Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  “If he had not been such a dolt, he would have married you. And then where would I be?”

  “Don’t sweep my sin under a carpet of jests. It goes too deep. If we do not settle it, it will always come between us. I know you abhor what I did,” Priscilla said, trying to keep her voice even. This had been why she had once resolved never to marry. She knew that regardless of anyone’s good intentions, the past could always spread like rot into the beams of the present and destroy it.

  “Priscilla. My Priscilla. I have already settled it. I dropped the stone, beloved. Look in my hand and you will only find mercy.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you are worth more than all your sins. Because I cannot remember your misdeeds without my own mocking me.” He drew her to him. “Come. Will you not trust me? Give me your heart and your future, and I will give you mine.”

  He pulled her tighter into the circle of his arms, and this time, he kissed her, a slow, smoldering kiss that stole her breath away. She had been with Appius three times. Never, not even when he was at his most charming, had Appius kissed her like this. With Aquila’s first kiss, she learned more about passion than in all the stolen moments with Appius.

  Aquila’s touch was a weaving of boundaries and desire, as if she was worth the cost of waiting. Because he treated her like she was altogether clean, she felt clean. Almost.

  “You’re shaking,” he said, pulling her tightly against him.

  Priscilla felt like she had been through an earthquake. And come out intact, standing on solid ground. “I give you my heart and my future,” she whispered, her lips moving on his.

  His eyes closed and he let out a breath. Tangling his hand into her hair, he drew her closer still, until there was no room between them. His arm cradled her back, and he kissed her one more time, until her bones dissolved.

  He pulled back abruptly. “Two weeks.”

  She nodded. In truth, she had no breath for words.

  He slipped a ring on her finger, the seal and symbol of their betrothal. It twirled loosely and nearly fell on the ground. “I should have bought something dainty for you. This was my grandfather’s.”

  She closed her fingers around it. “Then I will treasure it all the more. Aquila . . . forgive me. I bring you no dowry.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “You bring me yourself. It is more than enough.”

  Priscilla and Lollia moved into a room under the eaves of Mary’s roof. After years of living in Volero’s unwelcoming house, Priscilla felt like she had taken residence with devoted kin. The household became a welter of happy activity, preparing for the wedding.

  As promised, the bride to be began weaving her tunic, a simple white linen garment. Mary, tasked with picking up the traditional yellow veil, could not resist the purchase of a long white undertunic while she was at the market.

  “Aquila bid me to ensure your tunic was long enough in time for the wedding,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  Aquila and Benyamin did their best to ready their cramped home for two more occupants. They had decided that Lollia would sleep in the shop, Benyamin remain in his present chamber, while Priscilla and Aquila moved into the more diminutive chamber in the farthest part of the house. They would have to share their room with leather supplies and cooking implements. It would be a tight fit. To Priscilla, it sounded like a slice of heaven.

  Every night Aquila would come to visit her. If work allowed, he arrived in time for supper and prayers, though often he came too late to eat. No matter how tired from his long day of work, he made the trek from the Via Appia merely to see her for a short while. She had never felt so cherished as when his exhausted eyes would light up at the sight of her, and he would smile his ravishing smile and take her hand in his. In those moments, she knew she had come home. And she knew it was the Lord who had given her this extravagant gift.

  In the Valley of Achor, she had found a door of hope. His name was Yeshua. And walking through that door, she had discovered more fulfilment and joy than she thought this world had to offer.

  Priscilla had made an odd decision, by Roman standards, in choosing to marry a Jewish man of working class. Senator Pudens and his family, she hoped, would not be so offended by her choice, or by the fact that she had disobeyed her brother, that they would refuse to welcome her company again. It was a painful possibility. Many patrician families would shun her for less.

  She wrote Sabinella a short letter, praying that God would protect these cherished friendships. Within an hour of sending it, she received a reply in the form of a huffing slave boy. “My mistress bids you come.”

  Pudentiana met her at the gate of the house, where she had obviously been waiting for her arrival. She gave Priscilla a fierce embrace. “My mother read your letter to us. Oh, Priscilla! He is handsome, I will grant you. But it will mean a hard life. Are you sure?”

  “I am sure.”

  “Come. My mother is impatient to see you. She is in bed today.”

  Priscilla knelt by the older woman’s bed, her chest tightening at the sight of the skeletal figure huddled among the sheets. She winced as she noted fresh lines of pain in that dear face. Reaching out, she kissed Sabinella’s trembling fingers.

  The older woman patted her head. “Tell me what happened.”

  Priscilla had never shared with any of them her true state in Volero’s house. They had guessed, to some extent, by the manner of her dress and Volero’s lack of regard in public, that he was not as affectionate as one would wish in a sibling. Now, as she described life in his home, Sabinella hissed. “He should be ashamed, your brother.”

  “I hold no grudge against him. But you can see why I do not feel I owe him the obligations of a sister. My father gave me my freedom. Volero has no hold over me, either by law, duty, or natural inclination.”

  “I understand your feelings regarding your brother. Yet to marry this leatherworker places you in a difficult position. My husband tells me your Aquila is talented and honest. Good qualities in a man, certainly. But in a husband, Priscilla? You will become a plebeian. Work with your hands, have no servants to ease your labors. You will eke out an arduous living without the pleasures of wealth that are due to someone of your station.”

  Priscilla held up her hands, red and callused already from years of work. “I am accustomed to hard work, my lady. Only now, I shall do it alongside one I love dearly and know the joy of being loved in return.”

  Sabinella shook her head. “Your brother has much to answer for.”

  “My years of solitude and hardship were not wasted, for they brought me to God.” She went on to tell Sabinella her tale of finding comfort in the synagogue and of the friends whose kindness had changed her life. She painted her faith with a broad brush, knowing that too many details would baffle her friends and perhaps even turn them away. Silently she cautioned herself to choose her words with care rather than enthusiasm.

  “My daughter will not stop speaking of the day you took her to the widow’s house,” Sabinella said. “She informs me that the prayers of your friends filled her with unwavering peace.”

  Priscilla nodded once, her eyes widening. She wondered if God had finally opened a door of opportunity.

  “Aquila prayed for our family without being asked,” Pudentiana added. “You can see why Priscilla has chosen to wed him. He is caring and thoughtful, more so than the young men born to Roman senators and legates, many of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting.”

  Priscilla gave her friend a grateful smile. “They can pray for you, too, dear lady. Today, if you will allow it.”

  Pudentiana added the force of her pleas. “Say yes, Mother. Please!”

  Sabinella sighed. “For you, then, Daughter. Though I expect nothing will happen and you will only find yourself disappointed.”

  Sixteen

  THE CHAMBER SEEMED layered in shadows, dark moving against dark, giving the space a sense of inscrutable menace. His forehead furrowed and shining with sweat, the senato
r slumped on a chair by his wife’s bed. She lay on the sheets, her skin an odd shade of gray. One side of her body spasmed and trembled, the uncontrollable movements sapping her of strength she could ill afford to expend.

  Aquila asked for a few more lamps, placing them in the shadowed corners until the chamber became bathed in soft light. He knelt down by Sabinella. “Lady, there is a God who created the earth and the heavens. He knows the tears you have shed, and he has sent us to intercede for you.”

  “I know not this God of whom you speak,” Sabinella said, her tone apologetic.

  Aquila liked her honesty. “I do not know Caesar Claudius. But he is still emperor. We will come to the Lord on your behalf.”

  “You seem confident,” she said. “The gods, I find, are capricious at best and fickle when it comes to extending their help.”

  “I know only one God, and he is steadfast. I am confident because I approach him not as a stranger, but as a son. He is always glad to welcome us into his presence. I will tell you one more truth with confidence. You are loved by him.”

  Sabinella’s mouth tipped to one side. “That’s a pretty speech.”

  “I have more,” Aquila said with an answering smile. “Do not worry. I will save them for another day. For now, may we pray?”

  And that was what they did. With the ease of long familiarity, they slipped into the hallowed in-between place which is prayer, one foot firmly in the world and the other on a higher plane. They spoke to God, they walked with Yeshua, they heard from the Spirit. They were filled, once more, with the wonder of the Father, who loved them and rejoiced over them.

  They prayed as those who are a glorious crown on Christ’s brow, an outward sign of his victory, his power, and his kingship. In the world, they were merchants and workers of leather. Ordinary men and women. In the light of heaven, they had become warriors, princes, and queens wielding a sword that only God could craft.

  When they had finished, Aquila looked toward Sabinella. With disappointment he saw that her body still shook and convulsed. Then he raised his eyes further and saw her face.

  It was transformed.

  Where there had been a wide current of anxiety that her courage could not quite hide, there was now peace. An utter calm. God had not healed her body. But he had healed her heart.

  “Did you put the petals on the bed as I asked?” Aquila said to his uncle.

  “Lots of them. Roses, as you wanted. They smell very . . . vegetative.”

  “No thorns?”

  “Just the petals, as per your instructions.”

  Aquila stopped in the act of putting on his sandals. “Have we washed the dishes left over from last night’s supper? I don’t remember. I don’t want her to come home to a mess.”

  “All clean and put away.”

  “I think my tunic must have shrunk when the washerwoman laundered it. It feels tight,” he said, pulling down the neckline of his linen tunic.

  Benyamin sighed. “It looks fine.”

  “Where is my cloak?”

  “Folded over your arm.”

  “Ah, yes. It feels very light. It has probably shrunk as well. I am as ready as I am going to be.”

  “You might consider putting on your other shoe.” Benyamin pointed at his bare foot.

  Aquila groaned and bent to slip on the forgotten shoe. Ferox bounded forward, his tongue extended, ready for a lick. “No!” Aquila cried. “Put that weapon away this instant. It is my wedding day, and I am not going to my bride with the smell of dog on my face.” Ferox sat abruptly and closed his mouth.

  They had decided to travel to Trastevere in the cart since Benyamin was moving in with Rufus and Mary for a couple of weeks, leaving Priscilla and Aquila time to adjust to living as man and wife. They would use the cart to bring Priscilla and her meager belongings home at the end of the festivities.

  Ferox homed in on the cart as soon as they headed toward it, jumping into the back, and sitting as if he were an honored guest.

  “Out, beast!” Aquila pointed a finger to the door. “You are not invited to the wedding.”

  Ferox looked back at him with a wounded expression. Aquila fought a pang of guilt. Priscilla would likely laugh if he showed up with the dog in tow. But he wanted her to have everything perfect on this day. Ferox, in his excitement at seeing her, would probably try to knock her into the bushes.

  “Out!” he said again more firmly, and Ferox vaulted to the ground obediently. Aquila comforted himself with the fact that he had left the beast enough food and drink to last a week.

  “You had better let me drive,” Benyamin said gently. “Sit back, close your eyes, and I will navigate.”

  Aquila’s lips twitched. “Have I been that bad?”

  “You have no idea. We have to wed you off and fast, before you lose what little wits you have left.”

  Aquila would never remember that drive, which passed in a haze, or recall walking into Rufus’s house or speaking to any of the guests. His first memory of his wedding was the sight of Priscilla waiting for him in the courtyard under a wooden arch covered in flowers, Rufus by her side. She was garbed in white, her simple dress cinched high at the waist, a yellow veil draped modestly over her hair, held in place by a circlet of autumnal flowers and late-blooming roses.

  He had never seen anything so beautiful. If so many eyes had not been glued to them, he would have pulled her to him and kissed her. Maybe for an hour, straight. Instead, he bent his lips to her ear so only she could hear him. “I can’t wait to make you mine.” He had the satisfaction of seeing her blush as pink as the flowers woven through her hair.

  Rufus read the story of Adam. “Before God created marriage, he had to create a bride,” he said. “The Lord put Adam to sleep, a sleep as deep as death. He cut Adam’s flesh, opened his side, extracted his bone in order to make a bride for him.”

  He waved a hand toward Aquila. “Today Aquila gazes upon his Eve. Priscilla is now bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh.

  “We celebrate with joy the union between this man and woman, a joining that only God could have fashioned by his grace. But we celebrate another astounding reality. Because as besotted as Aquila is with his bride, it is nothing compared to how our God feels toward us.

  “Yeshua, when he walked among us, called himself the bridegroom. Like Adam, to win us, to have us, he too had to be put to the sleep of death. His side had to be pierced, his flesh had to be sacrificed. We who were dead in spirit, came to life out of his death, born from Christ as Eve was born from Adam. And we are now bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh.”

  Mary stepped forward then, acting as the matron of honor, and taking Priscilla’s right hand, placed it into Aquila’s. Aquila felt his bride’s fingers nestled in his palm, warm and strong. Strong enough to build a life on. In her crisp Latin, Priscilla pronounced the words that made her his wife: “Wherever you go, I, your wife, will also go.”

  Finally he was allowed to kiss her in full view of their guests. He drew her into his arms and kissed her on the mouth, his touch chaste. He held her for a beat longer, his eyes promising more, before letting her go.

  Pudens and his daughters were among the guests. “You honor us by your presence, Senator,” Aquila said. “How is the lady Sabinella?”

  “She has slept well since your visit, which is a mercy. I have not seen her so at rest for months.” Pudens adjusted the heavy folds of his toga. “On a different subject, in the absence of family, I feel called to speak in place of Priscilla’s father today.

  “I have been married a long time. Happily married, unlike many of my acquaintance. I have learned one thing. Some women know how to love with their whole being. They know how to turn a house into a haven. A place of joy and peace. Priscilla is one of them. Love her well, young man.”

  The words had the weight of a sacred charge, one laid on Aquila for the rest of his life. If he had learned nothing else in the past months, he had learned this: love was fragile. Loving well required hard work, both moral and
emotional. He bowed his head to the senator, signaling both his assent and his commitment.

  Priscilla would have been touched by how hard Aquila and Benyamin had worked to make the small apartment a welcoming home for her if she had not been so anxious. Part of her had been longing for this moment, to be finally alone with Aquila without a thousand interruptions. Another part, far larger, dreaded what was to come. She worried that he might be disappointed. That bitterness might creep in between them when her bridegroom, by virtue of circumstances, would be forced to remember Appius.

  “I saved the best for last,” Aquila said, proudly leading her to the narrow chamber that now belonged to them. She heard him hiss under his breath.

  The pallet, which he must have made up carefully before setting out to Rufus’s house, had become a heap of crumpled sheets. Among the folds, she detected a flash of scarlet, then another. “Rose petals,” she said, picking one up and smelling it. In the corner, as far from the bed as possible, she saw Ferox curled in a large ball, as if trying to disappear into himself, one red petal stuck to his black nose, another hanging from his mouth. As she watched, his tongue flashed out and lapped up the delicate petal.

  “Traitor!” Aquila cried.

  Ferox whimpered, casting pathetic eyes at Priscilla. She dissolved into laughter. Aquila gave her a reproachful glance. “It’s no laughing matter.” He pointed to the dog. “Away, you creature. I will deal with you later.” Ferox, tail tucked between long, skinny legs, bolted to the next chamber. “I meant this to be a warm welcome for you,” Aquila huffed.

  She gave in to another wave of hilarity. “It is.”

  Aquila came a pace closer. Before she knew what he was about, his hand flashed out and she landed against his chest, laughter forgotten. He lowered his mouth to hers. She felt again that hot, bewildering gale of emotions she had experienced when he had kissed her the first time, the night they had become betrothed. Felt dizzy and lost in the kiss as it deepened. He grasped the yellow palla and with one motion swept aside the veil and wreath of flowers that held it in place, dropping both to the floor. His fingers slid to the back of her head, gently undoing the loops and twirls until her hair fell loose down her back and shoulders.