The Woman from Lydia by Angela Hunt

Author:Angela Hunt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biblical Fiction;Lydia (Biblical figure)—Fiction;Philippi (Extinct city)—Fiction;Christian fiction;Bible fiction;Historical fiction;Novels;FIC042090;FIC042030;FIC026000
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2023-04-26T00:00:00+00:00

After Ariston had gone, I went to bed, though my thoughts were too frenzied for rest. Marry my steward, a former slave? I knew my attitude was wrong, for all believers stood on level ground before HaShem, but I could not easily shake off the conventions I had been taught since childhood. How could a freeborn woman marry a noncitizen? More important, how could I marry a man with whom I had little in common?

Hoping to find something that might disqualify him from this proposed union, I sorted through memories of Ariston, beginning with the day I first spotted him in the slave market. Even then, he had stood apart from the sullen captives who clearly resented their fate. Though he wore a dirty tunic like the others, he had taken care to wash and shave, revealing the resolute strength in his jawline and chin. His deep brown eyes gleamed with intelligence, and he stood proud and erect. Broad-shouldered and tall, he had the look of an Olympian.

When he ascended the slave block, I could not help but think of Joseph, son of Jacob, who had himself been a slave before HaShem lifted him to a place of authority in Egypt. Did I signal the auctioneer because I imagined him as a nobleman in disguise? Surely not, and yet I could not deny the two men had much in common. Joseph was handsome, too, righteous and a believer in HaShem.

I bid more than I had planned, but at the conclusion of the auction, Ariston belonged to me. My new slave was surprised and grateful when I showed him to the chamber that would become his.

“A room?” His brows shot up. “For me?”

“I know the custom is for slaves to sleep anywhere they can lie down,” I answered, “but my household keeps no slaves; my servants are all free. So yes, you will have a room, as do Phebe and Dione.”

He stared at me, apparently bereft of words. “I am to be—”

“Free,” I whispered, smiling at the astonishment in his eyes. “I will draw up your manumission papers on the morrow, and we will visit the magistrate. You will be wearing the cap of a freedman before sunset.”

He fell to the floor, prostrating himself before me. In that humble position, I glimpsed scars on his limbs and suspected that the flesh on his back looked even worse. His previous owner must have been a hard taskmaster, which made his spirit and determination even more remarkable. Yet I did not ask for details, and when I gave him a long tunic, the garment of a freedman, I backed away, afraid he would kiss my feet in gratitude.

Though from that day he was free to leave my household, Ariston remained, filling whatever role he thought appropriate. He was my butler when guests arrived, my escort when I needed to go into the city, my gardener when plants crowded my atrium, and my guard when strangers knocked at my door. Yesterday he had been

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