by Tessa Afshar
The scarred man bowed his head. “He told a lot of us, sire. Never found the kid, though.”
“I have the right of life or death over a child in my own household. He was only five or six.”
“I was eight,” Marcus said. “And you did not have the right of life or death over my father.”
“He has a point there,” Claudius said.
Aulus pulled himself up and straightened his tunic. “Who are you going to believe? That skinny boy or a nobleman of Rome?”
“Definitely the skinny boy,” Claudius said. “You killed his father because he threatened to dispossess you. When the boy witnessed the crime, you sent your assassins after him lest your murder be discovered. You have left a trail of sloppy evidence behind you, Aulus. And I am going to see to it that you pay for your crime.” He crooked a finger to Marcus. “Boy!”
Marcus approached the emperor. “Caesar!”
“I henceforth restore to you all your father’s property. Where is that steward who gave testimony on your behalf?”
“Here, my lord,” Festus said.
“You will manage Vibius Laurentinus’s lands and income until Marcus is of age. I suspect that is what Vibius intended before his brother cut his life short. Your salary shall remain the same as you received under your old master. Do you agree?”
Festus grinned. “With pleasure, Caesar.”
“And you, Marcus?”
The boy slammed a fist to his heart in perfect imitation of a grown man and bowed his head. “Hail Caesar!” He then turned to Aulus, his eyes never wavering from the face that had haunted his dreams for months. “I want you to know, Uncle, that I pity you. You could have had a brother’s love. You could have had a nephew’s affection. Our loyalty and support could have been yours forever. These are greater treasures than the land and money you killed for. You lost the best in life the moment you murdered my father.”
Claudius looked from him to Priscilla. “Kings and princes could learn a few lessons from that boy.”
“Yes, Caesar,” Priscilla whispered, in awe of this boy who once could not face dipping into a bath and now confronted his enemy with dignity and strength. His next words robbed her of breath.
“I forgive you, Uncle. One greater than I will judge you one day. I will pray for you, that you may be able to stand before him.”
Thirty-Three
“PRISCILLA, I AM SORRY, my dear. Your brother is ill,” Sabinella said when Priscilla returned to the house. “His steward came to our home while you were at the palace.”
In the years since her marriage, Priscilla had not heard from Volero. She lowered herself slowly next to the older woman. “Is it serious?”
“I am afraid so.”
“What is wrong with him?”
“He is a leper, Priscilla.”
Priscilla rocked back. “A leper? How? Is there an outbreak here in Rome?”
Sabinella shook her head, her brown eyes brimming with sympathy. “Some years ago, Volero Priscus purchased a beautiful Egyptian slave girl—Merneith, I believe the steward called her. Do you remember her?”
“Not well. She worked mostly in the main house and I rarely saw her.”
“Apparently Priscus took quite a shine to her. Made her his mistress. She was leprous, though they did not know it at the time. He seems to have caught the disease from her. From what the steward said, he has had symptoms for some years, though he has managed to hide them. But the disease has progressed. He is disfigured now, no longer able to keep his condition secret.”
Priscilla thought of her proud brother, always desperate for admiration, struck down with so brutal a malady. “Lord have mercy.”
“Once, you had told him to come to my husband if he sought news of you. That is why the steward came to us today. Volero is gravely ill, Priscilla. And he is quite alone. His wife left him when she realized the nature of his disease. The slaves have either run away or refuse to serve him.”
“Lord, have mercy,” she said again, unable to think of anything beyond the mercy of God that could bring relief to Volero.
“He started to drink heavily when the disease grew rampant, and it has taken its toll.”
Priscilla blinked. “He is dying?”
“Yes.”
It felt like someone had punched her in the solar plexus. Priscilla sagged. Though the relationship between them had always been troubled, she had never ceased to think of Volero as her brother. Her father’s son. Forever tied to her by the unbreakable bonds of blood.
She dropped her head, trying to come to terms with the shock of this news. Trying to decide what to do next. Everything in her longed to go to her brother. To offer him some relief. But she could not endanger the well-being of her husband and son, not to mention her friends, by rushing to his aid. What if she should catch this contagion? What if she should bring it back with her to taint those she loved?
She wept silently, torn. Unable to decide the right course. With wrenching abruptness, the hurricane of uncertainty whipping around her mind came to a stop. She could not explain how, but she knew with sudden and undeniable certainty that she was to go to her brother. Yeshua would take care of her.
Straightening, she came to her feet. “I will go to Volero. I will take care of my brother.”
“I thought you might say that. Our carriage is waiting for you.”
Priscilla changed into a plain brown tunic; folding Antonia’s garment carefully, she put it away. She hugged Marcus and told him again how proud she felt to be his mother, then strode out of the house and into the waiting carriage.
Volero did not recognize her. He stared at her with fever-bright eyes and whispered, “Wine. I die of thirst. Give me wine.”
His appearance shocked her. The thick brows and lashes were gone. The aquiline nose she remembered was a thing of horrors now, half-eaten away. Marred by nodules and blisters, his cheeks hardly resembled human flesh anymore. There were lesions on his arms, which had lost all color, as if the man were turning into a ghost bit by tiny bit. Little more than bones, his skin sallow, eyes sunken, ankles unnaturally swollen, her once-meticulous brother lay in his bed, reeking of vomit and sweat and decay.
Priscilla could barely swallow her tears. Dropping her palla about her shoulders, she fetched a cup and filled it with water. As she held it to his lips, his eyes widened with recognition.
“It’s you,” he croaked.
“I came to care for you.”
He started to weep.
“You are not alone anymore,” she said, eyes overflowing.
Silence hung between them. Priscilla poured the broth Sabinella had sent with her into another cup and sweetened it liberally with raisin wine to tempt his appetite. Volero took a sip and turned his face away.
“Why did you come for me?”
“You are my brother.” She spoke the simple truth, one she had always known and he had never accepted. How different their lives might have been if he had.
“I never treated you as if you were my sister,” he said, expression empty.
“That did not stop me from being one.”
He moved restlessly and she adjusted his pillow. “I am glad our father did not live to see me like this.”
She reached for his hand. He avoided her touch by shoving his hand under the blankets. “Get away from me. I don’t want you to sicken on my account.”
“The Lord will protect me.” She tried to speak to him of Yeshua. But he said he would rather die alone than spend his last hours listening to stories about a foreign God.
The day had turned fair, with a gentle breeze that prevented the sun from growing too hot. She opened the window so he could enjoy the fresh air. He fretted the edge of his sheet. “You have pretty hair, like your mother,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I am sorry I teased you about it.”
She pressed his hand over the blankets. “I forgive you, Volero. For that, and for everything else. I forgive you.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
&nb
sp; “I have been forgiven much. It makes it easier to do the same.”
“Your babe, you mean?”
Priscilla’s heart stopped. “What?”
“I knew. One of the slaves discovered your secret and reported it to me.”
She gaped at him. “I thought you would murder me if you found out.”
“I considered it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “You lost the child before I got around to it.” He turned to look through the window at the cerulean sky. “Your God has forgiven your indiscretion?”
Her throat ached. “He has.”
“I am glad for you.”
“You can have forgiveness too, Volero! And peace. Yeshua—”
“Don’t give me a headache.”
Priscilla bit down her words. He was no more hungry for her God than he was for her food.
“Are you happy? With that Jew of yours?”
“Aquila. Yes. We are very happy.”
“He treats you well?”
“Like a queen.”
He gave a faint smile. “That’s something, at least. I knew when he came here in search of you that he loved you. Loved you for yourself, not for what you could give him. I was a little jealous, to tell the truth. No one has ever loved me like that.”
“I never wanted anything from you, Volero.”
“I know that, now. But it’s too late.” He turned to the wall.
“Maybe this counts for something. You and me, together. Holding on to each other in this dark hour.”
His smile was bitter. “The most honest moment of my life as I lie dying. All the people who said they were my friends were just hangers-on, as I myself hung on to men greater than myself. The only one to bide with me is the sister I never wanted.”
“I am sorry.”
His chest rattled as he tried to draw air into his lungs. “I regret it, you know. Regret mistreating you. Regret not being a part of your life.”
Her throat clogged. “I understand why you couldn’t. I always did.”
“But it’s still my loss.”
The week had not drawn to a close when Volero died. Though he refused to listen to any talk about the Lord, his last words to Priscilla were about him. “Tell your God to remember me with mercy.”
Standing at his funeral pyre, she wept for the life he had wasted. His life had been, as Solomon had once bemoaned, a chasing after the wind. He had frittered his days away on meaningless things and regretted them all in the end.
Once again, she had to take leave of precious friends. This time, she left not as a victim of calumnious scheming but as a willing traveler, walking down a road chosen for her by God.
“Tell that apostle of yours that I will wait on him to be baptized,” the senator said, wagging his finger. He had been enraptured by tales of Paul’s brazen ministry, as well as the power of his prayer. “Tell him to get himself to Rome without delay.”
Priscilla laughed. “You will have to fight me for him. I am not yet ready to let him go.” But she knew Paul’s times were not in her keeping, nor even in his own. One day, he would come to Rome, whether she wished it or not.
With one arm she held tight to Marcus as the ship left the harbor, waving at her friends with the other until it ached. Marcus leaned his head on her arm. He had gained something since his audience with Claudius: a vague mantle of maturity, a covering of peace. “Are you sad to leave, Mother?”
“I suppose I leave a piece of my heart in their keeping. This is the price of love, Marcus. A part of you remains with the one who cannot stay near you.”
Thirty-Four
AQUILA KISSED PRISCILLA so thoroughly when she disembarked from her ship at the port of Cenchreae that the sailors started catcalling. “The house was empty without you,” he declared with a long sigh.
“Try to behave, you two,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes. Aquila took the boy in his strong arms and held him, squirming and complaining, until both dissolved in laughter.
“I want every detail,” he said. “Don’t leave out anything.”
And they did not. Between them, they covered every moment of their journey to Rome, reminding each other of minor details one might have forgotten. Aquila drank up their words, looking gratifyingly impressed, horrified, proud, and sad at all the right moments. They were a family, and they shared their lives as people do when they belong to each other.
“I thought you said the house was empty,” Priscilla said when she came home and found a crowd gathered around Paul in the dining room. Bodies stuffed every nook.
“So you made it back,” Antonia drawled before Aquila could respond.
Priscilla grinned. “It’s good to see you too, Antonia. I brought your tunic back in one piece.”
“Thank the Lord. Did Claudius admire it?”
“Well, he didn’t banish me while I was wearing it. I suppose that is a good sign.”
“And,” Marcus added, “I am rich now.”
Antonia studied the boy. “Too young,” she declared. “Come back and tell me that in ten years.”
Priscilla laughed. “Good to know some things never change.”
“Some things do. I am leaving for Berenice’s house tomorrow.”
“Oh, Antonia!”
“The old girl is lonely. Besides, my chamber is ready.”
“It was ready ten days ago,” Aquila clarified.
“I didn’t like the color.” She crossed her arms and returned to her cushion on the floor to listen to Paul’s teaching.
“I think she just used that as an excuse,” Aquila whispered in Priscilla’s ear. “She didn’t want to leave before you returned. I believe she wanted to say good-bye.”
Priscilla’s eyes softened. “I’ll still see her when she moves to Berenice’s. The villa isn’t that far away.”
“It won’t be the same as living here. And she realizes that we may not remain in Corinth forever.”
“I’ve grown fond of that girl. I really have.”
“And that,” Aquila said, poking her in the ribs, “is one of the reasons I love you.”
They lingered in the dining room for a few moments to listen to Paul. Priscilla sensed a deeper anointing on their friend, a spark of greater power.
“Last week, he prayed for a man who had broken his arm after falling from the roof,” Aquila said. “The bone healed in front of our eyes as Paul interceded for him. Since then, more people come to listen to him, whether he speaks at Justus’s house or here.”
Priscilla wanted to remain and listen to the apostle preach, but her eyes were drooping, and leaning on Aquila’s arm, she allowed herself to be led to their chamber.
A faint sound awoke Priscilla in the darkest hour of the night. She lay in bed, her limbs tangled with her husband’s, her mind still in a fog of dreams. The sound came again, indistinct. Distressed. Softly she moved so as not to waken Aquila, donning her tunic and grabbing the single lamp that burned with a faint, sputtering glow.
She followed the sound, the gasping cry of someone weeping into a pillow, trying to suffocate sobs. Tracing the muted whimpers, she came to Antonia’s alcove. Priscilla rested the back of her head against the wall for a moment, trying to decide what to do. If she went in now, she would violate Antonia’s dignity, her treasured pride.
But no one ever found solace in loneliness.
Priscilla whipped the curtain aside. She knelt down in the tight space and laid a hand on the trembling back.
“Go away,” Antonia gasped.
Priscilla did not argue. Instead, she left her hand where it was, allowed her eyes to drift closed, and began to pray silently.
The weeping ceased after a long while. Antonia sat up, her face ravaged, looking much older than her twenty-five years. She bit her lip, where a trickle of blood had pooled already. “Do you ever think . . . ? Do you sometimes wonder . . . ?”
Priscilla was not certain how she knew. Nothing in the words themselves hinted at what Antonia meant. Yet she
understood, without doubt, that the woman was speaking of her babe. “I think of him every day,” she said.
Antonia shook her head. “I never thought of mine. For years. When I first came out of that place, I felt only relief. I never shed a tear. Never wasted a thought for that child.
“Then, a few months ago, the man I loved had a child. His wife bore him a son. And it came to me like a flood, after the passing of so many years, an avalanche of regret. Of loss. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, quivering with rage, and I can’t even say who I am angry with. Him for abandoning me, or myself for what I chose, or the world for forcing me into such a decision.
“Sometimes the sorrow chokes me until I can’t breathe.” She flopped on her back, eyes unseeing. “I long, so badly, to hold that child in my arms that I ache. It’s as if someone has dug a hole inside me, a crater that nothing will ever fill.
“Some days, I feel well. I think that I have overcome this madness. Then it hits me again. Regret chokes me in wave after wave, and I sink.”
Priscilla reached a hand and caressed the woman’s short hair, soothingly, gently, as if she were a lost child. Antonia tensed for a moment, and Priscilla feared she might buck like a wild horse, too proud to receive comfort. Then the bloody lips trembled, and with a broken wail, she melted against Priscilla and allowed herself to be consoled.
“Has God forgiven you?” Antonia asked, curled up against Priscilla’s side.
Priscilla hesitated. It had not been long since she had asked that question of herself. Accused herself again. She had repented of her doubts as Paul had bid her. But a tiny root of guilt still lingered, weak and inconsequential now, but waiting for the opportunity to gain strength and rise up against her once more. “I hope so,” she said.
Antonia’s head bobbed up and down, tugging on Priscilla’s tunic. “You should be forgiven. You are so good.”
“I am not forgiven because of my goodness. I am forgiven because of God’s goodness. When we talk about Yeshua suffering, dying, this is what we mean. He bears our burdens. He dies our deaths. He carries our punishments. We are washed clean in love. His love. There are some things you cannot undo on this earth, Antonia. You will never have your babe back. But know that he is safe. He lives. He lives more fully than you and I because his life is now lived in the fullness of eternity.”