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Bread of Angels

Tyndale House Publishers

TWENTY-SIX YEARS EARLIER

AD 25

Their clothing is violet and purple; they are all the work of skilled men. JEREMIAH 10:9

PURPLE YARN HUNG from thin trees, swaying in the breeze like odd-shaped fruit; dark-lavender fabric the color of old bruises spread over two rough-hewn stone benches, drying in the sun; a large plum-colored mosaic of geometric designs dominated the otherwise-plain garden. In the shade, a massive vat the size of a diminutive Roman bath sloshed with purple dye so dense it looked black except when a ray of sunlight found its way over the surface, illuminating its true color.

The mistress of this purple kingdom, a young woman in loose, patched clothing, hunched in front of the vat, her forehead damp with perspiration. She had prepared the formula as her father had taught her. It was time to soak the linen. Her father usually conducted this part of the process. His was the genius that had created the dye in the first place; his the skill that turned ordinary yarn into lush, purple beauty. Lydia had never gone through the process of dyeing without his help. Her father was the dye master. She merely acted as his assistant, a role she relished. The thought of dyeing the wool alone made her grit her teeth.

Eumenes was late. He should have arrived over an hour ago.

Lydia wiped the sweat trickling down her temple and stared into the vat. She thought about the unusually large order they had to fill within the next two weeks. There was no time for delay. Every hour counted if they were to make a prompt delivery.

Her stomach churned as she considered their narrow schedule. Most of their local clients suffered from a strange inconsistency. They had no qualms being late in their payments to an honest merchant, but if their merchandise arrived a few days after the promised date, they acted as if the world were ending. Demanding all manner of reparations, they threatened to blight the merchant's truest treasure: his reputation.

When the two orders had arrived, one on top of another, Lydia had objected to her father, demanding that he delay at least one. "It is too much," she had said. "We cannot accomplish it all in such a short time."

He had laughed at her objections. "You despair when we have no orders, imagining that we will grow impoverished and lose our home. When we do receive two perfectly good requests, you worry that it is too much and we will fail to meet expectations. You must make up your mind, Daughter. Which is it to be? Shall we starve or perish of overwork?"

Lydia found that she had no problem dreading either eventuality, which did not help her present situation. Where was her father?

She fetched several of the hefty baskets overflowing with linen yarn from their workshop, located in the eastern end of the garden. The baskets were heavy — too heavy for a sixteen-year-old girl. Lydia gritted her teeth and half dragged, half carried them, one shuffling step at a time, until they were within easy reach of the dyeing vat.

On the other side of the garden, a three-minute walk from the workshop, lay their modest home with its three rooms, its crooked walls, the leaking ceiling that her father never had time to fix, and the fading furniture that no amount of purple could transform into a semblance of riches. But it was theirs, and she never felt so secure anywhere in the world as when she was nestled within the safety of its walls with her father nearby.

Lydia set the baskets of prepared linen in neat order near the vat, like naked babies ready to be bathed. In truth, she knew what to do. More than once her father had given her permission to complete the task without him. "Your problem is not lack of knowledge," he had said again and again. "It is lack of confidence. You fear you might fail. I trust you will succeed."

She cringed every time he suggested it. "In my ignorance, if I make a mistake and ruin a batch of dye or yarn or a perfectly good length of fabric, who will pay for my error? You know we cannot afford costly mistakes like that."

He never insisted. Her father was too gentle for that. She wondered now if this was some test, this delay. Had he chosen to stay away from home to force her hand and leave her no choice but to embark on the process alone?

She chewed on dry lips. Nausea clawed at her belly as she contemplated the mounds of yarn. Intentional or not, she needed to make a decision. Once she started soaking the linen, there would be no going back. She would have to see the dyeing of the linen through to the end. Stopping at the wrong moment would ruin the batch.

Reaching for a fat wad of yarn, she began to unwind it so that it could be immersed into the liquid properly. Too many dyers filled their vats with an excess of yarn, thinking to save their dye. But that meant the yarn would not soak up enough color and would emerge patchy, without the steadfastness that her father's process produced.

When the linen was ready, she took a deep breath, her outstretched hands shaking as she crouched by the vat, poised to begin the process. An unexpected noise made her grow still. Just outside, along the narrow path that ran adjacent to their land, a man's groan followed by the sound of heavy, shuffling steps broke the silence. Without warning, the door leading to the garden crashed open, hitting the wall with a great noise. Lydia jumped.

Clutching the forgotten linen to her breast, she sprang to her feet. A man she did not recognize burst into the courtyard, half carrying someone slumped against his shoulder, one leg dragging with each step.

She noticed two things before she began to run. First, blood. A great deal of blood clinging to the slumping man so that his hair, face, and leg were covered with it. And second, with dawning horror, she realized that the face so covered in seeping scarlet belonged to none other than her father.

"Oh gods." Her voice emerged as an indistinguishable croak. "Father! What has happened?" The yarn fell unheeded from her nerveless fingers to the stone-paved ground.

Her father roused himself enough to give a weak smile. "It looks worse than it is. This young fellow saved my life."

Lydia spared the man who held her father in a tight grip a brief glance. She had an impression of light-green eyes and a face that Apollo would be happy to own before she returned her attention to her injured parent.

With trembling fingers, she touched his warm cheek and quelled her desire to snatch him away from the strong, supportive arms of the young Apollo. Carrying her father into the house alone was not a realistic option. She would collapse under the burden of his sinking weight.

"This way. Follow me. We must set him down so that I can see to his wounds," she said. The young man trailed her into the house without comment.

Her father's thin mattress sat on the floor of his chamber, his blankets neatly folded at the bottom. "Settle him on the bed," she said, her voice a thread. "Please," she added, trying to remember manners in the midst of terror.

"It's a small injury, Lydia," Eumenes panted. "Don't worry yourself." The loud groan of pain that escaped his lips as Apollo laid him down on the mattress did little to support his claim.

"What happened?" she asked again, parting his tunic where it lay shredded against his leg. She winced, feeling queasy as she saw the long gash that ran the length of his thigh. The smell of blood, the sight of the wound, the heat of the room made her feel short of breath.

Time seemed to recede, to double in on itself.

For a moment she felt the world shift as if she were no longer in this room but in a chamber of dreams, kneeling next to a woman whose face was hidden in shadows. Blood covered everything — the woman's clothing, the sheets — and dripped in fat drops on the stone-gray floor. Lydia took a shivery breath, trying to clear her mind of this strange overlap until her gaze returned to the bedside of her father and her thinking regained its focus.

Eumenes squeezed his eyes shut. Gritting his teeth he said, "Crazy horse."

"A horse did this to you?"

"Not entirely," Apollo said. "I saw what happened. A man was leading a horse by its bridle when the animal began rearing up. Something must have spooked it. The beast pulled away from the hold of its master and continued to balk and rear on its hind legs. Your father was standing in the wrong place at the wrong moment. The horse's hooves knocked him sideways. I happened to be on hand and managed to calm the horse and pull him back."

"He was like Hercules, bringing that monster under control with a touch," her father said.

Apollo grinned. "Your father began to regain his balance. His injuries would have been minor if not for the unfortunate coincidence that he was standing near the top of a hill. His foot slipped at the last moment, and he went over the edge. He cut himself on some jutting rocks and brambles as he rolled down. Most of these injuries are from his fall, not the horse."

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Excerpted from Bread of Angels by Tessa Afshar, Kathryn S. Olson. Copyright © 2017 Tessa Afshar. Excerpted by permission of Tyndale House Publishers.
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