Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  At the conclusion of the service, Mary rushed to her side. “I will not be going with you to visit Sara today. We have guests, and I must go home to attend to the meal.”

  Priscilla hid the pang of disappointment she felt at the news. Though Mary had only begun to attend the synagogue three months ago, Priscilla had formed a special bond with the older woman. Mary was different from the other women at the synagogue. Often she reached out to Priscilla with a genuine friendliness that seemed to disregard the invisible line that separated the Gentiles from the Jewish congregants.

  “I have brought some olives and cheese for you to take to Sara,” Mary said, handing her a basket.

  Priscilla peeked under the linen towel that lay on top. “That looks delicious.”

  She bent down to pick up the flask of wine along with the small loaves of barley bread she herself had brought. It had taken her a week of drinking only water to save enough wine to bring to Sara, a widow who had broken her ankle and would be unable to work for several weeks.

  It was Mary’s example that had taught Priscilla the importance of visiting the needy among them. Unable to hide her disappointment, she said, “I will miss your company.”

  Mary grinned. “I will pray for you.”

  Priscilla sighed. Cantankerous on the best of days, Sara’s injury had caused her to brim over with even more complaints than usual. “Best you pray for Sara. She needs it more.”

  Rufus walked over, followed by two men Priscilla had never met. She guessed they must be the guests Mary had mentioned. “Good Shabbat, Priscilla,” Rufus said.

  “Good week to you, Rufus.”

  “Benyamin, allow me to introduce Prisca of Rome to you.” Rufus used Priscilla’s formal name rather than the familiar appellation friends preferred. “Prisca, this is Benyamin and his nephew Aquila, of Pontus.”

  Priscilla felt the weight of the younger man’s gaze resting on her for a moment before he turned his head to stare through a window. He had an arresting face, with hard-edged features that slashed rather than curved and stark eyebrows that sat over deep-set eyes, more gray than green. His sculpted mouth revealed nothing of his feelings, and yet, when he turned his face toward her again, something about his enigmatic expression made her heart beat harder against her chest.

  Aquila, Rufus had called him. The word meant “eagle” in Latin. It was a good name for him, she decided. His tanned, high-cheekboned face gave him the look of a bird of prey. Watchful. Clever. Intense.

  “Priscilla is on her way to deliver food to one of our widows who is indisposed,” Mary explained. “The other women from the synagogue refuse to return to her home after going once. The widow in question can test the patience of angels. But Priscilla, may the Lord bless her, returns again and again.”

  “Only because you usually accompany me.” Priscilla held the basket aloft. “And even when you can’t go, you send gifts.”

  A grumble interrupted them from the vicinity of Benyamin’s belly. Everyone laughed. “I had better feed these men before they wilt at my feet.” Mary gave Priscilla a quick kiss on the forehead. “Come and visit me soon. I grow lonely when Rufus goes off to work.”

  After taking leave of Mary and her guests, Priscilla called on Lollia, and they set off for Sara’s apartment. The widow lived on the other side of the city, in the southwestern tip of Rome’s suburbs. A long walk from the synagogue.

  Mindful of Lollia’s aging limbs, Priscilla stuffed the bread inside Mary’s basket and wrapped one hand firmly around the handle, leaving the small flask of wine to Lollia. She would have taken that too but knew the servant’s pride could not bear it.

  “He’s a handsome one,” Lollia said as they set off on the Via Flaminia.

  “Benyamin? I could ask Mary if he is available.”

  Lollia’s lip twitched. “Don’t be pert. I meant the nephew, Aquila.”

  “Him. Well, I don’t wish to discourage you, dear, but I fear he is too young for a woman of your antiquity.”

  A sound akin to a chicken’s squawk emerged out of Lollia’s throat. “I meant for you, you ingrate. Would you molder under your brother’s thumb for the rest of your life when you could be married and have a home of your own?”

  Priscilla’s tone hardened. “I will never marry.”

  “Why not, pray tell? A man would be fortunate to have you for a wife.”

  Priscilla lengthened her steps with deliberation, making it impossible for Lollia to keep up. This was one topic for which she had no tolerance. Yet for some indecipherable reason, Lollia decided to drag the subject of matrimony into their conversation with annoying regularity.

  A few moments later the sound of panting assailed Priscilla’s ears, and she slowed to a stop. “I beg your pardon, Lollia,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “I should not have made you scramble after me.”

  “No matter. My tongue is fast. But your feet are faster. We make a good match.”

  Priscilla grinned. They walked for a while in silent companionship. With no forewarning, a young boy with a dirty face and enormous brown eyes sidled near and began walking next to her.

  “I will carry your heavy packages if you give me a piece of bread,” he said, forgoing the use of any polite honorifics.

  “They are not so burdensome we need your help,” Lollia answered, bristling at his arrogance.

  Priscilla regarded the boy for a silent moment. If the bones protruding along his shoulders were any indication, the child had known a hungry day or two. Wordlessly, she handed him her basket. His skinny arms wrapped around the sides and held on tight. She wondered if he could manage to see his feet over the bundle inside.

  “Need help?” she asked.

  He sniffed and shifted the weight against his narrow chest and sped up. Priscilla followed, liking his spirit. Long before they arrived at their destination, she said, “We are close enough. Thank you.”

  Fishing inside the basket, she pulled out two loaves of barley bread instead of one. “For a job well done. Thank you for your help.”

  The boy stared at the bread, his tongue licking dry lips. Tucking the loaves inside some invisible pocket within his dirty tunic, he vanished as silently as he had appeared.

  “There’s thanks for you!” Lollia said, offended.

  Priscilla sighed. “He was hungry.”

  “Well, he didn’t have to be rude about it. He could have at least called you mistress.”

  “He was honest enough to do the work, without making proclamations he did not mean. Now, my dear, try not to argue with Sara today, regardless of how much she goads you.”

  “Shouldn’t you be preaching good manners to her?”

  “I am too wise to waste my words.”

  They stopped by a fountain to drink and give Lollia a chance to rest before resuming their walk. Sara’s home was on the top floor of a rickety three-story building, not far from the Hill of Amphorae, the place a million Romans discarded their unwanted pottery. The vessels in which wine and grain were transported could be repurposed. But olive oil sank into earthenware, becoming rancid. No amount of washing could get rid of the smell. The Romans broke those amphorae and piled the shards here. It had grown into a veritable hill, reddish brown in color and stinking of putrid oil. On a breezy day, the smell carried all the way into Sara’s dark apartment.

  The door to the widow’s home stood open. “Good Shabbat, Sara,” Priscilla called and walked in.

  Sara looked like she was waiting for them, seated on a cushion across from the door.

  “What’s good about it? Is that for me?” She held out veiny hands for the basket, her mouth stamped with a sour expression. Lined and leathery skin made her look older than her forty years.

  Sara handed her the basket. “The cheese and bread are from Mary.” Lollia placed the wine at the woman’s feet and hastily stepped back as if approaching a feral creature.

  The widow raised an eyebrow. “And where is Mary? I suppose she could not be bothered to come herself.”

&nbs
p; “She has guests and is needed at home.”

  Sara pronounced the Hebrew blessing over the food, her words hurried and careless, missing a few phrases along the way. Without offering anything to her guests, she ripped into the bread and cheese with dirty fingers.

  “Is it good?” Priscilla asked, hoping to report a word of praise to Mary.

  “I’ve tasted better,” said Sara, without inviting her visitors to sit. Priscilla and Lollia, accustomed to the widow’s ways, leaned against the wall. Sara took a sip of wine and shoved a handful of olives in after. With a full mouth she said, “Is this all you brought? You would think a great Roman lady like yourself would be more generous to the poor.”

  “Now listen, you,” Lollia burst out. “Prisca walked all the way here from the synagogue without even stopping to partake of a bite of food herself. She went hungry so you wouldn’t.”

  “Lollia!” Priscilla gave her servant a look of censure.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat at the door brought the conversation to a halt. “I beg your pardon,” Aquila said from the threshold. “I am looking for Sara. Do I have the right place?”

  Lollia’s smile broke out like the sun. “Master Aquila! You have come to the right house, indeed. Come and welcome.”

  “Who are you?” Sara said, mouth gaping.

  Rufus walked in behind the young man, huffing a little. “He is with me, Sara. My mother dispatched us to you with hot food. She thought you might enjoy a little meat.”

  Given how quickly they had arrived, Priscilla suspected that they had come without first taking time to eat. The widow did not seem to appreciate their sacrifice. “Why?” she said, her voice sour with suspicion. “Has it gone bad?”

  Laughter bubbled up Priscilla’s throat, and she had to cover her mouth with the back of her hand to hold it back. For a moment she locked gazes with Aquila. The lines in the corners of his eyes had deepened, softening the gray irises. Melting them with warmth. Priscilla’s mouth turned dry. Abruptly, she forgot the urge to laugh.

  “Of course not,” Rufus said with dignity. “Was the meat bad the last time she brought it to you?”

  Sara waved her hand in the air. “I forget. It was so long ago.”

  “The last time we ourselves ate lamb, you had a share in it.” He motioned to Aquila, who laid a new basket at the widow’s feet.

  The scent of roasted lamb and rosemary filled the room, making Priscilla feel faint with hunger.

  Sara set aside the bread and cheese and delved into the bowl of stew inside the new basket. Her attention thus diverted, she ignored her guests completely as she began to shovel large spoonfuls of stew into her mouth.

  “We’d best take our leave. Thank you for your hospitality, Sara.” Rufus spoke without a hint of irony, which impressed Priscilla. “My mother will come herself to greet you later this week.”

  “Tell her to bring fresh fruit next time. My bowels are too slow.”

  Rufus coughed. For a moment, he seemed robbed of words. Finally he choked out, “Yes. I will,” and bolted outside.

  The rest of them followed closely, navigating the flights of wobbly stairs with too much speed. They emerged into the sunny street, relieved to be out of the confines of the apartment, not to mention away from Sara’s unpredictable tongue.

  Rufus turned to Priscilla. “Will you come to my house and join us for a meal? You must be hungry after walking all this way from Campi.”

  Priscilla’s chin dropped in amazement. It was not lost on her that Aquila was having almost the same reaction. They both stared at Rufus as if he had lost his mind. Although the Jewish members of the synagogue conversed with her, even befriended her, none had ever invited her to share a meal. They would be breaking their dietary laws by sitting at the same table with a Roman and partaking of food.

  “Lollia and I would not dream of intruding,” she said, wondering if it had somehow slipped Rufus’s mind that she was not a Hebrew. Aquila breathed out a long breath at her response, obviously relieved.

  “No intrusion. My mother said I was not to return without you, and I for one dare not disobey her. Now, let us set out. Truly, if I do not eat soon, I may swoon at your feet like a bashful maiden, and Aquila would have to carry me all the way across the river to Trastevere. If you will not have mercy on me, be merciful to him.”

  Priscilla flushed. “I . . . Rufus, I am Roman.”

  Rufus shrugged. “I, also, am a Roman by citizenship. It provides excellent legal advantages. But it does not fill my stomach, and I am still hungry.”

  He began to walk, forcing the rest of them to follow. She studied Aquila’s stony expression and swallowed a sigh. The visitor from Pontus obviously did not approve of Rufus’s cavalier attitude. His disapproval settled in Priscilla’s stomach like a stone.

  Three

  RUFUS’S HOME WAS LOCATED on the other side of the Tiber, in the region called Trastevere. As they covered the long distance heading north, the vistas became more interesting, the buildings larger and more magnificent. But despite his best intentions, Aquila found himself studying the young Roman woman more than the breathtaking sights of Rome.

  He recalled the short moment in the widow’s apartment when their eyes had met and they had shared a secret spark of amusement. Her lips had softened then, just short of a smile. Inexplicably, he had felt as if he had known her for long years instead of a handful of hours.

  He sighed. Why had Rufus insisted that she come along? She added unnecessary complications to what would otherwise have been a peaceful afternoon.

  Aquila forced his gaze to shift to the left, where the Tiber flowed, wide and brackish, moodily coiling its way south to the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  “There!” Rufus pointed to an arched stone bridge that spanned the width of the river. “Trastevere is just beyond that bridge. I can already taste that lamb stew.”

  “Uncle Benyamin has probably eaten the whole pot by now,” Aquila said. “There is a cavern in that man where there should be a belly. I fear we will get nothing but cold bread and cheese.”

  “My mother cooks enough to feed one of Caesar’s legions. Never fear. And I fancy I can already smell the mouthwatering aroma of that succulent lamb wafting in the air.”

  Priscilla’s sigh was full of yearning. Aquila remembered the servant’s words, which he had overheard just as he was about to enter the widow’s apartment. “Prisca walked all the way here from the synagogue without even stopping to partake of a bite of food herself. She went hungry so you wouldn’t.”

  How many Romans would go to so much trouble on behalf of a Jewish widow?

  Even his own people avoided the woman, and for good reason, given his brief glimpse of her. Yet this outsider willingly bore the burden of that prickly creature. He did not understand her. More importantly, he needed to stop trying!

  They crossed over Aemilius bridge into Trastevere, an overcrowded neighborhood connected by a dizzying array of alleys and dirt roads. Aquila was grateful Rufus led the way.

  Rufus and his mother lived in a less crowded section of Trastevere, where the houses were two or three stories high, and shops occupied the ground level of most buildings. Rufus had rented a two-story house and set up a neat shop on the street level, where he sold the natural hides and dyed leather his family produced.

  At the top of the stairs leading to their living quarters, Mary awaited them with a wide smile. Aquila lifted an arm in greeting and took off his sandals before proceeding up the stairs.

  “I am sorry to intrude upon you, Mary.” Prisca’s voice had a hesitant edge as she climbed the steps behind him. “Your son insisted that I come.”

  Mary gave her a welcoming embrace. “He did so at my behest, I assure you. Now sit and rest while I fetch you some food. We can eat together and leave the men to their own conversation.”

  Aquila stared. He was being rude, he knew. But he could not help himself. What was Mary thinking, offering to eat with a Gentile? Why had Rufus not foreseen the awkwardness of inviti
ng Prisca for a meal?

  Intercepting his gaze, Rufus cleared his throat and whispered something to his mother. She nodded once. “I will take you and Lollia to an alcove where you can eat in comfort,” she said to Prisca.

  “We have caused you trouble,” Prisca said softly. For a Gentile, she had good manners, Aquila would give her that.

  He watched as Mary accompanied the women to another room while the men took their seats on the couches that surrounded a table laden with cut fruits and a salad of mixed herbs. The delicate scents of lemon and mint intermingled with that of strawberries, making Aquila forget his censorious thoughts. A moment later, a servant arrived bearing a tray heaped with lamb stew and hot bread. The exquisite smell of fried onions, garlic, and rosemary made Aquila forget everything, save for the meal set before him.

  He was halfway through his first bowl when his uncle said, “Thank God I already ate a little before you arrived, or this young lout would have left me nothing.”

  Aquila looked around, finally becoming more aware of his surroundings than of the incredible sensations on his tongue. Noticing Mary’s lingering absence, he said, “Mary is not really going to eat with that Roman, is she?”

  Rufus’s brows lowered. “Why not?”

  “You jest. She is a Gentile! Unclean. Rufus, you know the Law. If Mary eats with her, she, too, will become unclean.”

  “Our Lord ate with tax collectors and unrepentant sinners. Surely a Roman is no worse. Should we expect those who hunger and thirst for God to follow our impossible laws, the weight of which our own ancestors could not bear, before we extend them a bit of hospitality?”

  Aquila almost choked. This was the kind of reasoning that had enraged his father and made him an enemy of the New Covenant. “That’s blasphemy.”

  Rufus sighed. “Rest easy, my young friend. For your sake, my mother will not allow a morsel to pass her hungry lips while she stays in Prisca’s company. But I tell you, I saw Peter himself break bread with Gentiles.”