Avenger of Blood (16 page)

“Has she consulted a doctor?” Peter asked. Abraham had not set much store by doctors, but Elizabeth had taken Peter to see one when he was younger. To her dismay, there had been nothing the doctor could do for her crippled child. But perhaps a doctor could help Helena. If Marcellus had been there, Peter would have sent him to see her, but the medical officer had gone with the others to find Victor.

Priscilla's curls bounced as she shook her head. “No, but she doesn't need to. Mama says God will heal her. We prayed again this morning.”

Peter repressed a twinge of bitterness. At one time he had thought God would heal him too. The church regularly prayed for the sick, and Peter didn't know why others had been healed yet he was still lame. To be honest, it bothered him, and Peter's infirmity had led him to question God at one time. He had even felt ashamed; some church members had implied Peter hadn't been healed because he didn't have enough faith. Eventually he had come to terms with his disability, but occasionally he still wondered if, for some reason, God didn't love him very much.

“Peter, is it all right if I ask you for a favor? That's really why I wanted to see you today.”

Priscilla's question brought Peter back to the present and he guiltily thought for a moment that the youngster knew exactly what he had been thinking. That was preposterous, of course. The eight-year-old was not a mind reader, although Priscilla did often amaze people with her astute observations.

“Of course,” he said, suddenly intrigued by the notion that something besides getting help for her sick mother had prompted Priscilla to come see him.

“I want to use part of your warehouse,” she said.

“My warehouse? Whatever for?” He would have laughed, except Priscilla looked completely serious. The little girl sitting across the desk—a child whose feet didn't even reach the floor—spoke as intently as if she were making an important business proposal.

“It would make Mama's work easier,” she patiently explained.

Peter didn't see the connection but he said, “Go on.”

“She and Rebecca spend a lot of time collecting things from other people to give to the poor, then they have to take it all to the families in need. So if we had a warehouse, all the church members could bring whatever they wanted to donate here, and you could store it. Then Mama and Rebecca wouldn't have to make so many trips across town. Right now they have to work almost every day, and they're still not able to get everything done.

“And not only that,” Priscilla continued, “but we could keep big things here.”

“Big things? Like . . .”

“Like furniture. You know the family in our church whose apartment burned down?”

Peter nodded. The fire had occurred a few days earlier, when one of the neighbor's children had overturned a burning oil lamp. Half of the tenement had gone up in flames before the blaze was put out. If the building hadn't been so close to the waterfront, the entire structure would probably have been lost.

“When they find another place to live,” Priscilla said, “they won't have any furniture at all.”

Peter's amusement at Priscilla's proposal turned to amazement. “Using the warehouse is an excellent idea,” he said. “People always have a table or chair or bed they're not using, and if they brought those items here, then we would have whatever the family needs for their new home, right in our warehouse.”

“And the other families that lived there too,” Priscilla said, beaming at his approval of her suggestion. “Even though they're not believers, shouldn't we try to help them?”

Out of the mouths of babes,
Peter thought. He remembered something Helena had said once. She believed she'd been driven by prophetic inspiration when she had decided to name her only daughter after the woman who had been so influential in spreading Christianity across Italy, Greece, and Asia. Over forty years earlier, Priscilla and her husband, Aquila, had started the first church in Ephesus in their home, working with the apostle Paul and his pro-tégé, Timothy. A woman of considerable scholarly attainment, Priscilla had expounded Scripture to some of the notable leaders of the fledgling movement, including Apollos.

Peter didn't know if this Priscilla would rise to the same prominence in the church, but she certainly had a wisdom beyond her years and a heart for ministry. No matter how mature she was for her age, however, an eight-year-old child had no business having sole responsibility for her mother. With Calpurnia gone, and not knowing when Antony would return, Peter decided to make it his business. He would move Helena and Priscilla to the villa for the time being.

“We'll discuss your idea in detail later, but now you need to get back to your mother. How would you like to ride home in my litter?” All of their wagons were out making deliveries and Peter had sent the carriage with Antony and Rebecca, so the litter was the only means of transportation he could offer the sick woman at the moment.

Priscilla's eyes lit up, then she quickly turned serious again. “That's not necessary,” she said. “I don't need it, but you can't get around without it, Peter.”

“Neither can your mother right now, and I think it would be a good idea for the two of you to stay with us until your brother comes home. The litter can return to the harbor to fetch me after you and Helena are settled at the villa.”

When Helena woke the next morning, she wanted to cry from the pain but was too exhausted to make the effort. Her elbows and knees were red and swollen, and hot to the touch. Her shoulders and hips and feet ached unbearably. She hurt so much, she could not stand for anything to touch her; even the light pressure of the bedcovers seemed to sear her skin and seep into her bones.

The ride in the litter had been excruciating. Priscilla had piled cushions all around her, but being carried through the hills had jostled Helena's aching joints until they burned like fire. Now her pain was worse, and she didn't think she could move at all. With Priscilla's help, however, she made it out of bed to use the chamber pot. Then she hobbled back to bed, stopping a moment to hold her hands over the charcoal brazier, hoping the heat would relieve the cramping and unbend her frozen fingers.

“I'll go get you some breakfast,” Priscilla said when she had resettled her mother, lightly spreading only the sheet over her.

“I can't eat,” Helena said.

Priscilla patted her mother's hand. “It's all right. I'll feed you.”

“I meant, I'm not hungry.” She wasn't hungry, although if she had been, Priscilla would have needed to feed her. Helena didn't think she could lift a spoon to her mouth if she were starving.

“Maybe you will be in a little while. I'll go to the kitchen and ask the cook to prepare something for you.”

When Priscilla left, Helena closed her eyes and tried to pray, but the pain made it too hard to concentrate on the words. This was the worst episode she had ever endured. The horrible pain and stiffness struck her from time to time, but it usually subsided after a day or two of bed rest.

Helena had overdone it the day Victor was kidnapped, going up and down the stairs all those times after walking completely across the city that afternoon. The next day she'd been unable to get out of bed. Two days later Helena had not improved, and she didn't know when she would be able to get up and resume her normal activities. It was disheartening, but at least she didn't have to worry about taking care of Priscilla now that Peter had moved them to the villa.

A few minutes later she had the opportunity to thank him personally when he knocked on the bedroom door. “I thought I'd come and check on you before I left for the harbor,” he said when she had called out that it was all right to come in.

“I'll be fine,” she said. “I have everything I need, thanks to your help, Peter.”

“This room is tiny.” Peter frowned as he surveyed the small room in the servants' quarters where Helena and Priscilla had spent the night. “Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in Jacob's room?” he asked. “I can have someone carry you upstairs; it's no trouble.”

“No, this is much more convenient, in case I need anything. Priscilla can watch out for me right here, and I'm sure I'll be back on my feet, and back in my own home, soon.” The words were much more optimistic than she felt, but she told herself to trust God to raise her up quickly. He had always brought her through these sick spells before.

“Speaking of Priscilla, did she tell you about wanting to take over my warehouse? She has visionary ideas for it.” Peter grinned as he spoke. “I was quite impressed, and she won Quintus over to the idea at dinner last night.”

Helena listened as Peter began to outline the plans they had made to expand the relief efforts. “A small warehouse adjacent to ours is vacant,” he said, “and Quintus and I had already been thinking about expanding into it. Last night we decided to go ahead and lease it, and we'll use it for the ministry. We won't really need any additional warehouse space for the shipping business until the spring, anyway. And I'm going to assign some of our dock workers to help with the project.”

Peter's enthusiasm for the charitable work touched Helena. She was proud of her daughter's initiative, relieved that she would have more help, and yet a little disappointed that the ministry seemed to be growing beyond her ability to oversee it.

She also felt left out. Helena was used to being right in the middle of things, and she hated being helpless like this. If only she could get out of bed and do something . . .

At the moment, however, she hurt too much to even think about it. Perhaps tomorrow would bring relief to her aching body.

“Before I go,” Peter said, “I have to tell you something else Priscilla said last night. I couldn't help laughing.”

What has the child done now?
Helena wondered, at once both curious and apprehensive. Priscilla could be far too outspoken around adults, and many people weren't used to it.

“When Quintus first joined us for dinner,” Peter said, “he was even more reticent than usual. When he finally spoke up it was only to complain about something that had happened at the office. Priscilla let him finish, then she smiled sweetly and said, ‘Quintus, what you need is a wife. It would improve your disposition considerably.'”

Helena was embarrassed but not surprised by her daughter's impertinence. “Please apologize to Quintus for me,” she told Peter. “Priscilla is too quick to speak her mind.”

“He wasn't offended,” Peter said. “Quintus actually smiled and told Priscilla she needed to grow up very fast, before he got too old to marry her.

“‘I don't think you can wait around that long,' she told him. ‘You'd better look elsewhere.'”

Helena smiled as she pictured her daughter engaging the dour Quintus in a bit of verbal repartee. To be fair, she thought, Quintus wasn't dour. He was serious-minded, and his long face sometimes gave the impression he was a stern man, but he was actually kind and considerate. She wondered why Quintus, who must be around forty, had never found a wife. He seemed to have been married to Abraham's business all these years.

As soon as Peter left, Priscilla returned, bringing Agatha with her. The maid set a breakfast tray by the bed, and Helena's mind began to spin with possibilities. She guessed that Agatha was about ten years younger than Quintus. A single woman with a small child, Agatha needed a husband as much as Quintus needed a wife.

Helena had the soul of a matchmaker, and that was something she could do even from her bed. She sighed and braced herself to move. “Help me sit up,” she said to Priscilla. And to the other woman she said, “Agatha, dear, please stay and keep me company.”

There was no chair in the small bedroom, so when Helena motioned for her to sit, Agatha perched on the edge of the bed. She felt a bit awkward; it did not seem appropriate for one of the servants to be treated as an equal. Yet this guest was staying in the servants' quarters, and this household did not seem to observe the usual class distinctions anyway.

“I'm so happy to see you recovering,” Helena said. “I didn't think you would be back at work so soon.”

“I'm not working yet. But I felt better this morning, so I went to the kitchen for breakfast. The cook asked me to bring this tray back to you.”

“I could have carried it by myself,” Priscilla said. She began to tear a small loaf of bread into pieces and feed them to her mother.

“My room is next door,” Agatha said, “so I was coming this way.”

In between bites of food, Helena said, “Tell me about yourself, Agatha. You haven't always been a housemaid, have you?”

“No, ma'am.” Agatha hesitated. She was never sure what to tell people about her life before she started working for Peter and his family. “I once had a house of my own,” she said tentatively.

“It must be difficult,” Helena said, “being a widow with a small child. How old is Aurora now?”

“Almost ten months.”

“She's a pretty baby,” Priscilla said, her lovely curls bobbing as she turned from her mother to address Agatha. “Can I hold her sometime? I could keep her for you while you rest.”

“That would be nice. She's asleep in my room right now.”

Helena finished a few bites of fruit and resumed her questioning. “She was so tiny when you first came here. Was your husband still alive when Aurora was born?”

“Actually . . . I'm not a widow.” It would be easier for Agatha to let people think that; it's what they usually assumed. She tried to avoid questions, but when someone asked her directly, she told the truth, as she did now. “My husband divorced me.”

“That's a sin,” Priscilla said. “I heard it in church.”

“He's not a Christian,” Agatha explained. “And neither was I at the time.”

Helena shook her head sadly. “Imagine that—and you with such a young baby. How terrible for you!”