Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  “I always thought her a girl. My daughter.”

  Priscilla smoothed away a tear from Antonia’s cheek. “Then you are probably right.”

  Antonia lifted her head. “Is she happy?”

  “Happier than we can comprehend.”

  “Does she hate me? For what I did to her?”

  “Heaven has no room for hatred, or it would not be heaven. No, Antonia. Your child does not hate you.”

  “God will never forgive me.”

  The lamp cast a long shadow over Antonia, its dim light revealing a young woman, utterly broken, guilty, sin sick, hopeless. Looking at her, Priscilla knew the answer. Knew it without doubt. The vastness of God’s mercy crept inside that humble alcove, filled it, overflowed through it.

  Even this, thought Priscilla. Even this is not too much for you.

  And then she felt the words whispered into her own heart, into the tiny root of guilt that never seemed to go away completely. She felt it, like a breath on a living thing, the power of grace, the truth of it. Even this. Her own sin. Her own failure was no match for Yeshua’s love.

  She was washed clean, utterly. Utterly. She felt the root wither. Die.

  It was her turn to weep.

  “Antonia. Yeshua will forgive you, even as he has forgiven me. Reach for his hand. He is waiting for you.”

  Antonia, though she saw nothing but shadows, extended her hand into the dark.

  Aquila kissed his wife one last time, his body shuddering against hers. “What just happened?” he asked, still dazed with shock and a satiation that felt a little like drowning.

  He had been half-asleep when she had slipped beneath the sheets, her skin cool. Her skin. Her naked skin. The sensation had chased the cobwebs of sleep right out of his head. His wife never came to bed without some covering. Not even in the heat of summer.

  He had sat up so fast his head had hit the bedside table. Without explanation, she had reached for him. Kissed him. A wholly unfamiliar sensation, having his wife initiate this kind of touch.

  “What just happened?” he said again, disoriented and ridiculously elated at the same time.

  “I just wanted to be with my husband,” she said, a teasing note in her voice.

  “Mercy, Priscilla. You can be with your husband anytime you like!”

  She giggled, pulled him down, and snuggled into his warm body. And he knew, then, that God had blessed him with a taste of heaven on earth.

  They continued to host multiple gatherings in their home each week. Friends ate and prayed together, shared their troubles, devoted themselves to following Yeshua more wholeheartedly, and celebrated the Lord’s Supper. They gave to the poor and nursed the sick, asking for nothing in return. They watched as invalids were healed, demons were cast out, cynics were converted, and Corinth began to change. They had lived there under two years. But they made inroads for God that would last for generations.

  When Paul asked them to accompany him to Ephesus, they did not mourn the loss of one more home. They simply packed and followed the guidance of Yeshua, who led them into unexpected paths.

  Standing on the bow of another ship, bound for another city not home, Priscilla locked arms with her husband on one side, her son on the other, Benyamin and Lollia keeping company with Ferox nearby.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, she lifted her face to the wind, supported by the arms of those she loved, knowing herself safe. Aquila lay his cheek on top of her head. “My beloved,” he whispered.

  Her smile spilled over as her tears had not.

  “We will return to our home on the Aventine one day,” Aquila assured her. “You will settle in Rome again and eat your stinky garum by the bucketful.”

  She knew her friends would be waiting in Rome, each bringing their own brand of treasure. Rufus would offer his prayers; Mary, a mother’s love; Pudentiana, warm embraces; Sabinella, a mounting tray of food and words of love.

  Ferox flopped by her side and licked her toes before settling his large head on her feet to warm them. She caressed his bristly fur.

  Years ago, she had walked into a wilderness, grown lost in its winding paths, only to find a door of hope. Over and over again, that door had opened for her, leading her to a fullness of life she could never have imagined.

  She had been born a daughter of Rome. But she had become the daughter of the Most High God. Now, home was where he led. Home was the arms of her loved ones, the company of her family, and the world that spread before her, desperate to be conquered by Love.

  Prologue

  YOU ASKED ME ONCE how a woman like me could become a thief. How could I, having everything—a father’s love, a lavish home, an athlete’s accolades—turn to lawlessness and crime?

  Were I in a flippant mood, I could blame it on sleeplessness. That fateful night, when I abandoned my bed in search of a warm tincture of valerian root to help me rest and found instead my father slithering out the side door into the dark alley beyond.

  He was a man of secrets, my father, and that night I resolved to discover the mystery that surrounded him. A mystery so cumbersome, its weight had shattered my parents’ marriage.

  Snagging an old cloak in the courtyard, I wrapped myself in its thick folds and followed him along a circuitous path that soon had me confused. The moon sat stifled under a cover of clouds that night, shielding my presence as I pursued him.

  Finally Father came to a stop. The clouds were dispersing and there was now enough light to make out the outline of the buildings around me. We had arrived at an affluent neighborhood.

  During the day, we Corinthians left our doors open as a sign of hospitality. At night, we shut and latched them, both for safety and to indicate that the time for visitation had passed and the occupants were in bed. As one would expect, the door of this villa had long since been barred.

  I hunkered down behind a bush, wondering what Father meant to do. Rouse the household with his knocking? He fumbled with something in his belt and proceeded to cover his face with a mask.

  I gasped. Was he playing a jest on the owner of the house? Did he have a forbidden assignation with a lady within? He was an unmarried man, still handsome for his age. I had never considered his private life and felt a twinge of distaste thinking of him with a woman. Now was perhaps a good time for me to beat a hasty retreat. But something kept me rooted to the spot.

  My father approached the south wall of the villa and nimbly climbed a willow tree that grew near. I had to admire his agility when he jumped from the tree to the wall. Deftly, he grabbed hold of the branches of another tree growing within the garden and swung himself into its foliage. I lost sight of him then.

  I sat and considered the evidence before me. Father’s stealthy movements in the middle of the night. The mask. The furtive entry into the villa. The answer stared me in the face. But I refused to believe it.

  As I waited, I found it hard to gauge the time. How long since he had scrambled into the villa? An hour? Less? No alarm had been raised . . . yet. I began to fret. What was he doing in there? What if someone caught him? I left my hiding place and, slinking my way toward the villa, made a quick exploration of the area. The place seemed deserted. Tucking my tunic and cloak out of the way, I climbed the same willow my father had and nestled in its branches. Still I could discern nothing.

  I laid my forehead against a thick branch. What should I do? Wait? Go in search of him? Then I heard a noise. Feet running through bushes. More than one pair of feet.

  A man cried, “Halt! You there! Stop at once!”

  My hold on the branch slipped. I thought a guard had seen me, and I prepared to leap back into the street. What I saw next made my blood turn to ice.

  Father was running toward me with a large man in close pursuit, his hand clutching a drawn sword. The man bearing the weapon was quickly gaining on my father. I estimated Father’s distance from the wall, the time he would need to climb up the tree on one side, and then back down the other. He would never make it in time.

 
; He was about to be caught. Killed, as I watched helplessly from my perch of branches.

  Well. You know the rest of that story.

  I suppose I could accuse my father of leading me astray that night, of setting the example that ruined my best intentions, for had he not tried to rob that house, I would not have turned to thieving myself.

  But the choices that lead us into broken paths often have their beginnings in more convoluted places.

  Places like the thousand words spoken mercilessly by my grandfather when I lived in his house—barbed and ruthless words; or a thousand phrases never spoken by my mother, soft and nurturing expressions that would have healed my wounded soul. I could blame the years in Athens, when I became invisible to my family, a girl child in a world meant for men.

  Yet the final blame, as you and I know, dear Paul, rests with me.

  It was I who chose as I did. I could have taken the wounds of my early life and turned them to healing. Instead, they became my excuse to do as I wished.

  Until you taught me love.

  I write you this letter while I sit waiting by a funeral pyre, memories assailing me. The fires blaze and burn the bones of one I failed to love. The smell of ashes fills my nostrils as I remember your words: “Love never fails.” And even in the shadow of this conflagration that swallows up its human burden with such hunger, I am comforted to know that there is a love that shall never fail us. A love that covers the many gaps I have left in my wake.

  Chapter 1

  THE FIRST TIME I climbed through a window and crept about secretly through a house, the moon sat high in the sky and I was running away from home. Home is perhaps an exaggeration. Unlike my brother Dionysius, I never thought of my grandfather’s villa in Athens as home. For eight miserable years that upright bastion of Greek tradition had been my prison, a trap I could not escape, a madhouse where too much philosophy and ancient principles had rotted its residents’ brains. But it was never my home.

  Home was my father’s villa in Corinth.

  I was determined, on that moon-bright evening, to convey myself there no matter what impediments I faced. A girl of sixteen, clambering from a second-story window in the belly of night without enough sense to entertain a single fear. Before me lay Corinth and my father and freedom. As always, waiting for me faithfully in uncomplaining silence, was Theodotus, my foster brother. Regardless of how harebrained and dangerous my schemes might be, Theo never left my side.

  He stood in the courtyard, keeping watch, as I made my way down the slippery balustrade outside my room, my feet dangling for a moment into the nothingness of shadows and air. I slithered one finger at a time to the side, until my feet found the branches of the laurel tree, and ignoring the scratches on my skin, I let go and took a leap into the aromatic leaves. I had often climbed the smooth limbs, unusually tall for a laurel. But that had been in the light of day and from the bottom up. Now I jumped into the tree from the top, hoping it would catch me, or that I could cling to some part of it before I fell to the ground and crushed my bones against Grandfather’s ancient marble tiles.

  My fingers seemed fashioned for this perilous capering, and by an instinct of their own, they found a sturdy branch and clung, breaking the momentum of my fall. I felt my way down and made short work of the tree. My mother would have been horrified. The thought made me smile.

  “You could have broken your neck,” Theo whispered, his jaw clenched. He was my age but seemed a decade older. I boiled like water, easily riled into anger. He remained immovable like stone, my steady rock through the capricious shifts of fortune.

  The tight knots in my shoulders relaxed at the sight of him, and I grinned. “I didn’t.” Reaching for the bundle he had packed for me, I grabbed it. “The gate?”

  He shook his head. “Agis seemed determined to stay sober tonight.” We both looked over to the figure of the slave, huddled on his pallet across the front door, his loud snores competing with the sound of the cicadas.

  “I am afraid there’s more climbing in your future if you really intend to go to Corinth,” Theo said, his voice hushed. He took a step closer so that I could see the vague outline of his long face. “Nothing will be the same, you know, if you do this thing, Ariadne. Whether you fail or succeed. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  In answer, I turned and made my way to the high wall that surrounded the house like an uncompromising sentinel. Grandfather had made it impossible for me to remain. I should have escaped this place long ago.

  I studied the daunting height of the wall and realized I would need a boost to climb it. By the fountain in the middle of the courtyard, the slaves had left a massive stone mortar that stood as high as my waist. It would do for a stepping-stone. The mortar proved heavier than we expected. Since dragging it would have made too great a clamor, we had to lift it completely off the ground. The muscles in my arms shook with the effort of carrying my burden. Halfway to our destination, I lost my hold on the slippery stone. With a loud clatter, it fell on the marble pavement.

  Agis stirred, then sat up. Theo and I dropped to the ground, hiding in the shadow of the mortar. “Who goes there?” Agis mumbled.

  He rose from his pallet and looked about, then took a few steps in our direction. His foot came within a hand’s breadth of my shoulder. One more step and he would discover me. Blood hammered in my ears. My lungs grew paralyzed, forgetting how to pulse air out of my chest.

  This was my only chance to break away. If Agis raised the alarm and I were apprehended, my grandfather would see to it that I remained locked up in the women’s quarters under guard until I capitulated to his demands. He held the perfect weapon against me. Should I refuse to marry that madman, Draco, my grandfather would hurt Theo. I knew this was no empty threat. Grandfather had a brilliant mind, sharp as steel’s edge, and a heart to match. It would not trouble his conscience in the least to torment an innocent in order to get his own way. He would beat Theo and blame every lash on me for refusing to obey his command.

  The fates sent me an unlikely liberator. Herodotus the cat came to my rescue. Though feral, it hung about Grandfather’s property because Theo and I had secretly adopted it and fed the poor beast when we could. My mother had forbidden this act of mercy, but since the cat had an appetite for mice and other vermin, the slaves turned a blind eye to our disobedience.

  Just when Agis was about to take another step leading to my discovery, Herodotus ran across his foot.

  “Agh,” he cried and jumped back. “Stupid animal! Next time you wake me, I will gut you and feed you to the crows.” Grumbling, the slave went back to bed. Theo and I remained immobile and silent until we heard his snores split the peaceful night again.

  This time, we carried our burden with even more attentive care and managed to place it next to the wall without mishap.

  I threw my bundle over the wall and stepped cautiously into the center of the mortar, then balanced my feet on the opposite edges of the bowl. We held our breath as the stone groaned and wobbled. Agis, to my relief, continued to snore.

  The brick lining the top of the wall scraped my palm as I held tight and pulled. I made my way up, arms burning, back straining, my toes finding holds in the rough, aged brick. One last scramble and I was sitting on the edge.

  Theo climbed into the mortar next, his leather-shod feet silent on the stone. I leaned down and offered my hand to him. Without hesitation, he grasped my wrist and allowed me to help him climb until he, too, straddled the wall. We sat grinning as we faced each other, basking in the small victory before looking down into the street.

  “Too far to jump,” he observed.

  On the street, next to the main entrance of the house, sat a squat pillar bearing a dainty statue of Athena, Grandfather’s nod to his precious city and its divine patron. At the base of the marble figurine the slaves had left a small lamp, which burned through the night. I crawled on the narrow, uneven border of bricks twelve feet above ground until I sat directly above the pillar.

 
As I dangled down the outer wall, I took care not to knock Athena over, partly because I knew the noise would rouse Agis, and partly because I was scared of the goddess’s wrath. Dionysius no longer believed in the gods, not as true beings who meddled in the fate of mortals. He said they were mere symbols, useful for teaching us how to live worthy lives. I wasn’t so sure. In any case, I preferred not to take any chances. Should there really be an Athena, I would rather not draw her displeasure down on me right before starting the greatest adventure of my life. She was, after all, the patron of heroic endeavor.

  “Excuse me, goddess. I intend no disrespect,” I whispered as I placed my feet carefully on either side of her, balancing my weight before jumping cleanly on the street.

  Being considerably taller, Theo managed the pillar better. His foot caught on the goddess’s head at the last moment, though, and smashed it into the wall. I dove fast enough to save her from an ignoble tumble onto the ground. But her crash into the plaster-covered bricks had extracted a price. Poor Athena had lost an arm.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I said.

  Theo retrieved the severed arm from the dust and placed it next to the statue on the pillar. “Forgive me, goddess,” he said and gave an awkward pat to the marble. “You’re still pretty.” I caught his eye and we started to laugh, half mad with the relief of our escape, and half terrified that the goddess would materialize in person and punish us for our disrespect.

  “What are you doing?” a voice asked from the darkness, sharp like the crack of a whip.

  I jumped, almost knocking Athena over again. “Who is there?” I said, trembling like a cornered fawn.