by Tessa Afshar
“Elianna!” Joseph called. “Come back. I am not finished. . . .” And then, inexplicably, he swung his arm in a wide arc. “Go away. Go away!” His voice emerged high-pitched and shaken. He made a half circle around himself, his hands flapping about him in frantic motion.
The sheep had my attention, though, and I ignored Joseph’s cry. Up close, I could see that it was well cared for, its wool healthy and clean. I knelt down and ran my hand over its back. “Where did you come from, little fellow?”
From the corner of my eye I could still see Joseph flapping around. Then he cried out, “Make it go away, Elianna!”
I thought it was a fly at first until I saw the flash of yellow, heard the angry buzz. “Don’t fret so. Stay calm, and it will go away of its own accord.” I didn’t want to leave the lost sheep, in case it wandered away and became even more lost. Joseph was old enough to deal with a buzzing bee. Really, we had overindulged him. I tried to make my voice soothing. “Calm yourself, brother.”
My words had no effect on Joseph. The creature was buzzing with fierce intention around his head, and he panicked. He flapped his arms harder and started to run. “No! No!”
I threw my hands up in the air and came to my feet reluctantly. “Joseph, it’s just a bee.”
I understood the source of his unreasoning fear. The year before, he had been stung on the ankle. He had broken out in hives and his entire leg had swollen to the size of a young tree trunk, and he had been in terrible pain. He had never forgotten the experience. But in my mind, that had been an anomaly. We all had to contend with bees. It was part of life. I watched in frustration as he ran himself ragged for a few moments.
Finally, I caught up to him and reached out my hands to flick at the bee, although I could no longer see it. Without warning, Joseph let out a piercing wail that made my belly lurch. He rubbed at the side of his head, and then I spotted the insect caught in the hair near his temple. I grabbed the bee in my palm and squeezed. Half-drunk from having released its venom, it was easy prey in my violent, clenching fist. I dropped it to the ground and knelt before Joseph.
Fat tears squeezed out of his eyes. He was crying so hard that he began to wheeze. I cuddled him in my arms. “I am so sorry, Joseph. It will be well. I’ve gotten rid of the little monster. You can stomp on him, if you wish.”
“Hurts.” He took a breath that shook his chest.
“Where, dear heart? Where do you hurt?”
He pointed to his temple, and I saw that it was already swelling. I gave it a light kiss. “Is that better?”
His gaze brimmed over with accusation. “No.” He pushed me from him. I noted a red welt on the back of his still-chubby hand. “Did it sting you twice?” I frowned as I stared at the raised mark, spreading like spilled dye on his baby skin. Joseph shook his head. Hives, I realized with a wince. Just like last year.
He took another breath that shivered down his body. He sounded as if every inhalation was an effort. I thought it was fear lingering in him, robbing him of breath, and tried to calm him. But with each moment, he seemed to grow worse. His wheezing became harsher and unremitting. Confusion caused me to delay. He had had no difficulty breathing the last time he was stung. Was this panic?
I should have helped him sooner, come to his aid at the start, when the bee first began to pursue him. And then it occurred to me that the bee might have been attracted to the scent and powder of the flower I had pressed on his face. Perhaps it would not have come near Joseph at all if not for my silly prank.
I saw that he was growing worse and picked him up in my arms. “I am so sorry, Joseph. I’ll take you home. You can have a honey cake, and Mother will make you an herb potion to soothe your pain.” Against me, I could feel his thin little chest battling for every breath. I began to run. Somewhere down the hill, my sandal came off, caught on a stone protruding from the ground. I stumbled, then righted myself and kept on running without tarrying to retrieve the lost shoe.
“Sick,” Joseph said, his voice weak. Before I could turn him, he threw up, soaking my shoulder and my chest. Normally I would have groaned with disgust. But terror had seized me. I sensed that against all reason the bee had caused my brother’s tiny body inexplicable damage. It was as though the poison in that accursed bee somehow robbed him of the very air. I was desperate to arrive home, to give him into the care of my parents, who would know what to do.
I barely stopped to wipe his befouled mouth, only shifting him to my other shoulder so I could start my race again. He was heavy, too heavy for me to carry all that way. My heart pounded in my chest like a metalsmith’s anvil. The strain of holding on to his sagging body made my arms tremble. “Joseph! Joseph, speak to me!”
He moaned. I staggered to a stop, unable to continue my haphazard run, and fell to my knees with him still in my arms. My head swam with a wave of dizziness when I saw his face. His eyes had swollen shut, and his lips had become an unearthly blue. His whole mouth had turned into a tender, purplish bruise. I bit down on a scream and hefted him up again, forcing my legs to run, faster than before.
Pray, I thought, my soul frantic with the horror of what I had just seen. Pray something. But all I could think of was Eli, Eli, the first part of my own name. My God! My God!
When I saw the large wooden door to our house, I loosed the scream I had swallowed for the past hour. My voice emerged as a broken croak and no one heard me. “Help me! Father, please help me.” Joseph had gone limp in my arms. I knew he had fainted some time before, fainted from lack of air.
I kicked at the door with the last of my strength and fell against it. One of the servants pulled the door open and I slumped backward, Joseph still held tight in my grasp. The woman cried out, and before long we were pulled inside together. I was still clutching him, his face pressed to my shoulder. My parents came running.
I saw my father’s face as he pulled his son out of my arms. He turned white. My mother started to scream. I didn’t think I could feel more fear. But her cries—shrill, unnatural sounds that pierced the courtyard—filled me with a chilling dread that robbed me of speech. Why wasn’t she helping my brother? Why did she stand there, screeching, pulling at her veil, pulling at her hair?
My father collapsed, Joseph held against him. His head drooped over the unmoving child. “My son,” he moaned, rocking to and fro. “My boy.”
I turned in shock and saw my younger sister, Joanna, sitting against the wall, sobbing quietly into her hands. The servants wept. My father, shaking and silent, convulsed around the inert body of my brother while Mother’s screams continued to fill every corner of the courtyard, piercing me like jagged shards of broken glass.
That’s when I knew. My brother was dead. The bee had killed him.
I reached out to cling to my father, in disbelief, in horror, in desperation, hoping for a miracle, seeking comfort. He looked up and the blank despair in his eyes lifted for a moment, only to be replaced by a coldness I had never seen there before. “What happened? What has done this to my child?”
I stepped away from him. “A bee . . . It stung Joseph. On his temple.” Perspiration dripped down my sides and with a trembling hand I wiped my brow. “It was my fault. We were playing . . . And I . . . I shoved a flower in his face; I think the bee was drawn to its scent. I should have come to his aid sooner, but I was distracted by a lost sheep.” I remembered that I had merely thrown words at Joseph, as if my instructions were enough. I owed Joseph the truth no matter what punishment I faced. He deserved that much, at least.
My father swept the hair away from Joseph’s swollen flesh with tender fingers. I flinched when I saw his beautiful face, distorted by the obscene hand of death, and swayed where I stood.
“But you knew how sick he became last year, after he was stung. You knew how scared he was. Why didn’t you just swat it away? He was a little boy. He was helpless.” My father moaned. “My little boy!”
“I should . . . I should have . . .”
His words grew iron-hard and sharp
. “You were supposed to look after him. What did you do? Just stand there and watch it happen?”
“No! It wasn’t like that, Father! I did help. But I was too late. I was too late!”
“This wouldn’t have happened if you had watched him better.”
I was struck dumb with guilt. He had grasped the heart of my failure. I had not tried to get rid of the bee from the start. “Father, please . . .”
“Be silent!”
I closed my mouth. Swallowed my excuses. He was right. I had failed Joseph. I should have taken better care of him. I should have wiped the pollen from his face, swatted the bee sooner, come home faster. I should have saved him.
“Get out of my sight.” My father’s voice emerged scratchy soft and bitter as gall.
I gasped. With broken movements, I forced myself to stand, to walk. I went inside the house, leaving a faint trail of blood with every step where I had cut my foot on the jagged stones during my flight home. Huddling in the corner of the room where I slept with my sister and Joseph, I finally gave vent to the tears that I had quenched earlier. Joseph’s blanket was neatly folded in a corner. I grabbed it and, pushing my face into its folds, breathed in the scent of him and knew that I would never hold my precious brother again.
And it was my fault.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
OVER THE PAST YEAR, fans have been asking me for a book they could share with friends who are not practicing Christians. I wrote Thief of Corinth mostly for them. I wrote it, also, because I wanted to tell a lighthearted story that still managed to grapple with a few important issues.
If you are a student of the Bible, then you know there is no Ariadne there. She is my own invention. Her brother, Dionysius, however, appears in Acts 17. I was intrigued by this man of learning and influence, who, unlike most of his contemporaries, chose to follow Christ. According to church tradition, Dionysius went on to become the first bishop of Athens.
Some of the minor characters in the book are also historical. Lucius the Butcher really did have a shop in Corinth. And Iuventius Proclus actually was president of one of the Isthmian Games in the first century. According to an inscription from Delphi, that year a man named Hermesianax entered his daughters into the Games for athletic events, including running (Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, St. Paul’s Corinth).
The treatment of Galenos’s broken leg is based on De Medicina, a first-century medical treatise by Celsus. For my research, I used W. G. Spencer’s translation of De Medicina (book VIII, chapter 10). Having now written a number of scenes set in ancient times in which medical treatment is necessary, I found Celsus’s almost-modern approach to setting bones fascinating (and a relief!).
The name Whirring Wings is derived from Isaiah 18:1. Some biblical translators understand this to be a reference to ships.
The land we now know as Greece was called Hellas by its original inhabitants. I thought that term might be confusing to readers. However, Greece is a relatively modern term. So I settled for Graecia, the term used by the Romans.
While the butterfly bush is considered a weed in modern Britain, I have no idea if that was the case in the first century.
When Dionysius quotes Paul as saying, “There is a world of difference between knowing the Word of God and knowing the God of the Word,” he is actually quoting Leonard Ravenhill in Why Revival Tarries.
One final note about Theo: I love him too much to leave him like that. That’s all I will say for now!
The Bible provides profound inspiration for novels like this. However, the best way to study the Scriptures is not through a work of fiction, especially one this flawed, but simply by reading the original. This story can in no way replace the transformative power that the reader will encounter in the Scriptures. For Dionysius’s story and the account of Paul’s first visit to Corinth, please read Acts 17:16–18:21. You will find Paul’s thesis on love in 1 Corinthians 13:1-8.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I STARTED TO WORK on Thief of Corinth while in the midst of a protracted move, and it only became more complicated after that. So first, thank you to my husband, who bore the burden of so much while I was writing. You are a gift. Thank you also for all the engineering and architectural help (a fact I forgot to mention in Bread of Angels), and the idea of hiding Felonius’s box where we did.
I am grateful for my agent, Wendy Lawton, who read the book when she didn’t have time, told me she loved it when I needed to hear those words, and held my hand while I freaked out.
Thanks to the team at Tyndale who worked on Thief of Corinth from cover design to plotline and beyond: Stephanie Broene, Kathy Olson, Karen Watson, Jan Stob. I appreciate every one of you: your unique gifting and the extra time and gracious effort you poured into this book. I know how hard you worked, and I am deeply thankful knowing how much better this book is because of you.
I would like to thank the amazing professionals who surround the books once they have been written and help to place them in readers’ hands: Cheryl Kerwin (who works long after she is supposed to), Maggie Rowe, Emily Bonga, Sharon Leavitt (thanks for those special prayers!). I am honored to work with you. My special thanks to the sales force who help spread these books all over the world. Do you ever have a hard job! I love you for holding on and pushing through.
I am deeply indebted to Dr. Christopher Gornold Smith, who graciously wrote me detailed e-mails in answer to my copious questions about Corinth and directed me to the right books. Advice like his is gold for writers of historical fiction.
I am more than grateful to my best friend, Rebecca, who conducted a compelling edit of the first fourteen chapters of Thief of Corinth while dealing with a deadline of her own. Friends like this are rare. I am keeping her.
Thanks to Lauren Yarger for her help with the prologue, and I know you don’t even like prologues. I appreciate Dr. Joy Hong’s medical advice regarding Ariadne’s injuries.
Most of all, to my readers, who willingly explore this mysterious and ancient world of the Bible and allow me to create these characters, my most heartfelt thanks. Without you, there would be no books. I can’t tell you how much your prayers, notes, and photos mean to me. It is an incredible privilege to write for you.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
This type of novel is called “biblical fiction,” a genre that sets stories during the time of the Old or New Testament and incorporates people we know of from the Bible (in this case, Paul, Dionysius, Priscilla, and Aquila). Do you enjoy reading biblical fiction? What are its benefits for contemporary readers? What are its drawbacks?
Did you enjoy the historical information about the city of Corinth and its customs? In what ways does it add to or detract from the story?
How well were you able to identify with Ariadne? Have you personally experienced any of her struggles—family relationships, desire for popularity, wanting to help her father?
Ariadne hopes to win approval through her athletic ability. How does that work out for her? Do you have gifts or talents that people value? How can we be sure that we are using our special abilities appropriately?
Ariadne’s family is torn apart by divorce, something that is all too common in our day. In what ways do we see God working through even this painful situation to draw the characters to himself? Have you or someone you love been affected by divorce? Have you seen God’s work in the midst of such pain and brokenness?
Theo confesses his love for Ariadne, but she feels only sisterly affection for him. How does this alter their relationship? Have you ever had a friendship that was marred by differing expectations or desires between the two of you?
Claudia the Elder goes from being Ariadne’s adversary to being a friend and confidante. Did you find this transition believable? How can painful experiences sometimes change a person for the better?
Theo receives quite a shock at the end of the book. How do you think it will affect him? Has anything ever reshaped your understanding of your identity or your place in the world?
Ariadne
forgives her mother just before her mother dies. Did this seem realistic? Are there family members you’ve had a hard time forgiving? How might the issues or feelings change if the person dies before you are able to reconcile?
Were you challenged by Paul’s definition of love (drawn from 1 Corinthians 13)? Do you, like Ariadne, feel that you fail to live up to the biblical expectations of love? How can we reconcile that failure with the grace we find in God through Christ?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TESSA AFSHAR is the award-winning author of Bread of Angels, Land of Silence, and several other historical novels. Her novel Land of Silence received an Inspy Award in the general fiction category and was voted by Library Journal as one of the top five Christian fiction titles of 2016. Harvest of Gold won the prestigious 2014 Christy Award in the historical romance category. Harvest of Rubies was a finalist for the 2013 ECPA Book Award in the fiction category. In 2011, after publishing her first novel, Pearl in the Sand, Tessa was named New Author of the Year in the FamilyFiction–sponsored Reader’s Choice Awards.
Tessa was born in Iran and lived there for the first fourteen years of her life. She then moved to England, where she survived boarding school for girls and fell in love with Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, before moving to the United States. Her conversion to Christianity in her twenties changed the course of her life. Tessa holds an MDiv from Yale Divinity School, where she served as cochair of the Evangelical Fellowship. In addition to writing, she now serves on the staff of one of the oldest churches in America. But that has not cured her from being exceptionally fond of chocolate. Visit her online at www.tessaafshar.com.
