Broken Vessels (volume 2 of Jars of Clay) (2 page)

“Please, have a seat.” She went over to the wooden counter by
the wall, poured a beverage into a cup and brought it to him. He noted the
absence of servants and felt humbled to be waited on by this pretty girl.

Priscilla’s home was comfortable and brightly decorated like
his own, but much, much smaller. He considered how she seemed natural, not
displaying any signs of nervousness at having one such as he in her home.

Sitting down near him, she cocked her head slightly, prepared
to listen.

Cassius cleared his throat, his confidence slipping.
“Priscilla, I confess, I have never met anyone like you before.

“I know what you are probably thinking,” he added swiftly,
“that I could have any girl in Carthage, so why do I prefer you? I can’t
explain it all myself, except that I know I do.”

She remained silent, her demeanor neither encouraging him to
continue nor to cease.

“However, there is a problem greater than the question of
whether or not you could return my affections, and it is this: Priscilla, I
have reason to believe you associate with Christians.”

There he said it. Now the only thing she must do is refute it
and all will be well.

“Cassius, the thing that you fear is the reason I rejoice. I am
a Christian.”

He leaned in closer and spoke crisply, “Priscilla, please, you
must reconsider your stand. Surely you have been brainwashed, but if we could
meet together to discuss it, I believe I could convince you to change your
mind.”

“I would love to meet with you, to discuss matters of
Christianity, if you wish. I only ask that you will return to my home to do so.
And of course, my parents must be present.”

“Of course. Shall we meet this evening?”

She nodded.

“Well, then,” he said, standing, his hopes buoyed once again,
“I look forward to this evening.”

“As do I, Cassius.”

Chapter Three

HELENA

For seven days Helena had refused to leave her chamber. She
denied Felicity’s request to open the shutters, though the rays of sunlight
trespassed into her room through the cracks, golden threads intruding on her
darkness. The cries of the gulls that circled overhead could not be quieted,
nor the daily knocking on her door by Cassius.

“Go away!” Her hand gripped her throat which was sore from her
incessant sobbing. Felicity offered her a glass of tepid water. She accepted.

Cassius ignored her demand and entered anyway, a tray with a
teapot and three cups in hand.

“Why do you keep coming? I don’t want to see you.”

“I know.” He lay the tray down on the desk and began pouring.
“I know you don’t want to speak to me. It is okay. It is I that must speak to
you.”

“Whatever you have to say, Cassius, I’m not interested.”

She refused his proffered cup, and he placed it back on the
tray then proceeded to offer the third cup to Felicity. Helena’s jaw dropped in
distain.

“Are you mad, Cassius? Serving a slave? What has gotten into
you?”

Felicity retreated like a frightened child.

“It’s okay, Felicity,” Cassius said kindly. “It’s only tea.
Please, take it.”

Felicity did as she was told, but scurried back into the
shadows with the gift.

“Why must you waste the wax, Helena?” Cassius nodded towards
the wrought iron candelabra hanging from the ceiling with all six candles lit
and dripping. “There’s plenty of light on the other side of those shutters.” He
positioned himself in a chair fashioned from olive wood and upholstered with
fine colorful linens.

“Leave them closed,” Helena said. She grabbed a feather pillow
and brought it down on her face. She didn’t want to see the light and she
definitely didn’t want to talk to Cassius, who had betrayed her to Father.

A childhood memory suddenly came to her. She had been seven and
Cassius, ten. They had been left behind by their father who had taken Gordian
on a business errand at the Punic port. Though Cassius and Helena had begged to
be taken along, their father said three children were simply too many. Helena
felt like punching the smug look off of Gordian’s pompous face.

She’d only seen the port once before that time, while their
family had visited Byrsa Hill when the new emperor was still general. From
there you could see hundreds of ships in the port, all with tall masts molested
by heavy sails.

She and Cassius had decided to make the best of it, fashioning
their own little boats out of dried wood, and taking them on imaginary
adventures in the water fountain in their villa at the foot of the god Jupiter.

Helena’s boat had slipped out of her fingers and was pulled
away by the current they had created with their play.

She kept reaching, almost getting it, but it had grown
slippery. On her last effort, she toppled in, and though the water wasn’t over
her head, a slimy film coated the bottom of the fountain. She couldn’t get her
footing.

Her face was submerged, and she gulped the silty water. Panic
gripped her. She couldn’t swim.

“Reach for my hand,” Cassius demanded. “Helena, I’ll save you!”

Hearing his voice brought a moment of clarity. Pushing herself
up, she extended her hand.

Cassius pulled her out of the fountain, her arms and legs
scratched and bleeding from the rough surface of the stonework, her tunic soaked
and squished up under her armpits. She tugged the stubborn fabric down over her
stomach.

Helena had stared up at the mass of marble. Jupiter stood stoic
with a rod gripped firmly in this left hand, all his muscles in his arms and
chest bulging with strength and power. His hair and beard were wild and wormy
around his eyeless face, like the mane of a lion. Those unseeing eyes sent
shivers down her spine.

“Do you think we angered him?”she asked with a quiver in her
voice

“Jupiter?” Cassius said.

“Maybe he tried to drown me.”

Cassius frowned. “We should keep this incident to ourselves. No
sense making Father and Mother angry as well.”

Where had that memory come from, she wondered?

Now Cassius spoke softly. “I know you can hear me Helena, even
with that silly pillow on your head. I must apologize.”

Helena felt her jaw twitch. Cassius wanted to apologize?

“My sin against you sister is that I was unable, even
unwilling, to refuse for myself that which I demanded of you. For you see, I
too have fallen in love with a commoner.”

Helena thrust the pillow away from her face and glared at him.

“We both know it was I who was the catalyst behind Father’s
search for a husband for you. It was wrong of me. I acted in haste.”

Helena squeezed her eyes together, pressing back the tears that
threatened.

“I’m sorry you are unable to marry the man you love. Forgive
me.”

Helena’s mouth opened, but was too dry to speak. She propped
herself up on her elbows to examine him. Did he jest? No, his eyes were soft.
He offered her a gentle smile, and then helped her with a sip of tea.

“Brother,” she finally said, “I would not have been given my
way, no matter what you did. The man I would’ve chosen would never have been
approved by Father.”

Helena fell back into her pillows. “So, who is she, Cassius,
this commoner that you love?”

“Her name is Priscilla. She’s the daughter of the produce vendor
in the square.”

“Well, I’m sure you can convince Father of her in time. It’s
not unheard of for a man to marry down in rank.”

“She’s a Christian.”

“What?”  Helena sat up fully this time and stared at him,
disbelieving.

“Priscilla is a Christian.”

Helena burst out laughing, not joyfully, but sharp and bitter.
“Oh, brother, you and I are quite a pair, aren’t we?”

Chapter Four

PRICILLA

Priscilla had prepared the back room as instructed by her
mother. The floors were swept, the foot carpets beaten and replaced; she lit
the oil lamps, filling them fresh with olive oil, for the day’s warmth quickly
cooled with the setting of the sun.

Her home was the end unit of a brick and mortar townhouse, one
street away from the Forum on the corner of Cardo V and Decumano Nassno. Next
door was the weaver, and after that a goldsmith and a jeweler. Her family
rented several acres of vegetable fields on the outskirts of the city. When the
produce was harvested, they sold it on the street in front of their home.

They were not rich, like the patriarchs and businessmen who
lived east, towards Thurbo Minor, nor were they poor like the unfortunate souls
who lived in the crowded apartment blocks or in the streets of Carthage.

Her father, Saturus, arrived by the back entrance. He was a
large man, robust, who towered over most, with large hands and, Priscilla knew,
a large heart. He kissed both of her cheeks, regarding her affectionately.

“Bless you, Priscilla. Are you well?”

“Very well, Father. The Lord is good.”

“Indeed, He is.”

Saturus removed several parchments that had been concealed
under his tunic.

“Oh, Father! You have obtained copies of The Letters?”

“One,” he replied. “Matthew’s.”

The carpet panel that divided the back sitting room from the
rest of the house separated, and her mother, Bithia, joined them. Priscilla
looked like her mother who, though aging as one who labored hard, had the same
sparkly blue eyes that still rendered her beautiful.

“Mother,” Priscilla said, her voice breathy with excitement,
“Father has one of The Letters, the one from Matthew.”

“You must mean a copy.”

“Yes a copy. Still, this is the Apostle Matthew, the one who
was with Jesus, wasn’t he?” Priscilla asked. “Was he not a witness?”

“Yes, he was.”

Hearing the knock on the wooden door that faced the back alley,
Priscilla opened it, and wordlessly several others entered the room.

She watched as they too shared the excitement of having
obtained such a precious gift.

Along with Pricilla, her father, who was considered their
leader, and her mother, there was a retired soldier who, after returning from
duty in the army, now helped her father in the fields. He arrived with a black
man from the house of Portus, who was yet a slave; a Senator, who was
considered a deacon in this small house church along with his wife; and a girl
with flaming red hair, who was once a temple priestess.

Their activities were highly frowned upon for they claimed,
like the Jews, that there was only one God who ruled over all. The Romans did
not understand them, and because of this they feared them. And because of this
they hated them.

After they had bowed their heads to pray, Saturus opened the
parchments.

“The Kingdom of heaven is near,” he began in his low, tenor
voice. “Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive
out demons. Freely you have received, freely give.”

Chapter Five

LUCIUS

The carriage was over capacity, mostly with men like Lucius who
hadn’t washed in days or possibly weeks. Between the stench of human sweat and
the rough, jerky ride over a stone laden road, Lucius once again felt the urge
to turn out the contents of his stomach. He wrapped an arm around his mid
section tightly, suppressing a moan.

With his other hand he fingered the small pouch of silver denarii
in his pocket. Having lived his entire life on the Vibius property, Lucius had
never been paid with money. His needs had been provided for in exchange for
labor. And now that he’d experienced work outside of his former home, he
recognized how kind and fair a man Brutus was. He owed it to him to stay away
from his daughter. Coming to Rome was the right thing to do.

He ignored the questioning looks of his fellow travelers who
knew by his accent he didn’t originate from these parts, and stared out the
open air windows. The landscape was lush and green, more so by far than the sun-burnt
desert-scape of Carthage.

He took a swig of water from his leather canteen, catching the
eyes of two men who sat across from him. The large one with a pink complexion
had a red sinus, fabric that draped over his left shoulder on top of his toga.
The second man was dark as coal and wore a tunic similar to Lucius’s. He was
probably a slave, Lucius thought.

“How much longer to our next stop?” a fellow traveler asked the
pink man.

The fellow shrugged. “Not much longer.”

Lucius felt light-headed and hoped he’d hold up until then. He
needed to find a spot of shade to lie down in for a few minutes and fill his lungs
with fresh air. Surely that would settle his stomach enough for the rest of the
journey.

In order to pass the time, Lucius let his mind wander. In an
instant he was back home, in the grove with Helena. They were discussing
literature and history. She laughed at one of his jokes. He stroked her cheek
tenderly, leaning in to…

The carriage jerked to a stop, pulling Lucius to the present.
So much for leaving the master’s daughter alone.

His legs felt weak as he exited the carriage. A patch of grass
under a laurel tree beckoned him.

“Would you mind calling me, when it’s time to leave?” he asked
the pink man with the slave. The man nodded, unsmiling.

Lucius didn’t intend to fall asleep. When he awoke, the
carriage was gone. As was his pouch of denarii.

Angry, he kicked the tree. A blast of pain shot through his big
toe and up his leg. “Curse the gods!”

At least he still had his ticket. When the next carriage to
Rome arrived, he hobbled to it and hopped on with a grimace.

The carriage delivered him to a station in the middle of the
city. From the moment he stepped off, he was assaulted by a cacophony of
sounds, smells and bodies. The energy and intensity of the life of this city
overwhelmed and mesmerized him. He’d been to the Forum in Carthage a thousand
times and thought he’d seen everything, but Rome dwarfed it all.