Land Of Silence Part 3

We could not expect Ethan to let me continue to work for my family once I married. As his wife, my time and talent belonged to him. I should be helping his business flourish, building a legacy fit for any sons and daughters G.o.d chose to give us.

Is Ethan willing to wait? my mother asked.

Yes. He is probably relieved, if you think about it. He seems so set on having an older bride.

My mother gave a wan smile. He is a good man. He loves you, Elianna.

He is a good man, I said, keeping my opinion to myself about whether he loved me or not. Ethan felt protective of me. He cared for me. But he had never given me reason to believe that he loved me with any serious attachment.

The months had tumbled one into another in a blur of grief-washed activity. It was winter. We had already spun the fine-grade flax delivered to the workshop in late summer, which I had had to store at the time. I now turned my focus to dyeing the fine linen yarn, producing beautiful shades of blue, red, and a pleasing green hue, which I, along with the help of our dye master, had developed.

Ethan and Master Ezer had been an invaluable resource to me, answering my many questions with inexhaustible patience. They visited with my father regularly and always lingered with me afterward to ensure I did not feel overwhelmed with the many new tasks before me. Between them, they knew as much about fabrics and the process of dyeing them as my own father, who had three generations of knowledge running through his veins.

If Ethan felt any discomfort about finding his betrothed more involved in a textile workshop than in the affairs of the household, he never betrayed it. From his manner you would have thought all the women of Judea spent their time developing new shades of dye.

I felt safe sharing my ideas with him. He would listen with his habitual silent intensity, as if nothing in the world could be so important as one of my new schemes. I lived for those rare moments when his light eyes would sparkle with approval. This . . . this design is worthy of a princess. Well done, Elianna. I clung to his approval the way a blind man clings to a guiding hand.

Once, he told me that I had more talent than any man he had ever met. I worked all the harder to win those rare words of approbation from him, knowing I would never have them from my father.

Colors dominated my world. While the quality of our fabrics remained a key focus, their unique color palettes would ultimately win us our select clientele. So I learned everything I could about dyes.

The roots of the madder plant produced numerous shades of red, but in order to make madder colorfast, the fabric needed to be treated with a mordant. Each dye master had his own secret recipe for a.s.sorted mordants. Because our house was so close to my fathers workshop, he forbade the use of truly putrid materials, such as old urine, which was both cheap and popular. Instead, he preferred substances like iron salts. These produced softer, more demure shades of red, which our workshop specialized in creating.

To make our green dye, we first used a special indigo solution. This produced a celestial blue color; then we immersed the blue yarn into a second bath, this one made of a yellow dye extracted from weld. The resulting green, a misty, dark, leafy hue, had a luscious sheen that drew the eye and captured the attention. I knew it would become popular as soon as I saw the yarn drying in the sun.

In spite of the cramped, often malodorous process of coloring fabrics, I loved visiting the dye room in my fathers workshop. Although many weavers dyed their fabrics before the process of spinning and weaving began, in my fathers workshop we did most of our dyeing after we completed spinning the yarn. This produced a more uniform color, which translated into better fabrics. One of the reasons my fathers customers sought his wares year after year had to do with the intangible quality of everything that came out of his stores. Whether linen or wool, we produced some of the finest textiles in all of Judea.

Our workers washed the large deliveries of fresh wool in the famous spring of Fullers Field so that the oil could be leached out of the fleece properly. But the majority of the remaining process took place in the workshop itself, which was surprisingly humble in size. There were nine cement-lined vats against two walls and a narrow stone bench against another where I often sat to oversee the process. A large stone cistern for rinsing completed the furniture in the simple chamber.

For me, this became the magical room. Nothing was as it appeared. Dyes went into the vats looking one color, and yarns emerged to dry into a different hue. Only experience and careful planning could give you the result you wanted. Using dyes required an internal knowing, almost a kind of faith. You created them not by the evidence of your eyes, but blindly, by the knowledge of your materials, and by the feeling in your gut.

I spent day upon day learning and creating, living in a world of my imaginings. I dreamt of colors and textures. Of beauty. And when dreams of death came, as they invariably did, I taught myself in the wakeful, s.h.i.+vering hours following their onslaught, to think instead of formulas and solutions, of vats of indigo and madder, of new shades and heart-stopping colors. I hid in a cave made of glorious creations. And I forced myself to forget what I had lost.

FIVE.

The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.

The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.

PSALM 121:7-8, NRSV.

ETHAN HAD LEFT on an important purchasing trip just before my birthday, taking no one but a trusted servant, and I had not seen him for two months. His father, having grown tired of seasickness and the inconveniences of travel, trusted Ethan to do most of their purchasing now.

I knew him to be brilliant at this work. He managed continually to discover better sources of unique dyes and had an infallible sense of what would become popular. His fathers business thrived as a result of his ac.u.men. But I could not help worrying for him when he was gone. Travel, even in the civilized Roman Empire, was a dangerous undertaking. Unpredictable storms, ruthless bandits, violent sickness"anything could happen when you were far from home on a vulnerable s.h.i.+p or a deserted road.

He walked into the workshop unannounced early one afternoon. The workers were in the garden, eating their noonday meal, and I alone remained indoors, distracted by a new crack in one of the vats. My delight in seeing him after so long an absence made me forget everything and I ran to him, forcing myself to stop a mere breath away. I could not suppress my smile, which must have flashed with the stunned joy of a drunk poet discovering a jar full of free aged wine.

Ethan! I cried, shoving my hands up my sleeves to keep from enfolding him in an inappropriate embrace. That would have shocked him.

His answering smile made me gulp. There was a new a.s.surance about the way he held himself, as if he had won a battle and liked coming away the victor. His eyes turned warm in acknowledgment of my obvious welcome. He always liked it too well when I could not hide my affection for him.

I brought you something. He extended a small, flat package, carefully wrapped in clean cloth.

Nonplussed, I made no move to take the package from him. He had never brought me a gift before. Well? His chuckle brought me to myself. Dont you want it?

Of course. I unwrapped the cloth with care to find a magnificent tapestry the size of a small window, worked with delicate wool in captivating shades of blue and scarlet and green. Everything about its construction"the ornate borders, the sharp-edged flowers and leaves, the l.u.s.ter of the precious gold twinkling in clumps, even the slight hint of fading in certain parts of the tapestry"indicated its old age.

I turned it over. The back had been cleverly woven so that there was scarcely any difference from the front panel. No knots. No tangles. This was the work of a master weaver, the kind that surfaced only once every generation. Upon closer examination, I found that the tiny holes that were invariably created from looping the different colors back and forth on the loom in order to create each pattern had been painstakingly sewn shut.

Babylonian! I breathed. Is this genuine Babylonian work? From the time before Persian rule?

Trust you to know the origin with one look.

How did you find it? Its breathtaking, Ethan. You couldnt have given me a better gift. Babylonian tapestries were legendary. Endless generations had revered the work of the weavers of Babylon who shared their secrets with no one. Antique productions like the one Ethan had brought me were difficult to find and exceedingly valuable. Usually, they were huge in size, covering the length of a whole wall. I guessed this piece was a fragment of a border to a much larger work.

He seemed pleased with my enthusiasm. I hoped you would like it. I thought of you when I saw it.

I made a pretense of giving all my attention to rewrapping the tapestry with care, trying to hide the inexplicable flash of tears his words had aroused. He had thought of me. He had not forgotten about me while traipsing about the empire, having adventures. I swallowed hard and remembered that I should ask about his journey.

Lifting my head, I noticed the man standing just behind him. It showed the measure of my distraction that I had not seen him until that moment, for he was a giant, towering over Ethan by almost a head. Broad, with muscles and a thick neck that could have held the weight of a bronze table, this man would have looked at home in the arena. And though I was no expert, I was sure that not many gladiators could have matched him in size. A thick scar ran from under his right eye and disappeared into his beard.

I stared at him, forgetting to close my mouth.

This is Viriato, Ethan said, his lips twitching. He had switched from Aramaic, the language we spoke in our daily lives, to Koine Greek. The Roman Empire had united a vast portion of the world with its might. In a way, the diverse dialects and languages of these different nations posed as great a challenge to Rome as their weapons and armies, for how were they all to communicate in a world that grew smaller every day? The language that brought so many races and peoples together was a common form of Greek rather than the Roman tongue, or even the cla.s.sical Greek that their poets and playwrights liked to use. Most of us spoke at least a smattering of Greek. Like many men and women of my cla.s.s, Ethan and I were fluent.

Viriato is my new friend from Lusitania, Ethan continued.

Viriato smiled. Instead of softening his face, it had the strange effect of making him look like a grimacing bear about to attack. He means I am his servant, which is enough for me. I would still be a slave if not for his generosity.

He spoke Koine Greek with the facility of an educated man. A slave? I raised my eyebrows and looked from one to the other.

Ethan scowled. Dont encourage him. He will bore you to tears with his endless prattling. I should know. For weeks, I was stuck on a s.h.i.+p with him as we traveled home.

Viriato laughed, his voice booming around the workshop, making the weavers stare with curiosity. He doesnt want me to tell you how we met; thats his trouble. Too modest, your betrothed.

Ethan ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in tufts. You are the hero of the story, as you well know. I did little enough.

Being the daughter of a merchant had certain advantages. I had more freedom than other women my age, most of whom would not be allowed to talk to strange men. My fathers business, however, had brought me into contact with strangers since before I could walk. Managing the workshop had stretched my freedom even more. We lived in an age of upheaval and change. I was not the only female who pushed at the boundaries of propriety with my work. Some of our synagogues were led by women. At the same time, it was still considered scandalous for women to hold conversation with men in a public place.

I shrugged. I sense a good tale. Come into the house, and I will offer you sweet wine while you tell me about your adventures with Ethan.

After all, Ethan had brought the man to me himself, and I did not wish to miss what promised to be a fascinating story.

Ethan groaned. Viriato rubbed his hands. I hid a smile and walked ahead.

Back in the house, I brought the men into the outer chamber, where we sometimes entertained my fathers Gentile clients. Here we offered them wine and, if they merited extra attention, pastry and fruit, though we never partook of food with them ourselves as the Law forbade Jews from eating with heathens. Since Viriato was obviously a Gentile, I decided that we could gather here, around a rectangular low bronze table carved with lotus flowers and overlaid with silver. It was our best table, on show to impress potential customers.

I sent for my parents. My mother had gone to bed, battling another headache, the servant told me. Father came in, his tunic askew, his hair uncombed. I noticed his eyes were red and gla.s.sy. He had been drinking. Again. But he was gracious to our guests and said the right things.

So, tell us your story, Viriato, I said.

I was a slave in a cinnabar mine in Hispania, he began.

I could not silence a gasp. Cinnabar was a highly valuable mineral, more for its mercury content than the vermilion that it also produced. But anyone working in a cinnabar mine, no matter how young or strong, would eventually succ.u.mb to the poison that seemed to linger in the air. Which is why only criminals and undesirables were put to work there.

Indeed? I said, my voice unsteady. What was Ethan thinking? Why would he invite a criminal back to Judea with him? Call him friend? Bring him around to the house of his betrothed for conversation and sweet wine?

I had gone to examine the cinnabar there, Ethan explained. A colleague told me that a new, rich vein had been found, producing vermilion of exceptional color.

The Romans adored vermilion red, and the wealthy used it to paint their villas, their doors, even their faces. The fas.h.i.+on had spread into Palestine amongst the very rich, and Ethans father, who had an instinct for such things, had become one of the premier merchants offering the dye in Judea.

The manager offered to show me around the place. Ethan shrugged. I had always been curious to see the inner workings of a mine. We had just begun when, on the rock face directly above us, one of the slaves who was pus.h.i.+ng a cart full of mineral lost control.

He suffered from tremors, that man. Its common amongst those who work the mine. Restricted vision too. Viriato rubbed the palm of his hand over his face, and I sensed that beneath his good-humored joviality lay a wealth of somber memories. He probably lost his footing due to a bad tremor.

All I know is I heard a creaking noise, and when I looked up, the cart was tilting right on top of me. I would have been dead if that much cinnabar had landed on my head. Before I could gasp, this hulking giant threw himself across the cart and prevented it from falling below, crus.h.i.+ng me.

The thought of how close Ethan had come to dying made me turn white. I could taste bile in my throat.

I did say he was the hero of the story. The cart was at such a precarious angle by then that he might have plunged down with it. He hung on for several moments, his feet dangling in the air, pus.h.i.+ng down as the cart teetered over the edge. Finally, he managed to stabilize it. He earned himself a few bruised ribs for his efforts.

Why? I asked, too stunned to think of tact. Why would a slave risk his own life for a complete stranger?

I became a slave. I did not stop being a man. I could no more prevent myself from helping a fellow human in the midst of danger than I could will myself to simply stop breathing.

I could see what Ethan saw in Viriato. Not merely the physical strength, the impressive size. It was the man himself. A certain n.o.bility that scars and slavery had not managed to ruin.

I thank you, with all my heart, I said. I could not have borne to lose Ethan. Tell me, Viriato, how did you end up in a cinnabar mine?

The giant scratched his beard and looked at his shoes. I hit the wrong man. Broke his jaw. And his nose. Perhaps a few ribs. Seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but he didnt agree with me. Since he was a centurion, his opinion mattered more than mine.

Why did you hit him?

Not to be indelicate, but it involved a lady.

He made overtures to your . . . ?

My nothing. She was a respectable maiden from an impoverished Lusitanian family. He seemed to think that being a Roman citizen and a centurion gave him the right to" He puffed out a breath through inflated cheeks and looked to Ethan for help.

The right to force himself upon a young woman.

You defended her? From that? And they put you in a cinnabar mine?

He shrugged. You cant go around a.s.saulting Roman citizens, no matter what the provocation.

So what happened? After you saved Ethans life, I mean?

Ah. The impossible. Viriato clapped once, and intertwined his fingers. I had been thrown into that mine to rot. The life span of slaves in cinnabar mines is notoriously brief. I thought I would end my days there. Your betrothed changed that. I dont know by what trick or charm he convinced the manager to sell me outright. Must have cost him bushels. He wont tell me how much. But you cant buy a slave with a criminal past unless you are unusually generous. I figured being his slave beat working at the mine any day. So I was happy to leave with him.

Imagine my surprise when our first stop was a visit with the magistrate. He made me sit outside the door as he conducted his business. I spent the time wondering if I had already offended him in some way, and whether he meant to lodge a complaint against me. I figured I had enjoyed the shortest respite from the mines in all of Romes history. I considered making a run for my freedom.

Did you flee?

No. I sat where he left me and mourned my imminent arrest.

But Ethan did not have you arrested.

No. I was mistaken on that account. Ethan had another plan. He emerged from his visit with the magistrate and handed me a roll of papyrus. Here is your certificate of manumission. You are a free man today, he said to me.

SIX.

Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.

Be strong and courageous.

JOSHUA 10:25, NIV.

MY FATHER LEANED FORWARD. What did he ask in return?

Nothing. After informing me I was free, he turned his back and began to amble down the road, whistling. It took me a few moments to comprehend his words. I thought he was playing with me. But when I glanced at the papyrus, what do you think I found?

Your certificate of manumission, I said, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.

I was dumbstruck. In my whole life, I had never known such an act of generosity.

Dont exaggerate, Ethan said, his voice gruff. I told you. I walked away alive from that cinnabar mine because of you. It was only right that you, in turn, should walk away from it because of me.

I stared at Ethan as if I were seeing him for the first time. What did you do then? How did you end up traveling with Ethan?

Viriato shrugged a ma.s.sive shoulder. I told him that the very least he could do was allow me to buy him a meal. As thanks for giving me my life back.

Ethans lip curled. He also asked to borrow money to pay for the food, the big lout.