by Tessa Afshar
Benyamin came to his feet. “Perhaps I’d best go home. I am not feeling well myself. I will only be in the way here.”
Aquila realized with sudden alarm that his uncle looked unnaturally pale, his skin shiny with sweat. “Uncle!” he exclaimed, stepping toward Benyamin.
“Don’t fuss. A strong brew of honeysuckle and I will be as hale as you.”
But when he started to walk, Aquila noticed that his gait seemed unsteady. At the top of the steps, he slipped and would have fallen if Aquila had not grabbed hold of him. Aquila swallowed. The arm he held was too hot.
“Fever,” Aquila said under his breath.
Eight
“DO YOU WANT THE PHYSICIAN to examine him before visiting Elizabeth’s baby?” Rufus asked Aquila.
“Certainly not!” Benyamin answered, looking horrified. “The poor babe needs him more than I. I only need a little rest in my own bed.”
Rufus considered his old friend, then nodded. “I will bring the cart for you. You will not walk all the way to the Via Appia.”
“Bah! I can walk the length of Rome and back,” Benyamin said. But he did not argue as Aquila settled him gently into the cart when it arrived.
“I will come to you as soon as I convey the physician to Elizabeth,” Rufus promised before rushing out.
Priscilla turned to Aquila. “May I come? I nursed my father for many weeks when he was ill. And if Benyamin should need a physician, you can fetch one while I stay with him.”
Aquila thought for a moment. “Your brother?”
“So long as I arrive home before sunset, when the villa’s gates are locked, he will not object.”
Aquila was grateful to have her help. He had no experience caring for the sick. The sight of his uncle, usually so sturdy, reduced to wobbly weakness, had shaken him. Benyamin was the only family he had left. He could not imagine life without him. Wordlessly, he hefted Priscilla into the cart next to Benyamin before leaping inside and taking the reins.
Priscilla took charge as soon as they arrived home. When Benyamin was tucked into bed and resting, she rinsed her hands and looked about. Noting that their small dwelling had no garden save for a few pots of mint and thyme, she asked, “Do you keep any medicinal herbs?”
Aquila fetched the wooden chest that contained wool for bandages, bunches of dried herbs, and miniature vials of tinctures and ointments Benyamin insisted on keeping in the house. To Aquila they were a mystery. But Priscilla seemed undaunted by the contents and set a few aside.
“You have silphium. And honeysuckle. That is good.”
Once she had boiled water, she steeped the herbs, her manner calm and reassuringly confident. “You are worried?” she asked, looking at him with compassion.
“His fever seems high,” Aquila admitted.
She nodded. “I can recommend the physician who tended my father. He is a knowledgeable man, trained in Alexandria.” She bit her lip. “He can be expensive.”
Aquila waved a hand. “I have some savings.”
She gave a relieved smile. “His name is Eratosthenes.”
“Poor man. By the time you pronounce that name, half his patients will either be cured or dead.”
Priscilla smiled. “I will write down the directions for you. They are even longer than his name.” She bit her thumb, her face turning pink. It took him a moment to guess the source of her embarrassment.
He fetched papyrus and ink. “It’s all right. I can read.” He sensed the stiffness in his voice, the offense he could not hide.
She turned even redder. He forced his rigid shoulders to relax. She was not at fault, after all. To her, he was a simple laborer. Many men in his position were illiterate. “It’s all right,” he said again, his voice softening. “Remind me to tell you how I put ink in my tutor’s shoes.”
Her eyes sparkled, turning a deep sapphire blue. “Remind me,” she said, “to tell you how I put ants in mine.”
It was like a storm breaking. They began to laugh so hard they both had tears in their eyes. Finally he took her note. “I better fetch Eratosthenes.”
She wiped the corners of her eyes. “And I better waken Benyamin and give him this brew. It has steeped long enough.”
After the momentary relief of laughter, Aquila did not breathe with ease until he returned, Eratosthenes in tow. The physician examined his uncle, who was by now, supine and truly weak. His examination seemed thorough, and he said little until he finished. “This fever has been spreading through Rome,” he said. “You should know some have died of it. Your uncle seems strong. He may recover, provided you nurse him properly.”
Aquila sank against the wall, his body sagging. It occurred to him that Elizabeth’s babe might have been struck by the same malady. “I will nurse him properly. Tell me what to do.”
The physician sniffed the bowl containing the potion Priscilla had prepared. “This is good.” He handed the bowl back to Priscilla. “I see you remember what I taught you.” He gave Aquila a bag of herbs. “This is better. It contains more powerful herbs. Steep a spoonful of this in hot water for thirty minutes. Your uncle should drink five cups of this mixture every day. If you need me, you know where to send for me.” He wiped his hands and put away his instruments in a neat bag. “The herbs, light food, and complete rest may restore him.”
Rufus arrived just as the physician was leaving. “How is that old rascal?” he asked, his mouth pressed tight with anxiety.
“That old rascal can hear you,” Benyamin croaked from his bed.
Rufus grinned. “Not too sick to remain ornery.” He sat with Benyamin until he fell asleep.
“I must go now, Aquila,” Priscilla said. “Will it be all right if I return in the morning? I can help nurse Benyamin while you work.”
Aquila let out a great huff of air. “I did not even have time to grow anxious about our work. The Lord provided for my need before I asked. I accept your gracious offer with thanks. And since Rufus is with my uncle, I will accompany you to Pincio without having to leave my uncle alone.”
After the near miss that had almost taken her life, he was not going to take any chances with Priscilla’s well-being. Neither was Ferox apparently, since he leapt to his feet as soon as he saw them at the door and charged ahead before they even told him which way to go.
Priscilla fanned herself while Benyamin slept. He had dozed most of the morning, waking up long enough to drink the tincture she had given him, before falling back into a deep sleep. The fever, though not completely abated, seemed to be dissipating.
From where she sat, with the curtain looped on a hook, she could see Aquila at work in the store. Perched on a stool, his head bent over a length of supple leather dyed almost the color of his dark curls, his fingers moved deftly, applying the awl and needle with astonishing precision. From this angle, his nose, sharp in the middle and flared at the edges, more than ever gave him the aspect of an eagle.
Every once in a while, he would look in her direction, a smile breaking out, transforming the reserved lines of his face into something more welcoming.
Aquila, hiding behind his usual guarded mask, was handsome. But Aquila open and friendly became dazzling. Priscilla fidgeted on her cushion, annoyed with her response to the man.
She wished Lollia were here to distract her from the inevitable intimacy of their situation. With Elizabeth’s baby sicker even than Benyamin, Mary had needed Lollia’s help, and the older woman had left for Trastevere early in the morning.
“You were going to tell me about your tutor,” he said into the silence.
She blinked, remembering the conversation that had drawn the confession out of her. “He was the first tutor my father hired for me. I discovered quickly that he was not a pleasant man. He often told me that I was unworthy of his tuition, being a girl. He also had a habit of whacking the back of my hand with willow rods when my answers displeased him.
“One day, I had the bad judgment to point out his error regarding a grammatical point, and he beat me for it.
That afternoon, I happened upon an anthill. My mother used to tell me that one could accomplish far more with a bit of honey than a bowl of vinegar. I decided to put her advice to the test. With a bit of honey, I coaxed a jarful of ants out of their nest. When my tutor donned his shoes the next morning, he received an unpleasant surprise. The ants were the biting variety.”
Aquila laughed. “I don’t think that is quite what your mother intended when she taught you that axiom.” He leaned toward her, the leather cloak forgotten. “What did your tutor do?”
“He beat me harder. Fortunately.” She smirked.
“Why fortunately?”
“My parents saw the marks and dismissed him. My father had been a general in charge of garrisons of soldiers. If he had ever had any gentleness in him, the soldier’s life had obliterated it. But he would not tolerate unjust violence against his children.”
In the short years she had known her decorated father, Priscilla had learned to both fear and adore the man. Mostly, she held him in awe. In her childish mind, he had achieved mythical proportions, a being of immense power and occasional demonstrations of absentminded charity toward his only daughter. In the intervening years since his death, she had learned to see him with more clarity: a mortal with failings common to all men.
“Who taught you after that?” Aquila asked, returning to his work.
“My father hired Demodocus, a man of vast knowledge and temperate disposition. I adored him. For five years, he tutored and befriended me. I could have continued for another five, but my brother discharged him when my father died.”
Aquila set the awl on his lap and studied her, gray eyes intense. “Why . . . ? Forgive me if I trespass. Why is it that you live in financial strain while your brother lives in comfort?”
Priscilla found herself confiding more than she had intended, probably because Aquila listened with a still and acute concentration, as if every word she said mattered to him.
“My brother is my senior by sixteen years,” she explained. “His mother, a great lady from an illustrious Roman family, died in childbirth when Volero was only ten years old. Our father found himself fighting in the wilds of Germania at the time, unable to show up for her funerary rites. Volero has never forgotten that slight.”
Aquila glanced up. “Your brother is not proud of the general?”
Priscilla considered the question. “My father cast a long shadow, even while leaving a void by his continuous absence. They never enjoyed a warm relationship, those two. It did not help matters when my father came home from Germania with my mother in tow. She was a simple captive who did not even have the distinction of being a chieftain’s daughter. She came to my father barefoot and illiterate. Pretty enough for a slave, but not exactly appropriate for the wife of a well-respected general.”
“Your brother objected?”
“Not at first, when she was a mere servant. But she grew quickly in my father’s favor. Having natural facility with languages, she learned to speak Latin perfectly, without even a trace of accent, though she never learned to read and write. My father enjoyed her conversation, even after they had been married to each other for fifteen years. My mother could always make him laugh.”
“That is a rare gift.”
“He found it so. He was not a man given to deep feelings. But I think he liked her.”
Aquila arched a dark brow. “One hopes for a little more in marriage.”
“I certainly would.” Priscilla twisted her hands in her lap. “For them it seemed enough; they found contentment with each other.”
“Did he marry her right away?”
“No. She had been in my father’s possession for a year when Volero fell gravely ill. He was fourteen, a boy of fragile health by all accounts, and my father feared he would die. Thinking that he might lose his only heir, he married my mother, hoping to sire another son. Volero recovered, fortunately. But he never forgave my father for marrying so far beneath him. He had no love for my mother, and even less for me.”
“Surely he could not blame you for your father’s decisions?”
Priscilla stared into the distance. Volero had not always been the knife-hard man he was today. Once, he had been an impressionable youth, scarred by the cruel barbs of his peers.
“My birth did not make life easy for him,” she said. “His friends used to tease him viciously about his barbarian stepmother and redheaded little sister. I became a mark of shame to him. Now, every time he looks at me, I remind him of his father’s failings. I become a poor reflection on him. He would prefer to hide me altogether if he could. But then, he has had his share of suffering, and in no small part, thanks to my existence.”
Something shifted in Aquila’s gaze, a final guard melting, replaced by warmth she could feel all the way in her marrow. “Do you always show so much understanding for those who hurt and abuse you? Try to walk in their shoes, so to speak?”
“Sometimes.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sometimes I put ants in them.”
Aquila threw his head back and laughed. Very softly he said, “I would have been proud to call you my sister.”
Priscilla felt an odd battle waging inside her. Part of her wanted to dance with elation, knowing that this man could be proud of her. Another part of her, irritating and perverse, found the idea of Aquila as her brother appalling. She did not want him to regard her in that light. For the second time now, he had referred to her as a sister. The thought made her want to weep.
“Can he hurt you? Your brother?” Aquila asked, his voice stony. “Since he is the head of your family, you are under his authority, according to the law.”
She shook her head. “I live under my brother’s roof. But I don’t live under his legal control. My father gave me the gift of my emancipation before his death. He knew, I think, that Volero would be tempted to sell me into slavery or worse if he held such power over me. Rather than giving me a financial inheritance, which Volero would have been able to manipulate, my father gave me legal freedom. A far greater gift for an unmarried woman.”
“I knew a father could give the gift of emancipation to a younger son. I did not know it could be done for daughters.”
“Due to his military career, my father wielded substantial influence. He found a way.”
“I am very relieved to hear it, Priscilla.” He flashed another of his melting smiles.
She turned to Benyamin, occupying her hands with the tasks of nursing. Her mind, however, would not be distracted from Aquila as easily.
Impossible. What she wanted from Aquila was impossible.
Thankfully, Benyamin seemed to be improving, though he remained weak. After drinking a full cup of medicinal brew, he fell asleep. Priscilla picked up the half-finished basket she had brought from home and began the soothing motions of weaving the water-softened reeds. Her hands tucked long strands behind the spokes, packing her weave tight.
“That looks good,” Aquila said.
She smiled. “Lollia taught me when I was young. It’s a useful skill.”
Aquila laid the leather cloak on the stool and came to stand by her side. He bent to examine the basket more closely.
“I take that back. This is not good. It is exquisite.” He touched the finished base of the basket, his fingers tracing the smooth pattern already emerging. His face bent closer. On his breath, she could smell the scent of cloves and the faint spice of cypress and myrtle in his hair. She gulped a breath. As if becoming abruptly aware of their proximity, Aquila took a hasty step away and scurried back to his perch in the workshop.
For some time, they worked in silence. But the easy camaraderie of the morning had shattered, leaving behind an awkward awareness.
To Priscilla’s relief, Benyamin awakened, hungry and well enough to speak.
“How are you faring with that cloak?” he asked Aquila, examining it while Priscilla warmed the rich beef broth Mary had sent over. “Perfect stitching as always,” Benyamin commented as he fingered his nephew’s workmanship. “But you
must be slowing down, Nephew. I expected you to be finished by now. Perhaps it’s old age, weakening your big muscles.”
“Worry for you is slowing me down. What were you thinking, falling ill with all these orders piling up?”
“Thankfully, God, in his wisdom, did not abandon me to your rough-and-tumble care. Instead, he sent me this beautiful creature to minister to me in my hour of need.” Benyamin accepted the bowl of broth and warm bread from Priscilla with a satisfied sigh.
She straightened the pillow behind his back and made sure his blanket was tucked around him. Aquila rolled his eyes. “Don’t pander to him. With pampering like that, he isn’t likely to get out of bed for a month.” He wagged a finger at his uncle in mock threat. “We might as well eat with him,” he said. “I will get no more work done while he is awake and overflowing with words.”
She could tell, even with his gruff words, that Aquila was limp with relief to find his uncle in a jovial mood and strong enough to banter. For the first time in two days the lines of worry on his brow began to smooth out.
They sat next to Benyamin’s bed, eating bread and cheese, followed by juicy plums. Benyamin asked after Elizabeth’s little boy, who was not out of danger. The fever had proved even stronger for one so young. Benyamin immediately stopped eating so that he could pray for the child. Priscilla listened, moved by the simple words addressed to Yeshua, as if he were present in this modest chamber with them. As if One far greater than they held their concerns tenderly in his hands.
Benyamin fell asleep after the meal, his fragile strength spent. Aquila returned to the storefront, leather cloak back on his lap while Priscilla plied the reeds in her basket. The silence stretched between them, growing strained without Benyamin’s good-natured teasing.
Finally, unable to bear the tension, Priscilla said, “I have never been outside Rome. Tell me about life in Pontus.” In truth, she longed to ask twenty more questions, having stayed up half the night with curious questions swirling in her mind about this man who had grown up with a tutor, yet lived in a cramped apartment.