Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

  “You were gone for hours. I’ve been worried.” Ruth seemed exceptionally tired by the pregnancy tonight. There was no point in mentioning this again. Nothing he said so far had convinced the woman to stay off her feet or give up even a portion of her caregiving duties, especially now that Lisbeth had returned. In fact, Ruth seemed more determined than ever to keep up the rigorous schedule. He suspected that this behavior would continue until they figured out their future.

  “There were many patrols out,” Cyprian told Ruth as he dried his hair with a towel and then scrubbed his hands with hot water and soap.

  She handed him a bowl of figs poached in wine and pointed to the stool near the fire burning in the brass brazier. “Did you find Felicissimus?”

  “Yes. He’s going to start with hiring help to get the streets cleaned.”

  Ruth gave a nervous nod. “That should speed things along.”

  He wished he could tell her everything would be fine, but the truth was he couldn’t make that promise. The men his father trusted had been strangely silent when Aspasius sentenced him to exile. If he couldn’t persuade a majority to get behind him now, appearing before the Senate would end him. He pushed the memory of his haunting dreams aside, determined to prepare the best future he could for his families. Both of them.

  Cyprian stuffed a spoonful of the mushy sweetness into his mouth. While he was out Ruth had managed to bring tranquillity to the chaos of the day. Across the tiny room, Barek and Naomi sat huddled over bone dice. From the pout on Barek’s lips he hadn’t forgiven being assigned to help his mother. In the opposite corner, Junia, Laurentius, and the girl with Lisbeth’s spirit and his blond curls were deep into a game of playacting.

  He regretted that the arrival of the Ciceros and typhoid had left him little time to get to know his daughter. For her to know him. He ate his figs while studying her intently.

  The tiny, blue-eyed blonde bustled around the cottage bossing Junia, telling her how to rearrange glass vials of cosmetics on the windowsill. She didn’t seem the least bit deterred by the fact that Junia was older and nearly a finger-length taller.

  The mother-daughter resemblance between Lisbeth and Maggie was undeniable. Maggie’s voice had the same clipped inflections, the same never-take-no-for-an-answer directness, and the same need to have everything in the order she thought best. Her eyes were fierce, determined, and not easily distracted from whatever they had locked in their sights. She had Lisbeth’s perfect face, beautiful complexion, and that upturned nose capable of snubbing royalty.

  But there the resemblances stopped.

  Where Lisbeth had a mane of silky raven hair, this child’s face was framed by the same unruly curls he’d fought his entire life. White as the dunes baking in the afternoon sun, Maggie’s tresses had not taken on the darkened stain of struggle his hair had acquired, but there was no denying his part in this child’s creation. Warmth spread in his chest.

  He shoveled another spoonful of mush into his mouth as he observed the young girls playing their game. Both of them were dressed in silk stolas. According to Ruth, they’d spent hours dressing themselves in the few remaining pieces of her fine clothes and clomping around the cottage in strappy shoes several sizes too large.

  Maggie gave Junia another curt instruction, then turned her attention on her uncle. “Larry, I can’t take your temperature if you won’t open your mouth.” Maggie waved the handle of a wooden spoon under Laurentius’s nose as he sat cross-legged on his sleeping mat staring up at his niece with adoring eyes. Tufts of his thinning hair had been tied up in different-colored ribbons, his cheeks sported bright red smudges of rouge, and one of Ruth’s heavy gold earrings dangled from his left ear.

  “But I’m not thick.” Laurentius pursed his lips, refusing the spoon’s insertion.

  “You said you were tired, and my mommy says that’s a typhoon symptom.”

  “I’m tired of being the baby.”

  Maggie put her hand on Laurentius’s forehead. “Junia, this baby has fever.”

  “Why don’t you leave the guy alone?” Barek let his dice smack the wall. “He said he was tired of you ordering him around.”

  “Ruth!” Maggie tattled. “Barek’s not being nice.”

  “Barek, please,” Ruth corrected. “Don’t worry about him, girls. Go on with your game.”

  Junia clicked over to where Laurentius sat and placed her hand on his forehead. “I believe you’re right, doctor. What shall we do?”

  “Shots!” Maggie produced a whittled stick. She flicked the sharp point. “Hold still, Larry.”

  “No!” Laurentius tried to get his feet under him. “No more thots.”

  Maggie pressed him back into place. “Shots only hurt for a ­second.”

  Laurentius rubbed his arm and shook his head. “I’m tired of being the baby.” He crossed his arms over his round belly. “When can I be the mommy?”

  Maggie crammed her hands upon her hips and gave Laurentius the same determined look Cyprian had seen on Lisbeth’s face when she proclaimed war on the new scourge. “I told you, we don’t have a doll. You have to be our baby.”

  “There’s a doll at my house.” Junia placed her index finger over the opening of Ruth’s expensive perfume and tipped it sideways.

  Maggie cocked her head. “What kind of doll?”

  “Perpetua.”

  “Is that like an Ariel doll?”

  Junia looked confused, then shrugged. “My Perpetua has a delicate clay face, a soft rag body, and she was named after the beautiful martyr who died in the arena.”

  “What’s a martyr?” Maggie asked.

  Barek snorted. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I do, too.” Maggie said. “I know how to dial nine-one-one. I can work the remote control. And I can download games on my mommy’s phone. Do you know how to do that?”

  Barek scowled. “What?”

  Cyprian chuckled to himself. The girl had spunk, and he knew exactly from whom she’d inherited that equally irritating and irresistible trait.

  Maggie squared her shoulders and turned to Ruth, who was pouring mustard seeds into a mortar bowl. “Ruth, what’s a martyr?”

  Ruth’s glance shot to Cyprian. “Someone willing to give their life for what they believe. Perpetua was a brave Christian woman who refused to renounce our Lord. Standing up for her faith cost her life.”

  Maggie smiled. “Let’s go get her.”

  “The doll’s probably not even there anymore,” Barek said.

  Ruth ground the pestle. “Barek, please.”

  “I hid her under the bed.” Junia dabbed perfume behind Laurentius’s ear.

  “Thyprian, pleath let them get the doll.” Laurentius tugged ribbons from his hair. “I don’t want any more thots. I want to draw.”

  Ruth glanced at Cyprian. “What do you think?”

  Keenly aware of how easily he could destroy Ruth’s hard work to bring peace, Cyprian waded in cautiously. “It’s not a good idea to go anywhere right now.”

  “You went somewhere.” Maggie pointed at Cyprian’s head. “You’re wet.”

  “My errand was a necessity.”

  “Perpetua is all alone,” Maggie declared gravely. “Saving her is a necessity.”

  “The tenements are especially dangerous right now.”

  “Hold this, Larry.” Maggie gave Laurentius the spoon. Then she clicked across the tiles. She pulled up a stool opposite Cyprian, climbed aboard, and spun around until her knees nearly touched his. She smelled of Ruth’s perfume, and wild clover honey stuck to the curly lock falling across the pained expression on her face. ­Cyprian reached toward her silky head, hungry to touch his own flesh and blood. To wrap her in his arms and keep her safe forever. As his hand neared her head, she wiggled out of reach, bending to free the gown’s hem from the heel of her shoe.

  “Here, let me help.” Cyprian released the snagged fabric.

  As he straightened, his hand brushed hers. Warm. Real. Part Lisbeth’s … part his.
<
br />   There was a pause, a moment when neither of them knew what to do next.

  How to proceed deserved some serious consideration, especially if seeking senatorial support alerted Aspasius and cut his time with his daughter short. He slid back on the stool, dropped his elbows to his knees, and placed his hands on his chin.

  Maggie observed him carefully and quietly. After a few moments she scooted to the edge of the stool, shrinking the distance between them until her knees were in full contact with his. She slowly lowered her elbows to her lap and plopped her chin into her cupped hands. Her posture and serious consideration matched his perfectly. Nose to nose, they were two thinkers contemplating the same deep chasm.

  Maggie spoke first. “Mommy says you’re my daddy.”

  He admired her directness. “Yes, Maggie. I’m your father.”

  She stared straight into his eyes. “And that you love me.”

  “We don’t know each other very well, but I knew I loved you the moment I saw you.”

  She smiled. “Mommy says we’ll be a family, because you’re gonna come home with me.”

  Rain rattled the tiled roof of the cottage. Cyprian broke eye contact with Maggie and let his gaze slide around the room. Barek fisted the dice, his jaw clenching back obvious anger. Laurentius’s mouth hung open. Junia held the perfume bottle in one hand, the stopper in the other. Ruth’s white-knuckle grip ground the pestle against the bowl. Her eyes were misty, and he could tell she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

  Cyprian turned his gaze back to the wide-eyed and hopeful little blonde. “Wouldn’t you like to live here forever?”

  She thought for a moment. “Okay. But if I’m going to live here, I need a doll. Daddy, can you please go get Perpetua?” Her eyes were the color of his, but they had the enticing clarity of purpose of her mother’s. “Larry’s a good baby, but he’s cranky as Barek when he doesn’t get his nap.”

  Cyprian laughed out loud.

  Barek glared from the corner and slung the dice against the wall again. “Stulte!”

  “I’m not an idiot.” Maggie returned the full intensity of Barek’s glare. “I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” Barek scoffed.

  Cyprian held up his hand. “I want to hear what she has to say.”

  “Junia can run in, grab Perpetua, and then run back out.” Maggie presented the details as if her way of thinking made perfect sense.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Barek, please,” Cyprian said. “Going back to the tenements isn’t a good idea right now, Maggie.”

  “I can do it, Cyprian.” Junia returned the stopper to the perfume vial. “I promise I won’t touch anything else.”

  “Tell you what, girls.” Cyprian shuffled through the options, looking for one that provided a way for everyone to save face. “Get some rest, and first thing in the morning, we’ll figure out how Laurentius can go back to his drawings and you and Junia can have a real doll … even if I have to send Felicissimus out to buy one.”

  “I told Mommy my daddy would fix everything.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Can she live here forever, too?”

  Cyprian held her close, his tangled emotions lodged in his throat. How could he fix this without breaking his daughter’s heart? He couldn’t divorce Ruth and leave Barek and his unborn child without a father. And he couldn’t bear to send Lisbeth and Maggie back to Dallas. Letting them go had the added benefit of ensuring their safety, but the idea of losing Lisbeth a second time was a sinking stone in the pit of his belly.

  He dared not glance at Ruth, or he would lose his composure for sure. “Your mother can do whatever she thinks best.” He stood and carried Maggie to her mat. Her body weighed nothing, yet his arms ached as if he carried the weight of the future. He’d expected burdens to accompany fatherhood, but this taxing desire to protect his child no matter the cost was a surprise. He gently removed Ruth’s heels from Maggie’s small feet and kissed her forehead. “Good night, little one.”

  “Daddy, wait.” She grabbed his neck and pulled him close. “Mommy’s not here to help me say prayers.”

  “Your mother taught you prayers?”

  “Of course.”

  “To whom do you pray?”

  “Duh. God.” Her brow wrinkled. “Who else?”

  Had Lisbeth embraced the one God? “Ruth knows how to say children’s prayers.”

  “No. I want you.”

  He risked a glance at Ruth. Surely she felt as tangled as he? His efforts to judge Ruth’s frame of mind yielded nothing.

  Ruth kept her eyes on the folds of fabric wrapped around Junia’s tunic. She concentrated on removing them with the same gentle grace she demonstrated attending all the broken things under his roof. “We’ll say them together.” She helped Junia slide in next to Maggie.

  “Like a family,” Junia said, smiling.

  “Like a family,” Ruth said, allowing her eyes to drift to ­Cyprian.

  “Family?” Barek stood, dice clattering to the floor. One of the dogs lifted his head to check on the commotion. “We’re not one big, happy family.”

  “Barek, maybe you should step out into the rain and cool off,” Cyprian said.

  “Lisbeth of Dallas drops back into our lives after deserting us, and suddenly you’re full of courage?” Ruth’s son stalked from the cottage and slammed the door.

  The accusation hit hard.

  Ruth patted Cyprian’s shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

  “Barek’s right. I have been hiding from my responsibilities, shirking my duties to you and the church.” He brought Ruth’s hand to his lips. “No more.” There was no point in denying that the arrival of Lisbeth and Maggie had jolted him from the darkness. If they were brave enough to face the dangers of his world, surely he could muster the courage to face whatever the Lord had in store for him.

  He rewarded Ruth’s smile with a smile of his own, a real one that expressed the conviction that suddenly flooded him. He turned his attention back to the girls. “You first, Junia.”

  The child thanked the Lord for perfume and the chance to rescue Perpetua.

  “Now you, Maggie.”

  Maggie clasped her hands and closed her eyes. “Dear God. It’s me, Maggie. I’m a long way from home. But I like my new friend Junia, my uncle Larry, and my jaddah. Thank you for Ruth’s baby. I hope it’s a girl, because I have always wanted a sister.” She opened one eye, catching Cyprian as he swallowed hard. “Most of all, thank you for my daddy. Help my mommy not to be mad at him anymore.” She rubbed her nose. “And, God, puhleeze help Barek not to be so cranky. Love, Maggie.” She opened her eyes. “Oh, I forgot one thing.” She bowed her head again. “Make sure Perpetua is still under the bed.”

  25

  ABREAK IN THE CLOUDS allowed the blood moon to shine gloriously upon Aspasius’s palace. The first good sign of the return of the gods’ favor he’d experienced in weeks.

  He sat on the edge of his garden fountain, his feet unable to support him for any length of time, even with his declining weight. He tucked his bloated toes beneath the hem of his robe, then plucked fried snails and boiled peacock eggs from the small, boat-shaped dinner plates that floated above a tiled mosaic of a cobra striking a mongoose. The first architect he’d hired to remodel the gardens had counseled against the bloody design, offering samples of exotic fish and full-chested native women as a more peaceful alternative.

  Aspasius slowly dragged his hand through the crystal waters. A dozen lacy-tailed fish imported from the East nibbled grease from his fingers. The feeding frenzy stirred ripples over the cobra and created the illusion of a snake rising to its full height, fangs poised to strike.

  The image kept him sharp, reminded him that size didn’t matter nearly as much as the venom of one’s bite. A lesson he’d made certain that pompous architect he’d fired remembered right before the executioner’s sword relieved him of his head.

  Oh, how he longed for the day he would get even with ­Cyprian for trying to mak
e him appear the fool by sneaking back home.

  Aspasius’s gaze drifted over the luxurious outdoor space. He did not regret holding fast to his vision. This little oasis had turned out exactly as planned. Large palm trees. A raised stone stage for the naked dancers. Plenty of comfortable seating for his party guests. And a full-size altar that rivaled the granite monstrosity built in the great temple of Juno. Dire times such as these required more than a couple of household gods stuffed in a cupboard. Something much grander was needed.

  He was the man Rome had charged with both the financial and spiritual responsibility of his province. Not Cyprian. An altar of his very own was not a luxury; appeasing Juno was a necessity.

  Aspasius flicked water from his fingers and popped another rubbery egg into his mouth, thinking something sweet would better ease these cravings he’d had lately. Rattled bleating drew his attention toward the garden gate. “Finally.”

  Pytros backed through the opening, dragging a she-goat who’d been held in the temple’s purification pen for the required days. The skittish animal bleated and fought the rope.

  Scipios, the long-necked priest, pushed the goat with one hand and held his heavy black cloak closed at the throat with the other. Thin and in poor health, the old flamen signaled a pause, then coughed and doubled over as if he were expelling his lungs. His leather skullcap, with its chin strap and pointy wooden spindle, shifted forward and exposed the base of his pale, shaved head. When Scipios finished his hacking fit and righted himself, the apex spindle protruded from his forehead like the horn of a gemsbok, an exotic antelope imported from the southern plains to give the arena lions something to chase after he’d had to back off Christians.

  “My friend.” Aspasius held up a plate of snails. “Come. Have a bite to eat.”

  Scipios stepped around the goat and trudged across the garden. His cloak’s heavy fringe dusted the pavers. He eyed Aspasius with slitted, feline eyes. “You should have called me sooner.” He righted his cap.