Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

  His thoughts returned to his argument with Lisbeth, a moment in time he remembered with absolute clarity.

  “I’m not about to let Aspasius keep me from doing my job. I need those supplies,” she had argued.

  “Let me or Barek run your errand.”

  “You’re still convalescing. And Barek wouldn’t know a eucalyptus leaf from a mustard seed.”

  “At least take Barek with you.”

  “If it will help you sleep better.”

  “No heroics. Promise.”

  “Straight to the herbalist and back. I promise.”

  Cyprian rubbed the throbbing scar on his upper arm. He’d let a little injury hinder his judgment that day. And his weakness had changed all of their lives.

  Could he have stopped her? Doubtful.

  They’d only been married a few weeks, but the one thing he knew for certain about his wife … nothing altered her path. Once Lisbeth set her jaw she would not be deterred. Perhaps women from her time counted bullheaded determination as admirable, but failing to heed wise counsel was a dangerous gamble in the world of Roman Carthage.

  Her time?

  Would the ludicrous idea that his wife came from another time and place always leave him so unsettled? Months of having nothing to do but contemplate the impossibility of falling in love with a woman from the future had brought him no closer to ­understanding his destiny. No closer to how or why their different paths had crossed. Or why he’d failed to make the most of such a miraculous blessing.

  Although his regrets included the years he’d wasted serving pagan gods, failing to keep his wife from harm topped his shame. She hadn’t fully understood his sacrifice. He’d seen in her eyes the possibility she’d even hated him for the choice he’d made that day to stand firm rather than deny his faith, to give up the power and standing that would have kept him from exile and her from ­Aspasius’s grip.

  “Who could have tipped the proconsul to Lisbeth’s plans?” Pontius’s question tugged him from the horrors of that day.

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

  “I would be no friend to you or our dearly departed bishop if I didn’t remind you that vengeance belongs to the Lord and—” ­Pontius abandoned his preaching in midsentence and charged past him. “Look! A scarlet topsail.” He directed Cyprian’s gaze seaward. In the distance a tiny blood spot smudged the cerulean horizon. “Who would dare travel the seas this time of year?”

  “Someone with no choice.”

  Without another word, Cyprian and Pontius snatched up their letters and raced toward the imperial frigate drifting into the lagoon. Water lapped the dock’s warped planks beneath Cyprian’s bare feet. Word of an approaching ship spread quickly among the villagers. Soon a host of neglected savages pushed them toward the water. Every man rank with the odors of outdoor living and desperate for a crock of wine and a few handfuls of grain.

  The teakwood ship creaked into the substandard quay. The boat’s lofty goosenecked stern, decorated with an intricate carving of the bearded face of Neptune, blocked the sun. In the shadow of the fierce-eyed god, Cyprian muscled to the front of the crowd, anxious for the advantage of being recognized for the powerful man he was … used to be.

  “Stand back.” The port’s lone stevedore pressed the crowd from the gangplank landing.

  Upturned faces, every one of them as scraggly and sunken-cheeked as Cyprian’s, searched the ship’s deck. Instead of the usual hustle of a crew eager to make landfall, not a soul stirred onboard. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. What was taking so long? Why weren’t the slaves lowering the gangplank? Where was the security detail that accompanied every vessel commissioned for Rome’s service? An eerie quiet settled over the dock.

  A heavy rope sailed over the ship’s railing. The crowd cheered and swelled forward. Cyprian grabbed a pylon to steady himself against the surge of filthy bodies. The grating slide of iron bolts signaled the release of the gangplank. Before all could get clear, the bridge crashed upon the dock, forcing some to dive into the water or be crushed. A ragged boy appeared at the ship’s opening. He planted his red-speckled legs and raised a sword twice the size of his scrawny body to block the entrance.

  “Unclean!” he shouted. “We carry plague. We’ve only ported to rid ourselves of the dying.”

  Howls of horror erupted. Men pushed and shoved in the ­opposite direction.

  Cyprian caught sight of a Roman captain’s crested helmet near the bow. Desperate for news as the others were to escape possible contamination, he knew what he had to do. Cyprian pushed through panicked men, forcing his way along the dock until he reached the front of the ship. He cupped his hands to his lips. “Captain!”

  A square-shouldered man came to the railing. Several days’ growth on his chin made him appear uncharacteristically disheveled and unkempt for a Roman officer. He did, however, still possess that unmistakable air of Roman authority.

  Cyprian shouted, “Any correspondence for Cyprianus Thascius, solicitor of Carthage?” Unsure if he’d been heard over the thundering retreat of frightened men, he shouted his question again.

  When the captain spotted Cyprian a scowl wrinkled his brow. “What if there was?”

  “Even exiles are entitled to send and receive mail,” Cyprian demanded in his most forceful barrister voice. The voice that had once bellowed with power in the imperial courts. The voice he had once used to instill fear in his adversaries. The voice he barely recognized anymore. “If you refuse to hand it over, I shall appeal this abhorrent treatment to Decius.”

  “Not if he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” The word rang with a hope almost impossible to believe. A new emperor on the throne could possibly end the persecution that had sent him into the abyss. “When? How?”

  “Killed in battle against the Goths. Nearly a year ago.” The captain stooped, retrieved a bag, and threw it at Cyprian’s feet. ­“Traitors! The lot of you. Unfit to live on Roman soil.”

  “He’s got food!” one of the retreating exiles shouted. The others quickly forsook their fear of disease and swarmed in Cyprian’s direction.

  “Pontius! Run!” Cyprian grabbed the bag and leaped from the dock. His bare feet hit the sand hard. Pontius landed right behind him.

  Legs pumping, they scrambled down the beach, cutting through the dune scrubs, sand flying. They sped toward the marshes and plunged into knee-deep water. Cyprian tossed the mail sack over his shoulder and sloshed after Pontius. Deeper and deeper they trudged into the shadows of the cypress trees. A startled marsh bird took flight, signaling their location to the ensuing mob.

  “This way.” Pontius ducked behind a large root, and Cyprian followed. Backs to the smooth bark, they panted. Listening. ­Nothing but the sound of their own hearts thundering in their ears.

  “Think we lost them?” Pontius whispered several minutes after the sounds of wildlife returned.

  “Not for long.” Cyprian held the bag tight. “Powers of action always equal a man’s desires. The outcast hunger for news as much as food.” He slowly peeked around the tree. “Keep a sharp eye out, Pontius.” He tore through the mail sack.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Proof that Aspasius has lost Rome’s backing.”

  Pontius checked for pursuers. “Would a new emperor be more sympathetic to our plight?”

  “If there is any justice in this life.”

  At the bottom of the mailbag, Cyprian found a small parchment addressed to him, folded and sealed with wax. “It’s from Ruth.”

  “What does she say?”

  Cyprian broke the seal and began reading the scratchings from Ruth’s hurried hand. “Plague. Persecution. Struggles to keep both the hospital and the church going.” He scanned the rest of the letter. “Valerian is the new emperor and”—he couldn’t believe what he was reading—“and rumor has it that the proconsul has been ordered to summon us home.”

  “Yes!” Pontius pumped his fist. “God has not forgotten us.” He wrap
ped Cyprian in a bear hug, then pulled away when Cyprian failed to embrace him. “Why are you not pleased, my lord?”

  “If Aspasius is still in power, our return will not be without challenge. He will dispatch an escort to see us safely delivered to his court.” Cyprian folded the letter. “Mark my words, no matter what I do, that eel will still find a way to see me martyred in the arena.”

  Pontius swallowed. “And Lisbeth? What news does Ruth give of your wife?”

  Cyprian read the widow’s words one more time, praying he’d missed something in his haste the first time through, then shook his head. “Not one word.”

  2

  Dallas, Texas

  TIME IS NOT THE healer of all things.

  Dr. Lisbeth Hastings did not need this latest lab report to confirm what she already feared. Measles.

  How had the thirty-five-year-old she’d just moved to intensive care circumvented routine vaccinations? Almost every child born during the immunization initiative of the late seventies had gone to school with their shot records current.

  The hospital’s intercom crackled. “Code Blue. ICU. Room six.”

  Lisbeth dropped the chart, grabbed her stethoscope, and sprinted through the halls. The patient in room six was her patient, and she wasn’t leaving until she had taken care of her.

  Out of breath and in a cold sweat, Lisbeth skidded around the corner. Her patient’s worried husband paced outside the room from which medical personnel silently filed out. He jostled a crying toddler. “Dr. Hastings, what’s going on?”

  “I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Lisbeth shot past him and burst into the silence that consumes a room where death is the victor. “What happened, Nelda?”

  “Convulsions.” The charge nurse handed Lisbeth fresh gloves, then quietly started closing drawers on the red crash cart.

  Lisbeth plowed through the litter left by the team of airway specialists, nurses, and ICU attendings. During her residency, she’d assisted on hundreds of Code Blues. Heroic measures to p­rolong a life always inflicted unavoidable trauma on the crashing patient. Yet, when she reached the still body lying on the bed, she couldn’t help but gasp at her patient’s total loss of dignity.

  Damp, blond strands stuck to the woman’s face. Red-rimmed eyes. Blue lips. Fiery pustules that made her look like some kind of distorted monster. Her hands limp as if life had slipped through her fingers. Lines of all sorts tethered her rigid frame to silent ­machines. And most disconcerting of all: she reeked of an odor similar to plucked chicken feathers.

  Two days ago, this perfectly healthy woman, her beautiful two-year-old, and her handsome husband were enjoying Disney World when she suddenly spiked a fever. A measles diagnosis meant this young mother was contagious the day her family flew home from Orlando, the three days they were in the theme park before her rash appeared, and on the initial trip to their vacation destination. Lisbeth could not let herself think about how many lives this woman had touched between Dallas and Florida in the past six days or she’d lose what was left of the sandwich she’d choked down ten hours ago.

  Lisbeth brushed a strand of hair from the woman’s forehead. Body still warm but slowly cooling. She pulled a penlight from her pocket and flicked the beam across glassy eyes. Foolish, she knew, but she wanted a reaction, needed this young wife and mother to wake up and prove her theory wrong. Any trace of the former eye color had been pushed away by the large, black holes of pupils blown beyond repair. Lisbeth clicked off the pen.

  “Dr. Hastings?” Nelda maneuvered around the equipment and handed her the chart. “You want to tell the husband?”

  “Tell him what? ‘Merry Christmas, and oh, by the way, you’re a single father now’? ” Powerlessness shook her insides. “It’s hard enough to tell someone their spouse died, but when it might have been prevented, what do you say?”

  Two decades without a single case of measles reported in Texas. Now this was the third death presenting similar symptoms in the past twenty-four hours. The first two had been kids. Their deaths she could attribute to the increasing fear surrounding the safety of vaccinations or the possibility they had medical conditions that prevented inoculations. But how had this woman slipped through the immunization cracks?

  “I’m sorry, Nelda. It’s not your fault.” She took a step back from the bed. “Drop your gown and gloves on the floor. Cordon off this room.”

  “Do we need to quarantine the father and daughter?”

  Lisbeth nodded. “And get their shot records, including those of the deceased.” Her mind double-timed a new plan. “And contact the CDC.” The tiled walls seemed to be closing in, squeezing the breath from her chest. She would not let this happen again. “We could have an outbreak on our hands.”

  *

  LISBETH WHIPPED her rusty, old Toyota into the parking garage of her downtown loft apartment. She killed the engine, but its usual hiss and bang continued. She dropped her head onto the steering wheel. She was only a year younger than the mother who’d died, but failing to prevent these senseless deaths made her feel fifty. Six years ago, she believed she’d been sent back to the twenty-first century for a reason. At least that was the pep talk she gave herself late at night when her longing for the man she’d left in the third century made it impossible to breathe. But now she was painfully aware that if she had stayed in Carthage and seen this virus put to bed, that mother on the morgue slab would be home hugging her baby tonight.

  In the tomblike darkness, fingers of cold snaked through the vehicle’s broken window seals. A guilty shudder ripped through Lisbeth’s exhausted body. Despite her best efforts, the past had caught up with the future.

  Lisbeth grabbed the sanitizer out of the console and scrubbed her hands. Even though she’d showered and disposed of her scrubs before she left the hospital, she reeked of failure.

  Determined not to be undone by the pain, she squirted an extra glob of sanitizer into her hand and glanced at her cell phone: 3:00 a.m. If she was lucky, she’d have time to see Maggie before the CDC’s chartered jet arrived. Prompt action by public health officials was essential in addressing emerging outbreaks. The governmental investigators would expect every local infectious disease specialist to be front and center until they’d contained the danger.

  Lisbeth yanked the phone from the charger and dragged herself from the car.

  The elevator dinged. She trudged the dingy apartment corridor. A glass of milk and a plate of homemade cookies waited on the welcome mat. She bent to read a note written in red crayon.

  Dear Santa,

  I want my daddy.

  Maggie

  Beneath her five-year-old daughter’s signature were three red stick figures. A mom. A dad. And, in between them, a child with outstretched arms.

  Yearning clenched Lisbeth’s empty belly. She and Papa had done their best to piece together a family for Maggie. Grateful as she was for Papa’s help, returning to this century meant Maggie would never know her own incredible father. Santa could more easily give her daughter the moon.

  Lisbeth folded the paper and stuffed it, along with her regret, into her pocket. She scooped up the cookies, drank the milk, then slid the key into the front door lock.

  Inside the quiet apartment, oatmeal and cinnamon lingered in the air. Lisbeth inhaled deeply, letting the sweet scent carry her back to the makeshift ICU she’d thrown together in Cyprian’s third-century villa and what it’d been like awakening to Cyprian standing over her, a steaming mug of warm wine laced with spices in his outstretched hand. She’d begun falling in love that morning, and nothing had been the same since.

  Lisbeth quietly dropped her keys on the kitchen table and draped her white coat over a chair.

  Papa snored on the couch, an afghan snugged tightly beneath his chin. White lights twinkled on the spindly spruce leaning against the TV. Under the tree was Maggie’s new Little Mermaid doll. Lisbeth was relieved her father had remembered her instructions to get the redheaded mermaid out of the closet.
r />   “Papa?” She pressed two fingers into his sinewy shoulders.

  He roused with a start and opened one eye. “Home already?”

  Life with her father had been like growing up with Indiana Jones. She was only five years old when Mama fell through the time portal at the Cave of the Swimmers and disappeared from their lives. For the next thirteen years, she and Papa traveled the world, leapfrogging from one archaeological dig to another. Roman baths in England. A long-buried, first-century villa in Artena. A crumbling, midempire amphitheater in northern Libya. They’d probably still be digging together if Papa hadn’t insisted she go to school in the States and become a doctor … to be more like Mama. The four years she spent in college had been her first experience of staying in one place longer than a digging season. That’s when she realized that while Papa loved every moment of their vagabond travels, she longed for a more controlled environment. Stability. A normal life of school, ballet lessons, and friends.

  She patted her father’s hand. “Got to go back when the CDC calls.”

  “So it’s measles?”

  “Yes,” she hesitated. “Can’t let it get worse.”

  “Worse?” Papa pushed himself upright, his white hair wild and restless as a desert wind. He eyed her carefully. “How can it get worse?”

  “A virus must mutate to survive. Epidemic is its ultimate goal. This is a virus that could easily gallop out of control.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to need your strength to fight this one.” Papa wrestled his lanky frame from the afghan. “How about I fix you something hot and solid to eat?”

  “How about some more of those cookies you made?” It took everything she had not to throw herself into his arms and tell him just how frightened she was. What if she couldn’t keep this virus in check before someone else died? “Thanks for taking such good care of Maggie.”