing on the unsteady ship’s deck. His bald head glistened with sweat, his face was weather worn with deep lines creasing his skin like a road map.

  “Lucius of the house of Vibius.”

  Captain Decimius eyed him critically. “A runaway slave?”

  Lucius thrust out his chest. “I am a freed man.”

  “Have you traveled the seas before?”

  “No, it has not yet been my fortune.”

  The swarthy man crossed his arms and peered down his bulbous nose. “The journey to Rome is not child’s play.”

  Lucius, sensing his opportunity slipping, begged, “Captain, I have labored all my life as the son of a freedman. I’ve worked hard for my former master and I will work hard for you if you will consider me.”

  The captain huffed. “All right, then. However, if you disappoint me, I’ll have no qualms about tossing you overboard.”

  Though Captain Decimus had repeatedly cursed him since and his crew had continued to laugh and mock him, they had yet to throw him into the sea. Lucius doubted his luck would continue if he didn’t get his sea legs and fast.

  He tied the mop back into the cupboard then sneaked back down into the darkness of the sleeping quarters, and curled up on his mat.

  The next morning, Blasius kicked him in the leg.

  “Get up you lazy swine.”

  Lucius stood, and though the ship continued to rock and sway, miraculously, his stomach no longer lurched with the sea. He had new hope that he could perform his duties without hugging the rails and hurling his breakfast.

  He climbed the wooden steps to the ship’s galley, and for the first time since boarding he was able to take in his surroundings with a clear head.

  Built from oak and cypress, the round-hull ship was modest in size and easily manned by a crew of five. Captain Decimius had told him the prized cargo below deck was a shipment of olive oil stored in amphora, clay bottle-shaped jars, corked and stacked tightly in the hull. It was Captain and crew’s responsibility to deliver the shipment to the buyer in Rome unscathed. Lucius wondered bitterly if the olive oil originated from the Vibius Mill and if he was accompanying a supply that he himself had pressed.

  Captain Decimus and Blasius, who was apparently second in command, were seated on the port side of a wooden table that was scarred with knife cuts and candle wax. The two slaves sat at a smaller table on the opposite side. Lucius hadn’t made it for a meal, and he was uncertain at which table he should sit. Blasius indicated with a slight tilt of his head that he should take a spot on the short bench beside him.

  One of the slaves sprung from his seat and brought Lucius a plate of fried kipper and eggs freshly laid by the hens on board. A primal hunger gripped him. He was aware of nothing else in that moment, only the heady scent and taste of food and the urgency to fill his empty stomach.

  The captain laughed, blasting Lucius with a waft of foul breath that almost brought his food up again. “You must be feeling better, boy!” he said.

  He picked his pasty yellow teeth with a dirty fingernail. Lucius tried to focus on his food.

  Once his plate was cleaned, he accepted a steaming cup of hot tea.

  “So what you running from?” Blasius said.

  Lucius shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Blasius smirked, his tongue finding a dark gap from a missing tooth like a fleshy worm peeking out in the light. “You’re not a sailor, that’s obvious,” he said haughtily. “And you don’t look like an orphaned waif, so what is it? The law? Family troubles? Love?”

  Lucius’s eyes widened slightly at the word love, and Blasius was quick. “Aha!” He laughed boisterously, and Lucius held back the desire to punch the fleabag in the mouth.

  “It’s love. The boy is running away from a girl. Oh you poor thing.”

  Lucius stood quickly, turning his bench over backward. He turned to the captain, ignoring Blasius’s mockery. “I’ll be on deck attending to my duties.”

  The captain shrugged, amused. “It’s about time.”

  The days were long and lonely, and Lucius regrettably had plenty of time to think about Helena. The nights were worse. He’d lie on his back, his eyes scanning the black skies, the stars and the moon taunting him. He failed shamefully to do that which he’d set out to do: banish al
l thoughts of her. On the black screen of his mind, she was the North Star, her beauty taunting—the sparkle in her eyes, the dimple in her smile, the way her auburn hair fell in waves on her creamy shoulders.

  Their last night together as he wrapped his arms around her, her back pressed into his chest, his chin tucked into her neck—the memory was both a soft blanket and a thousand lashes.

  Lucius turned onto his side, his hip bone digging painfully into the wooden cot that was his bed. The ship was lilting heavily and he shot his arm out against the wall to brace himself. The ship rocked violently again, throwing Lucius back from the wall and onto the floor.

  Suddenly the Captain’s raspy voice rose from within the darkness. “All hands on deck!"

  The storm had blown in from the north without warning.

  The crew worked proficiently with the ropes, lowering the mast. Lucius felt like he had ten thumbs, uncertain what to do and fighting a rising sense of panic. Frigid water sheeted over the rails drenching them all. Adrenaline kept Lucius from dropping to the deck in a frozen, crippled heap.

  The angry storm was insanely loud, and Lucius could barely hear the captain’s instructions, though his curses pierced through the roar. The bow and stern jerked back and forth like a child’s rocking horse, and Lucius’s once stable stomach heaved again. Salty spray stung his eyes as he bailed the water that threatened to sink the craft. His arms and legs burned as he hefted heavy buckets. The slippery deck made keeping his balance impossible.

  Thrown precariously close to the rails, Lucius thought the gods would do what the captain had not— thrown him overboard. Bile and a sour taste of the evening’s dinner burned his throat. He had never felt so miserable and death seemed a welcome relief. Maybe he should just offer himself up to the gods in sacrifice. Captain Decimus would save his cargo, and he would be at peace in the underworld.

  But the gods refused. As quickly as the storm rose up, it passed. The wind calmed and the rocking slowed. With trembling legs Lucius joined the others, scooping water and mopping the deck, and repairing ropes and sails.

  In the morning he spotted land, and relief overwhelmed him. Soon this nightmarish trip would end and his new life would begin. Once he had helped to unload the cargo at the harbor in Ostia, he gathered his pay and caught the next carriage to Rome.

  Chapter Two

  CASSIUS

  As was his normal routine, Cassius paused midday from the work he did alongside his father to go into town. He was never missed, as Brutus often rested during the heat of the day.

  He walked swiftly past the theater and amphitheater, with the strength and agility of a man in his youth. His garments were of the highest quality, and he basked in the prestige and honor that was extended to him by virtue of his family name.

  It was a feeling he enjoyed immensely, the nods of respect and recognition given by fellow patricians and the deference given to him by the plebeian, or the common people.

  However, his gait of confidence this day gave way to a slight stooping of the shoulders. He was weighed heavily by the burden of truth, a perturbing truth concerning the affairs of the one he loved.

  How could he have not noticed it before? Surely she must have given him some sign, some hint of her true identity?

  Her smile was unfailingly bright and genuine, he thought, and when she spoke to him, she never flirted, or made unbecoming suggestions like other girls he knew. She and her family had an impeccable reputation for sound business practice; they never tipped the scales.

  Yet, how he had missed the fact that he had never spotted her or her family at any of the temples or festivals? Of course, Carthage was a large city, and it would be understandable to go weeks, even months, without seeing everyone one knew.

  But during the summer festival, it was unmistakable. Priscilla’s house was left undecorated. It could only mean one thing, and although he should have roused up the courage to confront her about it before now, his frustration and concern for her piqued his emotions. It was his intention to speak to her of it today. He rounded the corner of Cardo V, and she was there with the cart of produce, as she was on most days.

  “Hello,” she said, then when Cassius refused to return her smile, she added, “Is anything wrong?”

  “Priscilla, would you count me among your friends?”

  To call himself her friend was a huge presumption on his part. Their acquaintance revolved solely around the short interactions they engaged in as he bought his piece of fruit each day. He was pleased when she didn’t hesitate to respond.

  “Of course, Cassius. What is troubling you?”

  “Can we speak in private?”

  She hesitated then said, “Just a moment.” Priscilla went over to her mother, spoke softly, and returned.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Cassius allowed himself to be led, but cautiously scouted the streets both ways, not wanting to be seen entering the home of a plebeian. If Priscilla noticed she made no gesture to indicate it.

  “Please, have a seat.” She went over to the wooden counter by the wall, poured a beverage into a cup and brought it to him. He noted the absence of servants and felt humbled to be waited on by this pretty girl.

  Priscilla’s home was comfortable and brightly decorated like his own, but much, much smaller. He considered how she seemed natural, not displaying any signs of nervousness at having one such as he in her home.

  Sitting down near him, she cocked her head slightly, prepared to listen.

  Cassius cleared his throat, his confidence slipping. “Priscilla, I confess, I have never met anyone like you before.

  “I know what you are probably thinking,” he added swiftly, “that I could have any girl in Carthage, so why do I prefer you? I can’t explain it all myself, except that I know I do.”

  She remained silent, her demeanor neither encouraging him to continue nor to cease.

  “However, there is a problem greater than the question of whether or not you could return my affections, and it is this: Priscilla, I have reason to believe you associate with Christians.”

  There he said it. Now the only thing she must do is refute it and all will be well.

  “Cassius, the thing that you fear is the reason I rejoice. I am a Christian.”

  He leaned in closer and spoke crisply, “Priscilla, please, you must reconsider your stand. Surely you have been brainwashed, but if we could meet together to discuss it, I believe I could convince you to change your mind.”

  “I would love to meet with you, to discuss matters of Christianity, if you wish. I only ask that you will return to my home to do so. And of course, my parents must be present.”

  “Of course. Shall we meet this evening?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, then,” he said, standing, his hopes buoyed once again, “I look forward to this evening.”

  “As do I, Cassius.”

  Chapter Three

  HELENA

  For seven days Helena had refused to leave her chamber. She denied Felicity’s request to open the shutters, though the rays of sunlight trespassed into her room through the cracks, golden threads intruding on her darkness. The cries of the gulls that circled overhead could not be quieted, nor the daily knocking on her door by Cassius.

  “Go away!” Her hand gripped her throat which was sore from her incessant sobbing. Felicity offered her a glass of tepid water. She accepted.

  Cassius ignored her demand and entered anyway, a tray with a teapot and three cups in hand.

  “Why do you keep coming? I don’t want to see you.”

  “I know.” He lay the tray down on the desk and began pouring. “I know you don’t want to speak to me. It is okay. It is I that must speak to you.”

  “Whatever you have to say, Cassius, I’m not interested.”

  She refused his proffered cup, and he placed it back on the tray then proceeded to offer the third cup to Felicity. Helena’s jaw dropped in distain.

  “Are you mad, Cassius? Serving a slave?
What has gotten into you?”

  Felicity retreated like a frightened child.

  “It’s okay, Felicity,” Cassius said kindly. “It’s only tea. Please, take it.”

  Felicity did as she was told, but scurried back into the shadows with the gift.

  “Why must you waste the wax, Helena?” Cassius nodded towards the wrought iron candelabra hanging from the ceiling with all six candles lit and dripping. “There’s plenty of light on the other side of those shutters.” He positioned himself in a chair fashioned from olive wood and upholstered with fine colorful linens.

  “Leave them closed,” Helena said. She grabbed a feather pillow and brought it down on her face. She didn’t want to see the light and she definitely didn’t want to talk to Cassius, who had betrayed her to Father.

  A childhood memory suddenly came to her. She had been seven and Cassius, ten. They had been left behind by their father who had taken Gordian on a business errand at the Punic port. Though Cassius and Helena had begged to be taken along, their father said three children were simply too many. Helena felt like punching the smug look off of Gordian’s pompous face.

  She’d only seen the port once before that time, while their family had visited Byrsa Hill when the new emperor was still general. From there you could see hundreds of ships in the port, all with tall masts molested by heavy sails.

  She and Cassius had decided to make the best of it, fashioning their own little boats out of dried wood, and taking them on imaginary adventures in the water fountain in their villa at the foot of the god Jupiter.

  Helena’s boat had slipped out of her fingers and was pulled away by the current they had created with their play.

  She kept reaching, almost getting it, but it had grown slippery. On her last effort, she toppled in, and though the water wasn’t over her head, a slimy film coated the bottom of the fountain. She couldn’t get her footing.

  Her face was submerged, and she gulped the silty water. Panic gripped her. She couldn’t swim.