Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  Without hesitation, Antonia rose to her feet and followed the woman in silence. Priscilla watched her climb the stairs and disappear inside the physician’s chamber. She had to admire Antonia’s perfect calm, posture tall, as if she were visiting the baths instead of submitting to the butchery of a surgeon. Neither the prospect of pain nor the torture of loss seemed to hold any sway over her. Priscilla wished she could display half as much poise under the circumstance.

  She forced herself to return her attention to the child who still clung to her limply. “Here now, my dear. Drink from this cup. You will feel better.”

  The girl drank a cautious sip and made a face. “Drink all of it,” Priscilla said, and gently tipped the cup.

  She obeyed, coughing as she came up from the last mouthful. The smell of the potion was vile enough to turn Priscilla’s stomach. No wonder the child had gagged. Priscilla settled next to the girl on the couch and wrapped the blanket about the slight body. Within moments, the child was asleep, clinging to Priscilla even as she sank into restless dreams.

  Time passed like a cloud, with torturous slowness. No screams escaped the chamber above. Whatever Antonia was enduring, she did it silently. The weight of that silence was crushing. Priscilla tried not to imagine what the hands of the physician were busy doing at that moment. Again, she considered running out the faded-crimson door. Running and never returning.

  And then what? After her father’s death, her brother had become sole heir to the general’s fortune. Volero Priscus had never forgiven their father for sullying the memory of his noble mother by replacing her with an ignorant slave from Magna Germania. Never forgiven the general for covering the slave in fine silks and linens and whelping a child on her.

  That child had been a sore Volero could not heal, more thorn than kin. As soon as their father had died, he had thrown out the tutor the general had hired for Priscilla, stripped her of her weekly stipend, and reduced her to a state barely above the slaves in the household.

  Her brother’s disdain had a tendency to turn into cruelty at the slightest provocation. If he discovered her secret, she had no doubt that her body would soon be floating down the dirty currents of the Tiber.

  The river Tiber or the chamber above the stairs. Those were her choices.

  Her faithful slave Lollia, who had taken care of her since birth, had unwittingly given her the information she had needed to find this place. She had mentioned a friend who served in the household of Cassius. That woman, Lollia said, had delivered her mistress to this same physician more than once. Lollia had meant to assure Priscilla that she was far from the first Roman girl of good family to find herself in such a quandary. Antonia’s presence seemed to confirm that notion.

  Yet Lollia, whose half-Jewish ancestry gave her a staunch moral standard, had never intended to suggest that Priscilla should engage the physician’s services for herself. She had only meant to comfort Priscilla out of a tempest of despair. In the end, Priscilla had come to this place in secret. No need to add to Lollia’s mounting anxiety.

  The door to the chamber above crashed open with a deafening boom. Priscilla jumped, tightening her hold on the young girl who rested in her arms. As Antonia emerged, their hostess tried to grasp her arm and help her toward the stairs. With a violent motion, Antonia shook the woman off. She swayed for a moment and placed a flat hand against the wall to steady herself. Her face, marble white, lacked expression. Taking a deep breath, she straightened and began to descend the stairs. Her progress was slow but proud. A sovereign rather than a sinner.

  There was something formidable to the implacability that marked her posture. As if she would allow nothing to stand in her way. She passed in front of Priscilla to get to the front door.

  “Antonia,” Priscilla whispered. “Was it awful?” Her voice broke.

  “Don’t be an imbecile. It is a physician’s visit like any other. And if you say my name one more time, I will knock you so hard, you won’t need the services of the surgeon.”

  Antonia did not linger long enough to drink the stinking potion or recover from the surgeon’s iron hooks and blades. She kept walking, hesitating only a moment to drag open the heavy door and disappear into the street.

  “Your turn,” the woman with the gray hair said, standing over Priscilla, the fold of skin under her chin shaking like a boat sail in the wind.

  One

  FOUR YEARS LATER

  THE INESCAPABLE STENCH of sewage and rotting garbage assaulted Aquila’s senses, making him wince. He had been in Rome for a mere two days and had already seen architectural marvels that left the visitor gaping: lavish buildings with intricate mosaics, paved roads as smooth as a youth’s face, ingenious aqueducts, and a splendid array of shops, porticos, and gymnasiums. Yet for all its glory, there were few places in Rome that did not stink.

  He picked his way carefully as he followed his uncle past a fishmonger’s stall and a tavern, while sidestepping a clutch of beggars. Aquila had never seen so many people in one place. It was said that one million people inhabited Rome. The magnitude of such a number was beyond what his mind could grasp. At night, he crawled into bed and pulled his pillow over his head, trying to drown out the noise of carts and wagons that actually swelled in activity between sundown and sunrise. Rome never slept.

  His uncle Benyamin, who had visited the city several times and had a passing familiarity with its stone-paved avenues and winding alleyways, was leading the way. They were supposed to meet Rufus at the entrance of the Campi synagogue, located in the northwest corner of the city.

  They had left their lodging in the congested neighborhood near Via Appia twenty minutes before. Having entered the ancient part of the city, they were now making their way around Circus Maximus. Aquila studied the Circus, the most famous chariot-racing stadium in the world. It was empty today, save for a few slaves who were clearing horse dung from the huge track.

  Benyamin led Aquila down a jumble of narrow roads. He stopped to look around for a moment before taking a decisive right. After a few more turns, he stopped again.

  “Are you lost, Uncle?” Aquila hid a smile.

  “Of course not. I am merely making sure of my bearings.”

  “I only ask because we have passed this spot three times. Some people would call that lost. Not me, of course.”

  “Of course.” Benyamin gave him a pointed look. “I am sure you are very wise. In your own eyes.”

  Aquila grinned. “Well, these eyes detect the Via Tecta coming up to our left. Isn’t that what you were looking for?” He pointed to the avenue whose entrance was hidden by several tree trunks. Benyamin, who was considerably shorter, had missed it.

  “So it is. Why didn’t you notice it sooner?”

  The Via Tecta ran parallel to the river. Aquila took in the grand buildings as they walked: theaters, baths, and public memorials. For a moment, he forgot that it was the Sabbath, forgot that a dear friend was awaiting their arrival, and slowed his steps to gaze at his surroundings.

  “They will still be here when we come back,” Benyamin called from up ahead and Aquila hastened after him. They traveled farther north until they arrived at the Via Flaminia and made their way down a narrow alley toward the Tiber River.

  Outside a modest rectangular building, Aquila spied Rufus. He was leaning against the wall, apparently too impatient for their arrival to wait inside. He opened his arms in welcome as soon as he spotted them, his teeth shining white through a short beard.

  Benyamin embraced him. “It has been too long, my friend.”

  “I am relieved you are finally here,” Rufus said. “Now I don’t have to try and read your letters. I can never make out your crabbed writing. In your last one, I was convinced you wrote that you sold your beard. But I see it is still attached to your face.”

  Benyamin laughed, stroking the long, full bush of hair growing out of his chin. “Thankfully, you were wrong. It has taken me years of careful grooming to become this handsome.” He pointed at Aquila, standing
quietly next to him. “You remember my nephew.”

  Over a decade had passed since Aquila had seen Rufus, son of Simon of Cyrene. It was hard to look at him and not remember the extraordinary fact that this man’s father had carried the cross of the Lord for him.

  Time had left no trace of its passage on Rufus. His light-brown skin remained free of wrinkles, his tight curls black as ink. His youthful smile shone out like a sunny day.

  “No!” he said, raising a thick brow. “This cannot be Aquila. This good-looking fellow with the strapping muscles? The Aquila I remember only came up to here.” He held his hand to his chest.

  Aquila grinned. “These muscles are a result of too much hard work. Uncle Benyamin shows no mercy.”

  For a moment they were all silent, remembering why the eldest son of a wealthy merchant had been reduced to a man with calluses on his hands.

  Rufus cut through the pained silence. “Well, you are not too big for me. Come here, boy.” He enfolded Aquila in his great arms, holding him with a father’s affection. Aquila felt an unexpected welter of emotion and blinked his eyes. It had been years since anyone save Uncle Benyamin had shown him such open affection.

  “Shall we go in?” Benyamin said, rubbing his hands together. “I am longing to hear the Word of God.”

  The synagogue was a single-story structure with a wooden door painted sky blue. Aquila had seen far richer and more elegant synagogues in his home province of Pontus, where a large community of Jewish people had lived in relative security for centuries.

  Several rows of plaster benches stretched along three sides of the rectangular assembly hall. A simple Torah shrine, an arched nook that housed the sacred Scripture scrolls, sat nestled in the center of the western wall. The tall papyrus cylinder faced the congregation, its elaborate ornamentation the only true luxury that adorned the place. Through a small window, Aquila glimpsed a courtyard, verdant with herbs and flower beds. Beyond it he saw the outline of another building, smaller than the house of assembly. Though not luxurious, everything about the place spoke of careful maintenance. Clean and in good repair, it was obvious that the synagogue at Campi was well loved by its congregation.

  Men and women sat together here, though a group of women seemed to have congregated on the last row in the back. He suspected that God fearers, those who were not of Jewish heritage but believed in the Lord, occupied that space.

  “Here is my mother,” Rufus said, pulling them toward the seats on the front row. “She has been impatient to see you.”

  Mary had Rufus’s lips, full and smiling, and a fluff of tight white curls that peeked out under her palla like clouds. Her eyes, when they landed on Aquila, held kindness.

  “Welcome, brothers.” She had the merest hint of a lisp, making her words softer. “I hope you are hungry.” She spoke in Koine Greek, the language of the working people in the Roman empire, and the tongue that brought the people of many nations together. Even the Hellenist Jews who had spread across the nations of the world did not speak Hebrew to one another, but Greek.

  “I heard of Simon’s passing,” Benyamin said. “God be gracious to you.”

  Nine months earlier, Simon’s unexpected death had shaken his friends and family. One night, he had gone to bed at the usual time and, without a whimper or complaint, had passed into glory before the sun arose.

  His eldest son, Alexander, had inherited the house and family business in Cyrene, while Rufus came to Rome to expand their trade. Mary had decided to accompany Rufus into Italia.

  “Thank you, Benyamin.” She turned to Aquila. “And this is your nephew?”

  “Aquila, my older brother’s son.”

  Aquila winced at the words and tried to hold on to his smile. “Was,” he said, unable to live with the half lie.

  Mary rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment. “He is your father still and always will be. Words and legal documents cannot change that.”

  Aquila dropped his gaze, turning pale. So Mary already knew of his father’s decision. His shame had become public knowledge. His father had disowned him, setting him aside in favor of his younger brother. In the small Christian world, stories spread fast. Spread even across borders and continents.

  Rufus wrapped an arm about Aquila’s shoulders. “In this company, that is a badge of honor. You may have lost the favor of your father. But your heavenly Father delights in you. It takes courage to stand your ground. Strength to lose everything and still hold to the truth.” He half turned as a man walked toward the Torah shrine. “Ah. We are about to begin. Better take our seats.”

  Aquila expelled a breath. He barely knew these people, and yet his humiliation was out in the open for all to see. It followed him everywhere, the ache of this wound. The knowledge that he was an outcast. Unwanted by his own family.

  The familiar order of worship wrapped itself about Aquila, soothing his bruised heart. He focused on the opening prayer and made the right response. He said the Shema, his voice melding with others, male and female, accented and pure, the same words binding them together: Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one.

  He listened when the readers unfurled the Torah scroll with reverence, seven passages from the Books of the Law, followed by one from the Prophets. The Hebrew was then translated into Greek.

  Since Aquila spoke Hebrew fluently, his attention wandered when the translation began. His eyes roamed about the hall, studying the faces of those who worshiped. In the row occupied by the God fearers, his gaze settled on a young woman. Her hair, a bright auburn, stood out in the assembly of dark-haired people. She was no Hebrew, but she did not look Roman either. Her skin was fair, her eyes a startling shade of blue, hard to miss even from this distance. High cheekboned and angular, her face had an arresting quality. He had certainly seen more beautiful women. But few had managed to hold his attention as this one seemed to.

  There was a stillness in her face, a depth of reverence as she listened to the words of the Law that he found compelling. The interpreter had reached the Prophets now and was translating the verses from Isaiah:

  Forget the former things;

  do not dwell on the past.

  See, I am doing a new thing!

  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

  I am making a way in the wilderness

  and streams in the wasteland.

  With a touch of wonder he saw her eyes fill with tears. She drank in the Word like it was life.

  Not many people entered worship with this consuming intensity. Esther never had. Aquila was intrigued to find a foreigner thus enthralled with Scripture.

  He had to force his mind to return to the worship service as one of the men in the congregation rose up to give the message for the day. But even as Aquila listened, he found his thoughts returning to the Gentile woman.

  She was unmarried—he could tell from the absence of the palla, leaving waves of auburn hair flowing around her shoulders and back. He wondered what had drawn her to this Hebrew congregation. Growing impatient with the turn of his wandering focus, he exhaled a slow, annoyed breath.

  He had not come to Rome to ogle foreigners. He was here to start a new life. Here to grow in his faith and spread a truth that burned like fire in his belly. Foreign women with red hair had no part in his plan.

  Two

  AS THE CONGREGATION spoke the prayers, their voices melded into one mellifluous current of sound, washing over Priscilla. This was the sound that had first drawn her to the synagogue over a year ago. She had been walking aimlessly that day, Lollia trailing behind, when the gentle chanting that emanated from within the simple building had brought her feet to a halt.

  Though muffled and indistinguishable, something about the words had touched her deeply.

  “It’s a synagogue,” Lollia had whispered with wonder. “A Jewish place of worship.” She had been born into slavery and had received little instruction from her Jewish father in the ways of his people. But she knew enough to recognize the prayers.


  Without pausing to consider, Priscilla had pushed the door open and walked inside. Standing quietly in a corner, she had been enthralled by the worship, by the words read from mysterious texts and the somber speech in Greek given by a thin man with startlingly white teeth.

  Over the years, Lollia had spoken of her father’s heritage. The bits and pieces of the fabric of faith she possessed, though incomplete, had always made Priscilla feel an attraction for this God who had a tender spot for a world filled with broken people. Now, for the first time, she was witnessing Jewish worship in person. She felt drawn to its mournful tone, wooed by the sound of hope that wove itself through sorrow.

  After the service concluded, several women had approached Priscilla and Lollia, not to censure them for intruding, but to welcome them, as if having two strange women show up on their doorstep was a common occurrence.

  Looking back, she liked to think that the Lord had directed her feet that day, had drawn her to this spot and extended an invitation on the wings of his people’s prayers. She had accepted that invitation and never looked back.

  Alongside her, there were other Romans who worshiped the God of the Hebrews in the Campi synagogue. Like her, they were welcomed into the synagogue for worship, though none of them could fully belong because they were Gentiles. They were not entirely outsiders, either, but lived in a shadowland between.

  Priscilla had lived most of her life in that state.

  It was sad and familiar at once, this feeling of not quite belonging. It left her hungry for more, hungry to be truly part of these people and their God. The God she had come to see as a wellspring of goodness.

  The Lord.

  Every Sabbath she came to this place, like one starved coming to a banquet, though never allowed to eat her fill. She was too besmirched for this holy God. He was not likely to ever want someone like her.

  She clung to him, and yet felt separated from him by a wall so high, she could never scale it. Sabbaths had become a bittersweet time. The most peaceful day of her week as she basked in the promises of God. But also a day of hungering, yearning for more. For something she could never have: a soul-deep sense of acceptance.