Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

  Praise for Return to Exile

  “Compelling. Return to Exile took me to a time period that I had never been that interested in and built a sympathetic heart in me for the horrific things Christians had to face in that area and time. ­Because Lynne Gentry’s characters are so well developed, they took up residence in my thoughts and have lingered there for over a week after I finished reading the book. Of course, I can hardly wait until the next book comes out. I believe every Christian should read these books to give them an awareness of how blessed we are to be able to live our beliefs without fearing for our lives.”

  —Lena Nelson Dooley, author of the double-award-winning Catherine’s Pursuit

  “Return to Exile, Lynne Gentry’s sweeping saga of lost dreams, epic struggles, sinister passions, and unrequited love—all playing out against the stunning backdrop of third-century Rome—returns to enthrall readers of her earlier Healer of Carthage. With surprising twists readers won’t see coming, Gentry has created an inspiring story few will be able to put down until the final page. I am a huge fan of the Carthage Chronicles series, and of author Lynne Gentry. Can hardly wait for the final installment to see how everything turns out for Dr. Lisbeth Hastings!”

  —Kellie Coates Gilbert, author of A Woman of Fortune

  “Gentry has done it again! Book Two in the Carthage Chronicles had me weeping and cheering right along with the main characters, Lisbeth and Cyprian. Their struggle to forge a life from the ashes of Carthage’s diseased city made my heart pound, and as the peril ­facing them ratchetted, so did my pulse rate. Add Gentry’s ­enviable talent for wordsmithing, and Return to Exile makes for an ­incredibly entertaining read.”

  —Elizabeth Ludwig, author of Tide and Tempest

  “In Return to Exile, Lynne Gentry takes readers on another breathtaking journey as they are transported with Lisbeth from the ­twenty-first century back to third-century Carthage. But this time, while Lisbeth thinks she’s prepared for what awaits her on the other side of the Cave of the Swimmers, there’s no way for her to anticipate the frightening reality, as she is thrown into an impossible ­situation that will leave readers begging for more.”

  —Lisa Harris, author of the Christy Award–winning novel Dangerous Passage

  “Author Lynne Gentry has done it again! Return to Exile is a high-stakes adventure filled with unforgettable characters and amazing historical details. Gentry doesn’t just write with boldness and ­authenticity but delivers powerful messages in the midst of the plot twists and turns. Turn the page to return to ancient Carthage and join Dr. Lisbeth Hastings in this time-traveling journey!”

  —Elizabeth Byler Younts, author of Promise to Return

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  For Lonnie

  A man of extraordinary courage.

  A man of unshakable faith.

  A man who inspires me to cast aside fear.

  “Perfect love casts out fear.”

  —1 JOHN 4:18 NASB

  Prologue

  Carthage

  “MASTER, YOU’RE IN NO shape for today’s Senate session.” Pytros bustled into the council chambers laden with all of his writing supplies and a pitcher of water. “You should have ­canceled.”

  “Your lack of forward thinking is why you will live and die a lowly scribe.” Aspasius limped to his place at the curule seat.

  Pytros carefully spread his utensils. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve. The order has been issued.” With a peevish look upon his face, he poured a cup of water and held it out.

  “But has word of Valerian’s edict reached the ears of the Senate? That is what I must know.” Ignoring Pytros’s pout, Aspasius took the cup and plopped onto the ivory chair with curved bronze legs. He wanted to be well situated on the bowl-shaped stool before he allowed the chamber doors opened. These days his physical comfort was hard to come by. He was either in desperate need of a drink of water or access to a chamber pot. And most ­disturbing of all, the feeling had disappeared from his foot. A fact the power-hungry vultures waiting to take his place must never ­discover.

  He downed the water, then gave his slave the empty cup. “Knowledge is power, and I intend to make certain I always possess the bulk of it.”

  Pytros sighed. “Very well. I’ll light the braziers and double the incense, but I can’t guarantee it will cover the stink of your secret.”

  If Aspasius hoped to control the manner and level of his compliance to the new imperial order, he did not have the luxury of rearranging the affairs of state to suit his health. In preparation for today’s council meeting, he’d sent his scribe in search of a medical remedy for the increasing pain in his foot. Pytros procured a concoction of myrrh, citron pips, northern cypress flowers, and gazelle droppings from a crusty arena surgeon who conducted experiments on the bodies of dying gladiators. Aspasius had soaked his foot in the slimy potion until his flesh nearly fell off. No sensation was restored, and the foul odor of decay continued to trail him everywhere he went. He’d even tried slathering the rotting appendage with an expensive nard purchased from an ­Egyptian perfume dealer … all to no avail. Unfortunately, chilly weather had forced the chamber’s windows closed today. Without a sea breeze, it was much more likely someone would notice the proconsul of Carthage had the reek of a stagnant pond.

  If the pungent incense wasn’t strong enough to conceal his declining health, there would be no stopping the rumors of his imminent demise among the patricians.

  He laid the blame for his mounting maladies squarely at the feet of the Christians. From the moment the insubordinate Magdalena’s attractive daughter had appeared out of nowhere, aiding the church in its interests, the gods had not been happy. First, some sort of pestilence had struck the tenements and toppled his workforce faster than Roman road builders could fell a forest. Next, his shriveled foot began to rot. And now, as if the gods intended to rub salt into his wounds, Valerian’s victories on the ­battlefield had given the new emperor a false sense of security.

  Thus the reason for Valerian’s order. Aspasius was to bring home the very man he hated most, Cyprianus Thascius.

  The idea of the smug, young rabble-rouser coming back to Carthage stank worse than his own foot. Maybe between now and when the weather changed enough to send a ship, Valerian would suffer a defeat that would wipe out this unprecedented generosity, and Cyprian would remain in exile. After all, the rapid succession of emperors these past few years had proved the empire’s rulers weren’t really the immortals they believed themselves to be. But just in case, Aspasius intended to keep the son of his sworn enemy from gaining support in his province.

  Exhausted and short of breath, Aspasius waved Pytros to him. “Undo the laces, and make certain only the tips of my shoes show.”

  Pytros filled his water glass again and proceeded to arrange the excessive folds of Aspasius’s snowy white tunic until the band of purple trim brushed the tops of Aspasius’s bloodred boots. “This is a bad idea.”

  Aspasius guzzled every last drop. “Close your mouth and open the doors, or I’ll sell you to the next camel caravan.”

  His scribe set the empty glass upon his recording desk, then stalked to the heavy cedar panels and pressed them open.

  The chatter in the outer hall stopped. Aspasius sucked in his stomach and steeled himself for the decisive click of red shoes upon marble. One by one the senators swept into the chamber, an air of aloof indiff
erence swirling about their silky robes. Aspasius had known most of these men since they were boys together. He’d grown up going to school with the likes of the gangly Titus Cicero, the wealthiest landowner in his province. Aspasius could recall word for word the taunts of Titus and his pimpled friends.

  Gimp. Shrimp. Dung beetle.

  Because of Aspasius’s uneven legs, he’d never been chosen for their rowdy games of paganica ball or swordplay. So he’d concentrated on loftier pursuits. While Titus and his admirers flexed their muscles, Aspasius had slowly climbed the political ladder, determined his tormentors would one day beg to be chosen for his team.

  Today was that day.

  Casting furtive glances at Aspasius, the patricians took their seats.

  Aspasius let them stew for a moment, quietly basking in their growing discomfort. After his term as consul ended in Rome, Emperor Decius had granted him a one-year term ruling over his home province, which he’d managed to extend to nearly twenty. Unheard of. As unheard of as the redesign of his council chambers. He’d had the hard, straight rows replaced with a less structured half curve that forced the council members to remain within a manageable reach. Which was especially prudent now that Decius had gone to his grave and left him at the mercy of the shortsighted and foolhardy Valerian.

  Aspasius cleared his throat and addressed the room of nervous senators. “My fellow Carthaginians.” He loved how the hard surfaces of the stone walls added power to his voice. “Plague is raging through the slums. The gods must be appeased.”

  Silence hung in the sickly sweet air.

  Titus cleared his throat and rose slowly in a bold attempt to use his height to his advantage. “Perhaps the gods wait upon you to remove the filth. It’s creating such an awful stench and putting all of us at risk. Our servants come and go in the slum markets. How long before they carry the sickness to our doors?”

  “Shall I raise your taxes to pay the workers needed to finish the aqueducts and clear the streets?” Disgruntled murmurings rippled through the assembly.

  “If you persist in this egregious lack of due diligence, then I will take my family to the mountains and wait out this sickness in the safety of my summer estate.”

  “You always were a coward, Titus,” Aspasius replied condescendingly, easily bringing the meeting back under his control. “If you do not have the courage to stay and make our prosperity ­happen, I shall declare you guilty of treason.” A collective gasp echoed in the chamber. Aspasius paused, letting the threat sink in. “Should any of you choose to join him—put your tails between your legs and flee to the hills—I will confiscate your properties as well.” He directed his glare toward Titus. “And don’t think I don’t know the location of every one of your secret ­holdings.”

  “You can’t do that. Not without a majority vote,” Titus countered, his confidence sure.

  “It was also said I couldn’t send a senatorial candidate to Curubis, especially one whose father had so many loyal friends.” He waved his arm over the wide-eyed senators. “And yet, do you see Cyprianus Thascius seated in our chambers?”

  Slack-jawed, Titus returned to his seat.

  Aspasius chuckled. Growing up with these bullies might have been painful, but pain had brought its reward. He knew all of their weaknesses and how to exploit them. A few of the wealthy merchants may escape, but the ruling class would not be closing their villas in the city and setting out for summer homes in the country. Not until he’d secured enough loyal support—coerced or not—to guarantee his eventual acquisition of all Cyprian held dear. He would take from the young noble the same way ­Cyprian’s father, Julius Thascius, had taken from him. He would never forget that Cyprian’s mother, the beautiful and well-­positioned Numeria, was to have been his wife.

  A ship could not be sent to fetch Cyprian until spring. This gave Aspasius plenty of time to do what he considered most important: restore the favor of the gods. After his province was returned to its previous splendor, he’d take over everything Thascius and have his revenge. Then he wouldn’t cry if the whole lot of his Senate council packed their litters and left town. He would even pay for the movers from his personal accounts.

  He held up his hand for silence. “In the past Rome has ­allowed its conquered peoples to maintain their traditions and their gods. This is no longer the case. Now everyone is required to sacrifice to the gods of Rome. Achieving religious conformity, ­especially from the Christians, is a daunting task, but a task I intend to accomplish.”

  “And how will the sacrifice of heretics secure our holdings?” Titus asked with a bit more contrition.

  “It’s really quite simple. Each of you has a covey of clients who must answer to you. All I’m asking is that you convince your clients to sacrifice to the gods.”

  “How will you determine if our clients’ sacrifices are sufficient?” another senator asked.

  “When the sickness goes away.”

  Titus adjusted his toga. “And if it doesn’t?”

  “It will, once the gods are appeased. Until then, you and all your clients are required to purchase certificates of libellus as proof of sacrifice and loyalty to our gods. Any found to be without one will be executed as a traitor.”

  Aspasius savored the senators’ shocked looks. It mattered not whether they liked him, as long as they feared him.

  “Now, is there anything else the Senate would like to discuss with Carthage’s proconsul?” He waited, patient as a mongoose at a viper’s nest. The senators kept their eyes to the floor and their mouths closed. No one, not even Titus, brought up the possibility that such an imposition upon religious freedoms would be debated with fervor when the former solicitor of Carthage returned. “Then you are dismissed.”

  After they had all filed out of the room, Aspasius grinned and poured himself another glass of water. “They do not know.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.” Pytros closed his tablet. “News of the bishop’s recall is probably tucked inside letters dispatched to every province.”

  “Right now, my council is too concerned for themselves to care about the return of a man convicted of conspiracy against the deities of the throne.” Aspasius downed his water. “By the time they know, it will be too late for them to grow a spine. Cyprian and his church will be dead.”

  “What will you do if Cyprian has had a change of heart and recants upon his return? His father’s friends won’t let you murder one of their own, then turn around and steal his wealth.”

  “The fair-haired noble was ready to lose everything to stubbornly hold to his new beliefs. He won’t recant.”

  “He might to save his wife.”

  “Either way, I win. For as long as he thinks I hold the power over his wife’s life, I hold the power over him.”

  “But we don’t know where she is.”

  “Cyprian doesn’t know that. And he won’t.” Aspasius smiled. “When people are afraid, they are far easier to control.” He reached up and squeezed his slave’s cheeks. “Isn’t that so, Pytros?”

  1

  Curubis

  THE SALTY BREEZE TASTED of chum left to rot in the African sun.

  Cyprian tugged at his damp tunic. The coarse wool sanded his sun-burned flesh. Chapped skin was only one of many indignities he’d suffered since a Roman freighter dumped him in this dank ­little fishing village. Twelve long months of exile had given him ample time to consider how far removed he was from Carthage and his former life.

  While his friend and fellow exile Pontius penned angry protests to Rome in the shade of the crude lean-to they’d constructed from scavenged deadfall and fishing nets, Cyprian paced the endless stretch of sand. To think, only a year ago Aspasius, the ruler of Carthage, had reclined at Cyprian’s wedding table. The heavy-jawed proconsul had sipped imported wines, debated the merits of slum renewal, and plotted treachery behind Cyprian’s back.

  How smug the foul proconsul would be if he could see the ­solicitor of Carthage now. A flea-bitten pleb. Forced to live in
conditions far worse than those of the city’s poorest tenement dweller. Disgraced. Banished from friends. Separated from his new bride.

  Jade swells tumbled ashore, gobbling up large chunks of beach the way Aspasius devoured anyone who got in his way. Cyprian waded in and scooped water into his cupped hands. His eyes and face stung with the splash of salt. What had become of his wife? The worry was eating him alive.

  Lisbeth had proven his equal. Smart as he in every way and far brighter when it came to healing. But did she have the cunning ­required to free herself from Aspasius? The thought of Aspasius dragging her into his lair haunted his dreams and drove his plans to escape.

  Come spring a ship would sail into the harbor, and when it did, he intended to slip aboard, return to Carthage, and rescue his wife from the clutches of Aspasius Paternus.

  “That’s enough for today, Pontius.” Cyprian rolled the papyrus his resourceful secretary had woven from reedy dune grasses. “We’d better work on catching our supper.”

  “I’m determined to finish your petition, along with your response to the note from Felicissimus, before the next freighter comes.” Pontius dragged a whittled stick through the soot of last night’s cooking fire, a poor substitute for the expensive octopus ink turning rancid in the gold-trimmed ram’s horn in Cyprian’s old office. “Rome will not survive if it continues to allow injustice in its provinces.”

  “We haven’t seen a ship port in this rat’s hole for months.”

  “Today could be the day of our salvation.”

  “I pray you are right.” Cyprian scanned the empty horizon. “Last night, my dreams once again revisited Carthage. Lisbeth stood on the proconsul’s balcony, crying my name, but before I could get to her … I awoke to the truth that Aspasius now rapes my wife.”

  “A wrong your appeal will right.” Pontius took the scroll.

  Cyprian clasped Pontius’s bronzed and sturdy shoulder. “Friend, even if I am released, I’ll need help to rescue my wife, and there is only one way to squelch the ugly rumor floating around Carthage that I hide in Curubis out of fear. Find the man who told Aspasius where my wife would be that day the soldiers took her and Ruth. Find him, and expose what he’s done, why we’re stuck on this godforsaken beach.”