Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

She tried to settle her mind and focus on the worship. One of the Scriptures assigned for the day was from a prophet named Hosea. The words had a strange effect on her, gathering her scattered thoughts. The reader, a baker with a round belly and a sonorous voice, read the words first in Hebrew, then Greek:

  “Therefore, behold, I will allure her,

  and bring her into the wilderness,

  and speak tenderly to her.

  And there I will give her her vineyards

  and make the Valley of Achor a door of hope.”

  Priscilla listened carefully, feeling confused. What was the Valley of Achor? What was this door of hope? The reader continued for a few more verses, the bejeweled roll of Scripture open before him, until he ended with

  “And I will have mercy on No Mercy,

  and I will say to Not My People, ‘You are my people’;

  and he shall say, ‘You are my God.’”

  Priscilla strained forward. What had he said? That God would say to those who were not his people that they were his people? Was that a promise for someone like her? A promise that by some means she could be counted as one who truly belonged to the Lord? Frustrated, she leaned back. Who could answer the questions that burst from her with the force of a geyser?

  Her gaze fell on Rufus. With sudden conviction she realized he could solve these puzzles. Rufus would know the meaning of these passages. Mary had provided the perfect opportunity by inviting her to their home. All she had to do was accept the invitation. She could not allow her feelings for Aquila to rob her of this chance.

  She expected to be settled in Mary’s diminutive alcove again, eating separately from the rest. To her astonishment, they led her to the dining room and served her food alongside everyone else. She stared at her steaming bowl with dismay. “Will I not make you unclean?”

  She was surprised that Aquila, who reposed quietly on the couch across from her, was the one to answer. “Among our people, there was a woman named Ruth, a Moabite who married a man of Bethlehem. My uncle reminded me that although an outsider, Ruth is in the lineage of our most revered king. I have noticed something about you, Priscilla, daughter of Priscus. Like Ruth, you are godly.” The gray irises flared with a spark of emotion Priscilla could not name. “Like Ruth, you belong at this table,” he said. “I am only sorry I did not recognize it sooner.”

  Priscilla felt her throat tighten. “You belong at this table.” The words wound their way into a deep, dry well within her; they flowed into that empty, dark place, and like a balm, they soothed the parched ache in it. Her eyes filled and she dropped her head, trying to hide her tears.

  As if sensing that she needed time to pull herself together, Rufus prayed a long blessing over the food.

  “May I ask a question?” she said after they had eaten most of their stew and her tears had passed. “Today’s reading from Hosea—what did it mean?”

  Rufus set his bowl aside and rubbed his hands together. “I was hoping you would ask! The Valley of Achor means ‘the valley of trouble.’ Our people’s faith has proven inconsistent through the ages. We slip away from the Lord. Frequently. And our wanderings bring us much trouble.”

  Priscilla gave a tight smile. “I know how wandering from the right path can have that effect.”

  The man of Cyrene gave a rueful smile. “God tells his people that he can turn that place of suffering—that valley of trouble—into a door of hope.”

  “Hope?”

  “It is hard to put to words. Trouble itself can be transformed, you see, in the hands of God. Instead of a place of destruction, pain and heartache can lead to hope.”

  Priscilla leaned back. “I myself find that my past troubles lead only to regret.”

  Aquila looked at her. She was shaken to see a pool of compassion in that gaze. “I understand,” he said. “The past has a way of sneaking up on the present, making it bitter with old condemnations. When you are alone, it is only the voice of regret that echoes in your heart.” He took a deep breath. “But the Lord has not left us alone. He has not abandoned us to our regrets. He has offered us a gate to life, a door of hope.

  “And that door . . . is a man.”

  Seven

  PRISCILLA WALKED alongside Aquila in silence. He had insisted on accompanying her and Lollia home again. Ferox ran to and fro between them, acting as if they were his sheep to herd and protect.

  She was grateful for Aquila’s silence. Her head was too full of all she had heard that afternoon. “Why do they never speak of Yeshua at the synagogue?” she said in a sudden burst of realization. “It is the first time I have heard of him.”

  Aquila took a deep breath as if preparing for something unpleasant. “My people long for a promised Messiah. A king like David who will free us from our enemies.”

  “Rome, you mean?”

  Aquila shrugged. “Now it is Rome. Centuries ago it was Greece. Down the coils of time, who knows what other master we will long to overthrow. The point is that God promised us a Savior.

  “But Yeshua did not come as a potentate or a military general. He did not offer to overthrow Rome. Instead, he offered to overcome sin. He is a spiritual king, not a lord of war.”

  Priscilla digested his words. “Your people don’t accept him as the promised Messiah?”

  “Some do. Many don’t. There has been a growing division among the Jews over the matter, fomenting violence. We have not spoken of Yeshua openly to the synagogue at Campi, hoping to avoid conflict.”

  “Surely you will have to speak of him if he is the Savior?”

  “We will bear witness to him at the right time, I promise. For now, we share our news with a select few. Those we feel God has already prepared.”

  Priscilla’s eyes widened. “Like me?”

  “Like you.”

  For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Had God chosen her in some way? Prepared her without her knowing? Cared enough to set his gaze on her?

  Distracted by her incomprehensible thoughts, her feet lagged, and she fell several steps behind everyone else.

  Peripherally, she became aware of the rattle of a cart behind her and moved away from the road, leaving a wide berth for it to pass. Without warning, Ferox began to bark ferociously, doubling back to her. Before she could stop him, he plowed into her with the full force of his body, knocking her sideways into the wall that ran along the edge of the road.

  She collapsed against the wide bricks. Only then did she become aware of the cart. It had swerved toward her, its massive wheels clattering loudly in her ears. She gasped and pressed herself against the wall. She heard Aquila shout and Lollia scream with terror.

  The wheels rolled by, a finger’s breadth from her torso, barely missing her. Ferox ran after the cart for a few steps, barking wildly, before returning to sit by her like a sentinel. Aquila knelt on her other side, his face drained of color. “Are you injured?”

  She shook her head. “Just dusty.”

  Aquila placed a gentle hand behind her shoulders and helped her sit up. Against her flesh, she could feel his fingers trembling.

  “My poor girl! I thought you would be crushed before my eyes,” Lollia stammered, trying not to cry.

  Priscilla gave her a reassuring pat. “I gave you a bad scare, Lollia. I am sorry.” She turned to Ferox, who remained still as a statue, his gaze trained on her. “I take back every disparaging remark I ever made against you,” she said weakly. “You saved my life.”

  Aquila shook his head. “I saw the cart too late. The driver must have been swilling wine with a bucket. He veered right into you.”

  Priscilla wiped her grimy hands against her tunic. “I am still in one piece, I think.”

  “Rest a moment before trying to rise,” Aquila said.

  “I am well. Truly.” She leaned her weight into her palm to gain leverage, half rising. A small gasp escaped her as pain shot up her wrist. Instinctively, she cradled the injured limb against her chest.

  “You are hurt! Let me see.”

  He
r heart did a small flip as Aquila extended her hand softly into his. His examination was at once delicate and thorough as he pressed careful fingers against her palm and wrist, turning it gently one way, then another. “You will have a good bruise. But I don’t think it is broken. Just sprained. You may want to bind it up when you arrive home.”

  Priscilla reclaimed her wrist and managed to rise to her feet. “Ferox certainly redeemed himself. He may have thrown me into a rosebush, but he more than made up for it today. Although, he did choose to save me by barreling me into a wall. I see a pattern emerging.”

  “Yes. One of you falling on your head all the time.” Aquila stepped into the road and craned his neck looking for a sign of the cart and finding none. “Odd how the driver had his hood up in this heat. He never even stopped to see if you were hurt after he mowed you down.”

  She supposed she should be shaken by how close she had come to dying. Instead, she found herself more distracted by the way Aquila had held her hand, as if she were a piece of spun glass.

  Aquila found himself yearning for the Sabbath to come. He wanted to see Priscilla again. He told himself he merely needed to ensure she had recovered from her narrow escape. But he was unsettled by the way his thoughts continued to return to her, caught off guard by the single-mindedness of their direction.

  Frustrated that he could not simply walk to her home and inquire after her, he spent the week punching tiny holes in leather using an awl, then slipping his needle through before the holes could close. This was a craft of skill rather than strength, and his long experience with it allowed him to complete the task even though his mind wandered elsewhere most of the time.

  He considered Priscilla’s habit of referring to the villa in Pincio as her brother’s house. Not hers. Not home. From what he had seen, the villa, unlike her clothing, was maintained with dignified care. Nothing about that house suggested poverty.

  Yet Priscilla’s hand, when he had held it in his own, had been callused, its skin roughened by labor. Manual labor, unlike anything someone of her station should be accustomed to doing. Why would the resident of such a house work with her hands?

  He tried not to think about how right it had felt to hold that hand. How hard to let go of it. A low grunt of frustration escaped him. He was losing his mind, regressing to boyhood.

  Once again, he forced his thoughts to return to the mystery of her circumstances. After the accident, he had lingered a good while near the top of the hill to ensure that Priscilla arrived home without further misadventure. As he had waited, an expensive open carriage had exited the back of the house, bearing a fashionable man and woman attired in splendid silks and linens, their bejeweled knuckles and arms shimmering in the sun. He had heard a servant call the man master.

  Which made him Priscilla’s brother. If so, then how had she come to live in such an impoverished state? The disparity in their situations perplexed him. What brother would allow his own sibling to be so reduced in circumstances when he clearly had the means to help?

  He thought of his own brother and his objections plummeted into an ironic heap.

  When the Sabbath finally arrived, he was washed and ready to leave the house long before sunrise. He would have been the first person to arrive at the synagogue if his uncle had not delayed him.

  “What’s your hurry?” Benyamin said, dipping bread into his watered wine. “It will be another late lunch, you mark my words. Mary will send us off on an errand of mercy. Best get some food inside you.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you feeling sick? I myself did not sleep well last night.”

  Aquila shoved a hand through his hair. “I slept enough. Have you finished yet?”

  When they arrived at the synagogue, his eyes immediately sought the back row. He exhaled and felt his shoulders ease for the first time in seven days.

  She was there.

  “How is your wrist?” he asked.

  “Good as new.” She held up her arm, which, except for a few bruises, seemed to be in working order. “Thank you again for helping me. I brought my brave hero a gift.” She smiled.

  For the fraction of a moment, Aquila assumed she meant him. Delight blazed through him. “You did?”

  Then she bent to grab a basket into which she had stuffed several packets wrapped in cloth. One was long with knobs at both ends. “For Ferox.”

  “Ferox!” He choked. “Let me guess,” he added, trying to disguise his disappointment. “You bought him a book. In Greek.”

  She grinned. “He is clever enough to read one. But I thought he might prefer a bone.”

  “He will be your undying friend for life.”

  “Until he decides to pitch me into a bush again.”

  Mary joined them, carrying a large basket. “Elizabeth was up all night. Her baby is teething. I have put together a basket of food and necessities. Will you come with me, Priscilla?”

  Aquila reached for the basket, relieving Mary of the weight. “Who is Elizabeth?”

  “A young widow. Her husband was killed in a shipwreck off the coast of Malta several months ago. She was pregnant at the time. Her son is eight months old now, and it is hard for her to work with such a young one.”

  “I would be happy to come with you,” Priscilla said. “I have brought a little wine and bread today. I even have a honey cake.”

  “And I volunteer myself as the mule. That basket weighs as much as a block of Roman concrete.” Aquila hefted Mary’s basket.

  “So long as you don’t lighten it by eating what’s inside.”

  “Only a few bites. Consider it transportation tax.”

  Mary wagged a finger at him, though she left the basket in his care when she went to join a group of women on the opposite side of the room.

  After the services concluded, Benyamin went with Rufus to his house while the rest of them visited the young widow, who also lived in Trastevere. To Aquila’s disappointment and relief, Priscilla walked alongside Mary, Ferox sticking close to her, while he and Lollia followed behind.

  “Does your mistress always visit the poor?” he asked.

  “Always. She does not have much. The wine she carries? She drank none all week so that she could save her portion for someone in need. The bread, also, came from her own plate.”

  Aquila was struck speechless for a moment. She went hungry for the sake of a people she hardly knew. “Why? Why would she do that for Jews?”

  Lollia raised an eyebrow. “Can you not guess? She loves the Lord. So she loves what he loves. His people.”

  Aquila rubbed his temple. His uncle had compared Priscilla to Ruth. Now he saw why. She had the same tender heart that had driven Ruth from her own homeland in order to remain with Naomi. “Your people shall be my people,” Ruth had promised her grieving mother-in-law. It seemed that Priscilla had made the same promise to God. His people had become her people.

  He felt slightly queasy at the thought of his superior attitude toward her. He had judged her a little beneath him because she was not a daughter of Abraham. Yet he could not remember ever going hungry so that someone less fortunate than himself should eat. Jesus had loved the poor. Loved them with the same selflessness he saw in Priscilla.

  What would such a woman become with Christ by her side, his Spirit welling up within her?

  “Why is she poor, when her brother appears so wealthy?” he asked Lollia.

  Lollia considered for a moment. “That is a question for her to answer. I have already said too much.”

  They walked through a tightly packed neighborhood, cramped with multistory tenement houses. Aquila studied a tall building to his right and counted quickly. Six stories tall, sitting cheek by jowl with another building of five stories.

  They were called insulae—Rome’s idea of apartments. Their construction was remarkably lightweight given their impressive height and width. The taller building seemed to be supported by long, thin wooden posts, hardly sturdier than a shepherd’s staff.

  It was w
ell known that one passed under such apartments at one’s own risk. The residents were supposed to carry their waste out of the building and dispose of it appropriately. More often than not, they opted to throw it out of their narrow windows. Usually without bothering to see if some innocent happened to be walking below. No wonder there were so many bathhouses in Rome.

  Mary led them to a five-story insula. Elizabeth’s tiny apartment shared the top floor with two other residences. Before entering the building, Aquila had noticed that the top floor was shielded from the rain by nothing more than roofing tiles. A couple of cooing pigeons were walking on those tiles, making them wobble. Inside Elizabeth’s apartment, he could hear every sound as the birds roamed overhead. On a rainy night, Elizabeth would need several large vessels to catch the excess water that would drain into her home through the flimsy roof.

  How did the young widow manage daily life without running water or access to outdoor light in her apartment? He could not imagine the noise, trapped smells, and lack of privacy, or the many trips to collect water from the public fountains.

  A frazzled Elizabeth bid them to sit, while bouncing a wailing baby in her arms. “He has a fever,” she said, her eyes awash in tears. “He hasn’t slept all night.”

  Mary took the babe into her arms and laid an experienced hand against the child’s cheek. “This is no teething fever. He burns too hot. How long has he been feverish?”

  “Two days. I did not know what to do.” Elizabeth wiped tears from blotchy cheeks.

  “There, now. I am here. You are not alone anymore. You two—” she pointed to Priscilla and Aquila—“tell Rufus we need a physician. Lollia can remain and help me.”

  Aquila, happy to be given a useful task, nodded. “Come, Priscilla.” In the urgency of the moment, the familiar name sprang from his lips without thought.

  They sped to Rufus’s house, Aquila adjusting his speed to Priscilla’s smaller steps, while Ferox trotted ahead of them.

  “There is a Greek physician who lives in this neighborhood,” Rufus said when they reached him. “I’ve heard he is held in high esteem. I will fetch him.”