by Lynne Gentry
“Exorbitant. But not nearly as costly as fetching snow from the mountains to chill the wine.”
“I wish he wouldn’t make such a big deal of this marriage thing.” Lisbeth plopped upon the bed. “No one invests this much money and effort into a wedding ceremony without expecting some kind of reward.” Since their successful rescue of Laurentius, she’d not had a minute alone with Cyprian to thank him, to check him for signs of measles, or, more importantly, to reinforce the platonic terms of their agreement.
“When someone of Cyprian’s social standing marries, it is, as you say, a big deal.” Ruth gathered the discarded tunics she’d rejected because they did not adequately show off Lisbeth’s features. “Work to remove that scowl from your face, or I’ll have to send someone to the desert for sand to scrub those lines from your forehead.”
“At least let me help.” Lisbeth handed Ruth a tunic she’d missed. “What about the guest list?” Inviting Aspasius was dangerous, but short of finding some way to make contact with Tabari, she could think of no other way to learn her mother’s fate. If he’d killed Mama, Lisbeth’s reason for this wedding had died as well. Surprising sadness pricked her heart. “Will you invite the proconsul?”
“His invitation was the first designed and delivered.” Ruth cocked her head, understanding and compassion lighting her eyes. “Who the surly beast will bring as his guest is anyone’s guess.”
“What about the menu? I used to help Papa’s cook, so I could—”
Wide-eyed horror swept Ruth’s face. “A patrician’s wife never cooks. Cyprian’s capable staff will have the scullions stoking the cooking fires day and night.”
“The music?”
“Hired from Italy and setting up in the garden as we speak.”
“Flowers?”
“Imported from the best growers.”
“I guess that leaves just the dress.” Lisbeth sighed. “But unless it’s a laceration in need of sutures, I don’t sew.”
“Cyprian employs two of the best tailors in Carthage. They’ll conduct your fitting within the hour. That leaves just enough time for Naomi to assist with your bath. Go and let her scrub until she finds your smile.” Ruth patted her cheek. “A happy bride is a beautiful bride.” She turned to leave, then stopped, hugging the garments tightly. “You might learn to love him, you know.”
I already have.
Where in the world had that come from? Lisbeth shuddered at the jarring thought. Quickly tucking away the insane notion, she blurted, “Business and love don’t mix.” Trying not to meet Ruth’s eyes, she went in search of Cyprian to remind him of that very fact, even if she had to tell him the entire truth. Her bath could wait. Cyprian deserved to know who she was, and he deserved to hear the whole crazy story from her before Laurentius repeated something he shouldn’t, something that would raise questions she couldn’t dodge.
She stopped by her brother’s room for a shot of courage, amazed at how quickly he’d wormed his way into her heart. “Hey, buddy.”
“Lithbutt!” Her brother showed off his ample supply of paints. “I get the whole wall.” He danced in front of the large, empty space Cyprian had given him to practice upon before tackling the library mural.
Once again, Cyprian’s extraordinary kindnesses made Lisbeth keenly aware of her own tendency to be self-absorbed. Why had this stubborn Roman patrician overlooked Laurentius’s disability? Treating her flawed brother as a human being of equal value was a huge deviation from his survival-of-the-fittest culture. Perhaps Cyprian had succumbed to the teachings of his mentor and become far more forward-thinking than she’d originally thought. If so, could he offer her and her incredible story the same grace? There she was worrying about herself again. Worrying about what someone would think of her, of how this situation affected her.
She pushed her selfishness aside and plodded to the library, intent on making things right. To prove to Cyprian and to herself that she, too, could act with selfless motives.
The old bishop sat hunched over the desk, struggling to read a scroll in the dim light.
She tapped on the doorframe. “Caecilianus.”
He raised his gray head. “Ah, the lovely bride.” He motioned her in with an affable smile, the same twinkle of delight that won over nearly anyone who encountered him. “You sound as though you could use a respite from my wife’s zealous ministrations.” His dogs stretched but remained stationed at his feet, regarding her more as family than an intruder these days. That was some progress, at least.
“Ruth means well.” Lisbeth marveled at the ability of one with advanced cataracts to see so clearly into the heart of a matter. This preacher was more than rhetoric and platitudes. Exactly what made him different, she’d yet to pinpoint. “I’m looking for Cyprian.”
“Our boy’s been called to the Senate.”
“No trouble, I hope.”
“More of a sadness, I’m afraid. He must make funeral arrangements for one of those political horse traders.” He offered her the seat across from his cluttered desk.
His disapproving tone surprised her. Weren’t priests required to love everybody? “Who died?”
“Sergia.”
“The ambassador from Rome?” Her heart stuttered. “How?”
Caecilianus shrugged. “He dropped dead in the middle of a torrid disagreement with Aspasius late yesterday afternoon.”
“No!” She bolted for the door and set the dogs charging after her in hot pursuit.
“Wait.” Caecilianus leapt from behind the desk, covered the length of the library with remarkable speed, and snagged her arm as she reached the hall. “You can’t go.”
“You don’t understand.” Dogs circled her feet. “Sergia had measles. If Cyprian touches him, he could die, too.”
“Slow down.” Caecilianus clasped her shoulders. “I think you have something to tell me.” He led her to a cushioned couch. “Sit.”
The weight of doing too little too late sagged Lisbeth’s shoulders. She obeyed like one of the bishop’s dogs and dropped onto the couch. What difference would a couple of minutes matter now? Cyprian’s contact with Sergia at the arena had probably sealed her future husband’s fate. Whether or not Cyprian believed her time-travel tale wouldn’t matter anymore if the man she was supposed to marry was dead in a couple of weeks.
Caecilianus pulled up a chair and leaned in close. “What are these … meezeles?”
“Measles,” she corrected.
Lisbeth hesitated as she considered what to say. Telling the truth of where she came from might affect her relationship with Cyprian, but bringing twenty-first-century medicine into a third-century plague could change the course of history. Yes, she’d already stepped in to save a few lives, but this was so much bigger. Was stopping a pandemic her place? Even if it wasn’t, there was too much hanging in the balance.
Risking everything, she took a deep breath and let the story gush forth. She told of Papa’s search for the mythical desert cave and Mama’s unexplainable disappearance shortly after their arrival. She briefly mentioned how she’d only pursued medicine because she wanted to be like her mother. She even went so far as to enumerate some of the medical advances in the future. Her claims of a vaccine that could prevent the fever raised Caecilianus’s bushy brows. Her failings in the medical profession and Papa’s apparent descent into madness she kept to herself. She held her breath as she awaited his response.
“Another time?” Caecilianus ran a hand over his stubble. “The future, you say?”
She nodded.
“But I don’t understand how you came to be in Carthage.”
Lisbeth sighed. “Me either.” Grateful he’d not dismissed her story as foolishness, she felt her lungs expand with her first deep breath since landing in Carthage.
Lisbeth stroked the dog’s head resting in her lap. “The last thing I remember is touching a faded cave painting of some potbellied swimmers.” She went on to tell about waking up in Felicissimus’s dark cell, unsure of how she’d landed in the third centur
y.
“You did the right thing to tell me.”
“You don’t think it’s crazy that I’m here?”
“You, my dear, are exactly where God intended.”
“God didn’t push me down that hole. It just happened. I can’t explain time travel or how or why I ended here … I just did.”
“Everything happens for a reason.” From under his hooded eyelids, his certainty bore deep into her soul. “Magdalena is right. You are the answer to our prayers.”
“What will you tell Cyprian?”
“Nothing.”
Who was this guy? She’d just told him this mind-blowing story, and he’d swallowed it. No questions asked. But of course he also drank the Kool-Aid on the whole Jesus-raised-from-the-dead thing, too. “Don’t you think my fiancé deserves to know the truth?”
“Your story is not mine to tell.”
The dogs stirred and rushed to the door, barking a welcome as Cyprian entered. With his cloak askew and his hair tousled, he looked as if he’d run the entire distance between the Senate and his villa. Sweat dripped from his pale face. “Sergia has brought fever to the doorsteps of the wealthy. Aspasius has finally rallied full senatorial support to pursue all who refuse to bow to the Roman gods.”
37
LISBETH STOOD ALONE ON the balcony. Sea breezes whispered over the moonlit water, changing the shape of the waves.
She’d thought telling Caecilianus about her arrival from the twenty-first century would lift the weight of keeping the truth from people she was beginning to love, and for a brief moment the wonder on his craggy face had given her a reprieve. But when the old bishop proclaimed her an angel, she’d felt hemmed in and suddenly unsure, caught in a web of unrealistic expectations.
Lisbeth lifted her eyes and searched the inky sky for Orion or the Bear. These strange people who’d taken her in believed these pinpricks of light proved a shiny god existed beyond the darkness. In Dallas, the night sky came and went, and no one seemed to notice. Even she’d been too busy trying to keep up with school and residency to give the sky much thought. But here, watching the moonrise fill the universe with a glorious glow, she missed Papa and the heavenly compass he used to find his way home.
There was no going back. There was no fixing the mistakes of the past or the future. There was only her current reality. Time had played a cruel trick.
She was not an angel. She wasn’t even a good doctor. How could she possibly be the answer to the Christians’ prayers?
Despite the warm night, a desperate chill shuddered her body. Lisbeth tightened the shawl across her shoulders. Caecilianus had said the story was hers alone to share. She’d wanted Ruth’s advice on the best way to break such an incredible tale to Cyprian or, at the very least, to get a couple of tips on how to navigate this pickle before she jumped in. For some crazy reason, he mattered to her. But Ruth was far too distracted with the wedding preparations for a serious heart-to-heart about the best way to proceed with a pretend marriage.
She’d considered telling Cyprian the truth at the dinner the church hosted in their honor in the triclinium. But when her fiancé had finally emerged from the library, it was not to accompany her to church but rather to attend Sergia’s burial. He’d brushed her off and hurried away like she was the one with the plague and had ended up missing the dinner his friends had worked on for days. His indifference stung a bit, but she’d decided to use the pain to remind her not to play with the fire that leapt in her belly every time they got within spitting distance of each other.
Her finger dragged along the limestone railing. She’d tried to remain detached, even stuffed the obvious physical attraction she felt for Cyprian. But then she’d catch him tossing Junia in the air or sprawled across the library rug helping Laurentius color one of his drawings. This powerful man was such a contradiction of hard edges and a soft heart. She’d been dreading taking Papa into her home, and here Cyprian had generously opened his villa to Caecilianus and his family and anyone else needing a roof over their head. Cyprianus Thascius was obviously made of finer stuff than she. A benevolent and selfless man was not an easy man to ignore, let alone hate.
Lisbeth’s thoughts turned to Caecilianus’s conclusions. They were crazy, but she couldn’t quit thinking about them. Had the crusty bishop’s one God sent her here for the purpose of altering the demise of the Roman Empire? What if destiny was not a finite theory? Could a human being alter the preordered boundaries of time enough to make a difference? What if fate had given her an unprecedented opportunity to right her own wrong? Shame on her if she stood by and did nothing.
Far below, along the water’s edge, someone strode into view. Those broad shoulders and that determined gait could belong to only one man.
“Cyprian!” If fate had turned in her favor, clearing up his misconception of her would be one of the first wrongs she would right. Her heart did a strange little skip. “Cyprian!” Lisbeth called out again, adding a wave this time. Either he ignored her or he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the sea. Raised on her tiptoes, Lisbeth leaned over the rail and yelled at the top of her lungs.
Without so much as a backward glance, Cyprian peeled out of his toga, tossed it upon the sand, and dove into the water like a muscled torpedo.
“What’s he doing?” Lisbeth’s muttered question floated away on the wind, but the image of his almost naked body stuck tight in her mind.
Stroke after graceful stroke, Cyprian progressed toward the ships anchored in the harbor. In breathless admiration, Lisbeth watched his powerful arms slice the sea without effort. Left. Right. Left. His confidence in the water equaled his confidence in life, in the future he believed was his. A stark contrast to the doubt in her desert. Had his newfound faith given him that purpose, or had he always been a man on a mission?
From the corner of her eye, a flash of moving light on the wharf drew her attention. In the faint glow, she could make out the sheen of soldier armor marching toward the place where Cyprian had entered the water. What would they do to him if they caught him out after curfew?
He must be warned. She gathered her skirts and hurried toward the stairwell, unwilling to play it safe anymore. Descending the stone steps from the balcony to the beach, she kept an eye on the approaching torches. Once she reached the sand, she removed her sandals, hooked the ankle straps over her finger, and quickly followed the trodden path that led to the waterfront. Gauging her proximity to the ships, she guessed herself to be very near her family’s favorite shady picnic spot … a circle of pillar ruins.
Crouched behind a tuft of sea grass, she waited for the bank of angry clouds rising from the horizon to obscure the low-hanging moon. Taking advantage of the hazy light, Lisbeth ventured down the shoreline in search of more substantial cover. Right where she remembered the ruins to be, she found the concrete pillars, whole and in perfect condition. The newness of everything still boggled her mind. Papa had surmised the crumbling structure held Roman gods to watch the harbor, but he’d not guessed it to be an extravagant stone gazebo constructed for the sole purpose of stealing a romantic kiss or welcoming a weary sailor home.
Stepping from the sudsy foam lapping the gazebo stone, Lisbeth scurried inside and hunched deep into the shadows. She peeked around the pillar and scanned the sea for Cyprian’s bobbing head. Across the harbor, she spotted him climbing up a rope ladder that dangled from over the side of one of the wooden ships.
A hand clamped upon her shoulder, giving her a start that launched a piercing scream.
“I told you I saw someone on the beach.” The soldier yanked Lisbeth from her hiding place and hauled her out to a broken patch of moonlight. She remembered this guy’s face from their market run-in. Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She shrugged free of his hold, determined to rein in her fight-or-flight reflexes before she did something stupid. “Since when does a lady have to have Rome’s permission to stroll her private beach?” Lisbeth tossed her loosened hair so
that they could catch a glimpse of the jewels she still wore from dinner. “You are the trespassers, sirs.”
He clapped a gloved hand around her wrist. “You are under arrest.”
“What?” She failed to break his killer grip. “My husband won’t appreciate having to bail me out of jail.”
“Bail?” His hearty laugh rang out. “This curfew offender wants bail, boys!” His patrol buddies joined in with taunts and began shoving Lisbeth between them.
“You just wait until my husband hears about how you’ve treated me! This isn’t right!”
“Cry to the proconsul, lady. You don’t have rights.”
“Since when are prominent Roman citizens denied their rights?” Cyprian emerged from the sea, slicking his hair back with his hands. Even dripping wet he was beautiful. Darn it.
He strode toward them. “I’d appreciate it if you’d release my bride, gentlemen.”
“Bride?” The patrol leader laughed.
Cyprian trotted out a roguish grin. “As you can see, we had plans.” One of his broad hands created a fig leaf over his skimpy undergarment. His other snagged her arm and towed her toward him, stretching Lisbeth between the two men like two dogs fighting over a bone. He was staring at her in a way that made her sizzle. “Come, my love. The water is perfect tonight.”
The soldier squeezed her arm a bit tighter, determined to win this tug-of-war. “I have my orders.”
“And do they include depriving the solicitor of Carthage his pleasure?” He gave Lisbeth a lewd wink. “My love, this is what we get for rushing the wedding night. If wagging tongues get word of us frolicking about in the surf the night before our wedding, my election hopes will be dashed.”
The soldier dropped Lisbeth’s arm. “Cyprianus Thascius?”
“The Cyprianus Thascius.” Lisbeth rushed into Cyprian’s open arms. He pulled her against his slick physique, and her sudden sense of panic morphed into an exhilarating tingle that traveled the length of her body. She tossed a wicked laugh over her shoulder, then threw her arms around his neck. “If the ranks are going to talk about us, let’s give them something to talk about, my love.”
