Читать книгу Valeria's Cross - Kathi Macias - Страница 7

Valeria was besotted with Egypt. She adored the beautiful gardens, which overflowed with fragrant flowers, and vegetables and fruits beyond the size and flavor of any she had ever tasted. What she cherished most were the early morning strolls she and her mother took through the gardens and on the golden beaches. She delighted in plucking seashells from the sand and dipping her toes into the water. The warm sunshine had soon colored her pale skin with a peachy glow.

Getting settled into the palace had taken far more time than the women had anticipated. There were Roman dignitaries to entertain, and prominent Egyptians hosted parties given in the women’s honor. Four weeks passed before Prisca was able to arrange to meet the Coptic monks recommended by the ship’s captain.

When the day arrived, Valeria pouted. “Why should I have to go study with the monks? I can hardly keep up with my lessons now.”

“I have arranged for us to go late mornings so you can study with your tutor earlier and then spend the rest of your school time with the monks.”

Valeria shrugged. “As long as it is part of my studies. But I have heard the monks are old and crabby.” She pinched the end of her nose. “My friend Aneksi told me they smell as musty as the catacombs.”

“You can take your handkerchief filled with cinnamon.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

“Where you are concerned, that is true.” Prisca clapped her hands, and the servants appeared. “We are ready to depart.”

First the women and their entourage of ladies-in-waiting, servants, and soldiers boarded several feluccas and crossed a narrow section over to Aswan, where the monastery and the church were located. Once they reached the city, the women boarded ornate chariots with drivers, while the remaining soldiers mounted horses.

To her surprise, Valeria soon found she was enjoying herself. She chuckled at the spirited Egyptian horses that flew ahead of the carriages, their riders desperately trying to control the frisky beasts. As their entourage passed through the cobblestone streets in their golden chariots, it attracted a lot of attention. The citizens along the way cheered. Women and children ran for bouquets of flowers and tossed them in their path; others simply stopped what they were doing and stared. Soldiers on horses pushed a few protesters from their path.

“Long live Emperor Diocletian and his Empress Prisca,” a chorus of voices rang out as the chariots rolled past.

“I find Father’s popularity here surprising,” Valeria noted.

“Rome offers Egypt protection from the barbarians from the north and the savages south of here,” Prisca explained.

“Look,” Valeria said, quickly distracted as she pointed out one of the beautiful homes in the area. “Even the simplest of structures are constructed of limestone or granite.”

“These elegant houses are far more appealing than the flat-roofed homes built of mud and sun-dried bricks that we observed along the Nile,” Prisca added.

An Egyptian guide who walked alongside the carriage interjected, “Every obelisk and statue throughout the empire is carved from red granite or yellow limestone taken from local quarries. Even the pieces in the mosaics of Rome and beyond originate from our quarries.”

Once the royal party arrived at the monastery, the carriage came to a halt in front of the gate. The oblong-domed church, an imposing structure, was divided by a natural wall from the monastery. Lookouts towered strategically at the four corners of the buildings. The lead soldier dismounted and knocked at the massive arched gate and announced their arrival. Valeria thought if the church and monastery were only half as exquisite as the colorful mosaic walls, it would be well worth the trip, even if they found the religion a disappointment.

Alara, a young Nubian with skin the color of dark chestnuts, appeared at the gate. He took a deep bow before them. “Welcome to the monastery, ladies.”

Valeria smiled at the beautiful young man with dark eyes and well-toned body, but Eugenia quickly reprimanded her. “This man is a monk. Please do not torture him with your tantalizing smile.”

Valeria blushed, wondering how Eugenia had the power to read her mind. Yet even under Eugenia’s watchful eye, it was hard not to stare at this strikingly attractive man.

Seemingly unaware of his admirer, Alara guided them on a tour of the church, which contained the most intricate mosaics the women had ever seen. The walls inside the church and other buildings were filled with mystical and colorful hieroglyphics, painstakingly drawn centuries ago. The octagonal domes of the church were painted with murals of Jesus and his disciples.

Once they had toured the magnificent church, Alara invited them to step outside into the courtyard. He led them through an arcade covered by a succession of arches that connected the church to the monastery. Through the archways, the women saw that the monks were cultivating vegetables and fruits.

“Would you like to go down into the garden grotto?” Alara asked.

The women declined, explaining that their own religion taught that these underground caves contained evil spirits.

When they crossed the gardens into the monastery, the women discovered it was a community in itself, busily humming with workers—not just scholarly monks, but brothers who were craftsmen, artists, carpenters, and potters. Alara paused at the kiln where the women observed several industrious monks in various stages of creating exquisite pottery from the red clay indigenous to the area. The women were delighted when they were offered several pieces as gifts. They thanked the monks and went on to the next room, which was a workshop manned by several carpenters. These craftsmen gave them hand-carved wooden crosses, inset with mosaics.

The aroma of the bakery caused the women’s mouths to water, and they were soon enjoying a sample of homemade bread fresh from the clay ovens. Their servants’ arms were quickly laden with loaves and cakes, filled with nuts and dates, to take back to the palace.

Next Alara gave them a peek into the monks’ living quarters. Each cell contained six beds carved out of the natural limestone. “How does one sleep on stone?” Valeria wondered aloud.

Alara laughed. “They are quite comfortable, and the stone is beneficial for the back. The monks do not afford themselves luxuries, for our Savior Himself had no home or bed.”

“Then I am sure I do not care for your religion, for I prefer luxurious surroundings,” Valeria declared.

“Ah, you misunderstand, dear lady. God does not expect everyone to choose the same path. You will not have to sacrifice luxury unless God calls you to do so. If He does, you will want nothing more because He will either provide the strength you need to live without it or take away the desire.”

Valeria made a face.

Alara smiled at her. “Some of the older monks do not choose the luxury of living at the monastery. The founder of our order, Antony, and many of his followers prefer to live in underground caves.”

Prisca gasped. “With the evil spirits?”

“Even if evil spirits resided in the underground caves, the Bible teaches, ‘Greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world.’ There is nothing to fear.”

Valeria’s eyes opened wide. “You believe you have a god living inside you?” Before Alara could reply, she added, “So does my father. He believes he is God and demands that everyone address him as Lord and God.”

Alara’s handsome face twisted into a pained look, but Valeria was not surprised that the young monk remained silent. What could he say? A derogatory statement in the presence of the empress and her daughter concerning the emperor would have been unwise.

“Father believes he’s Jupiter. So who do you claim to be?”

“I do not claim to be a god. Christians believe there is only one God and just by inviting Jesus into your heart, the Holy Spirit will come and dwell within you, giving you strength and peace.”

Alara smiled and changed the subject. “Come and let us visit the monastery. Before you leave, we will schedule your Bible studies, where you will find the answers to your questions.”

As they continued down the limestone hallways, they passed room after room filled with rows of papyrus. Prisca stopped at the door of one of the rooms and asked, “What is written upon all these papyruses?”

“Those are writings pertaining to Scripture,” Alara explained. “Many are Saint Mark’s interpretations. The Apostle Mark founded the church during the reign of the Roman emperor Nero, and a great multitude of Egyptians embraced the Christian faith. But even before Christianity, Jewish and Greek scholars joined forces with the Copts to translate the ancient Holy Scriptures.”

“Who will teach us the Holy Scriptures?” Prisca asked.

“The biblical scholars in the monastery will instruct you. You will love the poetic and inspiring Psalms penned by King David. And your daughter, as a young pupil, will grow in wisdom and garner valuable life lessons from Proverbs. The Holy Scriptures are rich with history, and many of the prophecies that were foretold of Jesus are written there.”

Prisca’s eyes lit up. “Oh, is it possible that the monks can tell my future?”

“Biblical prophecy is unrelated to fortune-telling,” Alara explained.

“I am not sure that I understand the difference,” Prisca confessed.

“You will after you study the Word of God,” Alara assured her.

The tour ended as they arrived at a door in the back of the temple overlooking the garden. Alara knocked and then introduced the women and their servants to Brother Bishoy, who led the group into a large library, with a barrel-vaulted roof and filled with arcades and pendentives. Shelves of papyrus lined the walls. In the center of the room were several tables and chairs, some occupied by monks so deep in study they were unaware of the women’s presence.

“Welcome,” Bishoy said, as the servants scurried around, finding chairs for the women and their attendants. “Please sit down.”

Valeria studied the priest in his long flowing robe, tied at the waist with a simple rope. A pair of bright red shoes peeked out like mice from beneath his robe. Brother Bishoy’s vestments were brightly colored, but tattered. His long, crooked fingers were smudged in ink. Tufts of white hair sprouted out of his mostly bald head, but his bright smile lit up his otherwise homely face.

After they were seated, Prisca spoke on behalf of the women and thanked the monks for agreeing to enlighten them.

“There have been hundreds of scholars throughout the Roman Empire who have come here to study,” Bishoy informed them with a smile.

“We are hardly scholars,” Prisca stated. “Just two women intrigued by your religion.”

“Two very important women,” Brother Bishoy added, bowing his head slightly.

The sound of a monk clearing his throat came from a nearby table, causing the women to glance in his direction. Seated at the desk was a man even more disheveled than the one who had welcomed them.

“Antony, the old monk who lives in the cave?” Valeria wondered in a whisper to her mother.

There were no papyruses stacked upon his table, but his hands moved furiously over stone tablets on the table before him.

“Is he reading with his fingertips?” Valeria asked.

Brother Bishoy answered her question with an introduction. “This is Didymus, one of our monks who will be teaching you. He is blind.”

The women greeted Didymus with cheerful salutations. Absorbed in his work, he did not look up, nor did his fingers stop moving across the tablets of stone. He simply nodded his head.

“Didymus is reading the Scripture carved upon the tablets,” the priest explained, “a method of reading created by the Copts for those who cannot see with their eyes.”

Prisca stood and walked to the desk, then ran her own hand over one of the tablets.

Didymus suddenly stopped and reached for Prisca’s hand, clasping it in one of his own. With the other, he reached up to touch her face.

Bishoy intervened. “Do you mind if Brother Didymus explores your face?”

Prisca answered the question by leaning forward. She reached for the priest’s hand and moved it to her face.

“Ah, very beautiful,” the blind priest sighed. After a brief pause, he inquired, “May I speak?”

“Please,” Prisca said and visibly squeezed his hand.

“God is going to use you and your daughter mightily. You will one day change the world.”

Prisca laughed. “You flatter me, old man, but have you forgotten that we are mere women? Surely we do not have such power.”

“God will grant you that power . . . if you follow Him.” The man held up a gnarled finger and wagged it in Prisca’s face. “But you must heed these words one day when life becomes more difficult than either of you think you can bear.”