by Tessa Afshar
As the wheels rolled forward, Priscilla pushed aside the tattered curtains so that she could cling to the sight of her friends until they disappeared from view, hidden by a high embankment. At the city gates, the cart swayed violently when one of the wheels dropped into a yawning pothole, and Priscilla heard some piece of pottery, not packed well enough, crash and break at the bottom of one of the baskets.
Shattered pieces of clay jingled a jarring note in her ears as she rode out of Rome. In the eighth year of Claudius’s reign, Priscilla bid farewell to the city of her birth, not knowing if she would ever pass through those gates again.
Twenty-Three
CLAUDIUS’S EDICT CAME in late fall, days before ill weather would make sea travel impossible for several months. It should have taken them under nine days to arrive in Corinth. Instead, they needed twelve, anchoring at two different ports on the way to avoid the surging swell of bad storms. Priscilla’s belly seemed to rise and fall with the waves, keeping time with the movement of the Mediterranean.
They journeyed most of the way on a narrow trireme, a Roman galley carrying wine from Hispania. Of them all, Ferox proved the best sailor, settling himself near the bulwarks of the ship for hours at a time, face lifted to the wind, tongue lolling, his mouth open in a happy smile that nothing could dislodge.
In the days that they enjoyed fair weather, the ship ate up the distance with negligent grace and finally dropped them off along the western coast of the Peloponnese. There, they transferred their baggage onto a raeda, a cloth-top carriage with noisy, iron-shod wheels pulled by four donkeys. The wooden slat where Priscilla sat wedged between Marcus and Lollia proved hard and splintery and more unstable than sea waves.
“I never realized how much I like solid ground,” she said with a gasp when, half a day later, they came within sight of Corinth and she knew her torment was finally going to end.
Built on a great hill, Corinth demanded that her visitors scale her heights before they could enter her walls. The way in was steep. Partway up the road, the passengers had to dismount the carriage, as the mules could not manage to carry both them and their baggage over the heavy incline.
Priscilla’s legs began to burn, and her aching, swollen feet blistered in their sandals. Above them, the dusky mount of Acrocorinth crouched over the sprawling city like a lumpy spider, looking malevolent and cold.
They walked past many lush villas, a growing suburbia of new residences built for wealthy patrons. Priscilla, who had lived in ancient Rome all her life, found this excess of newness jarring. She already missed the cracked marbles of home, the beauty of aged terra-cotta and hundred-year-old buildings whose histories shaped every brick.
Copious temples and altars dotted their path, overflowing with enthusiastic crowds and lavish offerings. Corinth was a city filled with abundant idols and ardent worshipers. They ambled past a bathhouse and had to hold Ferox back from attempting to swim in a spectacular fountain.
“What’s this?” Marcus asked, bending to examine the mark of a bare foot carved into the sidewalk. The boy scratched his brow and followed the footprint’s direction with his eyes. The ancient sign of a house of prostitution, it pointed to a marble-faced white building a few steps away.
“Never you mind, Son,” Aquila said, turning Marcus’s head back toward the road.
They made their way up a wide, tree-lined avenue that disgorged them at the city’s gates. Priscilla’s eyes widened as she glimpsed the agora, which appeared larger even than Rome’s public square.
“Which way?” she asked Aquila.
“The inn Rufus recommended is southwest of the city, past a row of shops. I will ask directions at the gate.”
By the time they arrived at the inn, unloaded their baggage, and settled in their room, evening had fallen. They filled their bellies with the tavern’s plain bean stew, which lacked the distinct flavoring of both passum and garum, tasting too bland to Priscilla’s palate. She crawled into bed, dizzy with exhaustion yet unable to sleep. She had barely arrived and she was already homesick.
“Lord, you are worthy of this pain,” she prayed under her breath and pulled the blanket over her head.
Aquila shoved irritated fingers through his hair, trying to focus on the accounts before him. They had been in Corinth for sixteen weeks. The New Year had come and gone, and the cold winter was loosening its hold on the world. Spring showed signs of tiptoeing into the city. Perhaps with it, new customers would arrive.
Thanks to Stephanas’s help, they had found a house to rent, conveniently situated not far from the agora. Though smaller than their home in Rome and less comfortable, it met their needs.
The two-story house with its vaulted doorways occupied the edge of a busy street. The location made the ground floor perfect for their shop. Priscilla had hung an attractive curtain to separate the workshop from the public part of the store, where the customers visited. Sabinella had given them the curtain as a parting gift, the wide length of ecru wool too great an expense for them to otherwise afford. Pudentiana and Praxedis had spent hours embroidering delicate green-and-pink flowers on the edge of the fabric, a gesture that had brought tears to his wife’s eyes when she had unpacked it.
“I meant to give this to you when you first moved into your new home here,” Sabinella had said. “But it was not ready in time. It will have to serve as a farewell gift, now, a token of our affection, which follows you wherever you go. You take a piece of our hearts with you, my dears, when you leave for Graecia.”
Aquila had caught Priscilla gazing at that curtain with wistful longing more than once since they had hung it up.
He blew out a long breath. This displacement had not been easy on any of them. It had come with a price tag that had shocked even him.
For one thing, Aquila had spent all his savings on the move. Travel did not come cheap. Claudius might have demanded that he and his family leave Rome, but he had provided no funds for the fulfillment of such an order. With a sigh, Aquila rolled the sheet of papyrus shut and put it away.
He had moved before, from his home in Pontus to Rome. But he had been unmarried then, with few responsibilities beyond his own needs. Now he carried the welfare of a family on his shoulders. Since the fever, his uncle Benyamin had slowed down, unable to keep up the youthful pace he had maintained when they first arrived in Rome. The care of his loved ones had fallen largely to Aquila. He felt bowed under that weight. Anxious with the demands of it.
Because of Stephanas’s gracious recommendation, they were starting to build a roster of patrons. But to pay for food and rent, they would need more custom.
Senator Pudens had managed to send them four letters by way of merchants traveling to Corinth, his latest telling them that their property in the Aventine had been safely rented. It would take time before they would receive payment, of course, and any revenues would be subject to deep taxation since Aquila was not a Roman citizen. Meanwhile, he had to meet expenses from one day to the next, with no cushion of savings to carry him through should an unexpected need arise.
He spread a fresh length of leather on his lap and adjusted the wick in the clay lamp to help him see better. He worked too many hours. The trade left little time for his wife, for Marcus, for his uncle.
Priscilla had been the one to invite Stephanas and his family to their home for an evening gathering of prayer and teaching, their first in Corinth. She took care of Marcus’s needs, ran the household, welcomed customers, saw to the day-to-day running of the shop. He had no idea how he would have managed without her.
Something inside him winced at the thought. Something small and proud. He felt he was letting her down, he supposed. Laying too much on her shoulders. Shame and resentment, like a two-headed dragon, breathed their fire inside him. Shame that he had to rely so much on his wife and, ironically, resentment that after so much work, he should still feel like he had failed her.
It was no fault of hers. Priscilla never demanded anything from him. This conflagration of painfu
l emotions issued from his own mind. And yet he could not quite overcome it.
In the meantime, he had to finish two travel cloaks and try to drum up more business. He closed his eyes to rest them from the strain of working in shadows. His wife would have to wait, as would the condition of his own heart.
Priscilla tried not to cry. The cramping low in her belly made her grind her teeth in discomfort. But the reason for her tears lay in a deeper well than physical pain. She had been married nigh unto two years, and still her cycles came uninterrupted. Anxiety had twined deep roots into her thoughts, curling tendrils that wrapped around her dreams and choked them every time she remembered how deeply she longed for a child.
She had only been with Appius three times—three miserable, shameful tumbles that had barely lasted beyond the time it took for her to cry out his name. But it had been enough for her to conceive. Somehow, she had expected that with Aquila she would conceive with the same ease. More, even, given the love she bore him. Given his tenderness with her. Instead, month after month, her body had betrayed her desires. Her womb had remained stubbornly empty.
Since her betrothal, she had always felt that she could share anything with Aquila. Tell him of every struggle. But Corinth had changed that.
From the day they had arrived, Aquila had drawn away, coiling into himself like a neatly stored leather whip. An unending deluge of work kept him busy, true enough. Only, Aquila had known the pressure of too much work before. Had known sleepless nights as he labored until dawn and began his day anew. None of that had ever made him withdraw from her before.
This time, she sensed the distance between them, like a pit of fire that she could not bridge. She had grown so accustomed to his presence, so reliant on his listening ear and encouraging companionship, that his sudden absence became like an olive grind, crushing her. She discovered, in a whole new way, that loneliness could eat at her soul with the voracious hunger of a beast of prey. She could not even remember the last time he had kissed her. Reached for her in the night. Sometimes she felt as if he looked through her. She had become invisible to her husband.
This Aquila did not invite confidences. He did not make her feel secure enough to express her fears to him. Worse. She suspected that her barrenness might be the very reason for his detachment. What was the use of a wife who closed up when you touched her and failed to even bear you a child?
She took a shivery breath and pushed away the thoughts that tormented her. She had no one in whom she could confide. No one to whom she could disclose her greatest fear: that she had no babe at her breast because God wanted to punish her for her sins.
Returning to the workshop, she lifted a brown piece of leather, which Benyamin had prepared beforehand, and began the stitching for the tent. These days, timely delivery was more important than ever. The rate of new custom remained steady, but not nearly as copious as it had been in Rome. They had not yet had enough time to establish a name in Corinth. Delivering the existing orders on time meant satisfied customers who would recommend them to others.
Close to noon, Aquila returned from the agora, where he had gone to introduce himself and their business to the traders. The sun had yet to reach its zenith in the sky, but there were already dark circles under his eyes. He had lost weight, she realized. Too little sleep. Too little food. Without thinking, she reached for his hand. “Is all well, my dear?”
He did not look at her. “Of course.” He loosened his hand from her hold and reached for the leather. “Back to work.”
Priscilla bit her lip, racking her brain for some topic that might draw her husband in. “At least they speak Latin in Corinth. It won’t be as hard for Marcus to adjust. He still struggles with Greek.”
“Hmm.”
She sensed his need for quiet and pressed her mouth shut. A weight settled on her like a gravestone that would not be rolled away. Silently she rose to help Lollia with lunch. Porridge and lentils again. She knew their finances worried Aquila and was trying to economize every way she knew.
When she served him the meal, he tasted the small, homemade roll and frowned. “Does this have honey?”
She smiled, pleased he had noticed. “It does.”
“That’s expensive, Priscilla. We can’t afford that right now.”
“It’s from a jar Mary gave us as a parting present. I did not pay for it.”
“Better save it for a special occasion rather than fritter it away on daily use. I don’t know when next we shall be able to buy such luxuries.”
Something in her shriveled at the criticism. She had used the honey for his sake, to tempt his appetite. He had not noticed her careful parsimony over the past few weeks. Her prudent thriftiness made their coin spread further. Instead, he had only noted her supposed extravagance.
They consumed the rest of their meal in silence before Aquila returned to the workshop. Priscilla began to clean the dishes, her hands knowing what to do from long habit, her thoughts far away.
Her own transgression had led to this painful banishment and financial strain. If not for her sin, she would never have run into Antonia in the physician’s house. And they would not find themselves in a strange city now, strapped for income, barely surviving from one day to the next.
On the third day of the week, just before Priscilla was preparing to shut the door and bar it for the evening, a short, wiry man with large, dark eyes walked into the shop. She had the impression of an ordinary face with forgettable features and a thick beard.
“Good evening,” he said. “I look for Aquila of Pontus. Am I in the right shop?”
He spoke Greek rather than Latin, with perfect fluency, though tinged with an unfamiliar accent she could not quite identify. “My husband is away making a delivery. May I help you?”
“I am Paul of Tarsus,” he said. “I had heard you work in leather. As do I, it so happens.”
Priscilla felt her legs wobble and sat awkwardly on the narrow bench they kept for customers. “I have heard of you,” she said.
The laugh lines in the corners of his eyes deepened. His gaze sharpened with interest. “I must be a better tentmaker than I thought.”
“I know nothing of your work with leather, sir. I was told you are a rabbi. And more to the point, you love Yeshua.”
Her guest went still. Something with the force of a storm seemed to gather behind his eyes. With a sudden jolt she became aware of the illusion wrought by his ordinary features; there was nothing ordinary about this man. He stared at her for a moment, his body emanating leashed energy. The room seemed to lose some of its air.
“You know of Yeshua?” He smiled slowly. “I thought I was sent here by Stephanas. Now I see God directed my steps.”
She motioned for him to sit across from her. They stared at one another in silence. Priscilla tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat. A few months ago, stories of this man’s exploits had encouraged them to plant the church in Rome despite the threat of persecution. Now he sat, ankles crossed in comfort, at his ease under her roof.
“Do you know Stephanas well?” she asked, trying to follow the thread that had led him to their door.
“I met him briefly for the first time today.” He shrugged. “I went to fetch a parcel from Stephanas’s warehouse in the port of Cenchreae. I happened upon him on my way inside and we began a conversation. When he found out that I am a Jew and that I am looking for employment with a leatherworker, he gave me Aquila’s name.”
“We know Stephanas through Rufus of Cyrene. I believe you are acquainted.”
Paul chuckled. “How perfectly the Lord guides our steps. Is my friend Rufus well?”
“Very well. Shepherding a growing flock in Rome. We would be with him now, but for Claudius’s edict.”
“You were fellow workers with Rufus?”
Priscilla nodded. “Aquila and I hosted gatherings of Gentile believers at our home, while Rufus and his mother taught the Jewish followers at their house. He is a Roman citizen and safe from the recent decree.
But we, along with other Jews who held no citizenship, were expelled from Rome. We had to leave the disciples behind.” Her tone grew pensive and she dropped her head.
Paul lowered his brows. “I believe Yeshua brought you here, just as he brought me.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned like a fox. “Don’t worry. He will take care of the church in Rome. In the meantime, he has plans for Corinth.”
A shadow fell across the door, drawing their attention. Aquila and Benyamin walked in, fatigue etched on their features.
Priscilla sprang to her feet. “My dears, we have a special visitor.”
Aquila’s lips stretched in a smile that did not quite reach his tired eyes. “How may I help you?”
“This is Paul of Tarsus, Husband. The man of whom Rufus spoke.”
Aquila froze. “Paul?”
Paul rose to his feet.
For the first time in weeks, a spark of excitement brought a slow flush to Aquila’s cheeks. “My brother in Christ!” he cried, and enveloped Paul in his arms. Paul, no less enthusiastic, returned the embrace and laughed, a booming sound that wrapped about Priscilla like a blanket.
“This is a warm welcome,” the man of Tarsus murmured after he had greeted a beaming Benyamin.
“You do not understand,” Aquila explained. “Your letter to Rufus changed our lives. Because of you, we began to speak openly of our faith in the synagogues. You gave us courage to be bold. And many pursued the Lord as a result.”
“And now look at you. Booted out of Rome and in exile.” Their guest slapped Aquila on the shoulder. “And with me by your side, a load of fresh trouble will be heading your way.” He grinned. “To God be the glory!”
Priscilla pulled her palla higher over her hair. “In that case, I better see to dinner. It’s never a good idea to face trouble on an empty stomach.”
Twenty-Four
“I CAME TO LOOK FOR YOU because I need work.” Paul wiped his mouth on his napkin. “I do not want to place the burden of my keep upon our brothers and sisters throughout Asia. I am an experienced leatherworker and intend to earn my living while doing the work of our Lord. My needs are modest. I do not require a large income.”