by Tessa Afshar
To her utter astonishment, Mary knelt near her and drew her into her arms, her embrace soft, accepting. She stroked her hair, each caress an act of grace. “My poor girl. What you must have endured.”
Priscilla sat like a stiff statue under the ministrations of those hands, utterly stunned. Had Mary not heard what she had said?
Benyamin looked like he was trying hard not to weep. “I am sorry, child. My nephew left, I am thinking, after he heard that tale?” He took his long beard into his fist, like a talisman that might offer a measure of reassurance. “He will need time.”
Priscilla heaved in a breath and tried to make her voice steady. “Do you want me to leave your house and never return?” She directed the question to Rufus.
“Leave my house?” he rumbled. “I want you to come more often! The courage you lacked to speak to your brother, you have now gained with the help of the Holy Spirit. It is no small thing to entrust that part of your life to the three of us. I am honored that you did.”
Thunderstruck, Priscilla slumped against the wall, openmouthed. “Honored?”
“You could have kept your secret to yourself. Aquila would never have betrayed you.”
“Aquila is disgusted with me, and he has every right! I do not understand why you do not condemn me.”
“Did I not tell you, at your baptism, that Yeshua has washed you clean? Made you pure? Set to right your broken past?”
“But this! This is no small transgression.”
“And he is no small God. Listen, child. You are choosing to see your whole life through the lens of your gravest mistake. To measure yourself by that sin. You have reduced yourself to this one misdeed.” Rufus had an odd way of weaving both compassion and strength into the way he gazed at her, his black eyes unwavering.
Priscilla buried her face in her hands, hiding from that gaze.
“Those of us who belong to the Way have a different measure,” he said. “We measure our past, and our future, by the Cross. Everything passes through that river of grace. It passes through Yeshua crying, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ It passes through the crown of thorns, the welts of whips, the scars of nails. Our lives, our mistakes, our follies, our sins pass through him and are returned to us new.” He placed gentle fingers under Priscilla’s chin and raised it. “Clean. That is the measure of who you are now. To deny it is to deny Christ.”
Priscilla gaped at him, confounded. She had heard the message of forgiveness before. Heard it a hundred different ways. Somehow, that gift seemed to apply to everyone except her. But as Rufus spoke, it occurred to her that God had meant this forgiveness for her.
She had laid bare before Rufus the depth of her sin. Instead of being repulsed, he settled next to her, his face a mirror of mercy. In that face, she thought she found a reflection of the Christ himself. This was how he looked at her.
“My father carried Yeshua’s cross for him, you know. The whips had shredded his back, and he had grown too weak to bear the weight of it himself. Father had been standing on the side of the street, watching the procession to Golgotha, when the soldiers grabbed him and put the crossbeam on his back instead.
“My father used to say that he was never the same man, after. Because for one infinitesimal moment, he came closer to Yeshua than anyone in that crowd. Close enough to touch him. To have his blood stain his skin. To gaze into his eyes.
“He said he had never known love until that moment, when the Messiah looked upon him. And he knew without a single word passing between them, that it was for him that this man suffered.
“And for you, Priscilla. Give him your past. This is the day of new beginnings.”
For the first time since she had lost her babe, Priscilla experienced the balm of mercy. Tasted the elixir of grace. The costly grace of the Cross, which had the power to refashion worlds and more than enough power to lap up the sins of her youth. In the recesses of her mind, she saw a shadowy vision of Yeshua standing before her, his holy brow bloodied by a barbed crown, offering her a forgiveness she had never dared hope for.
Remaining hidden behind the cover of a jutting wall, Aquila observed the two women emerge from the house. He followed them with his eyes until he became certain that they would not notice him shadowing their steps before he slipped into the street. They plodded in silence, their feet swallowing the pavement with rapid, purposeful strides.
Neither Rufus nor his manservant were available to keep an eye on Priscilla today, and Uncle Benyamin had insisted on the need to complete a tent. Which left only Aquila.
In the first days following his painful proposal, he had stewed with an unreasoning outrage, as if Priscilla had betrayed him somehow. As if her seedy affair had not taken place four years before he had ever laid eyes on her.
That outrage had dissipated, leaving behind an occasional spark of lukewarm anger. Mostly what he felt now was choking disappointment, coupled with a leaden sorrow that clung to him night and day. The disappointment simmered hot, erupting into resentment when he remembered how thoroughly he had trusted her. And how she had broken that trust long before they even met.
And yet here he found himself shadowing her steps, not letting her out of his sight. He scowled and called himself a few names, none of them complimentary. But he did not stop his pursuit. Aquila could not dispel the notion that some dark force intended Priscilla harm. In truth, though her mere presence pained him, he could not bear the thought of her being hurt.
So much for being free of her.
Bile swished in his gut as Aquila kept her in his sight, her bright hair an easy beacon to track. His steps never slowed. Like a wrathful angel, he watched over her, even as he swallowed the bitter taste of broken hopes.
“What do you have in there?” Pudentiana asked as Priscilla placed her basket on the floor of her chamber.
“I am visiting a young widow and her baby boy after I leave your house. They have very little and sometimes go hungry.” She had finished weaving the basket the night before and stuffed it with a wide array of gifts, which she had come upon unexpectedly. Her sister-in-law had intended to discard a bundle of old sheets and blankets. Priscilla had gathered them and, after washing and carefully mending several holes, had put the lot in the basket, along with a few apples and three pale carrots. She lifted the corner of the blanket covering the basket and showed Pudentiana its contents.
Pudentiana peered into the basket for a moment. “Wait here!” she said, then rushed out of the room. When she returned, she was carrying a tray heaped with fruits, cheese, a sack of almonds, and three bulky loaves of bread which the Romans called quadratus because it was scored into eight pieces using four slashes of a knife before being baked.
Priscilla giggled. “It’s good you are tall or you would not be able to see over that tower.”
“This is for your widow.”
“Oh, Pudentiana, you are generous! Elizabeth will be dumbstruck to receive this food, though I cannot take it all. Lollia refuses to admit it, but she is no longer able to carry a heavy load, and this is too much for me alone.”
Pudentiana set the tray on a marble table. “Then I shall come with you.” She bit her lip. “Unless Elizabeth would be offended by my presence.”
“I am certain she would welcome you. Your mother, however, may be harder to convince. Elizabeth lives in Trastevere.”
“Well, we will just have to assure her that Trastevere is as safe as the Esquiline hills these days.”
Priscilla laughed. “There are not enough words in Latin to convince your mother of such an outrageous claim.”
To their delight, Sabinella, sensing her daughter’s determination, consented to the arrangement so long as they agreed to take along two muscular manservants as escorts into Trastevere. Priscilla approved heartily of the plan. It meant the men could carry the heavy baskets. Besides, since the strange incident at the Forum, and Aquila’s insistence that someone was plotting her demise, she grew anxious walking about the streets of Rome
without masculine accompaniment. Not that she believed Aquila’s outrageous hypothesis. No one could possibly want to go to the trouble of killing her. She had neither money nor influence. Having almost been stabbed in broad daylight, however, had taught her caution.
The women sauntered at a leisurely pace ahead of the guards, walking toward the Aemilius bridge. “Your mother assures me she feels well. But how is she truly?” Priscilla asked her friend.
Pudentiana winced. “She grows weaker every day. Father is wild with anxiety. She refuses to see any physicians, and she will not tolerate mention of new potions. I think she has given up.”
They walked in heavy silence the rest of the way. Priscilla grew even more convinced that they had to pray for Sabinella. How was she to sway the older woman from her staunch refusal to receive strangers into her home?
Lollia, who had helped tend to the baby for over a week and grown fond of the child, rushed to relieve Elizabeth of the cooing boy the moment they stepped over the threshold. Priscilla set down her bundle and introduced Pudentiana to their hostess.
“Welcome.” Elizabeth wiped her hands on the side of her tunic and then froze as she took in the overflowing baskets. “All this for me?”
“You can thank Pudentiana for that.”
Elizabeth picked up the bag of nuts and a fat cucumber and inhaled the scent of the still-warm quadratus. Her eyes welled up. “So much! So much!”
Pudentiana, who had probably never stepped into such an impoverished insula, with its chipped roof tiles and damp walls, gulped a breath and, for the first time since Priscilla had met her, seemed lost for words.
Lollia dumped the baby into the girl’s long arms. “He is too skinny. Thanks to you, he is going to gain a bit of flesh.”
Pudentiana instinctively wrapped the boy in a protective embrace. He grinned at her, displaying the entire bank of his gums and five tiny white teeth. Charmed, she sank to the floor, the babe on her lap, trying to tease another smile out of him.
The sound of footsteps outside made Priscilla turn to the door. She rushed forward when she spied Mary, a fluff of white hair escaping from under her palla, her mouth widening with surprised delight at the sight of Priscilla. Before she could greet her friend, Priscilla skidded to a stop when she saw who stood behind Mary, carrying a wide basket.
Aquila.
His face grew still when he spotted her. Whatever emotions welled up in him at the sight of her, he covered quickly under a veil of civility. She had seen him in the synagogue over the past few weeks, of course, sitting on the far side of the assembly hall. They had avoided each other with scrupulous care, slithering in the opposite direction every time they came near one another.
Since the day of Aquila’s ill-fated proposal, she had refused Mary’s invitations for lunch at her house, knowing her presence would be a painful intrusion on Aquila. This was the first time they had found themselves in close quarters since that day.
Pudentiana, unaware of the underlying tensions between them, lifted an arm in greeting. “Aquila, is it not? We do so enjoy your awning. My father has determined to hire you to make an identical one for the other side of the garden.”
Aquila bent his head in acknowledgment. “I shall look forward to the senator’s visit.”
Priscilla introduced Mary to her friend. For a few moments, they were lost in Elizabeth’s joy as she went from basket to basket, admiring their contents with tearful gratitude.
“I hope you are all hungry. I have brought enough fig rolls to feed a village in Gaul,” Mary said. “Shall we pray before we eat?” she suggested and before anyone had time to respond, simply began. After the traditional blessing of the bread and words of thanksgiving, the prayer turned into a heartfelt intercession for Elizabeth and her babe. She then asked God to bestow his provision and favor on those in the chamber, naming each individually.
As the prayer lengthened, Priscilla found herself distracted by the many currents flowing through the sparse room: Pudentiana’s unblinking scrutiny, Elizabeth’s disbelieving gratitude, the baby’s childish glee, Mary’s rolling waves of faith.
Aquila prayed next, his deep voice at once calm and powerful. To her surprise, he chose to intercede for Pudens and his family. As often with Aquila, his prayers emerged short, simple, and gripping. Pudentiana’s eyes were swimming by the time he finished.
For a moment, Priscilla was caught again in that extraordinary web that made her feel attached to Aquila, somehow connected as if she could hear his thoughts. His eyes turned to her and lingered. She sensed a wave of anguish pass through him, similar to the anguish she herself felt. Then the thread was broken; he crossed his arms and leaned away.
She knew if not for his obligation to see Mary home safely, he would have left the place immediately. She did for him what he could not do for himself. She signaled Pudentiana and they took their leave.
The young woman was full of questions on the way home. Could she return to see Elizabeth and the baby? Could she accompany Priscilla to visit others who needed help? Did her friends always pray like that? And then, just as Priscilla was asking God why he had allowed her to run into Aquila, opening the wound of his rejection afresh, the girl said, “Would Aquila pray like that for my mother, do you think?”
“Oh, Pudentiana, I am sure he would. All my friends from the synagogue would be willing to intercede for her. Indeed, I offered as much to your mother. Though she refused me, she may not refuse you. We will come to pray for her as soon as you can convince her.”
Pudentiana chewed the corner of her lip. “She can be stubborn.”
“She can. But after today, I am thinking she is no match for you. I never thought she would allow you to come to Trastevere. Yet here we are.”
Pudentiana gazed ahead thoughtfully. “It may take a little time. I think I can wear her down, though.”
Priscilla laughed. “You are the woman to do it.”
Fourteen
AQUILA GRITTED HIS TEETH. It was hard enough to see her in the synagogue week after week. To force himself to ignore her. To avoid thinking of her. But in all the great expanse that was Rome, with its one million inhabitants and coiling warren of streets, God had to lead him into the one house where she would be. He wanted to punch a wall.
Seeing her in Elizabeth’s tiny room, surrounded by the evidence of her generosity and kindness, he could almost forget her past. That tempting face with its soft lips could cause him to set aside, once and for all, the words that still haunted him. “You deserve a pure woman.”
He growled. Mary, too wise to remark on his obvious foul temper went to fetch a batch of sweet cakes for Benyamin. Aquila clenched his fists. He felt at war with his own heart and with heaven.
For a moment in that damp insula, Priscilla had wormed her way into his soul, and he had felt that familiar knowledge as if he had known her all his life. As if she belonged with him.
Weeks had gone by since that disastrous day when she had revealed her awful story. He should have taken a giant step away from her and left her in the hands of God. He should have recovered his senses by now. Instead, he felt like he had lost a treasure he had not known he possessed.
Rufus emerged from one of the chambers above and headed directly for him. “Is all well, Aquila?”
Aquila’s scowl deepened. “Of course. What could be wrong?”
“I ask because—” he waved his fingers in the air—“your face looks like you just swallowed a beehive.”
Aquila shrugged. “I am merely waiting for Mary.”
“My mother said you ran into Priscilla.”
“Hmmm.”
“How did she seem? She has not been to our home for many weeks. I wonder why that might be.”
Aquila shrugged again and tightened his arms about his chest. “How should I know?”
“I thought that perhaps it had to do with your proposal.”
Aquila choked. “My proposal?”
Rufus nodded enthusiastically. “You remember? When you asked
her to wed you? Here, in the courtyard.”
“You know?” Aquila pressed the bridge of his nose. What had possessed the woman to publicly announce what had been a private matter between the two of them?
“Not because she divulged it, if that’s what you are thinking. Benyamin guessed as much and told us. Only, the matter did not seem to go as we had all hoped.”
“Nor I,” Aquila could not resist blurting sourly.
“Because of her past? Her sin?”
“What?” He straightened slowly and gaped at Rufus. “You know about that, too?”
“Oh yes. She told us everything.”
“Everything?” Aquila rested his shoulder on the doorframe once more. “She is more brazen than I realized.”
Rufus’s voice hardened. “She has more humility than you assumed. She told us her story because she did not want to presume on our hospitality. Not without us knowing the worst about her. It was no easy thing, that confession, Aquila. As you know, revealing our hearts to one another can be brutally hard.”
Aquila felt himself flush. “At least you understand why I avoid her.”
“I do not.”
“How can you say that?” Aquila barked. “Knowing what she has done? Intended to do? I loved her! As you obviously know, I had resolved to bind my life to hers. Am I to pretend all is well now?”
Rufus laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come. Walk with me a little way.” Aquila felt the warmth of that hand seep through him, calming him. He followed Rufus’s footsteps and allowed himself to be drawn down on the bench where he had proposed to Priscilla. The memory of it shattered his veneer of calm. He felt his throat clench.
“Do you love her still?” Rufus asked, his voice gentle, as if that question did not cut in a hundred different ways.
Aquila wanted to deny it. But he could not lie. “I won’t forever,” he said. “I will overcome this unwise attachment.”
“Why is it unwise?” He held up his hand in a gesture of peace before Aquila could explode into a long list of objections. “Have you heard of Rahab?”
