by Tessa Afshar
Joanna stuffed the rest of her bread into her mouth. Her cheek puffed up to one side. “But I haven’t finished eating, Elianna! They are about to serve fowl with capers. My favorite. Can’t you wait a little?”
“No. You can stay if you are so hungry. I am for home.”
“What are you doing?” Ethan blocked our path, his brow puckered in puzzlement. “Surely you can’t be leaving yet. You barely ate anything.”
“I am tired,” I said.
Ethan didn’t budge. His brows lowered. “Was it Avigail? I saw her sitting next to you. Did she say something to offend you again?”
“Peace, Ethan. I only wish for my bed.”
Ethan hesitated for a moment, then swiveled to the side and swept an arm before him with mock formality. I noticed Sarai staring at us, her lovely face softened with sweet yearning. She seemed like an amiable young woman. I wished she would get on a cart and drive all the way to Egypt and remain there to keep the pharaohs company.
Once our orders of fresh wool and flax arrived, work on the new fabrics consumed every spare moment. The inspiration behind my plan came from the Lord’s Temple. As a woman I had, of course, never set eyes on the curtain that separated the Holy of Holies from the rest of the Temple. But I had heard its description read from the Book of the Law. Thick, twined linen of blue and purple and scarlet yarn with cherubim skillfully worked into them.
Lydia’s purple scarf had put me in mind of that reading, and I had determined to create wool and linen fabrics in various shades of those three colors, only. No greens, yellows, oranges, or pinks for us this season. Instead we would focus on three principal colors, presented together to potential buyers in order to enhance each one. If the Lord had chosen those three colors to hang next to each other, I felt certain the result would be something deeply appealing to the human heart.
Further enhancing my scheme was the affordable but high-quality purple. No one in Jerusalem had access to that dye but us. We would sell an absolutely unique offering, accessible to anyone with a reasonably good income, unlike the well-known purple derived from sea snails that only the wealthiest of aristocrats could afford.
As we created our first set of samples in wool and linen and artfully arranged them in swathes against a wooden background painted in gold, it became obvious that each fabric magnified the beauty of the others. Like the scales of exotic fish from faraway lands I had heard Ethan speak of, our fabrics shimmered with beauty and grace, melting from one shade into another.
Most of our customers ordered all three colors. They simply could not choose between them. We had more orders in that first week for our collection than we had received for any other offering we had produced in years past.
Some of the awful fear that I had been carrying began to melt away. I finally started to believe that I had not bankrupted my father’s business and, indeed, had saved it.
I thought of the hand of God that must have carried this plan and his wisdom that had been at the very root of it. For the first time I acknowledged that God himself had saved us. Not my cleverness or Ethan’s boldness, but the immeasurable kindness of God. How many times had we come to the brink of disaster and he had brought us through? How many times had this business almost sunk beyond recovery and he rescued us? I gave a prayer of thanksgiving that afternoon when Viriato brought me the full stack of orders he had been collecting for several days.
Ethan came the morning our first pieces were finished and ready for delivery. He chose a length of purple linen and another of scarlet and set them aside for his personal use. When he insisted on paying full price for each length, I lost patience.
“You shall not pay me. In a week, when we are wed, all this will belong to you. I must say I did not suspect you would fancy these shades. I have never seen you wear anything this colorful.”
He smiled. “Much too feminine for me. It is a gift.”
“Who is it for?” I asked suspiciously. I did not like the idea of him buying such glorious fabrics for another woman. They were not for Jerusha, who preferred plainer colors and declared herself too old for such vibrant shades. An unbidden image of Sarai’s face floated before my eyes.
He laughed out loud. “Never mind that. Just sell me the cloth.”
I scowled. “Fine. Give me your money, if you insist. It will return to your purse next week.”
He ignored my outburst, which goaded me further. “She must be very ugly,” I said, as I noted down his order in my scroll.
“Who?”
“The woman for whom you are purchasing these.”
He sprawled on the couch and reached for a grape. “What makes you think that?”
“Only an ugly woman would need this much luxury to make her look acceptable,” I said, forgetting that only hours before the beautiful Claudia had ordered a chestful of similar colors.
He plopped another grape into his mouth. “She is as skinny as a broom plant, and I am quite certain she has warts.”
“You are lying! I can tell by the way you are trying to hold in your laughter. Who are the fabrics for? Tell me!”
“They are yours, you goose. You will look beautiful in them. Not even the queen of Sheba in all her glory could compare to you, arrayed in these colors. If your mother and mine work together, they might be able to make you a tunic in time for our wedding.”
“Queen of Sheba!” I stared at my stained shoes poking out from under the folds of my long skirts. “Maybe more like her slave girl, fresh from a backwater village.” In spite of my words, I flushed with pleasure, amazed that his first thought had been for me rather than business when he had seen our creations. I started to grin and then stopped. “I do not have any warts!”
“You shall have to prove that on our wedding night.”
The next day dawned with no warning of the catastrophe it brought. The sky looked the same as it did every other morning; the birds sang the same noisy song they did with every other sunrise. How could I have known that hours thence my whole world would collapse around me? How could I have suspected that my heart was about to shatter into jagged pieces? Nor would I have believed that by my own hand and my own choice I would bring this disaster upon us.
I rose from bed earlier than I wanted, dressed quickly, and dashed to the workshop. My mother and Jerusha had agreed to take care of all the wedding details between them, leaving Ethan and me free to deal with our increasingly demanding trades. Near noon, Viriato left to meet with Ethan; I did not expect to see either of them until later that evening for supper.
I returned to the house for a quick repast and to write a letter to a trusted flax merchant, requesting another order. Because we ordered our flax already seeped and dried, we could receive shipments at any time during the year. Dried flax did not have to depend on the harvest season, but could be stored for months.
The letter took longer than I expected as I could not locate the merchant’s previous accounts in my father’s papers. One of the graces of God the night of the fire had been the preservation of the account books and papers. I had carried them to my room that night with the intention of working on them. But for that opportune accident, they would have burned to ashes in the fire along with everything else, throwing our affairs into frustrating confusion.
Finally I found the papers I needed and finished composing the letter. I decided to visit my father for a short while, telling him about our sales in the new colors and how our income ensured that we would have enough money to secure Joanna’s wedding.
I ran my hand through his thinning hair. “Ethan and I will be married in a week, Abba.” And he would not be present to see it. Would he have cared, if he had been healthy enough to attend?
I was on my way to the workshop when Calvus stopped me in the garden. He had not been to the house in several weeks. I guessed that he felt uncomfortable about his own conduct during our last interaction when he had screamed at me and stormed off. His absence had been a relief to me. I wished he had continued to stay away.
He planted himself in my path to prevent me from walking on. I attempted to dissuade him with a forceful glare. As always, however, Calvus was immune to my annoyance.
“I am told you almost perished in the fire,” he said.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Disappointed?”
“Don’t be foolish. It would have been a terrible waste for something so beautiful to have been destroyed.”
I rolled my eyes.
He grinned. “Always impervious to my honeyed words. Tell me, do you know how the fire started?”
“No. That remains a mystery.”
“Perhaps you forgot to extinguish your lamp.”
“Of course I did not. I did not start that fire.”
“Well, it came from somewhere. Perhaps Jupiter sent you a thunderbolt from the sky because you are so vexing.”
“If any thunderbolts were to come from your imaginary gods, they would be headed your way, Calvus. No doubt you are much more deserving of their wrath. Now, I must get to the workshop. Even if you have time to linger and do nothing, I need to keep busy if I am to pay the mountain of taxes that keeps your Caesar happy.”
I don’t know why I goaded him. Growing up in a nation that had tasted the sting of conquest for almost a hundred years had taught us to keep our resentment to ourselves. I had never treated a Roman with such flagrant disrespect.
Instead of stepping out of my way, he stepped closer. I could feel the calluses in his skin as he drew his finger softly down my brow, where the fire had left a red mark. “Must have hurt.”
I moved back. “Calvus, you know better than to touch a Jewish woman. Please let me pass.”
With a sudden move, his hands clasped about my arms and pulled me forward. I started to struggle, my heart thumping in alarm. His hold felt like steel shackles around me. “What are you doing?” I choked, kicking at his shins. My blows landed against the hard leather of his boots, hurting my feet more than his legs.
“What I should have done months ago. Teaching you a lesson.”
“I don’t need a lesson. Leave me be, Roman.”
He laughed and pulled me against him. “You smell good. You look even better. And now I am going to find out how you taste.”
I knew he was playing with me. But I did not know how far his unpredictable nature would take this awful game. To my horror, he placed his lips against mine. His kiss was hot and indescribably invasive.
I struggled with my whole might. Bile rose up in my throat. At some point in our wild wrestling, my veil had come undone and fallen to the ground. Calvus shoved his hand into my hair and pulled with vicious strength. I squealed with pain.
“Be still and I will stop hurting you. One kiss. That is all I ask. Stop struggling and it will be over before you know it.”
I pushed at him with hampered arms and tried to bite him. He laughed. “You know little about men. This struggle merely incites me to more. It is in your own interest to hold still. Who knows? You might even like it. I doubt your Ethan has ever touched you like a real man.”
“Pig,” I spat.
“You will regret that. When I turn my hand against your precious family, you will regret your sharp tongue and wild ways.”
His words scourged me like the iron hook at the end of a Roman whip. I stopped struggling. He could do it. He had the power and authority to make life unbearable for us. I stood there, trembling with rage and impotence as he kissed me with a cruel intimacy that made me hate him more than I had ever hated another human being.
Then, with sudden force, we were ripped apart. Confused by the jolt of our separation, I blinked. What I saw made me wish for death. Before me stood Ethan and Viriato. They were both trembling with uncontrollable rage. Their faces were stamped with the violence that boiled in their blood.
I knew in that moment that nothing would ever be the same again.
EIGHTEEN
Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am in distress;
my eye is wasted from grief;
my soul and my body also.
For my life is spent with sorrow,
and my years with sighing.
PSALM 31:9-10
BEFORE I COULD MOVE, Calvus crouched, pulling out his Spanish sword with such speed that his movements became a blur. In his other hand, he clutched a short dagger. His jaw stood out in a pugnacious square of bone and muscle, the veins purplish beneath his shadowed skin. His lips were still wet from our kisses.
“No!” I screamed and threw myself in front of Ethan like a shield. “Stop!”
I was seeing cinnabar mines. Imagining Viriato and Ethan as slaves on a galley ship. If they didn’t die of a sword wound right now, they would surely perish as slaves. I thought of my Ethan languishing in the poisonous air of a sulfur mine and choked as if I were breathing that very air.
“Move, Elianna,” Ethan said with deadly quiet.
Viriato took a step forward, his massive body tense and ready for battle. The mild-mannered Viriato I knew had vanished. This man looked like a volcano about to burst with red-hot lava.
“Keep out of this, Viriato. This is my fight,” Ethan said.
Viriato clenched his fist. For a moment he hesitated irresolutely, as if unable to obey Ethan’s demand. Then he gave an infinitesimal nod and stepped away. Ethan wrapped his arms about my waist and lifted me bodily to set me aside.
My mouth turned to ashes. He was about to get himself killed. His life would be destroyed even if he survived physical battle with a Roman centurion. Love and terror for him rose up like a storm in my heart until I could not breathe. He stood at the edge of a precipice, about to shatter himself against the craggy rocks at the bottom.
For my sake, for the sake of revenge and masculine pride, he was about to ruin his future. I could not stand aside and do nothing. I had to stop him at any price. In the urgency of the moment, I could think of only one way. One sure defense. Even then I knew. I knew the price I would pay. I knew I was about to destroy my own world.
“Ethan, listen.”
“Be quiet and get out of our way. Viriato, hold her and don’t let her loose until we are finished.”
“Ethan, I wanted him! I wanted him to kiss me.”
He came to a stop. His eyes had turned very dark, like brown soil on a frozen winter morning. “You lie.”
“Did you see me struggle? Did you see me try to fight him off?”
“He held you.” His voice didn’t sound sure anymore. Doubt had started to crack through his confidence. “He held you imprisoned.”
“He did not. He asked to kiss me. I gave my permission freely.”
Ethan’s skin had turned pasty. Sweat stood out on his brow. “Why?” It came out a whimper, a soft, keening sound of pain. Sharper than a dagger, that little word sliced me to my very soul.
“Because I wanted him.”
Ethan shook his head, looking confused. “It’s not true.”
“Why do you think I kept delaying our wedding? It was him I yearned for.”
Decimus Calvus had straightened out of his battle pose, holding his weapons in a relaxed grip. Softly, he started to laugh. “I was looking forward to a good fight, woman. You are cheating me of the pleasure of breaking a few of his bones.”
“Leave him be. There’s been enough damage today.” Enough to last my whole life. I felt as if my veins were slowly filling with ice. As long as I live, I will never forget the look in Ethan’s eyes. That dazed look of betrayal and anguish, mixing with the lingering embers of rage.
Ethan took a shuddering breath. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away. Viriato gave me a hard stare. A wave of nausea overcame me. Swinging around, I fell to my knees and retched until my convulsing stomach emptied what little I had eaten. I laid my head against the bark of a tree, weak and shuddering. I had no strength left.
Calvus extended a piece of clean linen to me. I slapped at his hand. “Leave me be.”
“Come, mistress,” Viriato said, pulling me to my feet. “Come in
to the house.”
I nodded and followed him, leaving Calvus in the garden. To my relief, the Roman let me go without objection. I moved in a fog, unaware of my surroundings, pressed forward only by Viriato’s urgent manner. He saw me inside the house, told me to bar the door, and left at a run. I knew he had gone to Ethan to try to comfort him. Comfort him for the anguish I had caused him.
When the violence of my emotions subsided a little, I considered writing Ethan a letter, confessing the truth. Surely he would believe me. Now that the immediate rage of the moment had cooled, he would be more reasonable. More willing to forget Calvus’s violation. I could not bear for Ethan to think so ill of me. I could not bear to leave him to suffer the anguish of betrayal.
The more I pondered the choices before me, however, the less confident I became. This was the Ethan who did not forget or let go of what mattered to him. The Ethan who had set aside every last copper coin I had paid him because of his stubborn pride. The Ethan who insisted Viriato come and work for me because my money had purchased his freedom. Ethan was single-minded when he wanted something.
Would such a man let go of Decimus Calvus’s offense? Would he just walk away for the sake of peace and sanity? The Ethan I knew would not forgive Calvus’s invasion with impunity. The man who had approached my attacker with chilling, intractable violence would not let this go.
Nor would Calvus, with his uncertain temper and changeable moods, back down. He would not apologize. Would not try to calm the waters of the storm in Ethan’s chest. He would churn them all the more. There would be a fight. The Roman would destroy Ethan. Even if Ethan won the battle, he would be arrested, put in chains, sold into slavery, and sent to a slow death in a godforsaken land too far for me to ever find.
I could not chance it. I could not trust Ethan to know the truth and walk away. Jewish men did not accept the molestation of their women by Roman soldiers. Even a hundred years of occupation had not turned them into tame dogs, accepting their master’s blows with equanimity. Ethan would demand justice. And he would not receive it from Rome. They would be unlikely to punish a centurion for daring a bit of frolic with a Jewish maiden. No. Ethan would not turn to Rome for help.
