Land of Silence

by Tessa Afshar

  “Tell me, child, do you often work for your father?” he asked Joanna.

  “No, master. My sister does most of the work. I only help with the embroideries if we grow very busy.”

  “We can provide any of our fabrics to you plain, so that your own servants can do the needlework, or if you prefer, we can design and do the work for you here.” My father, utterly in the dark, held fast to the business at hand. Meanwhile, Chuza and Joanna stole glances and turned redder by the moment.

  Shual drew my father apart and kept him busy for a good hour while the rest of us passed the time in conversation. In truth, Claudia and I spoke, while poor Titus Flavius tried to engage Chuza. He made no headway that I could see. The young man showed as little interest in Flavius’s conversation as Joanna displayed in ours. They were in a world of their own, those two.

  When the time for departure arrived, Master Shual said, “You have many fine fabrics here, I see, Benjamin. I must consult my lord before I make any purchases, however. Chuza and I can return the day after tomorrow. Would that suit?”

  For the next two weeks, that suited everyone very well. Eventually it dawned on my father that Shual’s many excuses for his return visits might have an ulterior motive. He made a few good sales in the process. But he also began to take the measure of Shual in a manner different from a mere business acquaintance.

  To my joy, Joanna began to bloom. She laughed at Keziah’s silliest jokes and hummed under her breath as she walked. A new lightness entered our home, one that had been lacking for two years. Cautiously, we were learning to hope again.

  After Joseph’s death my father’s participation in the running of his business remained more limited than before, but he did not relinquish the administration of his accounts to anyone else. This gave me great relief. My education, though more thorough than many of my contemporaries’, was still not the equal of a man’s. I had a vague idea of what we were earning and what we had to pay out, but I knew few details. Father continued to take care of the workers’ wages, as well as ordering and paying for supplies.

  One of the most complicated aspects of managing a substantial trade, particularly one like my father’s that imported goods from different regions, was the taxation. Romans took their share of everything. They taxed our land, our water, our roads, even our salt and meat. In Jerusalem, you had to pay a house tax in addition to your land tax.

  Hardest of all, perhaps, was the fact that at every official checkpoint on the road your goods were levied heavily, so that by the time we received the merchandise, it sometimes cost us thirty or forty times the original price. And then we had to pay taxes again after we sold the final product. When you consider the dishonest publicans who added their own unreasonable sums to the imperial demands, it’s a wonder we survived.

  One morning, my father declared that the Roman tributes were due. He intended to go into the city, near the Roman governor’s palace where the chief publican was stationed. At the mention of the governor’s palace, I sat up straight. A small but exclusive market had recently been established near the palace, which I rarely had the opportunity to visit. It was too far from our home for convenience.

  Impulsively, I said, “May I come?”

  My father flushed. “There is nothing for you there, Anna. Merely a long line of merchants paying their taxes.”

  Once he would have welcomed my company for any excuse. The obvious brush-off hurt. Long months of being subjected to his rejection had done nothing to cool the sting of it. I do not know why, but the hurt turned into anger that day. Why could he not forgive me? He was my father. My father! Why could he not overcome the weight of my sin? Why could he not reconcile with me?

  My jaw felt stiff as I answered. “I didn’t intend to stay with you. I only wish to go as far as the market. You can collect me after you have completed your errand. It would be easier to travel with you in the cart than on foot.”

  Something in the coolness of my voice caught his attention and he looked at me for a moment. His eyes slid away. “Come, if you wish.”

  “I do. Just for the market.” I raised my chin to make sure he received the message that I was not going for his company. I was finished begging for his affection.

  My father disliked traveling through the busy thoroughfares of Jerusalem. He detested the stench of sweat and dung and unwashed bodies, the dirt of the road, the shepherds who clogged the streets with their cattle. He had an aversion to having to wait for Roman soldiers as they led their arrogant cavalcades with little care for the inconvenience they caused. So rather than travel through the center of Jerusalem, which would have been the quickest path to our destination, he decided to loop around the city and travel outside the protection of Jerusalem’s walls.

  Viriato was helping Ethan and Master Ezer that day. So my father brought with him one of the weavers, Dan, a large man whose impressive girth ought to have warned away any bandits. I brought Keziah because she never complained, not even about riding in the back of a dusty, swaying open cart. We sat together in the cart, sharing the cramped space with the iron box containing my father’s denarii. There were only the four of us in our party, with my father on horseback and Dan driving the cart.

  Our house was located near the Sheep Pool, not far from Fuller’s Field. We left the shelter of Jerusalem’s walls and circled south, traveling past the Water Gate. We intended to enter the city again on the west side of Jerusalem.

  We were just about to emerge from the Hinnom Valley when we found ourselves hedged in by a band of rough-looking men, some on donkeys and several on foot. They brandished daggers and short swords, and one clutched an iron-tipped spear in thick fingers. In the twinkling of an eye, we were surrounded from every angle. I counted six or seven before I gave up, terror making rational thought impossible.

  We were too close to Jerusalem for thieves. I could see the walls of the city; a few steps and I would have been able to touch them. We should have been safe. But desperation drove men to unreasonable acts. This group of audacious bandits, once too afraid to come near the city, now dared come this close to its walls in broad daylight.

  “You know what we want,” said the one with the spear. “Give us your money and be quick about it.” He had a country accent with a lilt that hinted at the distant hills of Judea.

  One of the men on foot approached the cart and hopped in. His bloodshot eyes widened when he saw my face. To my shock, he bent down and shoved my veil back. “Look at this morsel!” he cried. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?”

  I snapped to my feet to put a bit of distance between us; he followed my movements, straightening then leaning, his face too close. I could smell the stench of rotten teeth and sour sweat. It turned my stomach. I slapped his hand away as it reached to touch my cheek. The man laughed and shoved his fingers into my veil instead, snatching it off my shoulders and tucking it inside his belt. With the fingers of his other hand, he grabbed a hank of my hair and yanked until it came loose from the combs that held it in place, spiral curls falling wildly about my face and shoulders.

  “I want this one!” he cried as he pressed his torso into me. I could feel his dirty beard scratching my chin. I slithered backward until my back came against the wall of the cart.

  “Stay away!” Fear clawed inside me, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from screaming. Keziah had no such compunction. She started to cry out with terror. I winced when the man’s hand flashed out, giving her a heavy backhanded blow. Her screams turned into pathetic whimpers.

  In the periphery of my vision, I could see Dan and my father struggling with the other men, trying to come to our aid. But it seemed a hopeless struggle to me. They were too outnumbered.

  My legs shook, but I forced myself to sound stern. “Why don’t you take the money and leave us alone?”

  “I will. In a little while,” he said and lunged toward me. His fingers clamped onto my arms as he pulled me toward him. Ignoring the bruising force of his hold, I fought him with every bit of st
rength I had. I kicked; I scratched; I bit like a feral animal. I even got in a few good punches until his nose began to spout blood all over both of us. But he would not let go. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, grabbing parts of me that had known the touch of no one. I tried to fend him off, but I was growing tired. It began to sink into my horrified mind that he wasn’t playing with me. He intended to violate me right there in front of my father and the others. My strength waned with each passing moment. No one interfered. No one held him back or tried to dissuade him. The cackle of coarse laughter and incomprehensible comments barely registered through the harsh sound of my own labored breaths as I continued to pelt my assailant with my weakening fists.

  Then with a sudden twist, the man’s weight lifted off me.

  “Easy now, mistress. You might hurt the poor fellow.” In the throes of panic, I could still pick out the thread of amusement running through that deep voice. I heard the accent—Roman—and then through the tangled net of my hair, which had fallen over my face, I saw the uniform. Decurion? Centurion? I could not tell. I only knew that he had come to our aid just in time. His men were rounding up the other bandits and chasing those who had run off at their approach. The Roman horses proved fast and effective. The bandits stood no chance against their agility and hard-earned discipline.

  Whatever had held me together under the threat of the bandit’s molestation collapsed when I gained my freedom. My legs began to wobble and I sank to my knees. The sound of Keziah’s soft keening penetrated the terrified haze of my mind. I bit my lips to keep them from trembling, shoving down the rising hysteria in my own chest so that I could comfort her.

  “It’s all right, Keziah. You’re safe now.” I tried to sound calm as I caressed her hair.

  I watched the Roman officer who had rescued me from my attacker get the band of thieves under guard. He was clearly in charge of the other soldiers and comfortable in that role. Every once in a while he would bite out an order and someone would run to obey it. At his feet now lay my assailant, unconscious and bleeding from his head as well as his nose. I had seen the Roman bring him down with one well-placed blow to the side of the head when the man tried to fight his way free. I am ashamed to admit that I enjoyed witnessing that blow with fierce satisfaction. I only wished I had been strong enough to deliver it myself.

  My father approached the Roman. “Thank you for saving us, my lord,” he said. His face looked gray and clammy. “I am Benjamin, a seller of dyed cloth in Jerusalem. I hope you will come back to our house and allow me to express my thanks more appropriately.”

  The Roman nodded. “I am Decimus Calvus. You were lucky my men and I decided to circuit this way. Your Judean thieves grow bolder every day.” He pointed at the thieves with his clean-shaven chin. “As soon as I have dealt with these miscreants, I will escort you back home to ensure your safe return.”

  “I am grateful,” my father said. “We were on our way to pay the publican.”

  “Tomorrow, I will return to escort you and make certain you get there in safety. Today, you had best return home and recover from your adventure.” His gaze strayed toward me.

  Something made me lift my chin. No Roman would catch me looking weak and pathetic. Not even one who had saved me from a horror I could barely imagine. I felt perspiration dampen my forehead and tickle down my sides. The Roman continued to stare at me, brown eyes unflinching and bold. With a distracted movement I reached for my veil. Then I remembered that the bandit had taken it off me, and that I was sitting there before a dozen strange men, my hair a twisting mess hanging to my hip. I looked down and felt heat spread under my skin when I realized that my tunic had ripped at the neck in my struggle, exposing the slope of one breast, and one sleeve had torn at the shoulder, hanging against my arm.

  With a gasp, I straightened the tunic, covering myself to the best of my ability. Shame overwhelmed me with a rush. It wasn’t merely the state of my hair and clothes. These men had witnessed me being pawed at by that squalid bandit. They had observed my humiliation. Something in me cracked. With a sob, I threw myself from the cart, twisting my ankle as I jumped, and ran stumbling to my father. In the haze of my shame and fear and shock I forgot about Joseph. I forgot that my father had not held me in two years. I forgot that he could scarcely bear to remain in the same room with me. I knew only that I needed him to hold me, to make me feel safe and clean again.

  For a moment he allowed me to cling to him. Then he set me aside, his movements stiff. “We’d best leave,” he said and turned his back on me to grab his horse’s bridle.

  I felt cold and hot, at once sweaty and shivering like I had a fever. Something soft touched my hair, and I jumped. The Roman had retrieved my veil from the bandit’s belt and brought it to drape over me. Up close I saw that he had short stubble on his cheeks; there were bags under his eyes, as if he had stayed up too late with wine for company. His uniform, I noted, marked him as a centurion.

  “Thank you,” I whispered and pulled the veil close around me, taking refuge under its cover before limping back to the cart.

  TEN

  Do not rejoice when your enemy falls,

  and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles.

  PROVERBS 24:17

  ONCE THE CENTURION had discharged his soldiers to take their captives to the Roman garrison, we set off for our house. It took us half the length of an hour to return home. It felt like a whole day to me. I spent the time clamping shut my jaw and willing myself not to be sick.

  Before the cart came to a full stop, I jumped off the back into our courtyard, intending to run above stairs so that I could hide in my chamber. The leap from the cart was too much for my bruised ankle. To my dismay, that shaft of unanticipated pain proved my undoing. I had borne the shock of the attack, my father’s withdrawal, my horrifying public humiliation. But this one final insult against my flesh I could not bear. My head began to swim and I felt myself sway. I tried to reach out and anchor myself against the side of the cart, but it was too far.

  A strong arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me up before I fell. They were Roman arms that held me, a Roman chest against which I leaned. Before I could protest, Decimus Calvus swung me high against him.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you fight as fiercely as Hippolyta the queen of the Amazons,” he said, his lips close to my ear. He had the audacity to smile at me. Something about that smile made me cringe. It was too calculating. Too intimate. I pushed at his chest with the flat of my palm.

  “Put me down.” I made my voice as cold as winter.

  “Elianna!” My eyes shut in relief when I heard Ethan’s voice.

  “Thank the Lord,” I whispered as I saw him running toward us, followed closely by Viriato. He came to a sudden stop several steps away. Even in my dizzy state, I noticed the color drain from his face as he took in the scene before him. Too late, I realized the impression he would receive—my clothes torn, my face tear-stained and pale, an enemy soldier cradling me in his arms as I struggled.

  Ethan made a gasping sound. His hand jerked in an uncontrolled motion in front of him.

  “What have you done?” He sounded hoarse, as if he wanted to swallow a scream and couldn’t quite manage it. “Take your hands off her!” To my horror, I saw him pull out a silver dagger and point it at the centurion’s heart. It happened so fast, I had no time to reason with him, to think, to act.

  An image of the cinnabar mines flashed before my eyes. I saw Ethan as a slave, poisoned by the rotten atmosphere, dying one day at a time. It made me choke.

  “No, Ethan! No!” Struggling wildly, I flung myself from the Roman’s grasp, wondering if it was too late. If the very fact that Ethan had dared to flash a weapon against a Roman officer would earn him some unimaginable sentence.

  “He saved me,” I screamed, half incoherent in my fear, throwing myself against him and missing the drawn point of his dagger by a hairsbreadth.

  “Have you gone mad?” he yelled. “I co
uld have stabbed you!”

  “Put that thing away.” I pressed myself against him, grabbing his shoulders. “He saved me. He saved me from the bandits that attacked us.”

  The dagger slipped from Ethan’s fingers unheeded, landing tip first in the earth. He stared at me. His eyes had turned pure green, darker than oak leaves in late spring. Heat stained my skin as he took in my torn clothes, my disheveled appearance, my slipping veil.

  “You were attacked by bandits? They did this to you?”

  I bit my lip. Softly, I said, “One man. He . . . he did this.” I expected to see revulsion in his gaze. Disgust. Rejection. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, heedless of the many eyes that watched.

  “Elianna.” His lips brushed my hair. I could feel his fingers shaking against me as he caressed my back, my shoulders, any patch of me that he could get his hands on. “What did he do to you?”

  I shook my head. Before I could speak, he cradled my face in his hands. “I do not care. I do not care what he did, do you hear me? You are still my bride. You are still mine.” I had never heard him sound so vehement.

  “Mine, Elianna.” He touched my lips gently with his thumb like he was committing them to memory.

  I shuddered at his touch. His words. It took me a few moments to find my voice.

  “No! I mean, yes, I am still yours. But he did not . . . he did not do what you think. He tried. But Decimus Calvus and his men came just in time.”

  “He didn’t . . . ?”

  “No.” My lips fell open as his words sank into my dazed mind. He had claimed me even when he thought I had been violated. Thinking that I was no longer pure, he still wanted me. Amongst our people, a woman’s purity was held in highest esteem. Once lost, be it voluntary or otherwise, a woman’s value was diminished. Some even claimed that according to the Law, a violated woman was unmarriageable. But Ethan wanted me besmirched or clean.