by Tessa Afshar
The abrupt change of topic threw Aquila for a moment and he gaped. His quick mind made the connection fast enough, in spite of the turmoil in his heart. He rolled his eyes.
Rufus went on, undeterred. “She was a harlot. A woman besmirched. An enemy of our people. Yet the son of Nahshon, the leader of the tribe of Judah, married her. Chose her to be the mother of his son.”
“That was because she demonstrated her faith by risking her own neck to save our spies in Jericho,” Aquila said hotly. “It was a unique circumstance. An exception. You can’t expect me to pattern my life after an oddity in our history.”
“That oddity was in Yeshua’s lineage. Her presence there is no happenstance, Aquila. It is not an anomaly. It is a lesson of grace. A truth for all men and women to live by. Because Rahab did not remain a harlot. She repented and became a woman of God. And by that repentance and by that life of faith, she entered into the kingdom of God.
“Priscilla is such a woman. That makes her worthy in God’s eyes. And it certainly makes her worthy of you.” Rufus stretched his legs, taking up most of the room on the bench. “Whether you are worthy of her remains to be seen.”
Aquila sat stupefied, feeling as if Rufus had slapped him. He had been so focused on Priscilla’s transgression, he had forgotten all the reasons she had won his heart in the first place. She was no less faithful than Rahab in her care for God’s people. She loved the Lord with the same abandon as Rahab must have loved. She was kind, uncomplaining, forgiving. Her mind was brilliant, but she remained humble. She could make him laugh one minute and melt his heart the next.
He had tried to cram all that beauty into death’s sarcophagus, sealing it under the slab of her sin. If Rufus was right, then her faith and life of repentance had broken the seal on that slab. Christ had shattered it.
He shoved his fingers into his hair. Could he set aside her past? Touch her without remembering that someone else had touched her first?
Rufus bent toward him until his face filled Aquila’s vision. “Son, a marriage between you would be a marriage of equals. Christ follower to Christ follower. Lover of God to lover of God. Forgiveness to forgiveness. You are both clever and would not be content with less. You both know what it means to be rejected by your families. That wound has softened Priscilla’s heart. I worry that it might have hardened yours. Made you harsher in your judgments.
“Marriage to Priscilla could be a union of joy. But only you can make it so, Aquila. If you leave behind your condemnation of her past, then you could experience an uncommon marriage. A marriage worthy of the name of Christ, which you both bear.
“If you cannot forgive her transgression, then you have greater problems than a broken heart.” Rufus tapped Aquila’s arm with affection, rose nimbly, and departed as if he had not just delivered a blistering lesson. As if he had not turned Aquila’s whole life on its head.
Aquila walked away in a haze, barely taking note which way he went. Halfway across the Aemilius bridge he came to a stop and, gripping the stone’s edge with shaking hands, gazed into the river’s opaque waters. The previous week, the heavens had opened and poured down rain enough to swell the Tiber, making the waters roil and churn in dark eddies. He sympathized. His thoughts churned as violently.
Rufus’s voice reverberated in his mind. “That wound has softened Priscilla’s heart. I worry that it might have hardened yours. Made you harsher in your judgments.” Had he become harsh? In his quest to prove himself to his father, had he become implacable like the man he had never been able to truly please? His father had always expected more. A little better than Aquila could offer. A touch more success than he could deliver. Even before he had become a follower of the Way, his father had shown the hard side of his judgment to Aquila.
Had Aquila turned into that man, his eyes seeing every mar, critical of every imperfection?
He could forgive Priscilla in a detached, religious way. Or at least acknowledge that Jesus would wish to forgive her. But could he forgive her to such a degree that her past failings did not rob her of worth in his own sight? Make her lesser, somehow? Too damaged for him?
Rufus had said, “Whether you are worthy of her remains to be seen.” Those words had shaken Aquila. He had thought her culpable of the worst sin possible. But in God’s sight, was his own unbending condemnation just as grave a sin?
Equal in faith. Equal in sin.
Except for this: her sin had made her softer. More compassionate. Out of her past failures flowed an unending river of mercy. Grace for the broken. Had he not tasted of it himself when he had told her of his shame?
Her sin, once repented, had been transformed by God into something beautiful. It was, he realized, one of the things he loved about her—that deep-rooted compassion that seemed to accept everyone just as they were.
Several years before, Aquila had visited a glassmaker’s workshop. The master craftsman, dark skin glistening with sweat from his proximity to a blazing furnace, had begun with sand, which he had melted with a bit of salt. Then he had extracted the resultant material, still molten, and using a blowpipe, had inflated it into a delicate vase with exquisite walls you could glimpse the world through. What had begun as ordinary sand had, after passing through a conflagration and the ministrations of a master’s touch, turned into a splendid work of art.
In the hand of God, Priscilla had become like that vase. The impure sands of her past had been transformed into beauty. She was a new creation.
Aquila saw himself with new eyes and realized he had become like a man who chose to smash that vase into the ground, walking over the shattered pieces as if they had been returned to sand.
He had been a fool. He had rejected what God had redeemed. Changed.
Tears of regret burned his eyes and clogged his throat. Regret for having hurt this precious woman with the stone of his judgment.
A boulder pressed him down as he acknowledged the sobering reality of his own failure. Guilt that weighed a mountain. He poured out half-uttered words of repentance as he doubled over, gasping into the frothing river, until finally the weight of his sin started to glide, to move in slow increments, from him onto Christ’s shoulders. Whether he lingered there for hours or mere moments, he could never recall.
In time, he turned toward home, walking slowly at first and then running, long legs pumping, muscles contracting, joints pivoting as he wove through the crowds and spoke to God. He admitted his transgressions, holding nothing back, and felt a lightening of the bitterness he had been carrying inside since his proposal. He began to feel peaceful for the first time in weeks. Clear-headed.
By the time he walked into his chamber, he wore a grin the size of a Roman galley. And he knew what he had to do.
“Why are you in such good humor?” Benyamin asked.
Aquila tapped his uncle on the cheek. “You are a handsome old man, you know. I am off to the baths.”
He made his way to the Antonine baths, a short walk from home, and returned scrubbed, his hair trimmed neatly, his face cleanly shaven like a Roman gentleman. He still had a few pieces of luxurious clothing left from his days of living as the scion of a wealthy household. Grabbing a light linen tunic with thin purple embroidery, he topped it with a long cloak made of featherlight wool, dyed midnight blue, and added jeweled clasps to attach the cloak to his shoulders.
Benyamin whistled at the sight of him. “Where are you going, now? Visiting Claudius in his palace?”
“That’s tomorrow. Where is that agate ring from my grandfather?” He did not wear rings anymore, finding them a hindrance in his work. But for his purpose today, he wanted to look as impressive by Roman standards as he could.
“In your box.” Benyamin scratched his beard. “Do you have a fever?”
“A very high one.” Ferox followed him as he turned to leave. “No,” he said firmly to the dog. “You can’t come today. I have to do this by myself.”
As he stepped onto the narrow lane that led to the Via Appia, he noticed the smile
on his uncle’s face. It shone with the brilliance of the lampstand in the Campi synagogue.
“I wish to visit Prisca,” he said to the servant guarding the entrance of the house. Instead of welcoming him inside, the guard fetched the steward. The steward slipped out to the street and kept the gate firmly shut behind him.
“She does not receive uninvited guests,” the man said.
“I think you will find that she will receive me. Tell her Aquila is here.”
“Aquila who?”
Aquila narrowed his eyes. “Aquila, son of Philip of Pontus.”
“Never heard of him.”
Aquila laid a hand against the wall and leaned his face into the steward’s. “Call your master to the door. I will speak to him.”
The steward hesitated.
“Now! Fetch Volero Priscus at once,” Aquila growled. He would get nowhere if he could not even step over the threshold. The man drew a hasty step back, withdrew inside, and forgot to close the gate.
Fifteen
LOLLIA SCRAMBLED into Priscilla’s chamber, panting. “Come! Hurry!”
Priscilla placed the basket she had been weaving on the floor. “What is it?”
Lollia grabbed her hand and pulled. “Hurry, I say!”
Something of the woman’s urgency transferred into Priscilla and she jumped to her feet. “What has happened?”
“Aquila is here. Speaking to your brother.”
Priscilla’s blood ran cold. “No! No no no no no . . .” She drew no breath between the words as she rushed behind Lollia. This spelled disaster. It spelled catastrophe. It spelled bloodshed.
“Where are they?” she cried.
“By the gate.”
Priscilla picked up speed and whipped past Lollia. Halfway to the courtyard, she heard Aquila’s voice, clear and strong. “I have come to ask your sister to marry me.”
Someone must have hit her on the head with the fat end of a spear. She could not have heard rightly. Her legs froze, refusing to move.
“Who are you to make such a request?” Volero said, his voice pitched high with indignation.
“I beg your pardon, Volero Priscus. Did I sound like I was making a request? I was not. I was merely informing you to be polite.”
“How dare you? I will have you thrown out of my house this instant.”
“With pleasure. This is not a place I care to linger. Call Priscilla and we will leave you in peace.”
“I do not bestow my permission! She is not allowed to marry anyone. I forbid it. That cow has no right to—” Volero’s voice ended in an abrupt squeak.
“Watch your tongue when you speak of your sister,” Aquila said so softly that Priscilla had to hold her breath to hear him. “There is no one on this earth I treasure more, and if you get out of my way, I intend to tell her so myself.”
Priscilla clapped her hands over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.
The sounds of a scuffle filled the courtyard. “Priscilla!” Aquila shouted above the din. “Priscilla!”
“Go!” Lollia cried, shoving her forward.
Priscilla came to herself. Galvanized by the urgency in Aquila’s voice, she sprinted forward. He was struggling against two of Volero’s servants, who between them had, despite their prodigious size, not yet managed to secure him.
“Aquila!” she cried.
As if the sight of her gave him renewed strength, Aquila wrenched hard, slithering out of the arms that seized him, leaving behind his cloak.
He fell to his knees before her. “Priscilla, I have been a fool, and I am more contrite than I can say. No time for long speeches. I love you! Please, marry me. Be my wife. And say yes quickly before your brother sets his men upon me again.”
A blubbering sound issued from her throat. “Yes!” she gasped, hardly able to believe the unreal scene unfolding before her.
Aquila rose to his feet and enfolded her hand in his. “I will tell you how happy you have made me as soon as we are away from this place.”
“I forbid this lunacy,” Volero barked. “I will not have this . . . person . . . for a brother-in-law.”
“Dear Volero, you need not worry. You never had me for a sister. Not truly. By that same token, you shall not have Aquila for a brother-in-law. I, however, will have him for my husband.”
Aquila beamed like a torch.
Volero raised a hand of command. Before he could order his servants to detain them, Priscilla laid her fingertips on his shoulder. “Volero, Volero. You will do no good here. You know Father gave me my emancipation before he died. The law has bound your hands and freed mine. Come. Let us part as friends.”
Volero snarled. “Go, then, and never return. I don’t want to see your face again. It is good to be rid of you at last. Leave and take nothing.”
Aquila took her hand. “We don’t need anything from him. Come.”
Priscilla gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze but refused to budge. “Our father gave Lollia to me. She is no more yours than I am. She will come with us. And I will take my mother’s belongings, which Father left to me. There are no treasures there worthy of your concern, Volero. But they matter to me. What is mine, I will keep.”
He gave her a black look. “What do I care? Take your rubbish.” He motioned to his servants, and they dispersed.
“You will ever be in my heart, Volero,” she said before he could turn away. “My only brother. I love you more than you know. If ever you need me, send to Senator Pudens, and he will know how to find me.”
“Need you?” Volero spat. “I would sooner need a rat.”
They walked to the Via Appia in a daze. “I can’t believe you actually came for me,” Priscilla said.
She felt stunned. The same man who had spurned her, shunned her, avoided her, had now by some miracle come to claim her. He had pursued her into the lion’s den of her brother’s house and fallen at her feet. This felt like a dream. Any moment now she would wake in her narrow bed and find herself alone.
Aquila, who held her bundle under one arm and her hand in a secure grip, tightened his hold. “I should have come sooner. I have so many pardons to ask of you, my love.”
Mindful of Lollia strolling alongside them, her face nearly split with a satisfied smile, Priscilla swallowed the questions that bubbled out of her.
Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “I have no place to live.”
“Rufus and Mary will no doubt welcome you and Lollia into their home.” He gave her a sidelong look that made her stomach flutter. “It won’t be for long,” he said with confidence. “We will be married soon.”
She hid a smile. “It will be weeks and weeks. I have to weave my wedding tunic by my own hand according to Roman tradition, and I am a very slow weaver.”
“Two weeks.”
She shook her head. “Only if you want to see your bride in a short tunic that does not cover her knees.”
Priscilla’s bundle slipped from under Aquila’s arm and crashed to the ground. A slow flush spread over his cheeks as he bent to retrieve it. “I could live with that,” he said when he straightened.
She choked and neither of them said another word until they reached his lodgings.
“Uncle, would you like to take Lollia to visit Mary?” Aquila said as soon as they entered.
Benyamin sprang to his feet, dropping the tent he had been stitching, his head swiveling from Aquila to Priscilla.
Lollia sat on the stool he had just vacated and puffed out her cheeks. “I only just arrived. I am too old to go traipsing around again before I have had a very long rest.”
Benyamin cleared his throat. “I will give you a ride in the cart, Lollia. You won’t have to take a step.”
She came to her feet. “Fine. But I have waited a long time for this. It is cruel to make me miss it.”
“Uncle, please tell Mary that Priscilla and I will come later,” Aquila added, following behind them. “Lollia will explain.”
“Explain what? I am missing all the good bits.”
>
Priscilla chuckled. “Go on with you.”
Aquila shut and barred the door, ensuring no customers would be able to wander in. Without a word, he hauled Priscilla into his arms and held her for a long, aching moment. “I thought we would never be alone.”
“What made you come for me?” Her face was half-buried against his chest.
He took a short step away, his hands lingering on her arms. “I have been in misery. I thought I could walk away from you. But every day, I found that I longed for you more than before.” He drew her to sit next to him on the cushions that lined the wall.
“You never showed it.” She could not keep a note of accusation from seeping into her voice.
“I was determined to overcome my feelings. I thought Benyamin might cast me out of this house, I had grown so ill-tempered. Then Rufus, may the Lord bless him, censured me and brought me back to my senses.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t remember all his words. But I do know that by the time he finished, I realized I had been the world’s greatest idiot.” He took her hand into his. “Priscilla, you are everything I want. Kind, gentle, loyal, trustworthy, generous. Forgive me, love. I allowed the past to blind me to who you truly are.”
She stared at her feet. Though overwhelmed with joy, part of her could not truly trust the transformation in Aquila’s feelings. “You seem a changed man.”
He caressed her palm with his thumb. “Seeing you at Elizabeth’s insula, I felt again that odd sense of belonging I only have with you. As if I have come home. All the while,” he added, his voice apologetic, “in the background of my heart, a storm of judgment brewed, pointing fingers. But the winds and waves of it could not shake this certainty: I am yours and you are mine. Then Rufus showed me how appalling my rejection of you truly was.” He shook his head in self-disgust.
He grinned, trying to lighten the heaviness that lay between them. “To the man who abused you I owe perhaps the greatest debt.”
“To . . . Appius?” she stuttered.
