by Tessa Afshar
“Thinking about God. When my father died, I had no one left. Then you came to me, like an anchor, a sister of my own, a gift I did not deserve. It is easy to overlook the many times we were given help. Heaven’s help. I am done overlooking the work of his hand. The gifts of his kindness.
“More than coincidence, more than the generosity of men or the mercurial attentions of the empty gods of Greece, we have received the interventions of a holy God. And now I find myself a citizen of Rome. For your sake, I think, my Rebekah, in order to bless you, God has blessed me.”
Rebekah smiled. “I think he has blessed you for your own sake, dear friend. For the sake of the plans he has for you.”
“I know nothing about such plans or why he would bother to have them. I only know this. Your God is my God.
“After the funeral, General Varus told me about a single-edged sword the Romans call the makhaira. It has a short blade and is used in close combat, so close that the victim can see only the face of his killer. The general said grief is like an enemy holding a makhaira at your throat. All you see is the face of grief, as the rest of the world fades.
“I think I know what he means. All my life I have contended with a makhaira-wielding enemy of my own. Fear. I cannot see the Lord as clearly as you do. I cannot draw near to him because of it. But, Rebekah, he is real. And I am his.”
Rebekah held on to Lydia’s hand for a moment. Her eyes filled with moisture. “I, too, have an enemy who wields a makhaira.”
“You, Rebekah?”
Her friend closed her eyes. “It is loneliness. I have you, sister and friend. But I long for something else. It is as if there is a hole in my heart that nothing can ever fill. Not intellectual pursuits. Not friendship. Not work. Not even the Lord. It is as if I miss some great piece of myself.”
“I think the whole world could say the same.”
A month after the funeral, General Varus adopted Lydia in a private ceremony. After eating a simple meal together, Lydia returned home. She fetched a large bundle from a shelf, where she had placed it in preparation for this day.
“I unearthed this earlier,” she told Rebekah. Unwrapping folds of soft wool, she picked up a gray, battered-looking stone, the stone she had taken from the well of her old home. The one bearing her grandfather’s name. Themistius. Her fingers touched the crooked letters reverently. She kissed the rough masonry, her lips warm against its cold surface. The only link other than her blood that bound her to generations past. To bones buried in the soil of Thyatira.
With great care, she wrapped the stone back in the wool. “I will have the mason etch my father’s name here, under my grandfather’s name. We will use this as the cornerstone of our shop,” she told Rebekah.
“Our shop?”
“The one we will build together. You and I and God. I think God likes purple too.”
THIRTY-FIVE
TWENTY YEARS LATER
AD 50
The wisest of women builds her house,
but folly with her own hands tears it down.
PROVERBS 14:1
PURPLE DOMINATED the spacious chamber: purple curtains, purple cushions with a golden fringe, delicate purple and blue mosaics on the floor, depicting a calm sea. The woman who ruled this purple kingdom bent over a length of purple fabric under the light pouring through the narrow window.
Chloris skidded into the room, coming to a breathless stop before Lydia. “You have a visitor. Lady Appollonia is here.”
Lydia sighed. “What did we say about you moving at a decorous speed?”
“That I should do it?”
“Yes, you should.” Lydia folded the fabric with care and began to walk toward the reception room.
“Not that way,” Chloris said. She hooked her thumb behind her and pointed. “That way. She is waiting in the vestibulum.”
Lydia took a slow breath and held it for a moment. She reminded herself that Chloris was very young and new to the household. “You left my guest in the entrance hall?”
Chloris bit her nail. “I shouldn’t do that?”
Lydia pulled the slave’s finger out of her mouth. “Or that.”
Lydia had known Chloris’s father for many years and had given him odd jobs whenever she could. Though a hard worker, Belos had the brains of a mouse when it came to managing money and had landed himself deep in debt the previous year. The threat of prison had closed in upon him like an iron jaw about to swallow him. He had no assets left to sell save for his beautiful daughter.
Ten days earlier, Lydia had spent a fortune in cash to retrieve the child from the slave trader before she was officially put on the block. Now she had a juvenile to oversee and a great deal of unwanted trouble besides. Still, she could not deny a burgeoning fondness for the girl. Awkward, sweet, honest, and altogether charming, she had managed to worm her way into Lydia’s affections. Perhaps her childless state had begun to play tricks on her mind, and her womb was clutching at any available straw, including Chloris.
“I apologize for this rude welcome,” she said as she greeted Appollonia. “Chloris has only been here a few days. She isn’t properly trained yet.”
Appollonia was dressed in the somber colors of a new widow. Over her simple tunic she had wrapped a drab, black shawl, customary attire for mourning women. Her normally impeccable hair was flat on one side and sticking out in wisps on the other. The shapeless shawl covered most of her curvaceous figure, making her appear like a lost, ailing magpie.
Appollonia’s husband, Dryton, had died five weeks before, leaving three children under the age of seven and a young widow. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw Lydia, and without warning, she threw herself into her hostess’s arms. The force of her unexpected embrace rocked Lydia.
They weren’t close—acquaintances more than friends—so the emotional outburst came as a surprise. Dryton had been a colleague of Lydia’s, another seller of purple in Philippi, and they had belonged to the guild together.
Lydia regained her footing and wrapped her arm around the young widow. “Come. Let us go to my dining room. We will recline at our leisure and have a light lunch together.”
Before long, the two women were ensconced on Lydia’s comfortable couches, platters of enticing food before them. A salad of green leaves fragrant with mint and coriander, fresh cheese, and soft-boiled quail eggs in a pine-nut sauce served with warm bread, followed by perfectly roasted fish. But even the appetizing food at Lydia’s table with its exquisite aromas did not seem to tempt the grieving widow. She only played with her food, putting a small piece of mint or a single pine nut in her mouth now and again.
“You know Dryton left me everything in his will?”
Confused by the woman’s obvious distress, Lydia said, “That seems a good thing.”
“It frightens me half to death. I don’t know how to run his business,” Appollonia said, trying to control her tears. “I fear he would be very disappointed in me.”
“You will learn, in time.”
She shook her head. “I think not. I will only ruin his beloved workshop. He has left me his business, six slaves, a small orchard, a wagon, and a dovecote. A dovecote! What am I to do with those wretched birds? And if I can’t even manage a bunch of noisy doves, how will I deal with a thriving business?”
Lydia bit the inside of her lip. “I am sure you will find a good buyer for the doves. They are very popular.”
“Speaking of buyers, I have one for the dye business. I think perhaps I should sell. What do you think? Dryton always spoke highly of you, Lydia. In truth, I fear I was jealous of you. You were only one step lower than a goddess in my husband’s eyes.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. She waved a hand, denying the widow’s exaggerated assertion. “He trusted me as a colleague. That is all, Appollonia.”
“Which is why I thought I should ask your opinion. The offer comes from Antiochus, the son of Rufus.”
Lydia felt every muscle clench. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Do you think Dryton would have
approved?”
Appollonia shook her head vigorously and wiped away fresh tears. “He would never sell. That business was like a beloved son to him. But what else can I do?”
“Hire a manager. Dryton ran everything himself. You don’t have to.”
“Antiochus says managers will only rob me blind.”
“How much has he offered you, may I ask?”
Appollonia named a figure. “That’s outrageous!” Lydia cried. “I have not examined your husband’s accounts, obviously, but just looking at his shop and its inventory, and judging by his reputation as a man of sound business, I would say his trade is worth four times what Antiochus is offering you. Five, if your husband had additional merchandise stored in a warehouse, which is common practice for those of us engaged in the textile trade. Antiochus is the dishonest one, trying to take advantage of a young widow.”
“But, Lydia,” Appollonia said, brows drawn together. “Everyone loves Antiochus. Just last year the city honored him with a marble plaque, naming him an outstanding citizen and a benefactor of Philippi.”
“Of course they did. He has bribed more officials than there are fish in the Aegean Sea. He throws lavish feasts and invites everyone who might do him a favor. He gives away wheat and oil and wine for imperial feast days. All this he gives not because he is a generous man with a good heart but because he wishes to increase his influence and build his personal empire. He cares nothing for honesty.
“Do not be fooled by a marble plaque, Appollonia. Antiochus’s offer is an outrage. Do not let your inheritance go lightly.”
The widow seemed to wilt against the back of the couch. “Well, if he is as bad as you say, perhaps I should not trust him.” Her eyes grew large. “How about you? Do you want to buy my husband’s business?”
Lydia sighed. “I regret I cannot. I do not have sufficient free cash available at the moment.”
“Then where am I to turn?”
“As I said, what your business needs is a trustworthy manager.”
“Where am I to encounter such a paragon?”
“They are not easy to find, I grant you.” Lydia chewed on her lip. She knew her next words might help a friend, but they might also place her in harm’s way. Taking a deep breath, she took the leap. “Antiochus has an excellent steward.”
THIRTY-SIX
For he crushes me with a tempest
and multiplies my wounds without cause;
he will not let me get my breath,
but fills me with bitterness.
JOB 9:17-18
APPOLLONIA FROWNED in confusion. “Antiochus?”
Lydia nodded. “When Antiochus’s father, Rufus, was in charge of the workshop years ago, he purchased a slave named Demetrius and trained him in the business. Demetrius was an educated man, and clever. He learned the trade quickly.
“I know him well and have crossed paths with him many times through the years. I can recommend him as a virtuous and capable man. He told me once that he liked working for Rufus, but when the business passed to his son, life changed. Shady deals, cut corners, cruel treatment of his workers. Demetrius chafes under Antiochus’s rule, but as a slave, he is helpless to change anything.”
“That is sad, though many slaves suffer a similar fate. In any case, it does not solve my problem. If Demetrius belongs to Antiochus, he cannot help me.”
“That is the point. He does not belong to Antiochus.”
The sound of hurried steps interrupted her explanation. At first Lydia thought Chloris had returned to clear the table and determined to deliver another lecture to the girl about maintaining a graceful gait. But to her astonishment, the rapid footsteps belonged to Rebekah.
Rebekah did not interrupt personal meetings without good reason.
Her friend bent her head in apology. “Forgive my intrusion, Lydia. Antiochus is here. He insists on seeing you and refuses to leave until he does.”
Appollonia sprang to her feet. “Oh, gods, how did he find out I would come to you? How did he know I would seek your advice about selling the business? Do you think he has spies in my household?” A delicate hand surged to trembling lips. “Or worse. He has the power to practice sorcery.”
Lydia grasped her guest’s chilled fingers and gently pulled her back to the couch. “Calm yourself. His only magical power is to fool people into thinking that he is a good man. His visit here pertains to another matter.” She gave Rebekah an intent look. “Keep Chloris out of the way. Make sure she doesn’t stumble into his path by accident.”
“She is well hidden.”
“Where have you put Antiochus?”
“He is downstairs in the courtyard. Refused to wait for you in the shop. I suspect the only reason he agreed to linger below stairs is that he hopes to pick up a few trade secrets from the backroom workshops.”
Lydia’s mouth turned into a flat line. She took the time to smooth down her pale-green tunic, straightening the gold pins that held her mantle on her shoulders, adjusting every fold to perfection. “I better go to him before he takes it into his head to come looking for me.” She turned to her guest. “Appollonia, it is best you stay here until Antiochus leaves. Rebekah will remain with you. She is my dearest friend and excellent company. You will be safe with her.”
Lydia walked down the narrow stone staircase that led to the courtyard. Her townhouse, a large, elaborate building not far from the city walls, also housed her shop, which sold purple dye as well as purple cloth and yarn of every imaginable variety. In addition, she offered a selection of luxurious men’s and women’s clothing that had become the latest fashion. The weaving and dyeing workshops, along with the store, took up the whole of the lower floor, while her living quarters occupied the upper level.
She and Rebekah had come far since the days they lived and worked in a rented workshop no bigger than a vegetable cart. The building she had erected on the foundation of her ancient family stone would have made her father proud. It had taken ten years of constant work and sacrifice. But she had built an edifice that rivaled the grandest shops in Rome itself.
The house was built around a courtyard—what the Romans called an atrium—with marble floors and an elegant, carved fountain in the middle. This last extravagance was a necessity more than an opulent decoration; the atrium contained a rectangular hole in the roof in order to allow both light and air circulation throughout the house. The fountain served to catch rainwater, which in Philippi could at times be abundant.
As suspected, Lydia did not find Antiochus waiting politely in the courtyard. He would be in the dye workshop, no doubt. There were a dozen sellers of purple in Philippi who belonged to the dyers’ guild. Each shop had its own specialty. Few carried the true purple, derived from sea snails at great expense and affordable only to the wealthiest of clients.
Lydia’s dye was still the best of the lot. Thirty-two years had passed since Eumenes had invented the initial formulas. Lydia had managed, by dint of experimentation and teeth-gritting nerve, to improve on a few of her father’s formulas. No one in the city matched them in quality or steadfastness. Antiochus had never outgrown his jealousy, nor his desire to get his hands on her purple.
She pasted a smile on her face. “I thought I would find you here,” she said as she walked into the workshop.
Antiochus was bent at the waist, smelling the contents of a vat. Lydia was not worried that he would unearth her secrets. Better men than he had tried to discover her procedure without success, and Antiochus, in spite of his appetite for winning, was not talented with dyes.
At the sound of her voice he swiveled around in haste, not noticing that the corner of his cloak sloshed into the vat behind him. “Afraid I will discover your precious formula?” Though in his middle years now, he dressed his hair like a young man, using too much oil and perfume. She could smell him from the other side of the chamber, which was not easy, given the pungent aroma of some of the materials they used.
“You are welcome to explore my vats all you wish.”
She pointed to the edge of his cloak. “But you might want to take that out first. Or throw the whole lot in to get the color even. No charge. Consider it a professional courtesy.”
Antiochus sucked in wet, pink lips, and hastily pulled his cloak out. She grabbed a rag from a nearby bench and handed it to him.
He dabbed at the wool, his movements jerky and uneven. “As it happens, I am here to conduct business. But it has nothing to do with your dye.”
Lydia sat on a bench, pulling the feminine folds of her tunic modestly around her. “What business?”
Crumpling the rag Lydia had given him, he threw it on the floor before turning to face her. “I want the slave. The one you took from under my nose.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Chloris? You speak as if I stole her. As I recall, I purchased her according to all the proper requirements of Roman law.”
“You knew I wanted her; her father must have informed you. And you sneaked your way in before the public auction just to take her from me.”
“Oh, Antiochus! What a thought. It so happens I don’t like public auctions.”
“You go to public auctions all the time!”
“Not for slaves. Those I find repugnant.”
“Why did you pay twice what she was worth if not to ensure that I would not get her?”
Lydia’s eyes turned into round balls. “Did I overpay by that much? What a fool. I must take more care the next time I go shopping.”
Antiochus approached Lydia, his steps as soundless as a stalking wolf’s. The smell of his sweat warred with heavy perfume. “Do you really want to make an enemy of me, Lydia?” His voice had grown soft. “You will find me a much better friend, I assure you.”
Lydia hid her hands in the folds of her dress. She forced herself to smile. “I have taken a liking to the girl and I aim to keep her. Perhaps in a year I will tire of her and you can have her then. She might cost you a lot less money if you wait awhile.”
“In a year she will be too old.”
