Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

  He moved back from the pyre, and Pontius stirred a long metal rod through the red-hot embers.

  Hungry flames nibbled at the kindling and then quickly moved on to consume the grain. Scorching tongues licked the muslin and charred a black outline of a mother holding her child. The dry cloth caught fire with a whoosh. A pillar of angry smoke rose toward the setting sun.

  Caecilianus’s dogs loped into the garden and skidded to a stop inches from the pyre. Their forlorn howls rose above the foul smoke.

  Lisbeth breathed in hot, acrid air that seared her throat. Despite the heat the burning pyre gave off, she shivered uncontrollably. Ruth had said everything was forgiven, but Lisbeth knew forgiving herself for making these past few days so difficult would not be so easy.

  One by one, mourners filed by, wailing, dabbing their eyes, and pulling their hair. Some even stopped to scoop ashes from the fringe of the fire to add a smear to their faces. Once everyone had cleared but Cyprian and Pontius, Lisbeth made her way across the garden, her eyes stinging from a combination of smoke and tears. She slipped her hand into Cyprian’s and squeezed. He stared straight into the flames, but to her relief, he squeezed back. The pressure created a fixed point in time, a place they had been and a place to which they would never return.

  “I’m sorry,” Lisbeth whispered.

  “Ruth has exchanged the suffering of this world for a bright and eternal honor.” Cyprian released her hand and turned to face her. “Go home, Lisbeth.” His voice was tired and brittle. “Take our daughter to safety, and leave this place while you still can.”

  34

  IT WAS THE LONELIEST part of the night. The time when the wind died down and the moon plummeted toward dawn. The time when Lisbeth’s mind retraced her steps and tripped over her failures. The time she dreaded most.

  Feeling broken and small, Lisbeth slipped out of bed and threw a robe over her shoulders.

  The mouse scurrying across the bedroom floor stopped at the sputtering lamp to steal a few licks of the olive oil. She should send the sneaky thief scampering, but she didn’t have the energy to waste on futile efforts. Hundreds of hungry, demanding mice waited behind the stone walls like the desperately ill waited at ­Cyprian’s doors. The moment this little bugger was out of the way, another would quickly take his place … and then another … and another.

  Lisbeth left the mouse to lap his fill and stepped onto the balcony. She pulled her robe closed and padded to the balustrade.

  Needing a compass more than ever, she silently railed at the cloud cover obscuring her view of the stars. She had no answers as to why her good intentions to rescue everyone had gone so horribly awry. It was true she’d been upset with Ruth. But she’d never wanted her friend to die. And she’d never meant to trap Cyprian in the middle of such an impossible situation. She didn’t know how to fix any of this. All she knew was that opening yourself to love was like opening your veins. The potential for serious harm was great. Everything that mattered could drain away before you knew it.

  Torn between staying and going, she weighed her options. Clearly, meddling in the natural flow of events had set in motion unimaginable catastrophes. Cyprian had told her to go home. Obviously, he wanted nothing to do with her. If she went back through the portal now, their daughter would never truly know her father. Surely there had to be better a way. Something she could do.

  “Maggie’s had a bad dream.” Mama came from behind and squeezed her shoulder. “I tried to calm her, but she’s asking for you.” She held out a steaming mug. “I’ve made my version of chamomile tea to help her sleep.”

  Lisbeth sighed, dragging her eyes from the distant sky, and took the cup. “I’ve spent ten years in the equivalent of indentured servitude trying to learn how to save lives, and when it mattered most … I had nothing.”

  Mama beckoned her to join her on the bench. “Sometimes the only thing a doctor can do after a loss like this is walk away, drink a cup of coffee, and reflect on how totally useless all of our efforts to fight death sometimes are.”

  “Why Ruth?” An apple-scented steam stung Lisbeth’s nostrils. “Less than a foot in my direction, and that bull would have killed me.”

  “Things happen. Often with no explanation,” Mama said. “Maybe this was God’s way of protecting Ruth from the arena.”

  Lisbeth ran her finger around the mug’s rim. “Who brings their child to a place where being trampled by a crazed ox is preferable to being forced to kneel before the executioner’s sword?”

  “I ask myself that question every time I look at you.” Mama wrapped her arm around Lisbeth’s shoulder. “Tell me the real reason you came back.”

  Lisbeth wanted to let go of the secret eating her insides, to be free of bearing sole responsibility for the futures of the people she loved so much. Sometimes she even imagined what it would look like to give up the stress of trying to fix everything and let things just happen. Then her instincts always kicked in. She could hear the familiar warnings … Danger … Don’t let go … No one else is coming along to save the day … God helps those who help themselves.

  She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “The first time Papa and I returned to the Cave of the Swimmers I found the ­portal because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “You were there. You spoke to me, and I could see you. How is that possible?”

  If Mama recognized her dodge, she chose to overlook it for now. “After we die, we dwell in a dimension not bound by time.” Mama pulled away. “You know I’m going to die, right?”

  She’d lost her mother twice now. Once when she was five and again when Mama sent her back to the twenty-first century. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Mama a third time to something as permanent as eternity. “How do you do it, stay in this trying place?”

  “The same way anyone does anything: one day at a time.” Mama stood and went to the railing. “When I first arrived, I was so afraid.” She glanced back at Lisbeth. “Not for me, but for you.”

  “Me? I was safe with Papa.”

  “My heart knew that, but my head couldn’t stop worrying. What would happen to my precious little daughter without her mother? What if your father couldn’t fill in the gaps? You know how distracted he can be.” Mama swallowed. “Once I realized I was stuck here, I fought hard. I refused to eat. Refused to submit. One night Aspasius locked me in his office.” She stared at her extended hands. “I made my fingers bloody stubs trying to claw my way out. But the harder I fought against my new reality, the more things spiraled out of control.” Mama gripped the balustrade. “Then there was that painful, yet glorious moment of change. The moment I knew the only thing I could control in this world … or yours … was my attitude.”

  “What happened?”

  “After I gave birth to Laurentius, Aspasius took one look at our baby’s moon-pie face and beat me unconscious. I would have died were it not for the kindness of Iltani, a Christian slave who lost her tongue after a failed escape attempt.” Mama’s eyes scanned the horizon as if she searched for some sort of explanation for the unexplainable. “That precious little slave girl risked her life for me and Laurentius again and again. Iltani hid us in the subterranean tunnels beneath the palace and nursed me back to health with crumbs she stole from our master’s table.” An appreciative smile lit Mama’s face. “By the time Aspasius asked for a healer, I was stronger and I’d made friends in the palace. I knew God. And I knew I’d been called to a purpose. I was no longer afraid, and I was no longer alone.

  “Iltani and the other servants helped me work out a system. Laurentius was never left unattended … and neither was I.” Tears glistened on Mama’s cheeks. “God was with me.” She took the cup from Lisbeth and set it on the bench. “I understand how difficult it is for you to let go. But as long as your hands are full, my precious girl, your heart will remain empty.”

  “I want to trust. Really I do.”

  “Then tell me the truth of why you risked everything to come back.”
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br />   Lisbeth took a deep breath and plunged into the story, sparing none of the details. One by one, she purged the agonizing months of her pregnancy, her worries about Papa, and the fears of single parenting. She told Mama of her early-church history research, launching into the specifics of what was about to descend upon this struggling little group of people. By the time she finished, the tea had cooled considerably. “What is to come is far worse than measles or typhoid.”

  Mama’s brows raised. “Go on.”

  “The church will soon lose its leader and the financier of their good works.”

  Understanding sobered Mama’s face. “Cyprian?”

  Lisbeth nodded.

  “How?”

  “Beheading.” Lisbeth wiped the moisture from her cheeks and looked grimly into Mama’s own brimming eyes. “And after what he just declared over Ruth’s grave, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop it.”

  *

  BY THE time Lisbeth reached the cottage to check on Maggie, surprisingly the child had fallen fast asleep curled up in Junia’s arms. “Why can’t adults forgive like children?” she whispered to herself, recalling the ice in Cyprian’s tone when he’d told her to go home. Not that she didn’t deserve his anger. His wife and baby son would be alive if she hadn’t come back.

  After carefully tucking Maggie’s legs beneath the covers and raising a blanket over Junia’s shoulders, she lifted the lamp and searched the cottage. Naomi slept on a mat in one corner, but Barek’s pallet in the opposite corner was empty. While Barek pretended to be a man, he was really still a boy. He’d just lost his mother. He was probably still at the funeral pyre for some much-needed closure. She knew how lost and angry he must be feeling. All those years of not being able to find Mama’s remains had left a bitter hole that she’d filled with blame. Mostly blaming herself. It would be a while before Barek would feel like talking to ­anyone.

  Lisbeth’s gaze moved on to the unmade bed, the one where Ruth and Cyprian had spent their last night.

  Empty.

  Her gut twisted. Maybe now was not the best time to work out some forgiveness between the two of them, but at the least she had to come clean. Tell Cyprian the truth about his future before it was too late.

  She made her way back to the villa. From a Ziploc bag in her pack, she retrieved a photocopy of the historical account of Cyprian’s fate. Tucking the paper in her pocket, she turned and went in search of her husband.

  35

  HEAT FROM THE BURIAL fire had singed Cyprian’s brows and melted his anger and regret into an unbearable lump. His wife and son were dead, and he’d just told his first wife to take his daughter and leave. The losses were greater than anything Aspasius could ever take from him. Even his life.

  Dreaming of a reunion with Lisbeth had kept him alive on that desolate beach. God had allowed her return. It was more than he deserved. Especially since he was the one who’d failed to wait upon God and taken things into his own hands. And, God forgive him, he was the one who longed to seek solace in her arms. To make amends for the hurt he’d caused.

  It wasn’t Lisbeth’s fault that Ruth had died. More than once, he’d been privy to Lisbeth’s ability to perform miraculous medical procedures. She’d saved patients Roman doctors would have left for dead. She would have saved her dear friend had there been any way.

  And the accident wasn’t Ruth’s fault either. She was more than a concerned mother. She was a friend who would have thrown herself in front of that bull to save Lisbeth.

  Snowflake-shaped bits of ash floated in the dwindling smoke. Cyprian rubbed his damaged brows. He wasn’t mad at Lisbeth. He wasn’t even angry at Ruth for insisting on accompanying their search for Maggie and Junia.

  He was mad at himself.

  He alone bore the responsibility of placing Ruth in harm’s way. And he didn’t mean the thundering hooves of a peddler’s beast. He and Ruth should never have married. No matter how Ruth downplayed the danger and played up the advantages, the vision of his fate continually played in his head. The day was coming when he would stand before Aspasius and face the ultimate test of his faith. If he knew his death was to be the end of it, he could have rested easily. But the voice deep in his soul kept whispering that it was only a matter of time before Ruth’s fate mirrored his. He’d tried to warn her, but she would hear none of it.

  So, out of a misplaced desire to honor his word to Caecilianus, he’d pushed aside the hazards and made vulnerable those he’d grown to love, accomplishing, in fact, the exact opposite of what he’d sought to do. His poor judgment had not cost Ruth her life in a dirty tenement alleyway. No, Ruth lost her life the moment he agreed to their marriage. It was up to him to right this wrong. To make it up to her by securing the future of the church. Time was of the essence.

  God, show me what to do.

  Suddenly the northerly winds shifted. A gust of warmth blew in from the desert and shoved away the winter season. Tiny flecks of ash swirled in the moment of rebellion. Spring had arrived, and it would be put off no longer. The time for evading Aspasius had ended.

  Cyprian passed through the wrought-iron gate and hurried toward the stables. He slid open the heavy barn door and stepped into the darkness. “Pontius!”

  He’d always felt more at home amid the smell of parchment and ink than the manure of his father’s stables. At the building’s far end, his friend wept before one of his father’s prize mares.

  Pontius startled at his arrival and quickly wiped his eyes. “My lord, what brings you to the stables?”

  Cyprian choked back the tears he’d yet to shed. “The good counsel of a good friend and the completion of a couple of important errands.” He lifted the wooden scoop from a peg on the wall, loaded it with grain, and went to the stall.

  “You’ve only to ask.”

  “Ruth’s death has changed things. I’m afraid the morale of the believers will slip quickly.” Cyprian emptied the grain into the trough.

  “The church has suffered a great loss.”

  “We must do all we can to ease their suffering. Agreed?” ­Cyprian appreciated Pontius’s brief nod. “First, I need you to send Lisbeth and Maggie home.”

  “I can understand your desire to spare them, especially after losing one wife and child, but you know Lisbeth won’t go without her mother and brother. If you intend to end this plague, how can you do so without a healer?”

  “Lisbeth has trained several women in the church in the ways of providing sufficient medical care.”

  “For those with measles. What of typhoid? We have no one who could do what she and Magdalena were able to do for Diona.”

  “That is where the next errand comes in. Shutting down the transportation systems is the fastest way to stop the spread of measles. The sooner we accomplish this, the sooner we end both plagues and the sooner the persecution ceases.”

  “A dangerous gamble without proper support.”

  “One that will require cash. Lots of it.”

  Pontius’s brows shot up. “You intend to buy the senatorial support you need?”

  “Yes.” Cyprian charged ahead. “I need you to commission Felicissimus to move forward with great speed and liquidate my properties. Once the plague subsides, the senators will not have the patience to continue this war Aspasius has waged against Christians. They’ll want things to return to normal. Back to the prosperous days when Rome let their conquests believe whatever they wanted as long as they remained peaceful and paid their taxes.”

  “If we plan well, we could end the plague and the persecution before Aspasius has a chance to end you.”

  “Either way, I’m ready to face the future.”

  36

  THE DOGS WERE FAr too distracted by Ruth’s funeral fire to notice Lisbeth. Neither Cyprian nor Barek were anywhere to be found. Barek had probably headed for his beloved ocean, and Cyprian for his devoted friend Pontius.

  Lisbeth closed the cottage door, slipped through the back gate, and ducked into the night. Since Maggie had lost her
flashlight, she was forced to rely on moonlight and memory to find the stables.

  Gravel crunched beneath her feet. Several paces into the darkness, a twig snapped. She stopped, listened, then checked her surroundings one more time. Waves pounded the shore in the distance, but the crashing rhythm didn’t camouflage the sound of fast-approaching footsteps. She blinked, hoping to force her eyes to adjust. Before she could get her bearings, someone grabbed her from behind. The thick arm wrapping her throat instantly cut off her ability to cry out for help. As she was pulled tightly against a heaving chest, a hand came down hard across her mouth, clamping it shut.

  She struggled, clawing at her attacker’s arms and hands.

  The man dragged her from the path, his breath coming in short, labored huffs. “Scream, and I’ll snap your neck.”

  Every muscle in her body tensed. The voice belonged to the same man who’d had his boot on her face when she’d awakened for the first time in this century.

  Felicissimus.

  She pounded her fists on his thick arms.

  Once he had her completely concealed in the shadows, he whispered in her ear. “Ready to make a deal?”

  Deal? What kind of deal? Fear ripped through her. Why hadn’t she exposed him in the presence of witnesses? Hoping to outsmart him and make a run for it the moment he released her, she nodded.

  “Remember, scream and you’ll not be the only one to die.” He kept his arm around her neck but slowly lifted his smelly fingers from her mouth. She sucked in air as best she could despite the pressure he kept on her windpipe. When she didn’t scream, Felicissimus slowly released his hold on her neck. “Good girl.”

  She broke free and whirled. “What do you think you’re doing?” She swung a fist in his direction.

  He caught her wrist before her blow made contact with his jaw. “There are those who’d be only too happy to ask you the same question.”