Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

  She started to tell Ruth what she knew about the little traitor, but she caught a glimpse of Maggie eyeing her, waiting to see if she and Ruth would get into it again. Her daughter had enough uncertainty to deal with; she didn’t need controversy.

  Now was the time to make peace, gain allies; for when the time came to deal with Felicissimus, she would need a friend she could count on, someone who would back her insistence that the little snake not be allowed anywhere near Cyprian or his family. “Ruth, about Cyprian. I’m sure we can work something out so that he doesn’t—”

  Ruth laid a finger across Lisbeth’s trembling lips. “We both love him.”

  “Ruth, I—”

  “Two are always better than one”—she squeezed Lisbeth’s hand—“for when one falls down, there’s a friend to help them up.” She smiled. “We’ll sort this out. Together.”

  How could they possibly sort this out? Cyprian had two wives. One of them would have to go, and Lisbeth knew she was the logical choice. She glanced past Ruth. Maggie lay sprawled on her belly between Junia and Laurentius demonstrating the proper way to draw a family. A mom. A dad. And, in the middle, a child. Taking Maggie away from her father would crush her dreams. Staying and watching Cyprian love another woman would break Lisbeth’s heart.

  “Sorting this out may be easier said than done, Ruth.”

  22

  CYPRIAN WRAPPED A CLOTH around his face and then stuffed his hands into the tight blue gloves Lisbeth had demonstrated to the workers he’d gathered. The air in the villa crackled with excitement rather than the fear he’d expected from such a dangerous task. All around him, people hurried. Clearing the hall of measles victims, toting heavy pots of hot water, scrubbing walls and floors, comforting those too ill to help, or carrying food to the sick. Even Quinta, the forty-year-old grandmother who’d taken over the care of her grandson after she lost her daughter and son-in-law, had strapped the infant to her back, rolled up her sleeves, and started washing dishes.

  On his own, he’d asked for help from the church. And, to his surprise, the believers came. Leaving their beds and loved ones, they’d slipped into the pouring rain and made their way to his villa without complaint. Everyone but Felicissimus. When Cyprian made the dangerous venture to the docks in search of the slave trader, he was not only disappointed when his client claimed a prior obligation, but also worried that his attempt to rally the church would be for naught.

  “Where do you want me to set up this little tent?” Metras leaned on his cane, a wad of silk and sticks crammed under his other arm and his lips pulled in a determined line across his toothless gums.

  It had taken the better part of the night to locate the apartment of the man who’d accused him of tossing the believers crumbs and fleeing to the mountains. He would have crossed Metras off the list were it not for Ruth’s insistence that a big heart beat beneath the shriveled exterior of the injured carpenter. The moment the old man opened his door, Cyprian was glad he’d changed his mind.

  “I’d invite you in,” Metras had said, “but ain’t enough room in here for a blade of grass.”

  Rain running down his back, Cyprian had peeked around the weathered plank. The old bachelor’s flat was filled with beggar women and children. Those who weren’t coughing or covered in a rash were caring for the others the best they could. All of them were starving.

  “Metras, is your family ill?”

  “They ain’t exactly blood kin.” He’d stepped outside and closed the door. “They’re just some folks who had no place to go.”

  “So you took them in?”

  “I couldn’t very well tell them about Jesus and then let them sleep on the street.” His face screwed into worry. “Why is a patrician in my part of town? I’m not one of your clients.” His eyes widened. “Something wrong with Ruth?”

  The man’s generosity and genuine concern humbled him. Here he was thinking he’d given so much. But he had much, and what he’d given financially so far hadn’t even made a dent in his huge coffers. This man had only his humble abode and his life left to give. “She’s fine, but a new sickness has been brought to the hospital and Ruth needs our help.”

  “Let me get my cane.” Metras had followed without a moment’s hesitation and hadn’t stopped working since he’d arrived.

  Cyprian held out his gloved hands. “Metras, you look like you could use a rest.”

  “This bum leg makes it hard for me to do the liftin’ and totin’ of the sick, but I can cobble these things together. I’ll find Lisbeth and ask her where she wants this one.”

  “You’re a good man, Metras.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Bishop.”

  “Bishop?”

  “Someone’s got to do it.”

  The title grated on his ears every time it had been spoken in the past several hours. He’d be the first to admit watching the church work together and putting their lives at risk for others stirred embers he feared had grown cold. But bishop? No. He was not their bishop.

  “I need some help moving Diona Cicero,” Cyprian announced after everyone had finished their lunches.

  “She’s a patrician,” Quinta pointed out.

  “She’s a sick girl,” Lisbeth replied.

  “But they’re the ones signing our death warrants.” Quinta raised her hands. “And I’ve got a bad back.”

  “You said Ruth was in trouble.” Metras looked to Cyprian. “You didn’t mention the trouble was a patrician.”

  “Like me?”

  “I’ll do it.” Pontius gave his plate to Naomi and brushed the crumbs from his hands.

  Cyprian knelt at the head of Diona’s mat and motioned for Pontius to take the foot of her flaxen bed.

  “Careful.” Titus fluttered back and forth. “She’s in a great deal of pain.”

  “We’re doing our best here, Titus.”

  “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful; it’s just—”

  “Which way are we going with her?” Pontius asked Cyprian.

  “To the bedroom by the master suite. Lisbeth and Magdalena want to stay close as they can.” He looked at Vivia and Titus, who stood apart from the church, watching helplessly. “You two are going into quarantine with her. You should be fairly comfortable. It’s a rather large room.”

  “Why are you helping us?” Vivia asked once they were safely inside the room. “I don’t think your plebeian friends approve.”

  Cyprian let a few answers cycle through his head, including the one where he agreed with Quinta that he’d rather eat sand than help the likes of Titus Cicero. “I couldn’t tell you about Jesus and then let you sleep on the street.”

  “What of him?” Titus asked.

  “It will wait.”

  After all the measles victims and the Ciceros were settled to Lisbeth’s satisfaction, she called an important meeting of all the church volunteers in the kitchen. Cyprian crowded in with Ruth, Pontius, and Magdalena.

  “Thanks for all your hard work.” Lisbeth dragged her hand across her brow. “Before you return to your homes, I’ve got a few more instructions. To eliminate flies, toss sawdust or ashes down the latrines after every use. When you work your shift here, bury Diona’s waste far from any water source. In the meantime, I need you to spread the word through the tenements … no more tossing the contents of any chamber pots onto the streets. And most important of all, every one of you will wash your hands with soap and hot water, even if you wear gloves. No exceptions. Are we clear?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Collect as much of this rainwater for your personal consumption as you can,” Lisbeth said. “Keep it separate. For all other water usage, the water must be boiled.

  “I suspect the contamination is coming from your part of town. So our next workday will concentrate on cleaning up the gutters, removing the bodies, and rerouting all sewage away from the water supply.”

  “That’s a bigger job than we’ve got the manpower for,” Metras said.

  “Perhaps I could hire any h
ealthy and unemployed men we can find to carry the bodies to the cemeteries outside the city.” Cy­p­rian turned to Lisbeth. “These men can help us alleviate the problem while earning a wage that will allow them to feed their families.”

  “Great. And while you’re hiring, we could also use a corps of transportation carts and medical attendants to police the streets and quickly transport anyone who’s sick to us here, to one centralized place. Separate and isolate quickly is the best way to maximize the quarantine.”

  Cyprian noticed Lisbeth seemed to be holding back. “What? What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know how we could do this, but I wish there was some way to cut Carthage off from the rest of the world. Give these pathogens a chance to flame out.”

  “We can erect barricades on the highways,” Barek offered.

  “That might help,” Lisbeth agreed.

  “Until the soldiers knock them down,” Cyprian said.

  “It’s the ships I’m most worried about. Since it takes seven to twenty-one days for measles or typhoid to appear, vessels can leave here with what they think is a healthy crew. But by the time they know they carry the sicknesses, they’ve exposed every port of call along the way. In less than six months the entire empire could be very sick.”

  Everyone gasped. Murmurs of the impossibility of such a thing happening buzzed around the table.

  “She’s right.” Cyprian’s raised voice silenced the group. “The ship that ported in Curubis had lost most of its crew to measles. I’m not sure where it was going, but I know it transported mail from here. If one ship carried the plague from our harbor, there’s a high possibility the others will, too. We can scrub our hands raw, but it won’t stop the onslaught when the rest of the world ships the sickness right back to us.”

  “Closing the harbor will require someone to go before the Senate.” Magdalena’s calm did not diffuse the tension building in the room.

  “And Aspasius,” Ruth whispered.

  Cyprian kept his eyes on Lisbeth, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Wooing senatorial support to remove Aspasius from office would take finesse, money, and every minute between now and spring. Gathering enough votes to shut down the empire’s most lucrative ports would take a miracle. “How long must the city stand still?”

  “Two months at least.” Lisbeth’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “No!” Ruth and Lisbeth shouted at the same time.

  Lisbeth started for him, but Ruth’s quick movement to his side cut her off. “Aspasius will kill you.”

  “If we don’t do everything we can to make certain Diona Cicero and the rest of the ruling class lives, Aspasius will make certain we do not. My father still has friends in high places.” Cyprian gently grasped Ruth’s shoulders. “You’ve been telling me God has a plan for me. I’ve been a fool to be so fearful.”

  “Must his plan include losing your head as well?” Tears spilled onto Ruth’s cheeks. For him or for Caecilianus, he could not be certain. “Promise me you won’t go to the Senate unless you know for certain that you’ve gathered enough support.”

  “She’s right, Cyprian,” Metras said. “We can’t afford to lose another bishop.”

  23

  BAREK SNATCHED THE WATER pot near the cottage door. He’d spent the past thirty minutes watching the men, including his friend Natalis, slip through the back gate to begin their jobs of tossing ash down the public latrines. He did not appreciate how Cyprian had quashed his idea of a road barricade in front of everyone and then later relegated him to women’s work.

  He turned to his mother. “That woman has only been here a week, and once again everything has come undone.” He started for the door. The dogs scrambled to their feet, anxious for the opportunity to stretch their legs.

  “I, for one, appreciate your help fetching water. I don’t think I could lift another jug.” His mother sat on a cushion teaching Maggie and Junia how to sort dried herbs and crumble the leaves and stems into different-colored muslin bags. “Wait until dark to search for firewood along the beach. It will be safer.”

  Slaving in the measles ward had caused his mother’s feet to swell and darkened the sagging circles beneath her eyes. She had grown old and tired doing her part, while it seemed Lisbeth’s time away had granted her the luxury of growing more beautiful.

  He’d seen how quickly the attractive interloper had brought Cyprian back to life and spurred him into action. “How can you sit there so calmly?”

  “Would you rather I rant and rave like you?”

  “The sudden return of Cyprian’s faith could cost him his life.”

  “He promised he’d start with his most trustworthy connections in the Senate.”

  “There are no trustworthy connections. Aspasius’s reach is great. He will come and take Cyprian and this estate. Then who will hear the moaning of your precious church?”

  “God,” Maggie said, looking up from arranging herb bags in a basket. “My g-pa says God hears everything.”

  He snorted disapproval. “What is a g-pa?”

  “Barek, leave her alone,” his mother scolded.

  He let his perturbed gaze linger on Maggie in hopes of putting her in her place. Instead of backing down, the little chit lifted her chin with the same irritating manner of her mother. He didn’t care how badly his mother hoped he and this miniature beauty could form some type of family bond; it would never happen. She was not, nor would he ever consider her, his sister.

  “At least the poor appreciate what we do for them. Your good deeds won’t make a speck of difference among the likes of Titus and Vivia Cicero. They will take our shelter, our bread, and our medical care”—Barek waved the empty jug in the direction of the villa, and the dogs jumped like he’d waved a bone—“but the rich of Carthage will never want the religion my father was ­selling.”

  “Cyprian did.”

  He had no answer. After all, the very home he was concerned about losing belonged to a man raised in the patrician class he despised.

  “What the pagans do or do not want is not what matters.” His mother straightened her back, and he knew he was in for a lecture. “In the end, service changes not those who are served but those doing the serving. Now do your chores.”

  “I no longer want to be treated as a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  *

  RUTH REGRETTED letting Barek goad her into losing her temper.

  “I’m sorry, Barek. I shouldn’t have been so cross. These are hard times, no doubt.”

  Tempting as it was to blame her lack of control on her pregnancy or Lisbeth’s unexpected return, the real worry was Barek’s appetite for vengeance. Deep in the secret corners of her heart she knew the source of his anger.

  Her.

  She hadn’t meant for the consequences of her choices to heap such an inordinate amount of stress on her son. Faithfulness to the cause of Christ had cost more than her husband’s life. The resentment simmering in Barek’s eyes spoke of the price. It wouldn’t take much to fan the embers of his father’s senseless death into angry flames.

  The decision she and Caecilianus made years ago to follow the Lord was theirs and theirs alone. Barek would have to make his own choices. One day his unruly bush of black hair would transform into the great white mane of his father. There the resemblance would stop. Unless he sought his own faith. When the day came for her son to make his decision, she could only pray that somehow, in some way, his father’s wisdom had miraculously taken up residence in his impetuous skull.

  “Do not be fooled, Mother. The Ciceros will never regret what they did to us. They don’t have to.”

  Ruth struggled to her feet. “In an instant, even the confidence of the rich can be swept away.” She stretched her hand toward the stubbled face that towered over her. He may think himself a man, but she saw the same frightened little boy who’d sobbed in her arms after his father’s beheading. “You may not be a
ble to forgive them, but you will be kind.”

  Barek pulled free. “I’ve work to do.”

  “Can I come?” Maggie asked, brushing bits of dried herbs from her tunic.

  “No!” He stormed from the cottage and slammed the door.

  “You need a nap!” Maggie shouted after him.

  24

  CYPRIAN HAD NOT WAITED for the cover of darkness before he and Pontius went in search of Felicissimus. After a few close brushes with several soldier patrols, Cyprian had reconsidered the wisdom of that decision and waited for nightfall before attempting a return to the villa.

  They’d located the slave trader in his holding cell near the docks. The plan they worked out was simple. Cyprian gave Felicissimus a sizable sum of money for hiring extra men to help clear the streets. After that venture was successfully under way, they would commission medical carts to patrol the slums. Meanwhile, ­Cyprian planned to do the hardest job alone: find enough of his father’s friends in the Senate to propose a shutdown of the trade routes and to hold the majority when Aspasius threw a fit.

  He’d confessed to no one that using up favors owed him to close the port rather than oust the current proconsul made him weak-kneed. But having Felicissimus shut down his personal shipping lines would not be enough. Every highway, cart rut, and footpath needed to be closed as well. Actions this drastic required government support and approval.

  A fortunate cloudburst had given Pontius and Cyprian the cover necessary to make their way back to his estate undetected. Cyprian stood under the eaves of the cottage, brushing water from his sleeves. “Pontius, no need to hurry off to the stables. Stay and share a meal in the warmth of the cottage.”

  “I’d rather bunk with the broodmares than watch two women fight over the destiny of one man.”

  Until the issue of having two wives was resolved, he had to admit, moving in with the horses held a great deal of appeal. ­“Coward.”

  As his friend’s lantern disappeared into an enviable night of freedom, Cyprian shook water from his cloak and stepped inside. The warmth and coziness that followed Ruth wherever she went enveloped him. As she had every night since their marriage, she sat at the low table mixing herbs into healing remedies. The dogs rested at her feet.