Page 23 of Of Love and Treason
amen, amen.
Believed on in the world and taken up in glory,
amen.”
The singing fell away to murmurs of praise and thankfulness that morphed into heartfelt prayer. When one voice faded, another took its place. They prayed for unbelieving neighbors, for the senate and the emperor. They prayed for opportunities to show love and share hope. And they prayed for courage, for boldness to speak truth and act on it, no matter the consequences. Valens prayed aloud for Iris and the others joined in.
The light had gone by the time they’d finished, and Delphine and the servant Phoebe rose to light the lamps.
“I lost my job.” Pax rubbed the bruise on his forehead, eyes trained on the ground. He was—or had been—a city messenger, carrying letters to and from people within the city. “I thought my supervisor was a friend. That he might listen—understand—if I shared the Good News, but he called it a favor, letting me go instead of turning me in.” His eyes flashed with hurt and anger in the lamplight.
Valens prayed for wisdom as he began to speak to his little flock of believers. “We were never promised an easy life as followers of Jesus. Just the opposite, in fact.” The stool creaked as he shifted his weight. “Paul wrote in his letter to the church in Ephesus that we wage a battle not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual forces. And we must put on the armor of God to withstand the darts of the enemy. They come at us in many forms. Discouragements and doubts, the loss of a job or health or a family member. The little voice that tells us to give up, that God doesn’t see. That He doesn’t care.”
Marius gripped Pax’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “You’ve done well, my boy. Trust God to provide a new job for you, and at present, if you have need of anything, we are all here to support and care for each other. We are not here with words only.”
A man cleared his throat. “I—I’ve been on the lookout for adelivery lad.” Novus, a metalworker, straightened from where he leaned against the back wall. “The job’s yours if you want it. You already know the city.”
Pax’s mouth dropped as the room burst into laughter.
Later, after they shared the bread and wine and everyone had returned to their homes, Valens lay awake, staring at the cracked plaster above his bed. The market below the apartment remained just as noisy at night, filled with thumps and shouts and the squeaking wheels of delivery carts unloading goods into the market shops. A smile played at his lips as he thought of the way God had provided for Pax. How the church had come together as He had designed it to. Members working together to support and care for one another, creating a body that was healthy and strong.
“If anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.”
Hector and Lillith.
The sudden change of thought sent his gut churning. He couldn’t chase the couple from his mind. What would it be like, he wondered, to love someone from childhood? To love someone so fiercely as to risk treason and death just to marry?
Thunder rumbled, shaking the whole building in a deep thumping roll. Rain battered the street like an upended waterpot. Valens threw the blanket from him and crossed the room to the window, leaning out to close the shutters against the rain. He shivered and lit the clay lamp, then fetched the cloth from the washstand to dry his arms and hair. The lamp bathed the room in wavering orange light and shadows. It revealed his narrow bed, the washstand with a red-glazed basin and pitcher, a table and small chair.
He poured himself a cup of water and sat in the chair, squirming to get comfortable on the lumpy pink cushion. Pulling it out from under him, he tossed it on the floor. Bea’s love of the garish had somehow infiltrated his space. His leather satchel sat in the middle of the table, holding the tools of his trade. He stared at it, thrumming his fingers on his thigh and taking a sip of water. It was one thing to agreeto marry couples he knew. To do the same for complete strangers was something else entirely.
Rushing blood laced his limbs with quivering energy. Valens reached for the bag, flipped back the flap, and spilled the contents on the table.
He froze as something scuttled over the roof tiles. Just a rat.
Feeling foolish, he let out a breath and took the pen and ink. He pinned the curling papyrus beneath his left hand and began writing.
Hector son of Apollonius and Lillith daughter of Apion agree that they have come together to share a common life.
His shaking fingers steadied as he wrote the familiar lines, and by the time he’d finished, the lamp had begun to gutter and hiss, and the rain had slowed to a dull popping on the roof.
Valens stood and crossed to the washstand, where he splashed cool water over his face and hair, rubbing away the burning in his eyes. He braced his hands on the stand, gripping the wood until his knuckles turned white. He looked over his shoulder to where the marriage contract lay nearly complete, lacking just two signatures and his seal. He swallowed, trying to calm the ball of snakes roiling in his gut. He could burn it now and no one would ever know. The temptation to hold the papyrus over the dying flame was strong, but he held back, watching, weighing, debating. Valens dropped his chin and stared at the reflection in the basin. His black hair seemed to disappear into the darkness, leaving a face that wavered in the warm light and turned his eyes into deep hollows. He straightened. He would not burn the contract. He would deliver it to the apartment building across from the Baths of Decius, the one Hector had mentioned.
If it had been a test, they would not be there.
If it wasn’t a test, they would be married.
VII
THE OVERPOWERING SCENTof cheap floral bath soap assaulted Iris’s nose as she slipped the shuttle of orange linen thread between the warp threads of her loom. She knew it was orange because her father said so. But which shade? The vibrant red-orange of mullet roe? Pale and soft as peach flesh? The powdery ochre of an alley cat? When she’d asked, he’d hesitated and repeated,orange.
Iris battened the row of thread and lifted damp hair from her hot neck, twisting it into a coil with a sigh. The cool air relieved her clammy skin. Old Dorma had accompanied Iris to the baths after she’d come home that afternoon. Iris sniffed. The sickly sweet smells of her bath oils weren’t going to last long with the neighbor’s cooking tonight. Curried fish cakes and fried olive bread would hang on her until the next trip to the baths. But considering the poor choice of soap, the smell of curried fish wasn’t a terrible alternative.
She continued weaving, her movements swift, rote, controlled. She liked weaving, creating smoothness and order from a chaotic bundle of thread. If only life were as simple and easily manipulated. She ran her fingers over the softness of the completed fabric, which she’d make into a warm wrap for the coming winter. Nearly done. She quickened her pace, falling into the movements and letting her mind wander.
The husband and wife across the hall were arguing again and the single man below banged on the ceiling and inserted his ownopinions. Valentine had not returned to the bakery for several days—or at least, not while she’d been up front. Iris hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to talking with him again until Epimandos had returned and Valentine had yet to arrive. She tried staying later and even offered to watch the front so Epimandos could rest. When he’d guessed that Valentine hadn’t come yet and started to tease, she left in a rush, feeling anxious and a little despairing. The guild meetings would end soon and Iris would go back to kneading and never meet Valentine again. The thought disturbed her more than it had a right to.
Dust from the threads burned in the back of her throat. Iris stood, stretching, and went to pour a cup of water. She was proud of the way she could move through the apartment with ease, skirting furniture without stumbling, her hands falling on the cup and pitcher as easily as if she could see them. Everything was in its proper place—including the gods and goddesses which she had replaced in the lararium, even though she hadn’t bothered to pray. She took a drink, wondering about Valentine’s “one god.”Onegod! How could anyone believe such a thing? Certainly everyone had afavoritegod or goddess they invoked a little more than the rest, but one god in sum? Absurd. Still, she wrestled with the desire to learn more, even as she tried to convince herself that Valentine and his god had nothing to do with that flash of sight.
