Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  “Paul!” Aquila halted when they had gained some distance from the building. “You of all people must understand how hard it is for the sons and daughters of Abraham to receive our message. You who persecuted the followers of Yeshua.”

  Paul inhaled sharply. “I do understand. It breaks my heart to see them deny the treasure we offer.”

  Aquila nodded. “We must be patient.”

  “Patient?” Paul pointed the way they had come. “Do you see anyone else following?”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than the silhouette of a single man appeared in the doorway of the synagogue. Then another form appeared behind him, followed by another. As they drew closer, Aquila recognized Crispus, along with his wife and the rest of his household. He grinned.

  They waited in silence for the stragglers to catch up. “It seems I am no longer the ruler of the synagogue,” Crispus said when he was close enough to speak. “Sosthenes has that honor.”

  “What happened?” Aquila asked.

  “My heart is certain that Yeshua is all you claim him to be. I can deny him no longer. I told the congregation so, and they showed me the door.”

  “I am sorry. I know it is a great loss to you.”

  Crispus pulled his cloak tighter about him. “For the first time in weeks, I am not at war with myself.” His chest expanded as he gulped a great mouthful of air. “As soon as I made the decision to follow the Christ, I felt peace replace the storm of uncertainty and fear that has dogged my steps since I heard Paul speak of him. It is good to be free.”

  That very day Paul baptized Crispus and his whole family in the waters of the Aegean Sea.

  Priscilla’s house was bursting at the seams. Paul shared Benyamin’s chamber; Theo, Timothy, and Silas slept in the workshop; and Antonia and Claudia occupied the nook off the dining room. It made for a tight fit.

  Paul noticed the problem. “You are running out of space,” he said as they worked together.

  She shrugged. “We will manage.”

  Paul pulled on his beard. “Titius Justus has invited me to move to his house. I will accept the invitation.”

  Priscilla gasped. “You are leaving us?”

  “I will still come to the workshop. But I will lodge at Justus’s house. The believers are growing in number. You and Aquila can continue to host gatherings in your home, while I begin new ones. Timothy and Silas can help us both. It will double our outreach while solving your space problem.”

  Priscilla felt a hollow in the pit of her stomach at Paul’s news. She had come to look upon him as a father more than a teacher. She loved having him in her home, loved being able to turn to him at whim, asking for guidance. Sometimes she felt stronger, safer, merely sitting in his presence. He was not a soft man. More fire than breath, really. Yet something about the solidity of his faith made the ground under her feet feel firmer.

  “I will miss you,” she said, recognizing the sense in his decision. Then her brows lowered. “Titius Justus lives next door to the synagogue.”

  Paul grinned. “Isn’t that fortunate?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “They will be forced to watch as Yeshua’s following grows. They will not be well pleased. I don’t know whether to admire you or despair of you.”

  “I would prefer that you pray for me.”

  One evening, Theo returned home looking like a mere shell of himself. Priscilla had thought him a broken man before that night. But now, he looked like he had seen the terrors of hell. She had no idea what had happened to him. She only knew that Theo had been gouged, like the victim of a lion’s ferocious attack.

  Sensing he could not face a conversation, she sent Ferox to him. The dog, quiet and watchful, plumped himself into Theo’s lap. Theo held on to the animal with trembling hands, dropped his head as if the weight of it had grown too much for the muscular neck, and wept. Priscilla closed the door of the workshop quietly and left, knowing that sometimes a man needed to wrestle his monsters alone.

  In the morning, when the family had gathered for breakfast, still sleepy from the early hour, Theo joined them, eyes looking large, framed by purple shadows. “Will you baptize me?” he said to Aquila.

  Aquila sprang to his feet. “It would be my honor. But are you certain? It is no small decision.”

  Theo nodded. “When you are drowning, life becomes simple. You know you need a Savior. It is only a matter of choosing who or what you reach out for as the waves crash over you. I am a drowning man. In this house, I have had a glimpse of your God. I have seen Yeshua’s face on that cross, and you are right. It is the face of love. I have sensed his hand stretching out to me. I choose to take it.”

  His eyes shimmered. “One thing I am certain of. I need a father besides the one I have been given. I will take Yeshua’s Father for my own.”

  When Priscilla shared the news with Paul, his forehead crimped as if in pain. “Pray for him,” Paul said. “That man has been burned by a fire few would survive. But the Lord has set aside a future and a hope for him.”

  Aquila settled back against his chair and looked over at Marcus. They had established a pattern, studying the Scriptures together in the mornings before Aquila began work. He owned a copy of the Torah in Greek and had set Marcus to studying the story of Joseph.

  Surrounded by giants of faith like Paul, Silas, and Timothy every day, their conversations rich with God’s truths, his son had inevitably been growing in the Spirit. He still preferred play to study, however.

  “Could we practice swords, Father?” Marcus asked.

  “After you memorize a verse of your choice.”

  Marcus fidgeted some more. Aquila furled the portion of Genesis he was studying and set it aside. “What have you read about the story of Joseph so far?”

  “He is a boaster. After he has a nice little dream, he rubs his brothers’ noses in it.”

  “What then?”

  “That’s all I’ve read.”

  “Son, you were supposed to finish it today.”

  Marcus sighed dramatically. “But it’s boring! There are no sword fights, no chariots, no soldiers. It’s good for women, I suppose. All this dream business.”

  Aquila tried not to laugh. “Let me tell you a little more of his story. Joseph’s brothers, jealous of the favor he curried with their father and tired of his dreams, decided to kill him when he came upon them in the pasture one day.”

  Marcus sat up a little straighter. “Those ruffians!”

  “One of the brothers, Reuben, interceded with the rest. So instead of murdering him, they threw Joseph into an empty pit. When a caravan of Midianite traders passed their way, they sold Joseph to them as a slave.”

  Marcus went still. “Like my uncle wanted to do to me.”

  “Very much like that.”

  “What happened to Joseph?”

  “You will have to read for yourself, won’t you?”

  “I will. I promise. Can you share a little more, Father? Please?”

  Aquila tousled his son’s hair. “Joseph became a slave in Egypt. He had many difficult adventures. But in the end, he rose up to be a great man. A powerful leader. And he helped save many lives by his wisdom.”

  “That’s a good story,” Marcus admitted. He fretted the hilt of his wooden sword, his nails scraping off the dirt stuck in the grain.

  Aquila cupped his hand over the moving fingers, stilling them. “I know you want to be proficient with your sword so that you will never again have to watch helplessly as someone you love is harmed.” He sighed, not sure how to make Marcus understand. “You cannot take charge of the world in your own strength, Son. You cannot drain it of all pain or danger. This sword will not make you safe.”

  The boy’s eyes glittered. “I will revenge my father and redress the wrong done to me. Isn’t that what Joseph did to his brothers?”

  “No. Joseph chose to forgive them.”

  Marcus chewed on his lips. “I don’t know if I can forgive my uncle.”

  “Forgiveness does n
ot mean there will be no consequences. Your mother and I will try our best to pursue justice for you. Your uncle is a dangerous man. You and your father are likely not the only people he has harmed. He needs to be stopped. That does not mean that your heart has to be chained to thoughts of vengeance. God will deal with Aulus.”

  “How am I supposed to forgive him after what he did?” the boy cried.

  Aquila laid the flat of his palm on the unfurled papyrus. “Start with this.”

  Marcus looked from his sword to the ragged papyrus on the table. It was clear which held his interest more.

  “Marcus, your uncle may have robbed you of your inheritance. But there is another treasure that belongs to you. One that no one can rob.”

  Marcus frowned. “What treasure?”

  Aquila tapped the open roll in front of the boy. “Here is one. This Scripture is part of your inheritance. The spiritual treasures that belong to you are vast, Son. The ability to speak to Yeshua. To hear from him. To help others through your prayers. To love rightly. To find joy in God’s presence. To live a life of contentment. A fruitful life. To have the gift of eternity. The list is so long, no one knows the full contents! An endless trove of worthy treasures has been set aside for you. It waits for you. Don’t give any of it away cheaply.”

  He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Unlike your earthly inheritance, your spiritual birthright cannot be stolen from you. But you do have the power to waste it. You can fritter your time away on swordplay and wrestling. On thoughts of revenge. On plans of your own making.”

  He tapped the papyrus again. “Hold on to this, Marcus. Study it. Set your mind on it. And let God determine the paths of your life.”

  “But what if God calls me to be a soldier, not a scholar?”

  Aquila smiled. “Then you will become a soldier. First, though, you have to draw so close to God that you will hear his voice and learn to distinguish it from your own.”

  For a while, Marcus remained quiet, contemplating Aquila’s words. He started reading Joseph’s story again, this time finishing the account. Then he rolled the papyrus closed, his touch careful on the delicate scroll.

  He cleared his throat. “When you baptize Theo, will you baptize me too?”

  Thirty

  HAVING LIVED IN ROME, Aquila had not thought it possible to ever see architecture that might rival its grandeur. The agora in Corinth came close. The imposing marketplace housed the administrative center of the city, including the council chamber and several sanctuaries, both ancient and modern, which boasted gold-covered statues ornamented with bold colors. An inn and tavern just off the southwest corner of the agora offered a luxurious shelter to cosmopolitan visitors, and to the east, an elegant basilica was decorated with statues of the imperial family.

  Many of Aquila’s deliveries took place in the agora, and he had quickly become familiar with its crowded layout. Having finished a particularly bulky tent made of goatskin, he asked Paul to help him deliver it to the impatient customer, who had a bakery near the marketplace. They were still some distance from the bema, the outdoor court with its exquisite cream-and-blue marble, when a group of shouting men led by Sosthenes accosted them.

  Aquila recognized their faces from the synagogue. They grabbed hold of Paul with rough hands and dragged him toward the tribunal. It all happened so quickly—their unexpected arrival, their boiling rage, their attack on Paul as they pushed and shoved him along—that Aquila barely had time to offer any objections. Offer them, he did, receiving a few blows for his pains. He bent over, the ache in his gut momentarily paralyzing him.

  The commotion attracted the crowds, who left off their shopping to gape. Storekeepers, irritated by this disruption to their business, followed behind the men from the synagogue as they marched to the tribunal.

  Paul motioned Aquila to silence. In truth, as a Roman citizen, the apostle would be safer before Corinth’s proconsul, Gallio, than he would in the hands of his own enraged countrymen.

  Lucius Junius Gallio, a thin man with veiny legs, scowled at the large crowd gathering before him. “What’s this? What’s this? You are giving me a headache with your noise. Silence!”

  To Aquila’s relief, the mob obliged. Sosthenes stepped forward. “Proconsul Gallio, if you please. I represent this delegation of the Jews of Corinth. We bring a complaint against this man.” He poked a finger in Paul’s back. “He is persuading people to worship God contrary to the Law.”

  Paul opened his mouth to respond. Gallio raised a bony hand and motioned him to remain quiet. “Let me understand. You are complaining about some infraction of your religious Law?”

  Sosthenes nodded vigorously. “He is disrupting our worship.”

  Gallio rolled his eyes. “This is not a matter of civil wrongdoing or crime,” he barked. “If this man had robbed or killed someone, then I would be the appropriate official to delve into the problem. But by your own admission, this concerns your Law. You must see to it yourselves. I refuse to judge this affair.”

  He rose to his feet. “And in the future do not disturb the agora with your imaginary charges. Do you not hear the crowds? They are mad as hornets, and I can’t blame them. You have disrupted their business for no good reason at all.” He made a motion with his hand, and before Sosthenes could object, a couple of burly members of the urban cohorts shoved him and his friends out of the tribunal.

  Paul and Aquila slid out quietly after them.

  Aquila took his first easy breath since being accosted by his compatriots. “Thanks be to God! I was beside myself with worry. I thought I would see you whipped,” he said to Paul.

  “You will see a beating today. But not mine.” Paul pointed his chin toward the agora. The Corinthian crowds had surrounded the members of the synagogue, looking more threatening with every passing moment.

  “We are sick of people like you interrupting our business by bringing ill-founded accusations to the tribunal,” one man, wearing a butcher’s apron, shouted. “Every time a crowd shows up frothing at the mouth, I lose half a day of trade.”

  Others yelled their agreement. Someone grabbed Sosthenes. “You are their ringleader. I saw you earlier.”

  Sosthenes tried to appease them. “No, friends. I am not at fault. The true culprit stands over—” He never finished what he meant to say. An elbow landed in his mouth.

  Aquila bounded forward. “We must try to stop them!” But before he could make his way into the thick knot of people, the crowds started to disperse, bored with beating their wailing victim. He could see Sosthenes was not seriously hurt in spite of the blood that spurt out of his nose and the limp in his leg as he began to walk away, supported by his companions.

  “He will have a bruise or two. Nothing serious. Trust me. I know a few things about being beaten,” Paul said dryly. “Sosthenes meant to harm us, but God has used his scheme for our good. After watching him in the hands of that angry mob, the members of the synagogue will think twice before bringing charges against me again. Bless the misguided fellow. Because of him, we will be left in peace to preach the gospel.”

  Aquila tried to smile. But he could not banish the memory of Sosthenes’s face as he turned to stare at Paul, his features distorted with loathing.

  The church in Corinth grew and spread by dint of its leaders’ toil. Priscilla and Aquila opened their home to men and women who were greedy, immoral, drunkards, slanderers, and swindlers until Yeshua grabbed hold of them. The free mixed with the slave, the poor with the rich, the honest with the thief. There were no boring days at the church in Corinth.

  Priscilla had learned that God’s straight paths sometimes took twisted turns on earth. She had lost her home because of a betrayal. Ironically, in Corinth, the betrayer found a home.

  Priscilla knew that Antonia needed a fresh start. A life beyond their tiny nook, especially when Claudia would return to her father’s home in a couple of weeks. Antonia would wake up to the fact that her new friend had moved on. Moved forward, while she remain
ed stuck in a dead-end existence that led nowhere.

  When Priscilla had first met Berenice in Stephanas’s house, she had realized that the lavishly dressed woman with thinning white hair might prove an answer to her prayers for Antonia. The widow of an olive merchant, Berenice’s husband had been a shrewd man of business, a commoner who had gone on to amass a considerable fortune before his death.

  Thanks to Stephanas, Priscilla had discovered that Berenice had an insatiable curiosity about the Roman aristocracy. Her longing to learn everything about patrician life was matched only by her passion for gossip on the subject. Priscilla made certain that the widow knew about the very aristocratic guest living under her roof.

  “Antonia has been received at the palace in Rome many times,” she said to Berenice. “She has met most of the senators in person.”

  The exuberantly applied powder on Berenice’s cheeks could not mask the rising color in her face. “Has she actually met the emperor?” she gasped.

  “Many times.” Priscilla presented her blandest expression. “Would you like Antonia herself to tell you some of her stories of life in Rome?”

  Berenice almost tripped in her haste to accept Priscilla’s invitation to her home.

  When she introduced the widow to Claudius’s niece, Berenice appeared utterly overwhelmed. Even with her humble clothing and growing faith, Antonia still had a way of making others feel only slightly above an insect beneath her feet. After leaving the two women alone to speak for a while, Priscilla drew the widow away.

  “Did you enjoy your conversation with Antonia?”

  “Oh, my dear! She is very refined. Very refined, indeed. And the people she knows! Why, I could listen to her speak for hours.”

  “It must be difficult for you to live alone,” Priscilla said.

  “I am not quite alone, you know.” The old woman adjusted her embroidered tunic. “My slaves and servants are always about.”