by Tessa Afshar
“Ethan!” I cried, shoving my hands up my sleeves to keep from enfolding him in an inappropriate embrace. That would have shocked him.
His answering smile made me gulp. There was a new assurance about the way he held himself, as if he had won a battle and liked coming away the victor. His eyes turned warm in acknowledgment of my obvious welcome. He always liked it too well when I could not hide my affection for him.
“I brought you something.” He extended a small, flat package, carefully wrapped in clean cloth.
Nonplussed, I made no move to take the package from him. He had never brought me a gift before. “Well?” His chuckle brought me to myself. “Don’t you want it?”
“Of course.” I unwrapped the cloth with care to find a magnificent tapestry the size of a small window, worked with delicate wool in captivating shades of blue and scarlet and green. Everything about its construction—the ornate borders, the sharp-edged flowers and leaves, the luster of the precious gold twinkling in clumps, even the slight hint of fading in certain parts of the tapestry—indicated its old age.
I turned it over. The back had been cleverly woven so that there was scarcely any difference from the front panel. No knots. No tangles. This was the work of a master weaver, the kind that surfaced only once every generation. Upon closer examination, I found that the tiny holes that were invariably created from looping the different colors back and forth on the loom in order to create each pattern had been painstakingly sewn shut.
“Babylonian!” I breathed. “Is this genuine Babylonian work? From the time before Persian rule?”
“Trust you to know the origin with one look.”
“How did you find it? It’s breathtaking, Ethan. You couldn’t have given me a better gift.” Babylonian tapestries were legendary. Endless generations had revered the work of the weavers of Babylon who shared their secrets with no one. Antique productions like the one Ethan had brought me were difficult to find and exceedingly valuable. Usually, they were huge in size, covering the length of a whole wall. I guessed this piece was a fragment of a border to a much larger work.
He seemed pleased with my enthusiasm. “I hoped you would like it. I thought of you when I saw it.”
I made a pretense of giving all my attention to rewrapping the tapestry with care, trying to hide the inexplicable flash of tears his words had aroused. He had thought of me. He had not forgotten about me while traipsing about the empire, having adventures. I swallowed hard and remembered that I should ask about his journey.
Lifting my head, I noticed the man standing just behind him. It showed the measure of my distraction that I had not seen him until that moment, for he was a giant, towering over Ethan by almost a head. Broad, with muscles and a thick neck that could have held the weight of a bronze table, this man would have looked at home in the arena. And though I was no expert, I was sure that not many gladiators could have matched him in size. A thick scar ran from under his right eye and disappeared into his beard.
I stared at him, forgetting to close my mouth.
“This is Viriato,” Ethan said, his lips twitching. He had switched from Aramaic, the language we spoke in our daily lives, to Koine Greek. The Roman Empire had united a vast portion of the world with its might. In a way, the diverse dialects and languages of these different nations posed as great a challenge to Rome as their weapons and armies, for how were they all to communicate in a world that grew smaller every day? The language that brought so many races and peoples together was a common form of Greek rather than the Roman tongue, or even the classical Greek that their poets and playwrights liked to use. Most of us spoke at least a smattering of Greek. Like many men and women of my class, Ethan and I were fluent.
“Viriato is my new friend from Lusitania,” Ethan continued.
Viriato smiled. Instead of softening his face, it had the strange effect of making him look like a grimacing bear about to attack. “He means I am his servant, which is enough for me. I would still be a slave if not for his generosity.”
He spoke Koine Greek with the facility of an educated man. “A slave?” I raised my eyebrows and looked from one to the other.
Ethan scowled. “Don’t encourage him. He will bore you to tears with his endless prattling. I should know. For weeks, I was stuck on a ship with him as we traveled home.”
Viriato laughed, his voice booming around the workshop, making the weavers stare with curiosity. “He doesn’t want me to tell you how we met; that’s his trouble. Too modest, your betrothed.”
Ethan ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in tufts. “You are the hero of the story, as you well know. I did little enough.”
Being the daughter of a merchant had certain advantages. I had more freedom than other women my age, most of whom would not be allowed to talk to strange men. My father’s business, however, had brought me into contact with strangers since before I could walk. Managing the workshop had stretched my freedom even more. We lived in an age of upheaval and change. I was not the only female who pushed at the boundaries of propriety with my work. Some of our synagogues were led by women. At the same time, it was still considered scandalous for women to hold conversation with men in a public place.
I shrugged. “I sense a good tale. Come into the house, and I will offer you sweet wine while you tell me about your adventures with Ethan.”
After all, Ethan had brought the man to me himself, and I did not wish to miss what promised to be a fascinating story.
Ethan groaned. Viriato rubbed his hands. I hid a smile and walked ahead.
Back in the house, I brought the men into the outer chamber, where we sometimes entertained my father’s Gentile clients. Here we offered them wine and, if they merited extra attention, pastry and fruit, though we never partook of food with them ourselves as the Law forbade Jews from eating with heathens. Since Viriato was obviously a Gentile, I decided that we could gather here, around a rectangular low bronze table carved with lotus flowers and overlaid with silver. It was our best table, on show to impress potential customers.
I sent for my parents. My mother had gone to bed, battling another headache, the servant told me. Father came in, his tunic askew, his hair uncombed. I noticed his eyes were red and glassy. He had been drinking. Again. But he was gracious to our guests and said the right things.
“So, tell us your story, Viriato,” I said.
“I was a slave in a cinnabar mine in Hispania,” he began.
I could not silence a gasp. Cinnabar was a highly valuable mineral, more for its mercury content than the vermilion that it also produced. But anyone working in a cinnabar mine, no matter how young or strong, would eventually succumb to the poison that seemed to linger in the air. Which is why only criminals and undesirables were put to work there.
“Indeed?” I said, my voice unsteady. What was Ethan thinking? Why would he invite a criminal back to Judea with him? Call him friend? Bring him around to the house of his betrothed for conversation and sweet wine?
“I had gone to examine the cinnabar there,” Ethan explained. “A colleague told me that a new, rich vein had been found, producing vermilion of exceptional color.”
The Romans adored vermilion red, and the wealthy used it to paint their villas, their doors, even their faces. The fashion had spread into Palestine amongst the very rich, and Ethan’s father, who had an instinct for such things, had become one of the premier merchants offering the dye in Judea.
“The manager offered to show me around the place.” Ethan shrugged. “I had always been curious to see the inner workings of a mine. We had just begun when, on the rock face directly above us, one of the slaves who was pushing a cart full of mineral lost control.”
“He suffered from tremors, that man. It’s common amongst those who work the mine. Restricted vision too.” Viriato rubbed the palm of his hand over his face, and I sensed that beneath his good-humored joviality lay a wealth of somber memories. “He probably lost his footing due to a bad tremor.”
“
All I know is I heard a creaking noise, and when I looked up, the cart was tilting right on top of me. I would have been dead if that much cinnabar had landed on my head. Before I could gasp, this hulking giant threw himself across the cart and prevented it from falling below, crushing me.”
The thought of how close Ethan had come to dying made me turn white. I could taste bile in my throat.
“I did say he was the hero of the story. The cart was at such a precarious angle by then that he might have plunged down with it. He hung on for several moments, his feet dangling in the air, pushing down as the cart teetered over the edge. Finally, he managed to stabilize it. He earned himself a few bruised ribs for his efforts.”
“Why?” I asked, too stunned to think of tact. “Why would a slave risk his own life for a complete stranger?”
“I became a slave. I did not stop being a man. I could no more prevent myself from helping a fellow human in the midst of danger than I could will myself to simply stop breathing.”
I could see what Ethan saw in Viriato. Not merely the physical strength, the impressive size. It was the man himself. A certain nobility that scars and slavery had not managed to ruin.
“I thank you, with all my heart,” I said. “I could not have borne to lose Ethan. Tell me, Viriato, how did you end up in a cinnabar mine?”
The giant scratched his beard and looked at his shoes. “I hit the wrong man. Broke his jaw. And his nose. Perhaps a few ribs. Seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but he didn’t agree with me. Since he was a centurion, his opinion mattered more than mine.”
“Why did you hit him?”
“Not to be indelicate, but it involved a lady.”
“He made overtures to your . . . ?”
“My nothing. She was a respectable maiden from an impoverished Lusitanian family. He seemed to think that being a Roman citizen and a centurion gave him the right to—” He puffed out a breath through inflated cheeks and looked to Ethan for help.
“The right to force himself upon a young woman.”
“You defended her? From that? And they put you in a cinnabar mine?”
He shrugged. “You can’t go around assaulting Roman citizens, no matter what the provocation.”
“So what happened? After you saved Ethan’s life, I mean?”
“Ah. The impossible.” Viriato clapped once, and intertwined his fingers. “I had been thrown into that mine to rot. The life span of slaves in cinnabar mines is notoriously brief. I thought I would end my days there. Your betrothed changed that. I don’t know by what trick or charm he convinced the manager to sell me outright. Must have cost him bushels. He won’t tell me how much. But you can’t buy a slave with a criminal past unless you are unusually generous. I figured being his slave beat working at the mine any day. So I was happy to leave with him.
“Imagine my surprise when our first stop was a visit with the magistrate. He made me sit outside the door as he conducted his business. I spent the time wondering if I had already offended him in some way, and whether he meant to lodge a complaint against me. I figured I had enjoyed the shortest respite from the mines in all of Rome’s history. I considered making a run for my freedom.”
“Did you flee?”
“No. I sat where he left me and mourned my imminent arrest.”
“But Ethan did not have you arrested.”
“No. I was mistaken on that account. Ethan had another plan. He emerged from his visit with the magistrate and handed me a roll of papyrus. ‘Here is your certificate of manumission. You are a free man today,’ he said to me.”
SIX
Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.
Be strong and courageous.
JOSHUA 10:25, NIV
MY FATHER LEANED FORWARD. “What did he ask in return?”
“Nothing. After informing me I was free, he turned his back and began to amble down the road, whistling. It took me a few moments to comprehend his words. I thought he was playing with me. But when I glanced at the papyrus, what do you think I found?”
“Your certificate of manumission,” I said, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
“I was dumbstruck. In my whole life, I had never known such an act of generosity.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Ethan said, his voice gruff. “I told you. I walked away alive from that cinnabar mine because of you. It was only right that you, in turn, should walk away from it because of me.”
I stared at Ethan as if I were seeing him for the first time. “What did you do then? How did you end up traveling with Ethan?”
Viriato shrugged a massive shoulder. “I told him that the very least he could do was allow me to buy him a meal. As thanks for giving me my life back.”
Ethan’s lip curled. “He also asked to borrow money to pay for the food, the big lout.”
“Don’t laugh, mistress,” Viriato said. “You ought to pity me. First, he refused to eat at a proper inn, because the food might be unclean. Such delicious smells were wafting out of that place. My stomach grumbled louder than a dancing girl’s ankle bells as we walked right by, ignoring the inviting aroma of roasted fowl. Instead he took me to the house of a Jewish merchant and purchased cold bread and watery cheese. Then he made me sit apart, in case my Gentile skin might contaminate him.”
“You were still close enough to talk through the whole meal. Gave me severe indigestion. I had to sleep in the middle of the day for a whole hour to recover.”
Viriato smirked. “I needed to talk fast if I was to prove what a nice, trustworthy fellow I am. How else were you going to hire me to be your faithful servant?” Viriato spread his arms wide. “So here I am.”
My father, who had stopped drinking from his cup some time before, shook his head. “What an extraordinary tale. Why did you come to Judea? Why not return home to Lusitania?”
Viriato dropped his head. “There is no place for me back home. The centurion I hit is still stationed there. My return will only bring my family more trouble than I already have caused. It is better for them if I stay away.”
We were silent for a beat. “What shall you do for Ethan?” my father asked.
“He has already made himself useful, actually,” Ethan said. “Viriato’s father raises sheep. Very fine sheep. He knows more than I do about different grades of wool, as well as what kind of dye works best on each variety.”
“Sheep, eh? What’s so hard to figure out?” the big man said, his cheeks turning an endearing shade of red at Ethan’s compliment.
Ethan leaned forward. “He would be a good help to you, Benjamin.”
My father furrowed his brow in confusion. “Me? He is your servant.”
“Well, yes. Then again, not entirely.”
It wasn’t like Ethan to be so obscure. I gave him a sharp look.
“The truth is, I purchased his freedom partly with your money, Elianna.”
“My money?”
“Your father’s, I mean.”
“My money?” my father said.
Ethan tapped perfectly trimmed nails on the table before him. “The money you have insisted I receive for helping with your trade. I had been saving it to give to Elianna on our wedding day as a present.” He shrugged. “I needed it to free Viriato from that death trap. I would not have had enough funds without it. How could I leave him there? I felt I owed him for saving my life.”
I nodded. “It was your money to use as you wished. For what it’s worth, I am happy you used it in such a worthy manner.”
“As I said, I had set it aside as a gift for you. So really, it was your gold I spent. Which makes it only right that you should use Viriato from time to time.”
Before I could make a vociferous objection to this circular and ridiculous argument, my father nodded. “Thank you, Ethan. We will be happy to have Viriato’s assistance upon occasion.”
My eyes grew round. I could not very well go against my father. I tried to think of an argument that would cut through the web Ethan had managed to weave. “Father, Viriat
o is a freedman. Surely he deserves to choose for himself where he is to work?”
Viriato gave his bear smile, the scar puckering high on his right cheek. “I would be privileged to help where I can, mistress. Ethan and his father only deal with dyes, you see. I miss working with wool. It will be a pleasure to get my hands on some superior fleece again.”
What could I say? I nodded and smiled, though it made my cheeks hurt.
On the way out, Ethan sent Viriato to await him at the door and turned to me. “Don’t look so sour, Elianna. You can’t always have your way.”
“With you around, that won’t be a great problem. I’m not likely to have my way. Ever,” I added.
“‘It is better to live in a corner of the housetop than in a house shared with a quarrelsome wife,’” Ethan quoted. “Solomon must have been an expert on the subject, what with all those wives.”
Without taking time for a breath, I quipped, “‘An excellent wife who can find?’ If King Solomon couldn’t find one, think of your chances. Poor Ethan. Destined for a lifetime on a corner of the roof.”
He laughed. His eyes had turned dark and liquid. “King Lemuel said that, and he probably did not have the breadth of Solomon’s experience. In any case, I have some pleasant news to share. May I tell you, or are you still too angry to listen?”
Curiosity got the better of me. “By all means, share your good news. I will forbear to be happy for you.”
“My brother’s wife is with child. I am going to be an uncle.”
I promptly forgot my ire and bounced on my toes with excitement. “What a great blessing! I am so happy for you all, Ethan. Jerusha must be overjoyed at the prospect of having a grandchild.”
