by Tessa Afshar
“The Aventine? I doubt I can afford it, Senator,” Aquila said with a frown.
When a tragic fire had consumed some of the more densely populated areas of the Aventine twelve years earlier, large portions of the neighborhoods had been gobbled up by wealthy residents. Luxurious villas had been built in place of the ordinary homes that had once occupied the area. The northern border of the Aventine sat next to the Circus Maximus. Some of the residents could lounge on their expansive roofs and watch the chariot races in comfort. Several could even see Caesar’s palace and gardens.
Although now occupied by consuls, legates, and famous attorneys, parts of the Aventine remained populated by common folk. Such homes were hard to come by and still too expensive for Aquila. He sighed. The location would have been ideal. A hop over the bridge to Rufus’s home and much closer to the Pudens residence.
“I think you can afford this one,” the senator said, taking a sip of his wine. “It needs a lot of work.” He named the asking price for the property. It was at the outer limits of what Aquila and his uncle could manage. But it might be doable once he received payment for the great heap of orders that had come his way.
“Come and see it with me in the morning,” his host offered. “First, we have to establish whether it suits your needs. Then we can work out the practicalities.”
They were interrupted by a whoop from Praxedis, Pudens’s youngest daughter, who was currently engaged in chasing Marcus around the perimeter of the chamber.
It had taken Priscilla hours of coaxing to convince Marcus to attend a prayer meeting at the senator’s house. The first night he had come, he had sat in one corner, hidden in the shadows, saying nothing. Praxedis and Pudentiana had teased, prodded, and poked at the boy until he had emerged out of his shell enough to answer a question or two. Eight weeks later, he seemed at home here. While at the synagogue he often fell asleep during the distinctly Jewish service, at the senator’s house, he listened to their teachings with sharp interest.
Pudens frowned thoughtfully, his gaze following the boy. “He seems familiar, somehow, now that he has filled out.” He shrugged. “I suppose I have reached the age when all children start looking alike to me. He still refuses to reveal where he comes from?”
Aquila nodded. “I think he is afraid to tell us.”
“Afraid of what, exactly?”
“If I knew the answer to that, Senator, I would be able to help the boy.”
“You have already helped him. The first time I saw him, he was a scrawny, pale little thing who jumped at every sound. Now look at him.”
Aquila studied the child. He had the sturdy gait and speed of a natural athlete. His skin glowed with health, the multiple scratches he had earned on the streets long healed. He still kept himself too aloof from them; still viewed the world with a watchfulness that was unnatural in a child. But the senator had the right of it. Marcus had blossomed in his time with them. Aquila smiled softly, his heart thrumming with satisfaction.
“It’s perfect,” Aquila said as he emerged from the tiny kitchen. An actual kitchen, where his wife would have enough space to cook without bumping into samples of leather and knocking over awls and needles. The house to which Pudens had brought him could accommodate a shop on the street level, while providing plenty of living space on the second floor. A long chamber had ample room for their prayer gatherings. The building was arranged around a modest, roofless courtyard where Priscilla could grow herbs and vegetables. He could even plant a few rosebushes for her.
Of course, some of the walls were crumbling, the plaster had chipped and cracked, the floors were a mix of shattered stones and bare dirt, and no few birds and mice had made use of the chambers for the inevitable purpose. The place looked a ruin. Aquila loved it on sight.
“Will they wait a couple of months until I can put sufficient coin together?”
“No,” Pudens said. “This property will be gone before the end of the week.” He put his hand on Aquila’s shoulder. “I wish to front you the money; repay me when you can.”
Aquila shook his head. “Thank you, Senator. But—”
Before Aquila could finish his objection, the senator held up a hand. “Hear me out. You have been a gift to my family, you and Priscilla. You have been our patrons in God’s Kingdom. Allow me, now, to become your patron here on earth. Not as the Romans understand the word, which would bind you to me in obligation. But as Christ would define it, bound together with friendship and charity. My patronage would lay no burdens upon you. Only let me repay to you some of the goodness you have shown us.”
“You owe us no debt, Senator. You are dear to us. Everything we do, we do for the sake of love.”
The senator’s eyes grew wet with emotion. “What we have received from you and Priscilla has no price. The Lord returned my wife to me. Because of your guidance, my whole household is being transformed. We have never known such kindness from our slaves and servants. It’s as if they work with affection rather than from compulsion. There are fewer disagreements among them. Our home has become a place of peace.
“Now, let me use my wealth and influence to do your family a good turn. Even if you had the funds to buy this place today, you would still need more to repair it. Concrete, plaster, paint, wood, furnishings, not to mention workmen. They all require coin. I will loan you what you need so you can move in as soon as possible. I know you are a man of honor, Aquila. I trust you to repay me.
“Besides, you have bags under your eyes from lack of sleep. You cannot continue coming to our house for our gatherings in the evenings and staying up half the night to complete your work. We need a different arrangement. But if I am to come to your lodgings, I want a decent dining room where I can eat a pleasant meal in comfort. Don’t subject me to a dark hole on the Via Appia, where I will have to bear with the incessant noise of wagons headed to the outer reaches of the empire.”
Aquila laughed. It seemed possible that he was about to buy his first house, thanks to the senator’s desire for an agreeable meal and a convenient chamber in which to eat it.
Aquila and Benyamin hired professional masons for the heavy labor. It took the workmen a week to repair the broken concrete bricks on the outer walls of their new home and another to restore the leaky roof. Determined to spend as little as possible, Aquila resolved to do the rest of the repairs himself.
To save even more money, the family had agreed to give up their rented lodgings near the Via Appia and move to the new house as soon as the masons were finished with their work. Priscilla had spent most of the morning packing and piling their belongings onto two wagons. Now she stood in her own house, the first place she could truly call hers. She gulped, surveying the mountain of work that awaited them.
Some rooms were littered with mounds of rubble, the wreckage of years of neglect that had to be discarded. Most of the walls needed plastering, floors needed to be laid, shelves installed, doors constructed, curtains stitched, cushions made. Everything was filthy and needed scrubbing. She felt overwhelmed merely thinking of the list.
For today, she only had to focus on making one chamber habitable enough for them to sleep in. They chose the dining room because of its large size and the fact that it had sustained less damage than the other chambers. She and Lollia swept and washed the floor, where most of the original stones remained intact, including a rectangle of mosaics with a simple green leaf design in the center of the room. They cleaned the thick layers of spiderwebs and dust and other unmentionable deposits.
Benyamin and Aquila started transferring their belongings from the wagons, storing them in tidy piles in one corner of the chamber. Marcus helped them, insisting on carrying large handfuls, determined to show off how strong he was.
Ferox ran from room to room, sniffing everything, barking with happiness at the sudden expansion of his world. After a long absence, he returned to Priscilla, looking dusty. Tail wagging with fierce excitement, he dropped something carefully at her feet. Priscilla cried out in alarm as she
identified his offering. A dead rodent.
“It’s only a mouse,” Marcus said sagely, squatting down to examine the animal more closely. He petted Ferox with approval. “Good boy. Go hunt down some more.”
Priscilla made a strained sound in her throat, the closest she could come to affirming the dog’s actions. She knew Marcus was right. If the creatures were inhabiting the house, they had to be found and expelled. But did Ferox have to drop them at her feet?
Marcus sniffed. “Don’t worry Priscilla. I’ll get rid of it. I’m not afraid.” To her astonishment, the boy picked the dead rodent up by the tail and walked to the door, Ferox shadowing his steps.
Priscilla shivered, caught between pride in the boy’s pluck and the disgust she felt for all rodents, be they living or expired.
When all signs of their little visitor had been cleared, she let out a relieved breath and turned to Lollia. “We can sleep here tonight. It’s clean enough. Do you want to make dinner while I help Aquila next door? He and Benyamin have started on the plaster.”
Lollia nodded and flashed an ecstatic smile. “A real atrium, finally! Do you think he’ll let me make my garum now?”
Garum was a salty fish sauce made with aromatic herbs and dead fish parts. Romans loved their garum and put it in almost every dish, even sweet ones. Many families had their own special recipe, which they guarded jealously. The first time Lollia had tried to make a batch in the Via Appia lodgings, Aquila had turned pale. Fish parts had to sit in the sun, curing with salt for many days before they were considered ready.
“You will run off my customers, Lollia,” he had said, eyes watering. “You have to get rid of it.”
While the finished product had a subtle aroma, Priscilla supposed that to someone not born in Rome, like Aquila, the stench produced during the process of preparation must seem unbearable. In fairness, even Romans drew the line when it came to their beloved sauce, demanding that the costly commercial garum factories move outside the city walls.
“I am not sure even a proper atrium is going to convince my husband to become a fan of our fish sauce, my dear,” Priscilla said, unable to hide her smile. “An open courtyard is no match for that particular aroma.”
As she made her way to the other side of the house, her lighthearted mood sank beneath the sobering sight of the tasks that awaited them. She had so little time to spare once her routine chores were accomplished that she could not imagine how she might also help transform this place into a home.
She spent the daylight hours working on their leather orders and Marcus’s lessons, while also helping Lollia shop, cook, and keep house. She studied the Scriptures daily, trying to nourish her own soul, as well as meet the needs of their growing flock of Gentile believers and seekers. That left only the late evenings to help transform their crumbling house into a home. Though she already loved every brick in it, Priscilla felt unequal to the task that lay before her.
She was on her knees scrubbing the floor when Rufus and Mary arrived. Rufus turned in a circle and whistled. “It’s delightful. But you are going to need help, my friend,” he said.
Aquila grinned. “I was hoping you would offer.”
“Give me a sheep and I’ll make you a hide fit for a king.” He scratched his beard. “Tiles and mortar, I am not sure about.”
Aquila handed him a trowel and pointed him to a stone tub filled with wet plaster. “Try this. I have already prepared this section of the wall. You merely have to apply it.” He watched Rufus at work before taking the trowel back and handing him a hammer and a length of wood. “We need a shelf here,” he said, pointing to a corner.
Mary and Priscilla giggled when the shelf emerged crooked.
“You could put a taller stack on this side and a shorter one on the other. That will make it look even,” Rufus said.
Wordlessly, Aquila took back the hammer and gave Rufus a sponge and a bucket filled with whitewash. “You can do this. I believe in you.”
“By which you mean any fool could accomplish it.”
Hours later, after Rufus and Mary had returned home, Priscilla realized that all of their sweat-drenched labor had hardly made a dent in even one chamber. And she still had to find their linens among the piles of their possessions and make everyone’s beds. Her feet dragged as she went to the dining room, where they would all be sleeping for the foreseeable future. At the door she froze.
Marcus was putting the finishing touches to their bed, straightening the pillows. Noticing her, he stood very straight and pushed out his chest. He had laid out everyone’s pallets, covering them with sheets and blankets. The beds had the look of an eight-year-old’s touch, a bit wrinkled in places, with uneven edges.
They were the most beautiful sight Priscilla had ever seen.
The fact that she could crawl under her sheets and sleep without having to worry about one more chore left her weak with gratitude. To her embarrassment, she started to cry.
“Thank . . . you, Marcus,” she sniffed.
The boy reached out a tentative hand to pat her on the forearm. “It’s all right, Priscilla. Everything is going to be all right.”
She fell to her knees and drew him into her arms. “You are a heaven-sent gift,” she said against his cheek. His arms rose up and for the briefest moment they wrapped around her, holding her tightly. Priscilla’s heart stopped.
As if caught off guard by his own actions, Marcus took a hasty step back. “Where do you poop around here?” he said, tucking his hands under his arms. “I’ve been meaning to ask all night.”
Priscilla gave a watery grin. He had reverted back to being an eight-year-old boy faster than an Olympic runner could finish the short race. Then again, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nineteen
IT FELT TO PRISCILLA as if she had barely laid her head on the pillow when she was awakened by an odd noise at dawn. “What is that?” she croaked, forcing her eyes open.
“It sounds like singing,” Aquila said. “I know that song! It’s Hebrew.” Tossing the blankets aside, he dashed to the window.
Priscilla joined him. The whole of the synagogue at Campi seemed to have descended upon their doorstep. They had come, tools in hand, armed with chisels, shovels, brooms, one saw, and a few objects she could not name.
Rufus stood at the head of the crowd, a cheerful smile flashing through his dark beard. “I took one look at this place yesterday and knew you needed free labor, and lots of it.”
Priscilla could not believe how many of the members from the synagogue had shown up. Even Sara had come, toting an ancient rag. Elizabeth had brought her son, who had started walking several weeks ago and toddled around at breakneck speeds. Pudentiana chased after him while Elizabeth swept energetically. Sabinella had sent two of her slaves, both of whom had substantial building experience. Mary and a few of the other women had come bearing platters of hard-boiled eggs, cheese, bread, beans, and vegetables. No one would go hungry today.
“I can’t believe all these people!” Priscilla said to Mary, her mouth agape.
“I can. See that man? You nursed his wife when she was ill. And that one? You looked after their baby for a whole week when he was thrown in jail and his wife had to go to the magistrates to try and free him. Recognize the woman with the white hair? That’s Jerusha. You brought her food when her son was sick and could not work. They would have gone hungry except for you.”
Priscilla swallowed the lump in her throat. She had never considered her minor acts of charity worthy of note. A little food here, a bit of help there. “What have I done to deserve their generosity? It’s not as if I saved anyone’s life,” she murmured, thinking aloud.
Mary brushed away a stray curl from Priscilla’s cheek. “You have spent yourself in places that gain you no great name on earth. But the effect you have on those around you is incalculable. The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts such as yours. My dear girl, the fact that things are not so ill with these folks and with my own hea
rt as they might have been—” she took Priscilla’s hand in her own and patted it—“is half owing to you for living faithfully a hidden life. A quiet life of sacrifice. So many of these people have come because they have tasted of your kindness. The rest appreciate what you have done for others.”
Aquila, who had been busy giving directions, extricated himself from a group of men and came to her. Without a word, he took her into his arms. They held each other, her head on his shoulder, his hands encircling her waist.
“They have robbed me of words,” Aquila said, his lips hot on her temple.
“And me.”
They clung to each other, their hearts full, savoring the astounding joy of receiving so much.
Every day for a week, members of the synagogue came to help with the new house. Some arrived at dawn; others could only come later in the afternoons once they had finished laboring at their own jobs. In six days, they accomplished what Priscilla and Aquila could not have done in six months on their own.
By the time they finished, every room in the house sparkled. Walls were plastered and whitewashed, doors repaired, shelves installed for the shop, fresh stones laid on the ground and polished. The water tank in the floor beneath the atrium had been cleaned, repaired, and filled with clean water from the aqueduct, and the fireplace there, which heated the floors above in the winter months, reconstructed. Their small kitchen had been gutted and completely refurbished with a small clay oven and a long stretch of countertop where Priscilla and Lollia would have room to work side by side.
That final afternoon, when everyone had left, Priscilla visited the baths to wash away the sweat and grime of hard work, allowing the hot water in the steamy caldarium to loosen her sore muscles. She dipped her head under, holding her breath, eyes closed as warmth seeped under her skin and radiated into her bones.
