Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  Aquila regarded her in silence, eyes turning molten green. Reaching for her hand, he lifted it to his lips. “I am proud to have you as my wife.”

  Twenty-Eight

  AFTER ALMOST THREE WEEKS, Antonia had lost the sickly look of one who sat not far from death’s door. She had gained weight, and the ulcerating pustules on her face and body had healed, leaving behind faint scars.

  Once again Priscilla invited her to attend their prayer gatherings. “We would welcome your company,” she assured her sullen guest.

  “I prefer not to,” Antonia said, grabbing the curtain, ready to pull it shut.

  Priscilla’s hand flashed out, holding the fabric in place. “As you wish. But from now on, if you want to eat, you must join us.”

  Priscilla had begun to grow weary of carrying plates back and forth to the woman now that she had regained the strength to move with ease. Besides, she could not hide in this cramped alcove for the rest of her life. High time she faced the world.

  Antonia took a step back and bumped against the wall. “You expect me to show myself in public like this?” She pointed at her head. Her hair had started growing in like new grass, straight and shiny. And shorter than a man’s.

  “I will give you a palla.”

  “And a new tunic. This one is a disgusting color.”

  Priscilla studied the brown tunic she had given Antonia. She crossed her arms. “What color would you prefer?”

  “Something that does not remind me of cow dung.”

  A huff of laughter escaped Priscilla. “It is rather a nauseating shade, I grant you. I will see what I can find. But my choices are limited.”

  “Why are you so cordial to me?” Antonia scowled. “I suppose you want a favor?”

  Priscilla’s gaze softened. She realized that her guest had no way of knowing that they had already discovered her fall from grace. She assumed they were helping her in hopes of a reward. “No, Antonia. I want no favors.”

  Priscilla fetched a pale turquoise–colored tunic and palla from her room. The old Antonia would have scorned anything so plain. But the woman who had lain in her own waste by the side of the street took the clothing and held them against her chest.

  “Thank you,” she whispered before shoving the curtain closed in Priscilla’s face. Priscilla did a little dance before walking down the stairs in perfect decorum. Antonia had thanked her.

  In the evening, they welcomed a new arrival: a young man named Theo, who needed a place to stay. He had a hollow look about him, as though some part of his soul had been gouged out. Handsome, with classic features that could easily have served as model for a statue of Apollo, Theo came in like a wraith, silent and haunted. Paul did not expound on his situation, only that the young man had suffered a broken heart.

  When Marcus discovered that Theo had won the famed chariot race at the previous Isthmian Games and that he was considered a venerated champion in Corinth, he became a barnacle at the side of the young man. Priscilla tried to pry him off their guest more than once.

  “You must not bother Theo, Marcus,” she said one afternoon when her son pelted the young man with questions about horses.

  “He is no bother,” Theo assured her. He studied the mosaics under his feet, a stylized pattern of swirling waves. “I have my own share of questions,” he said.

  “If it is about horses, I cannot help you,” Priscilla said.

  Theo shook his head. “They hold no mysteries for me. But your God is a different matter.”

  Theo had attended their gatherings with silent but intense attention every night. He had kept his questions to himself thus far. Yet she knew that many preferred private conversations about God to public discourse.

  “Ask, and I will try to answer if I can,” she said.

  “You say your God loves us. And yet he allows our hopes to be crushed. You say he has a purpose for us. Yet he does not seem to care when our dreams are destroyed. How can love be so uncaring?”

  “The answer to that question is not an intellectual thesis. Even if I were able to give you such, it would not matter, because you ask a question that belongs to the heart, not reason.

  “I can tell you that my own dreams have been crushed more than once. But when I condemned myself, God extended forgiveness to me. When I felt broken, he gave me strength. When I thought the future held nothing but pain, he gave me joy. Those are the actions of love.

  “Look to the cross of Christ, Theo. Because on that cross you will not find an uncaring face. You will find unbroken love. And his plans are better than yours.”

  When Antonia sauntered into the dining room and joined the family for lunch, Priscilla almost choked on her vegetable stew. Their guest did not deign to say a single word. Instead, she wiped her mouth daintily on her napkin after finishing her salad, then rose to retire in her nook without offering any help. After that, she attended meals regularly, though she never came for breakfast, which proved too early for the hours she preferred to keep.

  Once in a while, if the topic of conversation turned to fashion, jewelry, gladiatorial games, or chariot races, she even offered a few words. Since these were not common topics in Priscilla’s home, however, she spoke rarely. The rest of the time, she continued to hide in her alcove with the curtain drawn, especially when the church gathered.

  One evening, Aquila quoted a verse from the prophet Isaiah:

  “See, I am doing a new thing!

  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

  I am making a way in the wilderness

  and streams in the wasteland.”

  To Priscilla’s astonishment, the curtain moved, as though disturbed by a figure leaning into its folds. When Aquila started to speak about God’s desire to stir new beginnings and release fresh starts in every life, the drape of fabric parted and Antonia stepped into the room. Avoiding eye contact, she found a narrow spot on the floor, settled herself there, and did not move until the last prayers were offered and the guests started to depart.

  Priscilla picked up a large platter, now empty save for bread crumbs, to be washed belowstairs when she found her path blocked by Antonia. “I have no money to give you,” Antonia said abruptly.

  Priscilla nodded. “I am aware of that.”

  “I can’t help you find favor with the emperor, either.”

  “I am aware of that, also.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We expect nothing from you, Antonia.”

  The woman rubbed the bridge of her nose. The palla fell onto her shoulders, exposing her shorn head. She seemed utterly vulnerable in that moment. Powerless. How shocking that realization must have been to her, Priscilla thought. The knowledge that she could not buy or manipulate or bully her way out of this trouble.

  “It was my fault,” she said, her voice thin. Strained.

  Priscilla’s breath hitched. “What was your fault?”

  “Your expulsion from Rome. That was my doing. I lied to Claudius. Told him that you and Aquila were roiling up dissention among the Jews, creating trouble for Rome.”

  “I know.”

  The lowered head snapped up. Antonia stared in amazement. “You know? How?”

  “A friend told us when we were still in Rome. He tried to intervene on our behalf, to no avail.”

  “You knew back in Rome?” The full lips began to tremble. “Then why did you help me? Why not leave me in the street to rot?”

  Priscilla set the platter down and wiped her hands on the towel she had tucked at her waist. “Antonia, have you been listening night after night in your alcove as we teach?”

  The woman nodded, a short, awkward movement of her head. There was nothing regal about her now.

  “Then you tell me. Why do you think I have harbored you in my home?”

  Fingers wrapped into one another in tortured twists. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it,” Priscilla said and bent to retrieve the platter.

  “Wait.”

  Priscilla abandoned
the dish.

  “This new beginning Aquila spoke about. Can I have it?”

  “That depends on what you mean by a new beginning. If you wish to return to the life you once led, a life solely focused on yourself and your desires, then no. God does not promise to give us a fresh chance at that life. Because, as you may have discovered by now, it leads to no good. It does not satisfy.

  “God’s fresh start begins here.” Priscilla touched her chest. “It requires a transformed heart. You can begin a new life, Antonia—a fulfilling life, which no emperor can take away. But you will need God first.”

  “Is that what you have?” Antonia’s fingers bunched her palla. “You have few of the things I always valued. Power. A wealthy husband. Land. Pretty jewels and expensive clothes. You don’t have many servants or crowds of people staring at you in admiration, jealous of all you possess. And yet you always seem content.

  “I used to think you were too stupid to realize you should want more. Now I don’t know. You have married a Jew with no land, no renown. Not even a citizen! Yet he expresses more love for you with one look than I ever received from the caresses of . . . any man.”

  Priscilla leaned against the wall. “I know what it is to settle for unworthy things. I know that ache. I have learned that God offers so much more, and now I won’t settle for anything less.”

  “I used to hate you,” Antonia said abruptly.

  “Because I saw you in the physician’s house.”

  “I suppose Aquila does not know? He is such a devout prude.”

  “He is devout, though I would not call him a prude. He knows all my secrets.”

  The brown eyes widened. “Yet he married you.”

  “It took him a while to ask.”

  Antonia laughed. “Gods. Men are stupid.”

  “They are broken, as we are. Yet the astounding, wonderous truth which never ceases to amaze me is that like us, they are made in the image of God.”

  Antonia’s throat worked as if she could not quite swallow. “When I say I hated you, I mean . . .” She adjusted the palla over her head, covering the pathetic stubble.

  “That you tried to have me killed? More than once. I know.”

  She gasped. “What are you? A witch?”

  Priscilla smiled. “No. You are just not as clever as you think.”

  “I think we have proven that.” The thick lashes swept up. “Priscilla. Why do you help me, knowing what I have done?”

  “Well, I might not have been as forgiving about it if you had actually succeeded in killing me.”

  “Please. Don’t jest.” Antonia looked beseechingly at the woman she had once hated venomously. Murderously.

  Priscilla reached for her hands, cracked and rough from her weeks of sleeping in the streets. “I am helping you because you are worth another chance. A fresh start. Because Yeshua can give you a new life. Just as he did me.”

  Antonia’s eyes began to shimmer. “I am grateful you are not dead,” she said. High praise, considering the source.

  Twenty-Nine

  FOR THE THIRD TIME in as many hours, Aquila stuck his nose into Priscilla’s hair and inhaled deeply, as if she were sweet pastry. “You smell so good!”

  She grinned. Theo had presented Priscilla with a basket full of fist-size spheres, which he called soap. He and his foster father, Galenos, had begun a new business venture producing hair pomade and hoping to export it to other ports of the empire. Infused with rose oil, it had left her hair cleaner than she had ever thought possible. Given Aquila’s enthusiastic response, she planned to become Theo’s most ardent customer.

  For a few days after Theo joined them, Priscilla had worried that Antonia might set her sights on him. He had the kind of thoughtless charm and beauty that could unknowingly break hearts. Antonia’s affections would have been wasted effort. Priscilla suspected Theo had no heart to offer anyone. He had left it in someone else’s keeping. Someday, perhaps, he might outgrow whatever love bound him. But that day remained a long way off. Thankfully, Antonia must have come to the same conclusion since she stopped simpering and fluttering her lashes in his vicinity.

  With the passing of the month of June, their diminutive home had to stretch its walls to accommodate one more guest, this time a woman named Claudia. Though wealthy, she had escaped the cruelties of a wicked husband, arriving in the middle of the night with nothing save the clothes she wore. Well, those and the gleaming jewels that covered her from head to foot.

  Antonia almost swooned when she first set eyes on the sparkling woman. “You can share my alcove,” she declared to the new arrival.

  Priscilla whipped her head in astonishment. It was the first time she had seen the emperor’s niece act unselfishly.

  Antonia caught her gaping look and shrugged. “Your house is full, and there are few places that offer privacy.”

  Claudia told them that she needed to remain in hiding for several weeks before returning to her father’s house. She hoped that her tempestuous husband would eventually be convinced to leave Corinth and give up any claims on her.

  Priscilla saw, at once, the potential for friendship between the two women. They had far more in common with one another than they did with Priscilla, since both loved the luxuries that wealth could afford them. They were also broken women who had lost everything, though Claudia had walked away from her marriage with a sizable bundle of expensive baubles. But they had both learned what it was to be humbled. To fail. To fall short of their dreams for fame and importance.

  Their friendship could have tugged them back into the world that had once so charmed them. Instead, it gave them the strength to begin a wary exploration of God together. Because these women had been astounded by the actions of those who had helped them in God’s name, they now turned to Yeshua to discover for themselves how a humble carpenter could inspire so much grace.

  They shared a budding hope, a growing longing, which for once tilted not toward men or wealth or success, but to something altogether more, and they spurred one another in faith, though they did so one tiptoe at a time.

  They never turned to Priscilla as an equal. Her faith, with its ocean-depth of generosity and trust, daunted them. She found it hard not to feel hurt by this exclusion. The part of her that had lived through years of loneliness in her girlhood and tasted the bitter bread of being an outsider now relived the pain of that old rejection. Once again, Priscilla became aware that Rome had managed to chase her all the way to Corinth, the good and the bad years casting their shadows on her new life. She consoled the bruised young girl who still lived somewhere within her, trying to remember that Christ had found her worthy of pursuit. He had called her friend even if her guests refused to do so.

  One evening, Antonia and Claudia arrived first at the prayer gathering and, as was their habit, secured the best spot on one of the comfortable couches. Paul approached them, accompanied by an ancient slave woman whose back had been bent by the ravages of time and years of strenuous work.

  “Good evening,” he said politely. “May I introduce our sister Alba?”

  Claudia and Antonia stared at Paul without comprehension. Priscilla could guess their thoughts. What did the Jewish teacher want them to do? Greet the slave as if she were an equal?

  Priscilla smothered a laugh, knowing Paul wanted more. He stared down at the young women stretched indolently on the couch, his brown eyes narrowing, slowly gathering a thunderbolt of displeasure.

  Antonia squirmed and sat up straight. “Ah. Hail, Alba,” she offered.

  Alba was pulling on Paul’s arm, trying to draw him away, whispering urgently something Priscilla could not hear. Paul ignored her. He had a habit of going deaf when someone’s request did not agree with his plans.

  “Alba suffers from a painful back condition.” Paul glared pointedly at the couch.

  Finally Antonia caught on. With an imperious hand, she readjusted her palla and opened her mouth. Priscilla winced, expecting a caustic speech, dismissing Alba and Paul in one breath
. Before speaking, Antonia turned her head a fraction. Her gaze collided with Priscilla’s.

  Priscilla smiled and patted a cushion that remained empty next to her on the floor. Antonia swallowed hard. She turned to face the slave.

  “Please take my seat, Alba,” she said, and then removing herself in short order, came to settle next to Priscilla.

  “That was well done,” Priscilla whispered.

  “You are extremely annoying, you do realize?” the emperor’s niece said. But slowly her lips twitched and widened in a grin.

  “I imagine Claudia is not accustomed to sharing her couch with an old slave.”

  Antonia’s grin turned into a chuckle.

  On the Sabbath, Aquila accompanied Paul and his friends to the synagogue. A large group began screaming insults at the former Pharisee as soon as he began to speak. Several of the members threatened him with arrest or bodily harm if he continued to insist that the man of Nazareth was the promised Messiah. Aquila watched Crispus try in vain to calm his congregation. The crowd’s rage had grown explosive.

  Aquila grabbed Paul by the arm and tried to haul him out of the building before the situation devolved into violence. The wiry man pulled himself free from his grasp and returned to face the congregation.

  “Remember the warning of the prophet,” he shouted. “‘He will be a stone that causes people to stumble and a rock that makes them fall.’ You are stumbling upon the Lord himself—stumbling upon the name of Yeshua.”

  The insults grew louder and more threatening.

  “Leave this place. Pack your lies and go. No one wants you here!” Sosthenes screeched. Other voices joined his.

  Paul’s voice drowned them. “Your blood be on your own heads!” he cried. “I am innocent. From now on, I will go to the Gentiles.”

  “Good riddance!” Sosthenes cried. “Stay there and don’t return.”

  Paul stormed out, Aquila and Priscilla on one side, Benyamin on the other, Timothy and Silas following, expressions grim. Titius Justus the Gentile God fearer also followed. No one else came.