by Tessa Afshar
PRAISE FOR TESSA AFSHAR
Bread of Angels
“Afshar continues to demonstrate an exquisite ability to bring the women of the Bible to life, this time shining a light on Lydia, the seller of purple, and skillfully balancing fact with imagination.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“Afshar has created an unforgettable story of dedication, betrayal, and redemption that culminates in a rich testament to God’s mercies and miracles.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“With sublime writing and solid research, [Afshar] captures the distinctive experience of living at a time when Christianity was in its fledgling stages.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Readers who enjoy Francine Rivers’s Lineage of Grace series will love this standalone book.”
CHRISTIAN MARKET
“With its resourceful, resilient heroine and vibrant narrative, Bread of Angels offers an engrossing new look at a mysterious woman of faith.”
FOREWORD MAGAZINE
Land of Silence
“Readers will be moved by Elianna’s faith, and Afshar’s elegant evocation of biblical life will keep them spellbound. An excellent choice for fans of Francine Rivers’s historical fiction and those who read for character.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Fans of biblical fiction will enjoy an absorbing and well-researched chariot ride.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“In perhaps her best novel to date, Afshar . . . grants a familiar [biblical] character not only a name, but also a poignant history to which many modern readers can relate. The wit, the romance, and the humanity make Elianna’s journey uplifting as well as soul-touching.”
ROMANTIC TIMES, TOP PICK REVIEW
“Heartache and healing blend beautifully in this gem among Christian fiction.”
CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES
“An impressively crafted, inherently appealing, consistently engaging, and compelling read from first page to last, Land of Silence is enthusiastically recommended for community library historical fiction collections.”
MIDWEST BOOK REVIEWS
“This captivating story of love, loss, faith, and hope gives a realistic glimpse of what life might have been like in ancient Palestine.”
WORLD MAGAZINE
In the Field of Grace
“Afshar writes unforgettable biblical fiction.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“Tessa Afshar breathes new life into the old, stale story we think we know and cracks the door wide open for a beautiful story of a tragic life turned upside down by forbidden love and immeasurable grace.”
JOSH OLDS, LIFEISSTORY.COM
Harvest of Gold
“Afshar has created a treasure of a book. Brilliant characterization, adventure, intrigue, and humor coupled with deep emotional impact garner a solid five stars.”
CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES
Harvest of Rubies
“The Bible’s ancient Near Eastern context is the setting for an engaging story of pluck, friendship, and faith.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Afshar brings readers biblical fiction with mysterious twists and turns . . . that fascinate and claim the reader’s full attention. The story will have you laughing and crying.”
ROMANTIC TIMES, TOP PICK REVIEW
Pearl in the Sand
“This superb debut should appeal to readers who enjoyed Davis Bunn and Janette Oke’s The Centurion’s Wife or Anita Diamant’s The Red Tent.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW
“A riveting and compelling book. . . . Fantastic research and stellar writing make this one you don’t want to miss!”
ROMANTIC TIMES, TOP PICK REVIEW
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Thief of Corinth
Copyright © 2018 by Tessa Afshar. All rights reserved.
Back cover illustration of lines copyright © Giterichka/Depositphotos.com. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration copyright © Shane Rebenschied.
Designed by Ron C. Kaufmann
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
The author is represented by the literary agency of Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409
Scripture quotations marked ESV are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Thief of Corinth is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-800-323-9400.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Afshar, Tessa, author.
Title: Thief of Corinth / Tessa Afshar.
Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018007681| ISBN 9781496428653 (hc) | ISBN 9781496428660 (sc)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3601.F47 T48 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018007681
ISBN 978-1-4964-2868-4 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-2867-7 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-2869-1 (Apple)
Build: 2018-06-14 17:35:48 EPUB 3.0
Also by Tessa Afshar
Bread of Angels
Land of Silence
Pearl in the Sand
Harvest of Rubies
Harvest of Gold
In the Field of Grace
To the Hakims, my second family in faith, friendship, and love:
Faegh, Noureen, Ramin, Linda, Christian, Alexandra,
and in loving memory of our precious Farshid and Alana
And for John, who believes in me and pays the price
Contents
Prologue
Part 1: The Discovery Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 2: The Unknown God Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part 3: Love Never Fails Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Preview of Land of Silence
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
PROLOGUE
&nb
sp; 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.
PART 1
The Discovery
And if one asks him, “What are these wounds on your back?” he will say, “The wounds I received in the house of my friends.”
ZECHARIAH 13:6, ESV
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 th
e 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.
