by Tessa Afshar
PRAISE FOR DAUGHTER OF ROME
AND OTHER NOVELS BY TESSA AFSHAR
“Tessa Afshar has the rare gift of seamlessly blending impeccable historical research and theological depth with lyrical prose and engaging characters. In Daughter of Rome, Afshar imagines the multi-textured lives of Priscilla and Aquila, coworkers of the apostle Paul, as they are stretched and shaped through their losses and love. What emerges is a compelling story about their faith and faithfulness—a story that invites our response of faith and faithfulness as well.”
SHARON GARLOUGH BROWN, AUTHOR OF SHADES OF LIGHT AND THE SENSIBLE SHOES SERIES
“Tessa Afshar’s ability to transport readers into the culture and characters of her biblical novels is extraordinary. From the first chapter you’ll feel as if you know Priscilla. You might tear up like I did when she meets Aquila and their story unfolds. Daughter of Rome is a feast for your imagination as well as balm for your soul.”
ROBIN JONES GUNN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BECOMING US
THIEF OF CORINTH
“Afshar again shows her amazing talent for packing action and intrigue into the biblical setting for modern readers.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW
“Lyrical . . . [with] superb momentum, exhilarating scenes, and moving themes of love and determination. . . . Afshar brings to life the gripping tale of one woman’s struggle to choose between rebellion and love.”
BOOKLIST
“Afshar’s well-drawn characters and lushly detailed setting vividly bring to life the ancient world of the Bible. A solid choice for fans of Francine Rivers and Bodie and Brock Thoene.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
BREAD OF ANGELS
“Afshar continues to demonstrate an exquisite ability to bring the women of the Bible to life, this time shining a light on Lydia, the seller of purple, and skillfully balancing fact with imagination.”
ROMANTIC TIMES
“Afshar has created an unforgettable story of dedication, betrayal, and redemption that culminates in a rich testament to God’s mercies and miracles.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“With sublime writing and solid research, [Afshar] captures the distinctive experience of living at a time when Christianity was in its fledgling stages.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Readers who enjoy Francine Rivers’s Lineage of Grace series will love this stand-alone book.”
CHRISTIAN MARKET
“With its resourceful, resilient heroine and vibrant narrative, Bread of Angels offers an engrossing new look at a mysterious woman of faith.”
FOREWORD MAGAZINE
LAND OF SILENCE
“Readers will be moved by Elianna’s faith, and Afshar’s elegant evocation of biblical life will keep them spellbound. An excellent choice for fans of Francine Rivers’s historical fiction and those who read for character.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Fans of biblical fiction will enjoy an absorbing and well-researched chariot ride.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“In perhaps her best novel to date, Afshar . . . grants a familiar [biblical] character not only a name, but also a poignant history to which many modern readers can relate. The wit, the romance, and the humanity make Elianna’s journey uplifting as well as soul touching.”
ROMANTIC TIMES, TOP PICK REVIEW
“Heartache and healing blend beautifully in this gem among Christian fiction.”
CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES
“An impressively crafted, inherently appealing, consistently engaging, and compelling read from first page to last, Land of Silence is enthusiastically recommended for community library historical fiction collections.”
MIDWEST BOOK REVIEWS
“This captivating story of love, loss, faith, and hope gives a realistic glimpse of what life might have been like in ancient Palestine.”
WORLD MAGAZINE
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Visit Tessa Afshar at www.tessaafshar.com.
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Daughter of Rome
Copyright © 2020 by Tessa Afshar. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © ILINA SIMEONOVA/Trevillion Images. All rights reserved.
Designed by Dean H. Renninger
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Scripture quotations in chapters 6 and 27 and in the author’s note and acknowledgments are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Daughter of Rome is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-800-323-9400.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Afshar, Tessa, author.
Title: Daughter of Rome / Tessa Afshar.
Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019034281 (print) | LCCN 2019034282 (ebook) | ISBN 9781496428707 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781496428714 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781496428721 (kindle edition) | ISBN 9781496428738 (epub) | ISBN 9781496428745 (epub)
Subjects: GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3601.F47 D38 2020 (print) | LCC PS3601.F47 (ebook)
| DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034281
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034282
ISBN 978-1-4964-2873-8 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-2872-1 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-2874-5 (Apple)
Build: 2020-01-03 15:35:21 EPUB 3.0
For Jessie:
Kind. Thoughtful. Funny. Smart. Beautiful.
My lovable bookworm.
You will always be a treasure to my heart.
Also by Tessa Afshar
Bread of Angels
Land of Silence
Pearl in the Sand
Harvest of Rubies
Harvest of Gold
In the Field of Grace
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Preview of Thief of Corinth
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Daughter of Rome Discussion Questions
About the Author
We will tell the next generation
the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord,
his power, and the wonders he has done.
PSALM 78:4
Prologue
HEART SLAMMING AGAINST HER CHEST, stomach roiling like floodwaters, Priscilla stood before the closed door. She had come to this same spot four times already without taking a step within. Today she could not turn back. Time had become the enemy she could not conquer. She had to cross over that threshold.
The wooden slats facing her must have once been painted crimson but had long since faded to a sickly rust color. She raised her hand to knock. Her fingers trembled and she clenched them into a fist. She rested her forehead against the peeling paint. She could not go through with this.
She had to go through with this.
Before she could recoil again, she slammed her fist into the wood once. Twice. The third time, she crashed her knuckles against the door so hard, the skin scraped off. She was already bleeding and she had not even taken a step inside.
The door was pulled open by a woman with unkempt gray hair and a fold of loose skin under her chin that shook every time she moved. “I heard you the first time,” she said. “No need to knock the door down.” She barred the way with her wide body, like a military sentinel, not budging. “What do you want?”
“I am here to . . .” Priscilla stared at her shoes, lost for words. “To see the physician.”
The woman said nothing, appraising Priscilla with cold eyes that seemed to calculate the value of her worn tunic and palla, the mantle she wore over her head and shoulders, the delicate earrings with their minute amethyst beads, and her only other piece of jewelry, the chipped glass and silver broach that sat on one shoulder. For a moment Priscilla thought the woman might deny her entry. Relief flooded her mind, followed immediately by terror. What was she supposed to do if the physician refused to help?
“Have you come alone?” the woman said.
“Yes.”
“Do you have the coin?”
Priscilla fished for the small purse half-filled with clinking silver, which she had knotted into the ribbons at her waist. Her unsteady hands fumbled with the string, taking too long for the woman’s liking.
Without ceremony, she shoved thick fingers into the ribbons, making short work of the knots. Pouring the coins into her palm, the woman counted them carefully before returning them to their purse, which she then tucked into her belt. Turning her body, she finally allowed Priscilla to walk inside.
The cloying scent of incense burning in an iron brazier made Priscilla dizzy. She licked dry lips as she followed her hostess into the courtyard, where she was directed to sit on a dirty bench. To her surprise, Priscilla found that she was not the only occupant of the narrow atrium. Another young woman sat on the bench at the opposite end of the rectangular courtyard. She was clothed in an elegant tunic the color of saffron, her face, like Priscilla’s own, half-covered by the curtain of her palla.
Priscilla was not supposed to wear a palla, an article of clothing reserved for wives. That small deceit had been a necessity, protecting her secret.
Needing a distraction from her thoughts, Priscilla glanced over at the other woman. Though she could only see a hint of her profile, something about her regal posture and the silhouette of her face visible through her veil struck Priscilla as familiar. Here sat another soul suffering the consequences of one moment of foolishness, a companion in shame.
Someone screamed in a room above them, making Priscilla jump. The sealed door muted the sound but could not altogether hide the agony of the female whose howls were dwindling to moans. The breath caught in Priscilla’s chest. On shaking legs, she pushed herself to the fountain that occupied the middle of the courtyard and leaned into its hot, gray stones to keep from collapsing. She shoved her hand into the water and rinsed her face. The water, as warm as the air, settled wet and heavy on her skin.
A cool breeze wafted in through the wide opening in the ceiling, and Priscilla lifted her head to its caress. It blew harder, making her tunic dance around her legs. From the corner of her eye, she saw the breeze catch the veil covering her silent companion’s face, lifting it onto her shoulders. The woman replaced the fabric hastily. But Priscilla had seen enough. She would have recognized that face anywhere.
“Antonia!” she whispered, shocked. “Antonia,” she said again, this time louder, lifting an arm in greeting.
Antonia turned her face away, ignoring Priscilla.
Priscilla slumped, dropping her arm. Not that she could blame the young woman. This was no place to be found. Especially not if you were the unmarried niece of the emperor Claudius.
Priscilla could not claim to be the girl’s friend. They had barely met. When her father had been alive, he sometimes deigned to take her to gatherings hosted by the nobility of Rome. She had run into Antonia two or three times. Even then, Priscilla had been too unimportant to merit more than a formal introduction. But the aquiline features with their unique cast were hard to forget.
Shoulders drooping, Priscilla returned to the dirty bench and sat, her back sagging against the wall. She wondered what misfortune had brought Antonia to this house of pain. Surely any man would want a girl of such beauty and high connections for his wife. Unlike herself.
She thought of the first time she had seen Appius, with his dark hair and winsome smile as he drew on papyrus, his eyes eating Priscilla with hunger as if she were a ripe plum.
Deprived of social connections and companionship after her father’s death two years earlier, she had intended to savor every moment of the feast her brother had allowed her to attend. This fellow guest, whose name she had then not even known, was not going to rob her of enjoying such a rare opportunity.
“What are you doing?” she had asked, wriggling with discomfort under the intensity of his gaze.
“Sketching the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”
Priscilla had rolled her eyes and tried to ignore him. Eventually, unable to bear his scrutiny, she had walked over and stood at his shoulder to examine his art. She burst into laughter when she saw what his drawing had produced.
“That’s a bird,” she said.
“It’s a swan,” he clarified, his voice wounded. “A glorious swan.”
He had drawn the bird beautifully, she had to give him that. There was something majestic about its pose, long neck turned toward the viewer, beak bright against the black markings of its face.
“You are too lovely to be captured in human form.”
Priscilla had pursed her lips as if displeased. But her heart had beat faster, making her flush. “What is that?” she said, pointing to the scarlet crown on the swan’s head.
Drawing a finger down the length of a red curl resting on her shoulder, he said, “You have stunning hair. I have never seen its equal. It is lovelier than any crown the goddess Hera ever wore.”
Having been teased all her life about her red hair, Priscilla had found his praise a heady wine.
“I am Appius,” he had said, bowing his head.
“Prisca.”
“Any relation to the famed general?”
He had been sharp enough to pick up the association with her name. “General Priscus was my father,” she had acknowledged, forbearing to tell Appius that her mother was no more than a slave the general had carried off from Germania. He had married the red-haired enchantress who brought him no gold or important connections. Those he already had through his own bloodlines, and from his first wife, who had dutifully borne him a son and heir. She had died while trying to bear him another.
What would that father say if he could see her now? He would throw her into the streets. Slit her wr
ists with his own knife. Anything would be better than this shame. All because a man had drawn the silly likeness of a swan. A few weeks earlier, when after a desperate search she had finally found him, Appius had been drawing another swan. It looked exactly like the one he had sketched of her, but this one had a golden crown, like the young woman who had supposedly inspired it. Wordlessly, Priscilla had dropped the sketch he had made of her, which she always carried on her person like a precious love letter, into the girl’s lap. “It’s the only thing he can draw,” she had said, hoping to spare another woman the pain of discovering his perfidy for herself.
A door slammed above them, and Priscilla turned her head to see the old hostess lead a woman out. She was crying, her body shivering and swaying, her steps unsteady. Their hostess half dragged and half carried her fragile patient down the stairs.
“Sit here,” she commanded. “I will bring you something to settle your stomach.” She shoved the woman unceremoniously onto a couch before disappearing down a narrow passageway.
Not woman, Priscilla amended as she glimpsed her round face. She was hardly more than a child.
Several large spots stained the girl’s tunic. Priscilla swallowed hard when she realized they were blood. How was one so young going to survive this nightmare? Without thinking, Priscilla jumped to her feet and approached the girl. “It will be all right,” she said. Kneeling by the couch, she stroked the thin, sweat-drenched hair. “You will be fine.” She said the words without knowing for certain if they were true. Could this child in the body of a woman emerge from this moment and one day become whole again?
The girl threw herself into Priscilla’s arms and wailed. “It hurts!”
Priscilla cradled her. “It will pass. Lean on me. It will pass soon.” She hoped she was not making empty promises.
Their hostess returned, bearing an earthenware cup and a threadbare blanket. She gave both to Priscilla. “Make her drink this,” she said brusquely, walking to the other side of the courtyard. “He is ready for you,” she told Antonia, her voice devoid of the merest hint of warmth.
