by Tessa Afshar
Aquila felt the food stick in his throat. He, too, had heard that story about Peter, the man considered by some in the church to be the greatest apostle. He took a large swallow of his watered wine and leaned back. “I heard he changed his mind. That it was an aberration. A mistake of short duration. He has returned to keeping the Law, as I understand.”
Rufus smiled and inclined his head graciously before changing the subject. “We invited Prisca today because we hope to share the message of Christ with her.”
Aquila was brought up short. Here he was griping about dietary laws when Rufus had a higher aim. “My apologies,” he said.
Rufus swept a hand in the air. “No need. We have much to discuss. I have been awaiting your arrival, you and Benyamin. Since Mother and I came to Rome, we have attended the synagogue at Campi. I have come to know the congregation, tried to assess what their response might be when we begin to speak to them of the Messiah.
“Around the empire, sharing the gospel in a synagogue has invariably led to division. Some receive our good news with favor and open hearts. Others grow enraged, even violent. We must pray and come to some consensus as to how we should proceed here in Rome. How can we be bold for God and yet avoid disunion?”
Benyamin leaned forward. “Is that why you invited Prisca here? To speak to her in private rather than in the hearing of others who worship at Campi?”
Rufus’s expression held an unusual intensity. “I sense the hand of the Lord on this young woman. I believe he will open her heart. For now, we seek to deepen our friendship with her and a few others. You cannot do that if you bar people from your home.”
Aquila remembered the profound reverence he had sensed in Prisca while she worshiped. He understood why Rufus thought the Lord was at work in her heart.
He shifted restlessly. Why had he made such an issue of the dietary laws? He swallowed hard. In truth, his outrage had little to do with the Law and everything to do with his absent father. Aquila wanted to prove to him that he was still a devout Jew though he followed Yeshua.
He felt as if someone had doused him with a jar of icy water. He had been so busy pleasing his earthly father that he had forgotten to please his heavenly one. “I am sorry,” he said sincerely.
“No harm done, my boy,” Rufus said, and plied him with more stew.
Mary joined them and after eating a quick meal, sent for Prisca, who settled on the couch next to their hostess. Aquila noticed that her clothes were worn in places and faded. They were of good quality, but old. She had few jewels, and what she wore had little monetary value. She spoke a cultured Latin and without stumbling switched to an equally cultured Greek to accommodate Mary. Everything about her, including her name, bespoke gentility. Yet he could also see unmistakable signs of poverty.
“What a comfortable house you have, Mary. I don’t often have reason to visit Trastevere. This is a very pleasant street,” she said.
“We chose this area because one of my cousins lives in an apartment at the end of this road. Indeed, Trastevere is popular with our people. It is also convenient for Rufus’s business because of easy access to the river and warehouses.”
“Where do you live?” Aquila asked her. “Is Campi close to you?”
“It is not too far. I live in my brother’s house in Pincio.”
The name sounded familiar. It took Aquila a moment to remember that Pincio was a hilly suburb favored by the wealthy. It was home to vast villas and abundant gardens. He thought it strange that a resident of such an address should wear clothes that were more ragged than his own.
“Do you and Benyamin also live in Trastevere?” she asked.
“We rent lodgings in a neighborhood near Via Appia.”
Her eyes widened. He expected her to treat the news with the disparagement it deserved. The southern region around Via Appia, Rome’s busiest artery, which connected half the empire to the city, was even more decrepit than parts of Trastevere. Instead, she merely grinned. “That must be exciting. So many interesting people pass along Via Appia.”
He liked that unexpected response. Instead of looking down at him, this denizen of Pincio had found something good about his ramshackle surroundings. Forcing himself to shrug with a nonchalance he did not feel, Aquila answered, “It’s good for our trade.”
“Do you work in leather, like Rufus?”
“We work in leather. But not like Rufus. Rufus and his older brother, Alexander, own sheep. They sell the hides to leatherworkers. My uncle and I buy the prepared leather and make various merchandise, like tents, awnings, and even weatherproof cloaks for those cold and wet winters in the northern parts of the empire.”
Without knocking, Lollia appeared at the door. She was one of those slaves who, having been treated more like family than a servant, behaved like an elderly aunt rather than a retainer. “We are going to be late, Priscilla,” she said, pointing to the window, drawing everyone’s attention to the lengthening shadows cast by the sun.
Prisca scampered to her feet. “Forgive me. We must make our way home.”
The words escaped his mouth before Aquila had time to think. “I will escort you.”
“There is no need. Lollia is with me.”
“If you were my sister, I would not want you walking about the streets of Rome with only Lollia for company. I will come.”
She flashed a smile. “Are you sure you will find your way back home? It is a long way, and you are very new to Rome. Perhaps it is Lollia and I who should accompany you?”
He felt his stomach tighten into a knot. Everything in him wanted to grin and tease her back. Instead, he said, his tone clipped, “We better not tarry.” The sooner he deposited her on her own doorstep, the sooner he could walk away and never see her again.
As they emerged into the weak afternoon sun, he noticed that her hair, which had been a demure shade of red inside, seemed to blaze under the sun, a river of fire hanging down her back. Aquila gulped.
Four
PRISCILLA FOLLOWED AQUILA, impressed that he remembered the way back to Aemilius bridge with its convoluted array of turns. He walked ahead on the edge of the bustling streets, occasionally calling a warning to the women, pointing out obstacles that could prove inconvenient had they had the misfortune of stepping in them. She felt touched by this solicitousness, offered almost without thought, as if he were accustomed to considering the needs of others.
Once they crossed over the bridge, Aquila looked around, clearly lost. “Lead on,” he said to Priscilla. She liked the easy way he passed the role of leadership to her. Her brother would have rather pulled his own tooth than admit she knew more than he did on any subject.
“This way is more charming.” She pointed straight ahead. “You will have a clear view of the Palatine Hill and the imperial palace.”
As they neared the palace, Lollia stopped with a gasp. “Look, Priscilla!” Against a white marble wall, someone had planted a row of dark-pink roses, now blooming in wild profusion, perfuming the air. Roses were Priscilla’s weakness. Their scent and fragile loveliness were a reminder of a beloved mother who had often worn them in her hair. Her brother refused to grow them, calling them a waste of good soil.
Although they were running late and she risked a harsh scolding from Volero, she lingered long enough to inhale the scent of a fresh bloom. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let the world and its troubles drift away.
She was brought out of her reverie when something bumped hard against the backs of her knees, sending her headfirst into the bushes. Thorns caught at her hair and scratched the skin of her arms. A strong hand wrapped around her elbow and pulled gently until she was on her feet again.
“Are you trying to smell the roses or become one?” Aquila said, his mouth tipping.
“It was not a voluntary plunge, I assure you.” Dusting herself off, Priscilla discovered the agent of her fall: a large black dog, tongue lolling, staring adoringly at Aquila.
Crossing her arms, she raised an eyebrow. “Is he yours
?”
“Never met him before.”
The dog sat at Aquila’s feet, not taking his eyes off the man.
“Then it seems you have made a new friend,” Priscilla said.
“Can’t help it. Dogs like me.” He pointed a finger at her cheek. “Which is more than I can say for rosebushes and you. Your face is bleeding.”
Priscilla felt the sting of the scrape on her cheek as soon as Aquila mentioned it. She touched the shallow scratch gingerly and found the blood already dry. She realized her hair was sticking up on one side of her head, and smoothed it down with a self-conscious pat. The indignity of her situation pricked more than the thorns. Straightening her disheveled tunic, she began to walk, leaving the others to follow behind.
“Stop,” Aquila said behind her.
She came to a stop and looked at him expectantly.
“Not you. Him.” He pointed at the dog, who had sat down again, a nose length from his feet. “He has taken it into his head to follow us.”
“He has taken it into his head to follow you,” Priscilla said, studying the animal’s shaggy fur and thin sides. Most Romans loved their dogs and took better care of them than this. He wore no chain or collar, another indication that he was no one’s pet. But he seemed at ease in the company of people, his tail wagging with eagerness, mouth open in what could pass for a good-natured smile.
She frowned. “He will tire soon enough. The way to Pincio is hilly and long.”
But if the dog felt any weariness, he did not show it. By the time they arrived at the outskirts of Pincio, he still shadowed their steps.
Her brows lowered. “Are you feeding him?”
Aquila held up empty hands. “There have always been dogs on my father’s land. I come from a long line of sheepherders. Dogs know I like them. So they like me back.”
“I thought you are a worker of leather goods.”
His lips lost their smile and became a flat line. “That’s what I am now.”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to pry,” she said.
He shrugged. “No matter.” Taking the lead again, he started to walk, the dog close at his heels.
Priscilla was not fooled by the casual words. She had trespassed, somehow, encroaching on a subject that was painful to him. She tamped down the curiosity that clamored for answers and followed him silently for a short distance.
Lollia and she stopped at the corner of the next avenue, while Aquila walked on, so lost in thought, he did not realize they were no longer behind him. “Will you tell him, or shall I?” Lollia said.
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “You there! Aquila! This way,” she called, tilting her head to indicate the avenue to her right.
Aquila rubbed the back of his neck and headed back. “I suppose I would provide better protection if I actually stayed at your side.”
She smiled. “You have been kind to come this far. My brother’s house is just beyond this hill. We are safe enough in this neighborhood. You should go home. It will be dark soon and harder for you to find your way.”
Aquila shook his head. “I will see you to your door.”
Priscilla’s steps lagged. “In truth, that would not be wise. My brother’s servants report everything to him. And if he were to hear that a strange man accompanied me home, he would grow . . . agitated.”
Aquila stopped. “I see. Does he know of your visits to the synagogue?”
Priscilla shook her head. There was a great deal Volero did not know. She intended to keep it that way.
Aquila considered her in silence. “I can watch you both from a distance to ensure you arrive home. Would that serve?”
Priscilla wanted to tell him that she and Lollia had trekked home by themselves more times than she could count. Since her father’s death, no one save Lollia had cared for her safety. Unwilling to throw his show of courtesy back in his face, she thanked him and walked alongside him up the hill.
“You can stop here,” she said when they reached the top. “Thank you for accompanying us.”
He bent to pet the dog, who licked his hand in appreciation. “I would have done it for anyone,” he said, not looking up.
At the door of the house, Lollia paused to look over her shoulder. “I don’t think that dog is going to leave Aquila’s side.”
“More to the point, Aquila is not going to leave the dog’s side,” Priscilla replied.
She thought of the man who had chosen to accompany Rufus to Sara’s house, delivering hot food before he had tasted a bite himself. The same man who had traipsed halfway across the city of Rome to ensure she and Lollia were secure from danger. Another long journey still faced him before he could return to the comfort of his own home, and all this for a Gentile with whom he had refused to share a meal. Such a person would not cast out a starving dog.
Though she doubted she would ever see him again, she felt strangely comforted merely knowing there was a man like Aquila in this hard world.
The next morning Volero surprised Priscilla with a visit to her quarters. She stared at him, her comb forgotten midstroke. Her brother never bothered to seek her out. She grew rigid with tension, wondering if someone had seen her with Aquila the previous day and reported it to him. She had been too careless. Now he would rage at her, bent on punishment.
But instead of mentioning her transgression, he merely asked, “Do you remember the tribune, Quintus?”
She let out the breath she had been holding and frowned in confusion. “Father’s old friend?”
“Yes. He has been serving in Carthage for some years. Since his return a few months ago, he has been made a senator.”
Priscilla put her comb down. Her brother was not in the habit of engaging her in idle conversation. Clearly this volley of information had some aim. She waited in silence, knowing patience was the safest route to take with Volero.
“Quintus asked after your mother.”
Priscilla vaguely recalled her mother trying to avoid the unwanted public attentions of a large man with a bad case of dandruff. “I am sure he did.”
“He seemed quite sorry to hear she was dead. He asked after you.”
“Excellent.”
Volero missed the irony in her voice. “I thought so. He invited us to a feast tonight and insisted that you come. It’s an outdoor affair. They say Claudius himself will attend.”
“The emperor? Don’t worry. I would not dream of accepting.” She wondered why he had even bothered to mention the invitation to her. He rarely tolerated her presence in public, an attitude his haughty wife ardently supported.
“Of course you must accept.”
“I must?”
“And I want you to be agreeable to him, Priscilla. Do you understand me?”
“Agreeable in what way?”
“I mean I want to win his favor. I wish to persuade him to lower his price for a parcel of land I have my eye on. This house is too old for comfort. I want a new villa, and he has the perfect spot for it.” He poked his finger painfully into Priscilla’s chest. “Charm him. Smile at him. Whatever you have to do. I want that land. We will leave early. Be ready by the seventh hour.”
Priscilla shot to her feet, too amazed to speak. Whatever she had to do? By the time he had made it to the door, she had recuperated enough to mumble, “I have nothing suitable to wear to such an elegant event.”
“My wife will lend you something.”
For his feast, Quintus had rented a lush garden bordering a man-made lake. Clearly the new senator wished to impress his guests with the abundance of his wealth. A lavishly decorated boat manned by two rows of meticulous slaves waited to ferry passengers around the still water, a welcome luxury on a balmy day.
Priscilla smoothed the folds of her emerald-green tunic after alighting from the carriage. She needed to watch every pleat and fold like a hawk lest she spill something on the fine linen. Her sister-in-law had made it clear that she would not tolerate the slightest damage to her tunic. Priscilla had worn an undergarment of ivory linen,
one with a higher neckline than her borrowed clothing, to provide a modest covering under the plunging lines of her sister-in-law’s finery. She noted that she was one of the few women present who had bothered with such attempts at propriety and felt, more than ever, like a fish out of water. She wished herself on the other side of Rome. The side that housed her friends from the Campi synagogue.
Quintus was welcoming his guests under the shade of a jasmine arbor, gold rings upon every knuckle glinting in the sun. He had grown more massive with the years, his girth every bit as impressive as the size of his fortune.
His eyes roved when Volero introduced her. “Thank the gods you look nothing like your father! And you possess the same charming shade of hair as your mother.” His corpulent hand traveled down a long curl, then wandered lower. Priscilla took a swift sidestep to avoid the shameless groping and found her feet landing squarely on a large object.
“Oomph!” a man exclaimed, hastily moving his foot out of her range. She turned to find a toga-clad man whose head was bald save for a ring of white hair. The scarlet band edging his white garments proclaimed him a senator.
“Pardon!” she croaked.
A young woman, huge brown eyes ringed with curly lashes, stepped from behind the senator. “Do not worry. I just stepped on his toes myself. And for the same reason.”
Although she displayed the composure of an older girl, her appearance declared her to be no more than seventeen or eighteen. Priscilla gave her a weak smile. “I hope I did not cause any permanent damage,” she said to the senator.
“I have another foot. I can still kick my enemies if need be.” He had a kind face, she thought, and plump, white hands that thankfully stayed at his sides. “This is my daughter Pudentiana,” he said, motioning to the girl.
“And this is my father, Senator Pudens,” she added.
“I am Prisca.”
“Daughter of General Priscus?” The senator nodded. “Our paths crossed briefly when I served in Germania. A brave man.”