Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  Aquila dropped his gaze. He wanted to help Paul so badly, it felt like an ache in his chest. But he simply could not afford it. “I would hire you today if I could. But we ourselves are recent arrivals to Corinth and have yet to amass a large enough clientele to afford extra hands.”

  Paul nodded. “I understand. If the Lord wills it, he will provide the increase you need. Shall we pray on it?”

  “Of course. In the meantime, you must be our guest. Stay with us and allow us to help you by any means we can.”

  That evening, Aquila retired to his chamber earlier than he had in weeks. “Can you believe Paul showed up at our doorstep?” he asked Priscilla as he splashed water on his face and scrubbed his hands.

  “I can’t believe he is sleeping under our roof,” she said softly.

  Her face looked pale in the lamplight, gray shadows rimming her eyes. She worked too hard. The thought smote him, a living ember to his cringing conscience. He stripped off his tunic and crawled into bed.

  Priscilla gave him a weak smile and closed her eyes. He lifted a hand toward her and let it hover in the air above her shoulder. It had been a long time since he had touched her. He had been weary for so long, both inclination and strength for anything beyond a few hours of precious sleep at night had been sapped out of his bones.

  On the few occasions he did manage to break through the haze of exhaustion, she avoided his gaze and turned away before he could reach for her. There was a haunted look that rarely left her face these days, a lingering sorrow he did not understand. In truth, he did not want to understand. He assumed she felt dismayed with him for letting her down. For dragging her from hardship to hardship.

  He preferred silence to that conversation. His hand dropped back to his side.

  She did not want him. So be it. A little more sleep wouldn’t hurt him. Aquila turned his back, pulled the blankets higher around his neck and slammed his eyes closed, missing the longing look his wife sent his rigid back.

  The next morning, soon after they had opened the door of the shop for business, a balding man walked in, wrapped in the linen toga of a Roman citizen. “Are you the owner of this shop?”

  Aquila gave a slight bow of his head. “Aquila of Pontus, at your service.”

  “You are familiar with the Isthmian Games, I presume?” the man asked.

  “Of course.” One of four celebrated Panhellenic festivals, the Isthmian Games were esteemed almost as highly as the famed Olympics. “Every other year, the people of Graecia gather here in Corinth to celebrate athletes and musicians of rare talent.”

  “All the world gathers for the Isthmian Games, sir. All the world.” The balding man’s voice rang with pride.

  “I look forward to attending them next spring,” Aquila responded. “I fear we arrived here too late to partake of the previous games.”

  The man nodded. He lifted an arm in an affected gesture, as if an orator about to make a public presentation. “I am Iuventius Proclus. I served as president of the games last year. Next spring, I shall be president again.”

  Aquila, who had worked for Roman senators, consuls, and praetors, hid his smile. “Welcome, Proclus.”

  The visitor dropped his arm and bent his chin in condescension. “For one hundred and ten uninterrupted years, we have hosted the Isthmian Games in Corinth, not to mention the ancient history of the games in this place, and each year we gain popularity.

  “The number of visitors who descend upon us for the duration of the games has been steadily growing. Last year, we almost burst at the seams. There are not enough inns and taverns in Corinth to handle the swelling numbers of our visitors. Folks set up tents along the streets for days, and even those become overcrowded.

  “I am determined to be better prepared for next year’s games. We plan to have more tents for travelers and additional awnings for street sellers. Which is why I am here. I wish to commission you to make those tents and awnings.” Proclus adjusted his toga. “Shall we discuss the price?”

  Aquila remembered to shut his mouth. He realized Proclus was about to place a significant order. Even so, he was not prepared for the extent of merchandise Proclus needed. After they had agreed upon the fee and the date of delivery, Proclus handed Aquila a bag of coins as deposit.

  “Do you not wish to see a sample of our work before you pay me?”

  Proclus shrugged. “I saw one already and found it satisfactory.”

  “May I ask where?”

  “I ran into an acquaintance last night, just after sunset. The man had ordered a tent from you. Couldn’t speak highly enough of your workmanship. I confess I was headed for another leatherworker, a longtime resident of Corinth. But my acquaintance assured me that your labor is superior. When I saw the tent, I had to agree.”

  Aquila thanked the man and saw him out in a daze. “Just after sunset,” Proclus had said. Last night, they had prayed for an increase in their business as the sun had started to set!

  Rushing out of the shop, he climbed the narrow stairs that led to their private chambers. He found Paul speaking quietly with Benyamin in the dining room.

  “You are hired!” Aquila cried, holding up the purse of coins. “When would you like to start?”

  That Sabbath, Paul accompanied them to the synagogue. Priscilla and Aquila introduced him to Titius Justus, a Gentile worshiper of God who lived next door to the assembly hall and often attended services, followed by Crispus, the ruler of the synagogue. Crispus welcomed their guest with a warm show of hospitality and invited him to speak to the congregation, as was customary when a learned teacher visited.

  After the Scriptures were read, Paul took his place before the congregation and began to tell his own story, starting with the day a young man named Stephen had been dragged outside Jerusalem’s walls and stoned to death by an enraged crowd.

  “I was present that day,” Paul said, holding the crowd spellbound with his deep voice. “I stood guarding the garments of those who threw the stones. I shouted my approval as Stephen fell to his knees, his face covered by rivulets of blood. I screamed my vitriol as he cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them.’”

  A collective gasp broke the silence in the synagogue. This story had taken an unexpected turn.

  “That day, the heavens opened to take home a precious man, one whose faith could make the angels smile,” Paul continued. People began to shift in their seats. Spiritual leaders who persecuted, even killed a man, were not in the habit of praising their victims. They stared at Paul, bewildered. Who was the good man, here? Paul or Stephen?

  Paul went on to tell the rest of his story, describing his avid persecution of those he despised, followed by his utter regret for having done so. As he spoke, the assembly hall grew increasingly hushed, silenced with an odd mixture of confusion and fascination.

  “I have met Yeshua for myself,” he continued. “Only once, on the road to Damascus.”

  A whirlwind in the guise of man, a tempest of faith encased in flesh, Paul told the tale of his miraculous encounter with one whom he had persecuted.

  “I will tell you, my friends, if ever you see him, your knees will fold, and your tongue will confess him Lord.

  “On the road to Damascus, my God struck me blind. In truth, that was the moment I gained my sight for the first time in my young, self-satisfied life.”

  As his story unfolded, some faces began to express awe. Others, rage. Undeterred, he went on. “The Christ has come,” he said. “But you don’t have to believe my story to be convinced. I can show you the truth of it from Scripture.”

  Then he began to teach in earnest, like a surgeon with a knife, cutting open and revealing ancient truths, showing how Yeshua fulfilled the many prophecies about the promised Messiah. When he finished teaching, the synagogue exploded, voices erupting, the noise deafening.

  Crispus jumped to his feet and motioned for silence. “Brothers, sisters, I urge you to maintain order. If you have questions, raise your hands, and Paul will
answer you one at a time.”

  The place sank into uneasy silence. Paul answered question after question with the facility of one well trained in Scriptures. With expert ease, he cut the ground out of every objection. Sensing the growing agitation of some in the crowd, he halted his instruction.

  “Let us stop for now. Draw breath and rest. I am staying with Aquila and Priscilla. If any wish to know more, come to their house tomorrow evening. I will await you there.”

  Dozens of eyes turned accusing glares at Priscilla and Aquila. Priscilla had felt the weight of enough censure in Rome not to be thrown by it. She smiled sweetly and followed her husband and their controversial guest out of the synagogue.

  Priscilla was unsurprised when Titius Justus arrived at her home in time for supper the following night. He had sat on the edge of his seat, drinking in Paul’s every word on the Sabbath. But she almost toppled off her stool when Crispus arrived, his wife in tow. The ruler of the synagogue had come either to try to put an end to Paul’s teaching, or because he felt genuinely drawn to Yeshua.

  Stephanas attended too, bringing his wife, son, and two grown daughters. His eldest daughter, Chara, a golden-haired beauty Priscilla had met once before, brought her cithara.

  After they finished an early dinner, Priscilla invited Chara to play a song of her choosing. The girl settled the box-shaped instrument on her lap and inclined it toward her torso. When she began to pluck the strings, Priscilla forgot to breathe. Chara had the rare gift of a true master.

  Paul approached the young musician when she had completed her flawless performance. His hand indicated the instrument held loosely in her arms. “I see your cithara is damaged.” He pointed to a large chip at the edge of the frame.

  Chara tipped her head to examine the wood. “My brother dropped it by accident.”

  Paul nodded. “Still, you made it sound like a heavenly chorus. We, too, are like this cithara. Imperfect and broken, every one of us. Damaged. Yet if we are yielded to God, utterly given to his purpose, leaning on him as securely as this cithara leaned against Chara, then he can make our lives reflect the beauty for which we were created. Jew or Gentile, it is of no consequence to God. Turn to him in trust, and he will become the anchor of your soul.”

  When Paul finished speaking that evening, Stephanas sprang up. “I want to give my life to Yeshua. I want to be yielded to him, guided by him. What do I have to do?”

  Chara stood up next. “I want the same.”

  His wife, son, and younger daughter came to their feet at the same time. “You may as well count all of us in,” his wife said. “What must we do to join the household of faith?”

  “It so happens,” Paul said, “that I can arrange that.”

  Priscilla penned a letter to Rufus and Mary that same night, knowing their delight would match her own.

  Your prayers have been answered. Tomorrow Paul is baptizing Stephanas and his whole household in the waters of the Aegean Sea. They will be the first to come to faith in all Corinth.

  They would not be the last.

  Twenty-Five

  THE HEAVENS REMAINED in the grip of darkest night when Priscilla and Lollia began to prepare breakfast. Twilight had crept into the horizon by the time they served warm wheat pancakes with dates. Ferox climbed on the couch next to Marcus, stretching his legs as he had seen the humans do, laying his head on Marcus’s lap. Marcus laughed and petted the dog.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Priscilla said. She pointed to the ground and looked at Ferox sternly. The dog dropped his muzzle and jumped off. He gave a sad whimper, then climbed down the stairs obediently, back to his own dish on the ground floor, which Lollia had filled with fresh food and water.

  “Maybe you should try teaching him Greek verbs,” Marcus said. “He is smarter than most people.”

  Priscilla rolled her eyes. “He has enough trouble obeying Latin.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel!” Marcus cried and everyone laughed.

  Benyamin was meeting with Stephanas that morning and left directly after breakfast. Aquila accompanied Marcus to the baths, which were less crowded in the early morning. Over the passing months, the boy had grown accustomed to these visits, and although he still experienced a shivering discomfort every time he dipped underwater, he no longer felt terrorized by the experience. Instead, now, when he emerged from the bath, he beamed like a conqueror, knowing he had vanquished the power his father’s murder had once held over him.

  After cleaning the breakfast dishes and tending the fire, Priscilla joined Paul in the workshop, where they began working on an awning for a felter’s stall. They sat near one another, fingers busy in silent labor. Priscilla was thinking of her friends in Rome, whom she missed with an almost physical ache. Mary’s motherly kindness, Sabinella’s protective wisdom, Pudentiana’s companionship. Her friends would have been a comfort as she contended with her empty womb, wondering if it would ever be full again.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, Priscilla’s hand bumped into Paul’s arm, making him drop his needle.

  “Your pardon!” she cried.

  He sighed and laid aside the thick hide spread on his knees. “Tell me what weighs so heavy on you, child.”

  Priscilla stared. “What do you mean?”

  “For weeks I have lived in your house, eaten your bread, tasted of your hospitality. I have watched you teach with the expert reasoning of an old rabbi and nurture our people with the tenderness of a mother. That you love God, I have no doubt. That you would lay down your life for your family is evident to all.

  “But in all this time, Priscilla, I have sensed a shadow in you. You are like a fish squirming in a net, caught in something that pains you. Tell me what it is. Perhaps I can help. I can certainly intercede with God.”

  Priscilla gulped. She had prayed and prayed that Yeshua would send her a friend in whom she could confide. Someone who would help lift the burden of loneliness from her.

  But Paul?

  Did she want to open her heart to this man whom they called an apostle? Share her fears and, inevitably, her shame?

  In truth, Paul had a right to know her past. She could not minister alongside him, remain under his tuition and spiritual guidance, without revealing her scars.

  She remembered the day she had exposed her sins to Rufus and Mary and Benyamin. Remembered the grace they had shown her. Remembered how free she had felt afterward, knowing they accepted her in spite of her sins. She could only hope Paul would offer a similar mercy. Even if he did not, she had to face this revelation and leave the outcome to God.

  She dropped her head. “I long for a babe, you see. But I fear I am barren. And it is my own fault.” Bit by bit, in broken scraps, she told her story. She confessed the guilt she had thought washed clean by the Lord. Yet it had risen again in recent months, that shame, blowing its fetid breath, claiming her once more. How many times must she repent of this sin before she could be free of it? How many layers did she have to peel before she could unshackle herself from the chains of her past?

  “I cannot help but feel that God himself is punishing me.” Her voice cracked. “Withholding a child from me because I am unworthy to be a mother. Why else would my womb be empty?”

  Paul pulled on his beard, his brow creased in thought. In prayer. “Not every storm is of God’s making,” he said. “Not every unfulfilled dream is his punishment. We live in a fallen world where our enemy runs wild. His talons gouge every heart he can reach, and that is many.

  “God can use such things for good. That does not mean he instigates them.

  “I do not know if it is in God’s plan that you should ever conceive again. But I do know it is in his plan that you should be a mother. For he has already given you a son. What is Marcus to you if not your own child? You love him as a mother. And that boy! Every time he looks at you, his heart is in his eyes. No son is more devoted to his natural mother than he is to you.

  “You are worthy of being a mother, Prisca. To deny it is to concur with
the lie the enemy whispers in your ear. You are colluding with him against yourself. Against Christ’s plans for your life.

  “Here is the truth: if you were unworthy, God would not have entrusted Marcus to your care.”

  Priscilla exhaled. She did love Marcus as her own. That love had grown so quietly, spread through her veins so furtively, she had barely acknowledged the depths of it. She had called him a heaven-sent gift, this brilliant child. A treasure. Would God have given away the care of this boy lightly?

  She had never thought of the significance of that choice—of God committing this prodigious child into her keeping. He had given Marcus to her because he considered her worthy of the blessing of motherhood.

  God had blessed her, and she had missed it. She had focused on the misery of her barrenness instead. And lost in that pain, she had overlooked his gift.

  “The shame you feel is not of God,” Paul said. “You must repent of wallowing in it.”

  “But Aquila does not feel the same,” she burst out.

  “She said what?” Aquila cried.

  “That you blame her for being barren.” Paul settled himself more comfortably on the couch.

  The women had left earlier to shop for dinner, and Benyamin had taken Marcus to the palaestra for some exercise. Paul and Aquila were alone in the house, which at least afforded Aquila privacy, if not understanding.

  “Why would she think such a thing?” he said, his ire growing. “I never accused her of it.”

  Paul made a calming gesture. “She never said you did.”

  “You just said—”

  “This is how she feels. The conclusion of her heart, regardless of what you may have said or left unsaid.” He leaned into the cushions. “Tell me, Aquila. Why do you think she never spoke to you about her struggles with conceiving?”