by Tessa Afshar
with their mouths they speak arrogantly.
They have now surrounded our steps;
they set their eyes to cast us to the ground.
PSALM 17:10-11
LYDIA WORKED FRANTICALLY into the small hours of the night, trying to determine what she should bring and what to leave behind. Everything small and valuable went into her sack. Over her tunic she put on several brand-new purple cloaks. She filled her belt with the precious few pieces of jewelry her mother had left behind: a brooch, two rings, a delicate bracelet, and one belt made of silver chain and turquoise. The costly vermilion, which her father kept in a locked chest in his chamber instead of at the workshop, went into the sack next.
At any moment, soldiers might burst through the door. The thought made her heart race until she could barely breathe. She ignored the feeling of panic and pushed on. Their future depended on her now.
A few more things from the workshop, and she would be ready to leave. She needed to hurry. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds tonight, a perfect shelter for her escape. But a delicate breeze had started to waft, picking up speed by the hour, and she feared she might lose her cloud cover if she lingered for long.
She did not dare carry a lamp into the garden in case she was seen by any spies Dione might have set upon their home. But having walked the path between the workshop and her house countless times through the years, she could have navigated the way blindfolded.
In the workshop, she grabbed the most expensive implements of their trade and stuffed them into her sack. There was one more thing she refused to leave behind. Grabbing an iron chisel, she made her way to the well. Patiently, she worked to loosen the mortar around the ancient stone bearing her grandfather’s name. She scraped the mortar with delicate care until a deep groove formed between the stones.
She needed to smash the masonry out of its place using hard blows. To silence the noise, she wrapped the iron in an old rag and began to hit the side of the stone. In the dark she missed and slammed the chisel into the back of her hand, hard. She swallowed the bellow of pain that rose to her lips. Sinking to the ground for a few moments, she waited until the dizziness passed and the pain in her hand subsided to a dull throb. Grinding her teeth, she resumed the work of hitting the rock, until after an hour, it came loose.
She grabbed the stone bearing her grandfather’s name, bent to kiss the edge of the well, and whispered, “Goodbye, home. I will never forget you.”
Her feet were nimble and fast as she clambered to a cracked marble bench and climbed over the wall of their garden at the opposite end from the garden door before making her way to Atreus’s inn. As she walked league upon league, she wept bitter tears, tears of rage and sorrow and a grief that would not be assuaged. Still she walked on, furtively looking behind to ensure no one followed.
She hid behind a clump of dense bushes outside the inn until the sun rose. Then, schooling her features into a calm she did not feel, she marched to the door and knocked.
Atreus himself opened the door. “Good morning, Master Atreus,” she said, her voice polite. “My father sends his greetings. He has been arrested. The charges are false. But he fears he shall find no justice at the hands of Rome. He asked that you give me a room for the sake of your friendship. He told me to ask for the room you used to play in as boys.”
As she stepped over the threshold, Atreus’s gentle hand on her shoulder, she felt as if she had left behind everything she knew.
Eumenes was brought before the magistrate the next afternoon. He spoke only once to Lydia as they marched inside the governor’s fortress.
“Is it done?”
Lydia kept her words cryptic in case the soldiers had sharp ears. “Yes, Father. I made sure no one followed. He gave me the room you requested. Everything is as you directed.”
Eumenes nodded. His skin shone with sweat. In spite of the thick cloak that covered him, he shivered as if he would never be warm again. Lydia worried that he might have caught a chill in the dank atmosphere of his subterranean prison.
The magistrate was a man of sizable girth with small, delicate hands that would have fit better on the wrists of a willowy matron. Lydia recognized him. He was one of Dione’s friends who had placed an order with her father. His cloak, fastened on his shoulders with fine gold pins, was made of rich purple, she noticed. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized her father’s work. The cloak was fashioned from one of the fabrics they had placed at Dione’s disposal.
The magistrate was Dione’s man. To add insult to injury, she had bribed him with their own merchandise, though no doubt the fabric had come accompanied by a heavy purse of coins.
Within moments he confirmed Lydia’s suspicions.
“This is a serious charge,” he said without preamble. “Theft against a Roman citizen, a respected patroness of our city.” He looked over a scroll that he held open with those narrow-boned, white hands.
Lydia’s heart sank. She knew words could not sway corruption. Nor could reason or compassion. Corruption answered to one master only. Money. More money than she had to give. Still, she could not sit and watch her father be charged for a crime he had not committed.
“My lord, I beg, please allow me to speak. I am this man’s daughter. He is a respected member of the guild. You can confer with any dye master in Thyatira and they will vouch for him. Many will bear witness to his honesty, I am certain.”
“And yet this—” the magistrate shook the scroll—“will bear witness to his dishonesty. Your father’s seal against the word of his friends. Whom do you think I should believe?”
“The truth!”
“The truth is that an honored Roman widow put her trust in him and became his partner in good faith. He thought to take advantage of a helpless woman, not realizing that she was more clever than he.”
“That last part, at least, is true,” Eumenes said under his breath.
The magistrate pointed a finger at Lydia. “You are the daughter of a thief. By his actions your father has destroyed your life as much as his own. Your honor is shattered. Your life is destroyed. In a moment I will pronounce a formal sentence upon your father, but let him know that his worst punishment is your fate.
“No man will marry you now. No one will want you. You will have no children, no friends, no home. You will be considered an outcast.”
Eumenes staggered where he stood, as if kicked in the chest.
The magistrate stared at him with bloodshot, swollen eyes. “I see you begin to understand my meaning. You have ruined more than your own life. Hear now your sentence. Under any other circumstance, you would be condemned to hard labor for the rest of your life. Mistress Dione, however, has asked that we show you mercy. It is a mark of her impeccable character that in spite of your nefarious behavior, she shows you no malice.
“Instead of what you deserve, you will receive a more charitable sentence. You will be stripped of your property, part of which will be given to your victim as reparations. Because she has asked for clemency on your behalf, we waive the sentence of hard labor in a mine and settle for a flogging. Thirty lashes. Let it be a lesson to you should you be tempted to dishonesty again.
“You will be free to leave after your scourging, but you may not return to your former workshop or residence. All you once owned is now forfeit.”
“Thirty lashes!” Lydia thought she had cried out, but only a croak emerged from her lips. A younger man could die from such a brutal flogging. How could someone of her father’s age survive such violence?
The soldier who had arrested Eumenes walked over to take charge of him. He leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll be soft on him. No bones broken. Just a few bloody scars. Give him a month and he will be good as new.”
There was no time to prepare for this latest horror. Immediately after his audience with the magistrate, Eumenes was taken into the courtyard to receive his beating.
Lydia followed, her mind a whirl of confusion. Their world had shatt
ered in a matter of days—of hours—and it was as if her soul could not catch up with this terrible heartache. She had never felt so alone. There was no man or god to help her or her father. They had been abandoned by all.
SIXTEEN
If you pour yourself out for the hungry
and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
then shall your light rise in the darkness
and your gloom be as the noonday.
ISAIAH 58:10
LYDIA HAD NEVER seen a man scourged. The sight of the flagrum clutched in the soldier’s fist made her gasp.
This was no ordinary whip. It was short, made of three thick leather strips. Toward the end of each strip, small pieces of metal had been embedded into the leather, using a series of knots. Lead, she thought. The lead pieces had sharp edges, and as her eyes fastened upon them in helpless horror, she noticed some were encrusted not just with rust but with dried blood and gore. Another poor victim’s flesh, never cleaned off before the next flogging.
Eumenes’s tunic was torn off his back and his hands were tied to a post in the magistrate’s courtyard. The soldier who had promised Lydia not to beat him too hard stepped forward, flexing his right hand around the handle of the flagrum. He winked at Lydia before raising his arm in an arc and lowering it with a violent motion. The leather whistled as it flew through the air.
Her father screamed. Lydia swallowed convulsively. Three faint red lines appeared on his skin. Another lash, followed by another. Scream upon scream until Eumenes’s voice grew hoarse. By the fifteenth lash he began to bleed profusely, his entire back and buttocks torn into quivering ribbons of flesh.
Still the whip came down, rose, came down. Lydia turned her back and vomited on the stone-paved ground. The sound of her father’s suffering, of the flagrum flying, smashing, tearing, and then flying through the air again followed her even as she bent over, sick and shivering with horror.
She forced herself to take deep breaths. Her father needed her to remain strong and capable. Soon the flogging would end. She needed to pull herself together and arrange for a cart. Then a physician.
Frantically, she looked about the courtyard. A young boy who ran errands for the soldiers sat against a wall, eating raisins. Lydia motioned him over. Giving him a few copper coins, she said, “Fetch me a cart and driver. Any cart will do. Do you understand? Do it quickly, and there will be more coins waiting for you upon your return.”
Twilight had fallen when the endless scourging ceased. The soldier who had beaten Eumenes rubbed his neck and shoulders as if they were sore from his hard work. She wanted to spit on his face. She wanted to tear his flesh the way he had torn her father’s. Instead, she strained to appear calm.
He noticed her waiting and motioned for a couple of his men to cut her father down. “See? Told you it wouldn’t be too bad,” he said with a grin that revealed yellow teeth with brown edges.
Lydia nodded. “My thanks.” She forced the words out of her frozen mouth. She could not afford to make an enemy of him. Falling to her knees next to her father, she touched his arm. He moaned softly. They had dropped him, belly down, and his face was turned toward her. She saw that he sweated profusely and his skin had turned an odd gray color, like wood ash left over after a hot fire.
“Thirsty,” he croaked.
Lydia rushed to the soldier. “Please. Do you have any water?”
He nodded to a large clay jar sitting on the far side of the yard. Lydia raced and found to her relief that someone had left a dipping cup next to the jar. She filled it with water. It was warm from the sun. With her finger she brushed over the top to get rid of a few drowned bugs. Longingly, she thought of the cool, fresh water in their well. No. Not their well anymore.
She quashed the thought and hastened back to her father, thinking now only to alleviate his suffering. He groaned as she moved his face softly off the dirt, high enough to be able to take the water into his mouth. Most of it spilled, but he managed to take in a few swallows. She persisted, giving him more.
He began to shiver, shaking violently. At first she thought it was the beating. Then she recognized the telltale signs.
Not now, she thought in despair as he lost consciousness, his arms and legs jerking in haphazard motions. She found the strip of hardened leather she always carried tucked in her belt for such occasions and pressed it firmly into his mouth, holding his tongue under to make certain he would not bite down and injure himself or choke as he fought his old nemesis.
The attack did not last long. They never did. It was over within moments. Afterward, he lay unconscious, twice tormented, once with a Roman whip and again by his old sickness.
The boy arrived with a farmer and his cart in tow. Straw filled part of the cart, the only measure of real kindness they had found in the course of this day. A bit of softness to cushion Eumenes’s body as he lay on his stomach, his blood congealing in agonizing stripes that pulled on his wounds and drew the flies. Lydia could not even cover him with his cloak. The wool, though soft, scraped his tortured body and made him cry out in pain.
They were still a good distance from the inn when Lydia told the farmer to check his donkey’s hoof. The animal jolted the cart too much, she said. The old man rolled his eyes, but the sight of her coin made him compliant, and pulling over to the side of the road, he bent to his donkey.
Just then another man in a smaller cart stopped to inquire if he could lend assistance. A cloak covered his face, which in any case would not have been recognizable in the falling night. He lingered for a few moments as Lydia dismounted the cart to direct the farmer’s examination, then departed as if he had grown tired of waiting.
After several moments of heated discussion, the farmer told Lydia that nothing appeared wrong with the donkey, and with a final grumble, he returned to his seat on his wobbly cart. By the time he dropped her off at the open market, the night had grown pitch black.
Scratching his thin hair, the farmer poked through the straw in his cart, looking for a missing man. He knew that he had taken on two passengers. But only one had alighted. How a man as sick as the beaten criminal could have jumped out of the cart and made his way anywhere was beyond him. He shrugged his shoulder and tucked his coins more securely into his belt.
With careful stealth, Lydia rushed back to Master Atreus’s inn, walking through circuitous alleys and dark paths to ensure no one followed. None did. But in the more likely event that Dione would make inquiries later, the trail would lead her to none other than an old farmer who had dropped off his lone passenger at the market. Eumenes had simply vanished.
“How is he?” she asked Master Atreus as soon as she arrived.
“In your chamber, resting,” Atreus said. “Poor man.”
“Thank you for your help,” Lydia said, her face a frozen mask.
“When my wife died, your father came to my aid. Grief had muddled my brain, I think. I could hardly run the inn and cared little if I lost it. With his own money, Eumenes hired a manager to run the place until I regained my senses. If not for him, I would have lost my inn as well as my beloved wife. He held me when I wept and sat with me through many a long night. No man was a better friend to me in all my life. You are safe here for as long as you need. I will give you what help I can.”
“I did not realize.”
“Your father is not the kind of man to flaunt his good deeds.”
It was a full day before Eumenes recovered enough to string a few words together. “How did you know I would be flogged yesterday?” he asked, his voice weak.
“I did not know.” Lydia stopped braiding her hair.
“Then why have Atreus wait outside the prison gates?”
“We did not know what fate awaited you, but we thought it best that Master Atreus be at hand, though out of sight, when you came before the magistrate.”
“You thought I would be sold into slavery and planned to kidnap me from whatever transport they put me on!”
Lydia shrugged, not bothering to de
ny him. He knew her too well. “As I said, we did not know what sentence the magistrate would hand down. We tried to be prepared.”
“A more addle-brained idea is hard to imagine. They would have arrested you and Atreus if you had attempted such foolishness. That would have served me well, seeing you both in prison for my sake.”
Lydia made a calming gesture. “It all came to nothing in the end.”
“Why the second cart?”
“Because I did not want Dione to find out where we are staying, both to protect Master Atreus from her venom and to shield you from further harassment. She will hound you for your purple once she discovers you have made a fool of her.”
“How did you do it? I was only half-conscious during that wretched ride.”
“I told the farmer to drop us at the market, and then concocted an excuse for our cart to pull over on the way there. When the farmer was busy with his donkey, I motioned for Master Atreus to catch up with us. It was the work of a moment to place you in his cart instead.”
“Perhaps you should stop working for me. Your talents are wasted making purple. You should work for the emperor as one of his spies.”
Lydia’s smile was bitter. “I think Mistress Dione has proven you wrong. She had me fooled for months on end. I never considered her kind or generous. But it didn’t occur to me that she was a thief.”
SEVENTEEN
My complaint today is still a bitter one,
and I try hard not to groan aloud.
JOB 23:2, NLT
ATREUS MANAGED TO find a physician who knew how to keep secrets as well as treat illnesses. Lydia thought him a conscientious and knowledgeable man, less ostentatious than the physician Jason had brought to their home and positively economical in comparison.
As they waited for Eumenes to regain his strength, she wrote letters to a few of her father’s closest associates, asking for aid. They could not hide in Atreus’s inn forever. They needed to think of a more permanent solution. Most of Eumenes’s colleagues did not even answer. A few sent brief letters of regret.
