Bread of Angels

by Tessa Afshar

  Dione’s arrival was unanticipated. She walked into the garden, slave in tow, wafting perfume and displeasure. Lydia, caught in her work clothes, sweat staining her ancient tunic, her hair a tangled mess, her fingertips red from working with madder, stared at Jason’s mother, her chin slack with astonishment. If Hera, the mercurial wife of Zeus, had decided to visit her workshop in human form, Lydia would not have been more surprised.

  “Mistress Dione!”

  Dione wrinkled her nose. “Surely even the gods on Mount Olympus must be offended by this stench. Look at you, child. Never have I seen a girl in such distasteful disarray.”

  “I beg your pardon. Please come into the house for refreshments, and I will change quickly while you rest.”

  Dione turned to study the walls of their home at the far side of the garden. “If the inside of your domicile matches its outside, I prefer not to step within. Thank you.”

  Lydia’s eyes flew open. It was one thing to receive insults about her appearance. In fairness, she could not deny the shabby presentation she made, especially in comparison to an elegant woman like Dione, who never seemed to have a single wrinkle in her garments. But no one, not even Jason’s mother, had the right to pass harsh judgment on her home.

  She straightened her back. “That house has known joy and laughter through many years. It is a home of love, even if it cannot match yours in beauty. I consider it an honor to have lived here all my life.”

  “You would, child, never having known any better. Tell me, is this how you receive my son when he visits you? If so, I wonder that his attachment has lasted so long. He likes his women well presented.”

  Lydia flushed. “Jason usually does not arrive until after the evening meal. By then I make certain that I am more presentable.”

  Dione’s cutting remark fingered a concern Lydia had struggled with for weeks. Jason’s visits had grown more desultory. He never ate with them. He lingered very little with her and often seemed distracted. His charm and affection had not faded. But Lydia had begun to fear a shallowness to his attachment. In spite of his many hints, he had never asked her father for Lydia’s hand, nor approached her directly about his intentions.

  Perhaps Dione’s words, though humiliating, were a good warning.

  Perhaps her drab appearance had caused Jason’s ardor to cool. After all, he was accustomed to a world of glittering elegance, abundant prosperity, and cultured women who sparkled like jewels with wit and beauty. Perhaps at the start she had been a novelty in her old tunics and simplicity. Now the novelty was wearing off, and with it the attraction.

  Lydia felt close to tears. She blinked them away, unwilling to allow Dione to see how deeply hurt she felt by her words. To Lydia’s relief, the woman did not linger long. After a short conversation with Eryx, she left with a swish of her silk skirts. In her wake she left a tiny filament of gold, a stray thread from the embroidery at the edge of her tunic. Spying it in the dirt, Lydia picked it up and stared at the sparkling delicacy now torn from its place of honor at the feet of Dione. Inexplicably, the sight brought fresh tears to her eyes.

  After that, Lydia took greater care with her appearance when Jason visited. She wore her best tunics for him and even bought an amphora of perfume to combat the scent of the mordant that lingered on her skin at the end of the day.

  If he noticed a difference, he never mentioned it.

  THIRTEEN

  But now trouble comes to you, and you are discouraged;

  it strikes you, and you are dismayed.

  JOB 4:5, NIV

  AS FAR AS ERYX WAS CONCERNED, after three months he knew the formulas to all of Eumenes’s dyes. It had not been easy to convince him that his knowledge was complete. More than once her father had sent him home after preparing a fresh batch of purple. “You have worked hard, Eryx. Go home to your bed and rest now. I will dye the linen for you. It will be here tomorrow when you arrive.” Then Eumenes would empty Eryx’s faulty solution at the foot of some unfortunate tree in the garden and dye the linen in his own newly prepared vat so it would be ready for the steward to admire in the morning.

  “Why can we not tell Dione that we suspect him of trying to steal our formulas? He creates more problems every day,” Lydia said one evening when they were finally left to their own company.

  “Without proof, how can we convince Dione? It will do nothing but raise her ire. She will think we are complaining for no reason. Best leave it alone. We have managed well enough so far.” Eumenes smirked. “Besides, I enjoyed myself thinking of the man traipsing about the Thyatiran hillside, looking for rare roots, then staying awake all night to soak them in clean water and stirring them in the moonlight.”

  Lydia shook her head. “You are growing cold-blooded. He was red as a bowl full of mulberries when he returned from his search on the hills.”

  “His cheeks and nose only blistered a little, and he recovered within the week. No permanent damage.”

  Lydia examined a chipped nail. “Mistress Dione may not be good at choosing stewards, and she may have a sharp tongue, but I will say this much for her. She certainly knows how to draw customers. Our income this month, even after she subtracted her share, was greater than I have seen in years.”

  “Yes. I cannot fault her in that regard.”

  “How has she managed it? Have you been studying her accounts? What did we do wrong before?”

  Her father shrugged. “Nothing. We weren’t Roman; that is all. And we did not have powerful friends.”

  “Father . . . you have seen the accounts? You have examined them since Dione took charge of them?”

  Eumenes developed a sudden interest in a chip at the base of one of the vats. “Yes, yes. Of course I have.”

  “When?”

  “Some time in the recent past.”

  “How recent? Last week? Two weeks ago? A month?”

  “Or perhaps two. What do you want from me? I can’t make dye, keep Eryx busy, deal with new customers, keep you from trouble, and examine accounts too. The woman is doing a fair job. You were just admiring her spectacular economy. Let’s leave her alone to do what she does best.”

  Lydia threw her hands in the air. “The mere fact that I admire her pecuniary talents does not mean I think we should trust her blindly.”

  “You worry needlessly, my daughter. It is the plague that hounds you. What could go wrong? We have our home. We have our purple. We have each other. And now you have Jason, too.”

  Without warning, the garden gate flew open, smashing against the wall. The force of the blow left a chip in the stone. Lydia barely had time to frown with displeasure when three soldiers stormed inside.

  The man who seemed in charge swaggered forward. “Are you Eumenes?” He had blotchy skin and spoke with a strangely hoarse voice, as if someone had once tried to strangle him and had left his thumbprint on the fragile bones of the man’s throat.

  “I am,” Eumenes answered, his mouth open in a good-natured smile. “How can I be of service?”

  “You can accompany us to the magistrate’s prison, for a start.”

  “Prison?” Lydia and Eumenes cried at the same time.

  “Prison. You are under arrest.”

  “For what crime?” Eumenes asked, blanching. Lydia, only half-comprehending, felt an unnatural chill that made her whole body tremble.

  “Stealing.”

  “That is ridiculous! My father has never stolen in his life,” she cried, growing hot with offense while at the same time turning cold with terror.

  Eumenes motioned Lydia to be calm. “What am I supposed to have stolen?”

  The soldier shrugged. “The moon, for all I know. Not my business. My business is to fetch you. Clap you in irons. And beat you if necessary.” He gave Lydia an appraising look. “Not too hard, if you make it worth my while.”

  “Why would you beat him at all? He is innocent!” Lydia cried.

  “Not when a Roman citizen brings a charge against him, he’s not. Are you going to come peaceabl
y, or do I have to put you in chains?”

  Eumenes stood, his bearing dignified. “I will come. Lydia, pay the man.”

  Lydia shook her head in disbelief. She felt caught in one of her nightmares. “Pay the man for arresting you?”

  “Pay him for not beating me . . . too hard.”

  Lydia ran after the soldiers as they bore her father between them. She tried to wheedle, plead, and cajole some answers out of the guards. She knew with complete certainty that her father’s arrest was a mistake. By tomorrow or perhaps even sooner he would be out, and they would have a good laugh about his adventures. She needed to discover the source of this scandalous misunderstanding, and within a few hours, everything would be set to right.

  The soldiers ignored her.

  Finally the one in charge stopped with a growl. “Keep up that haranguing and I will arrest you as well. Understand?”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded her head once and followed in silence. Her father was being taken to jail! She could barely comprehend it. Jail represented humiliation. It stood for sickness and despair. Even death. Good men like Eumenes were not supposed to ever face the anguish of a dank cell. Whatever error had occurred, she would not rest until she proved his innocence and cleared his name.

  Her father was not brought before the magistrate. Without ceremony, his feet were put in iron chains, and he was thrown into some hole of a prison, which Lydia was not allowed to visit.

  “I will go to Mistress Dione, Father.” She spoke as loud as she could, hoping he could hear her. His cell was not visible to her from the courtyard. “Do not worry. She has important friends. She will see you are released,” she said.

  To the jailer, a fat man with dangling jowls and surly eyes, she gave two sestertii. “Treat him kindly and there will be more.” He stowed the coins in his purse without a word.

  The sooner she rescued her father from this place of nightmares, the better it would be. She ran all the way to Jason and Dione’s house. For all the speed that terror lent her feet, it took her over an hour to arrive. At the door, she was met by Dione’s slave.

  “I need to see Mistress Dione,” she panted, bending forward to ease the stitch in her side.

  “She is not at home.”

  “Jason, then!”

  “Not at home.”

  She tried to push the slave out of the way. “You don’t understand. It is a matter of great urgency.”

  “Still not at home.” He was a tall man, built with the solid structure of someone accustomed to hard work and heavy lifting. She could not budge him. Calmly, he waited until she stepped back. To her utter befuddlement, the door closed in her face. Lydia banged on the door, screaming. “She will want to hear my news, you fool!”

  The door remained as sealed as an Egyptian tomb. Lydia wanted to kick the slave for his obtuse refusal to help. But as she trudged back to the magistrate’s prison, an odd image haunted her. The slave’s eyes had been full of pity when he had informed her that Dione and Jason were not within. Not indifference. Not cruelty. Not superiority. But an inexplicable pity.

  Lydia thought she understood. Dione and Jason had already heard of her father’s arrest and chosen not to associate themselves with him any longer. They believed him guilty.

  Jason had turned her away without even giving her a hearing.

  FOURTEEN

  Arrogant foes are attacking me, O God;

  ruthless people are trying to kill me.

  PSALM 86:14, NIV

  “I COULD NOT FIND DIONE OR JASON,” she told her father two hours later, not knowing how to share her suspicions with him. The brusque jailer had allowed the visit after she had paid him another sesterce. At this rate she would run through their ready cash far too quickly. She must conserve their coin for the coming days.

  Eumenes, fetched from his cell somewhere in the bowels of the building, now stood before her in the courtyard. From the way he narrowed his eyes in the brightness of the sun, Lydia surmised that he was kept in darkness. His feet remained in rough iron fetters, already rusty from the sweat of another unfortunate prisoner.

  She winced when she saw that his ankles were red where the chains rubbed against them. In a day or two, the skin would scrape off. Longer, and . . . She shook her head. His incarceration would last no more than that. He was innocent. Not even Roman justice would condemn a man who had committed no wrong.

  Her father touched her wrist gently, drawing her gaze to his face. “It was Dione who accused me. She has charged me with theft.”

  Lydia felt the breath leave her chest. Leave her whole body until she turned dizzy. “No,” she said, shaking her head wildly. “Where did you hear this? It cannot be true.”

  “True enough,” Eumenes said bitterly. “The jailer told me. Your silver coins loosened his tongue.”

  “Why would she do such a thing?”

  “To secure the workshop for herself.”

  “Our workshop is insignificant compared to all she owns! It’s hardly worth her trouble. You must be mistaken, Father. What can she do with a crumbling workshop without your purple? It is your knowledge that draws customers.”

  “A knowledge she believes she possesses.”

  “What? You did not reveal . . . ?”

  “Not I. But her man Eryx believes he knows what I know.” Eumenes brought his chin down once for emphasis. “She thinks she no longer needs me. It was a ruse from the start. Her desire to be my partner, her wish to help us. All of it was a ploy. She wanted to wrest the workshop from my possession. You thought Eryx was seeking to rob my formulas for himself. I always wondered if he worked under Dione’s direction.”

  “That’s why you would not let me complain to her about our suspicions.”

  “Yes.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Did you tell Jason? Did you tell him that we distrusted Eryx?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I never told him. Father, this makes little sense. What does Dione gain by her false accusation? She cannot prove you guilty of something you did not do.”

  “She claims to possess documents that prove my guilt. I don’t doubt it. I put my seal to enough scrolls these past three months to fill a valley. By the end, I stopped reading them with too much care. She wore me out with nonsensical details. When she was sure that my attention had strayed, she must have had me put my seal to a scroll that proves some dishonest transaction.”

  “Even if you were proven guilty through her lies, your property would be forfeit to Rome. What advantage would there be for her in that?” Lydia said through dry lips. Were they truly to lose their home? Their workshop? The land that tied them to generations of her ancestors? It seemed impossible that they should come to such a pass after all their hard work.

  “If I had defrauded her, then she could claim part of my property as damages. Our land, our home, our workshop would be divided between her and Rome.”

  Lydia put a hand to her forehead. She felt as if the world had turned inside out. “I will talk to Jason. He will make her see reason. He will dissuade her from this course.”

  Eumenes said nothing. She wrapped her arms around her belly. Forced to choose between his mother and Lydia, whom would Jason believe?

  Lydia sneaked a sturdy cloak and warm food to the jailer, who, for a few coins, passed them on to his prisoner. Given the jailer’s hungry look as he took the bowl from her, she would not have been surprised if only part of the stew and bread were actually delivered into her father’s hands.

  “He wants to see you,” the jailer said upon his return. He held out his hand, like a fathomless pit that swallowed her precious store of coins. Lydia’s mouth became a flat line before she laid another silver coin in his palm.

  “We have little time, Lydia. Listen to me,” Eumenes said. “I want you to go to our house and pack everything valuable you can find. Any coins we have left. Your mother’s jewelry. The unsold lengths of purple. All our supply of vermilion. Everything of value that you do not wish to lose. Gather them tonight. You cannot take much,
for whatever you take, you must be able to carry in your hands. You must go in the cover of deep night. Be sure no one follows you.”

  Lydia nodded. “Where do I take everything?”

  “Go to Atreus’s inn. Remember where that is? We ate supper with him and his wife a few times before her death.”

  “I remember, Father.”

  “Good. Ask for a small room. Tell him to give you the chamber he and I used to play in as boys. He will know which I mean. That inn has been in his family for three generations.” Eumenes laid the flat of his palm against his temple as if it ached. “He was my playmate when we were children. We often hid in that room. Under the carpet there, you will find a wooden slat that can be moved. There is a generous hole where you can hide our valuables. No one knows about it. Atreus himself may have forgotten. We used to hide our boyhood treasures in there, away from prying eyes. I believe once we put a snake inside that hole.”

  Lydia’s eyes snapped open.

  “Don’t worry. It won’t still be there. I think we put it in his sister’s pallet.”

  “Too bad you didn’t save it for Dione’s feather bed.”

  “Yes, well, it would be a very old snake by now.” He reached for Lydia’s hands. His fingers were burning hot. “Don’t fail us. What you take out tonight is all we will be able to save for our future. Your future, Daughter. Forgive me. I fear I have lost your inheritance.”

  Lydia began to weep. “You have not. The fault is mine. I brought Dione into our lives. I carry this guilt.”

  Eumenes shook his head. “No, Lydia. The guilt belongs to that woman. Now hurry. You will not have much time before they come to plunder the house. I want you gone when the soldiers arrive. Who knows what manner of men they may be.”

  FIFTEEN

  They close their hearts to pity;