Bread of Angels Page 10

  Roman law requires that you have a man as your guardian until you wed, and I have named Atreus as such. He promises not to interfere in your affairs unless you need his help. As an unmarried woman, you will not have the opportunities open to a widow. But with your rare skills, you shall prevail. Carve a place for yourself in this world. Do not be afraid. I know you will endure. You will overcome every obstacle in your path.

  Remember the lesson of the farmer. I will always love you.

  “What does he mean about the farmer?” Atreus asked when she rolled up the scroll and held it against her chest. “He said you would understand.”

  “The farmer.” Lydia smiled faintly and caressed the scroll, holding on to its solidity. “Yes. I understand.”

  On a cool day the previous spring, her father had taken Lydia into the hills outside Thyatira. The wind had blown chill that day, she remembered. It was before Jason and Dione had appeared in their lives, and she had been feeling carefree, having just finished a profitable order.

  Her father had thrown his cloak over her when she had shivered in the cold. It had been such a casual gesture, one of a thousand like it, imbued with unbounded affection. Now Lydia would give anything to have those hands shield her against the cold again.

  “What do you see?” he had asked her.

  She had grinned. “Are we testing my eyesight?”

  “No. This is a heart test,” he said cryptically.

  “I see several very splendid villas.”

  He shrugged. “They did not used to be here. This whole area was made of farmland and orchards. Then as Thyatira grew and became crowded, the wealthy merchants decided to move their homes out of the city. They came here because in late spring, the blossoms would bloom, and later in the summer and fall there would be fruit and harvest. Red, gold, and green covered the hills, transforming them into the Elysian Fields. It was a stunning sight. They came, drawn to the beauty of the valley.

  “The farmers were happy to sell their land for good profit. A handful lingered on, clinging to their old way of life.” He pointed to a small piece of land surrounded by three luxurious villas. “Do you see that one?”

  A pitiful parcel of land, brown and barren, sat in the middle of the villas. In the western corner a modest farmhouse, with one wall crumbling and another poorly repaired, straddled the land. “That’s not very pretty,” Lydia had said with the disdain of the young.

  “No. It isn’t, not in early spring. This is planting season, when they plow the land, turn it over, and make it ready for the next harvest. The land is plain and ugly now.”

  Her father then pointed to the dilapidated farmhouse. “I know the man who lives there. He must be ninety years old by now. Born in that house and raised to the work of farming, he continues to do what he knows. Plant wheat and barley. Some of our bread comes from that farm.”

  “That must be convenient for the residents in the villas,” Lydia had said, wondering why her father thought this land presented a test for her heart.

  Eumenes had shaken his head. “They despise that little farm.”

  “Why?” she had asked, astonished.

  “Because in the winter and early spring it is barren and unsightly. Worse. Right about now, the old man starts to apply fertilizer to the soil, and it stinks! That’s what the owners of the villas have to bear with. The stench of manure and the unsightly appearance of the bare ground.”

  “But you can’t have a harvest without fertilizer and plain dirt!”

  Her father had looked at her the way he sometimes did, with unblinking eyes that seemed to delve into her deepest heart. “Life is like this valley, Lydia. You can be like the owners of the villa, wanting only the beautiful end result. The good things of life: its fruitful seasons, its rich harvest. Or you can be like the farmer, bearing with the stinky seasons in order to produce a harvest.”

  Lydia pressed her father’s letter against her lips. She was in the barren season now. The one whose stench made your eyes water. And from beyond the grave her father was prodding her for a decision. Which did she propose to be? The farmer or the owner of the villa?

  Lydia gritted her teeth. “I will be a farmer.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  From the fruit of their lips people are filled with good things,

  and the work of their hands brings them reward.

  PROVERBS 12:14, NIV

  THYATIRA LAY ON A MAIN highway linking two river valleys. But there were no harbors in the beautiful Hermus valley. To go to Philippi, she had to find her way to Troas and, from there, purchase passage on a ship to Neapolis, the closest harbor town to her destination.

  This was no simple voyage. A woman alone, without servants, without the protection of a father or husband or brother, traveling long distances, presented a vulnerable target for any vagabond, not to mention the ordinary evils of travel such as sickness and drowning. Atreus had recommended the owner of a particular caravan—“somewhat honest and not entirely reprobate”—which was not high praise but apparently the best Lydia could expect. She traipsed all the way to the market in search of the man but found that he was away on business for the week.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. She knew she could not take advantage of Atreus’s friendship and hospitality forever. Still, the thought of delaying her inevitable journey felt more like a reprieve than an inconvenience.

  She was lost in dire thoughts of bandits and murderers as she trudged back to the inn, her head full of dread as she considered the many things that could go wrong, when a plaintive voice drew her back to the land of living.

  “Help me, mistress, for the sake of mercy.”

  Years later, as she relived that moment over again and again, she could not explain what made her stop. Beggars were a common sight in Thyatira, so common that one barely took note of their plight. They were like the trees growing in the plains, like the wilting flowers of the wilderness. They melted into the background of consciousness.

  But the voice, the words, something in the beggar’s tone, an odd discrepancy in her manner, drew Lydia. She was a young woman about the same age as Lydia, with wide eyes the color of rich honey. In spite of the dirt and the bug bites, Lydia thought her face pleasant. A wave of pity filled her. The girl’s clothes were not the typical rags of a beggar; though faded from overuse and covered with filth, Lydia could see that once they had been of good quality.

  The honey-colored eyes, too large for the emaciated face, stared at Lydia with an odd expression. Humble and yet defiant, as if the world had not managed to shatter the spirit that had been brought so low by circumstances.

  This could be her fate, Lydia thought, if she were unable to make her way in Philippi. Her resources were limited. A year from now, she could be the one lying in the dust of the road and begging strangers for a loaf of bread or a shred of mercy.

  “What is your name?” Lydia asked, unable to walk away.

  “Rebekah, mistress.”

  “That is a strange name.”

  “It is Jewish.”

  Lydia nodded. A sizable community of Jews lived in Thyatira. Her father’s colleague Avraham was one such. “I once visited Jerusalem when I was younger. I remember it well.”

  The girl’s visage came to life. “You have been to Jerusalem, mistress? Did you visit the Temple? The outer court where Gentiles are allowed to visit?”

  “I only passed by it and never entered. The walls had crenellations on top and were made of yellowish stone, which turned golden in the light of sunset. Have you ever been there?”

  Rebekah shook her head. “My father went every year. But I was never allowed to accompany him.”

  Lydia, who had accompanied her father everywhere, thought this a strange response. “How is it that Thyatira has treated you so ill, Rebekah?”

  “‘What region of the earth is not full of our calamities?’ I cannot blame Thyatira for my sorrows, mistress.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “I have never known a beggar who could quote Virgil and w
ith such pure accent. You sound more like a scholar than a beggar. Can you read and write, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Lydia tipped her head down. “Are you hungry?” The words left her mouth before she had an opportunity to think them through.

  “Starved.”

  “Come. I will feed you. Today, at least, you shall eat well.”

  Master Atreus raised a thick, gray brow as he saw Lydia’s guest. She shrugged. “This is Rebekah. She can quote Virgil.”

  Master Atreus’s other eyebrow rose to join the first. He shook his head and turned away. “Keep your door open in case she decides to rob you. That way, I can come faster when you scream.”

  Rebekah turned red and dropped her head. “The Lord forbids us from stealing. I would never do that.”

  “She is Jewish,” Lydia said to Atreus in clarification. The thick eyebrows lowered this time and he gave a short nod.

  “Don’t mind him,” Lydia said. “He is only jealous. He can’t quote a single word of Virgil. He is good with Euripides, though.”

  Lydia offered the girl a seat on the couch. She gave a quick shake of her head. “I am filthy, mistress. Best I sit on the floor.”

  Her manners were not those of a street urchin, Lydia noticed. She fetched the bowl of lentils and onions left over from noon, found the loaf of bread she had not eaten, added olive oil to a chipped plate, and placed the meager offering before the girl. The food was cold, the bread stale. It seemed to matter little to Rebekah, who stared at the dishes, her eyes welling up.

  She said a quick Hebrew prayer before taking a bite from the bread. Her eyes drifted closed. Lydia, whose cooking skills left something to be desired, gave an amused smile. She had finally found a truly appreciative consumer of her culinary talents. All it required, apparently, was starvation.

  When she was finished, her strange guest stacked her bowl and plate neatly, as if they were made of glass rather than chipped pottery. “I can wash these if you wish,” she said.

  Lydia waved a hand in the air. “I will take them to the courtyard later.”

  Rebekah rose to her feet. “May the Lord bless you for your generosity,” she said as she turned.

  Lydia realized she intended to leave. “Wait!”

  The girl turned back. An unspoken question stamped the lines of her face. A question Lydia could not answer. Why had she asked the girl to wait? Curiosity? Pity? Compassion? She did not know what urged her. Only that she could not allow the girl to return to the streets of Thyatira without a measure of help.

  She took a deep breath. “Would you like to stay here tonight? Just for tonight. This is not my home. I cannot offer you a more permanent shelter.”

  Rebekah grew utterly still. “Thank you, mistress,” she whispered. Then she said, her voice thin and quivery, “Are you certain? I smell bad.”

  She did. The rank odor of someone who had gone without a proper wash for long days and even weeks. Lydia realized that she was shamed by her own condition. More than physical discomfort, her state of uncleanness was a humiliation to her soul.

  “Do you want to take a bath?” she asked. Who was saying these things through her lips? She had not intended to speak those words. And yet, no sooner had they emerged from her mouth than she was searching for a few bronze quadrantes. “Take these. You can go to the public baths. They are still open. Return here when you are finished.”

  Rebekah sat frozen, the coins in her hand. “You will grow weary of it,” she said.

  “Of what?”

  “Of me thanking and blessing you for your kindness.”

  “Probably. Don’t take too long. Atreus likes to go to bed early.”

  At the door the girl hesitated. “Was that your supper? Did I eat your food? I am sorry I was such a glutton and left nothing.”

  Lydia shook her head. “Anyone who can eat my cooking with such obvious enjoyment is welcome to it.” She sat on the couch and stretched aching feet. “I have little appetite and only cooked to keep Atreus happy. You did me a favor eating the food before it started to grow strange things.” She rubbed her back, which had grown sore from her long walk. “One more thing. My name is Lydia. Not mistress.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Lydia half expected the girl not to return. She would probably think of better things to do with coins than take a bath. But she came back after an hour. Without layers of dirt marring her skin, Lydia saw that she was remarkably lovely. A narrow nose, shapely lips, arched brows over eyes that were as deep as woods in autumn.

  She frowned as the light of the lamp illuminated the girl’s tunic. “Your garments are soaked!” Lydia said.

  “I washed them. Now everything is clean.” Her smile glowed, though her teeth chattered. She opened her hand. “There was a little money left after I paid for the bath. I bought you this. It is sweetened with honey.” In her spotless palm she held a rounded loaf of bread.

  Unexpectedly, Lydia felt her throat clog with tears. She took the bread, still warm from the baker’s, and held it as if it were a delicate treasure. It was no different from a thousand honey loaves sold in Thyatira every day. She thought of Rebekah—homeless, hungry, friendless Rebekah—who had bought the bread and, instead of saving it for herself, offered it to another.

  Lydia bit into the rough wheat and found it sweeter than anything she had ever tasted. For the first time since her father’s death, she enjoyed the taste of food. “Thank you,” she said.

  The girl slept on the floor that night, a blanket for her mattress, folded over to cover her against the night cold. Lydia would have offered her Eumenes’s old pallet, but she suspected that a Jew would find it unclean. Her father had died on that pallet. What Lydia held as precious, his last resting place in the world of the living, Rebekah would find repugnant.

  Wet clothes were a different matter, however. “Get rid of those soaking things. You can wear my old tunic for the night. I don’t need another person dying of an inflammation of the lung.”

  “Another person?”

  “There is a plague of it in this place. Or at least, my father died from it, and that is plague enough for me.”

  In the morning, by the time Lydia opened sleepy eyes, Rebekah had already risen, changed into her own clothes, now dry, ground flour with the hand mill, made dough, and prepared sufficient fresh bread to feed Atreus as well. She must have moved as silently as a breeze. Lydia had heard nothing.

  “Master Atreus said to call him when you awoke; he said he would bring the cheese and olives for the morning meal.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “I went to fetch fresh water from the well so you could wash when you awoke. He was downstairs, ready to interrogate me with a hundred questions. I gave him a piece of warm bread, and that seemed to assuage his curiosity.”

  Lydia smiled. “You better call him then, before he breaks the door down in search of his breakfast. The woman who cooks at the inn does not arrive until it is time to prepare the noonday meal.”

  Atreus dropped off cheese and olives before picking up a thick loaf of bread and hurrying out again. “Large party arriving today. No time to loiter,” he said through a full mouth. He stopped halfway down the steps, turned, and yelled, “Good bread,” before disappearing from view.

  Rebekah laughed. “He likes his food, I think.”

  Lydia, replete and reasonably rested from a few hours of unbroken sleep, studied her unusual guest. “How came a young woman like you to be cast out on the streets of the city? Did you lose your father?”

  “My father lives.”

  “Is he in prison?”

  “No. He has a successful trade in bronze. With the garrison always full of soldiers, the demand for bronze is high.”

  Lydia leaned forward. “I don’t understand. Your father is alive. He enjoys success. Then how came you to such a pass?” Lydia, whose own father had been a lion of protection, laying down everything he had for the sake of her contentment, could not fathom the discrepancy in the girl’
s story. Fathers meant safety. Shelter. Stability.

  Rebekah’s face turned into a wooden mask. “He asked me to leave his house and never return. He said I was no longer his daughter.”

  “He disowned you?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Lydia could not conceive of a circumstance that would prompt her own father to cast her out of his house and heart. What had the girl done? How horrible must her crime have been? What secrets did those innocent eyes, looking at her like great bruises, hold? What monstrous violence hid in their depths?

  Lydia stiffened. She wondered if Atreus could arrive fast enough if she screamed, and as subtly as she could, she increased her distance from the girl.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I will rejoice and be glad in your steadfast love,

  because you have seen my affliction;

  you have known the distress of my soul,

  and you have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy.

  PSALM 31:7-8

  AS IF READING HER THOUGHTS, Rebekah said, “Do you want me to leave?”

  Something about her expression made Lydia go still. A touch of despair, of helpless anger. Of anguish. Lydia had seen that look before, on her father’s face, when he had been wrongly accused and convicted. “Not yet,” she said. “Tell me what you did.”

  “I refused to marry the man my father chose for me.”

  Lydia blinked. “Perhaps you’d better tell me the whole story. Start from the beginning. How did you come to be so learned?”

  Rebekah sat down slowly and tucked her legs to one side with neat precision. “When my younger brother was of an age to be tutored, my father hired the best scholar in the province of Asia. Benjamin rarely sat still, and his tutor, a young man more at home with scrolls than children, could not manage him. So my father sent me into the schoolroom to be Benjamin’s keeper while he learned. My poor brother had little liking for books. He wanted to be a soldier. He found the hours of instruction a torment and could not wait to be released at the end of the day.