by Lynne Gentry
“THANKS FOR making an exception, boys.” Cyprian didn’t wait for the slack-jawed soldiers to go on about their patrols. “Keep up the good work.” He swept Lisbeth off her feet and tumbled into the surf with her.
She came up sputtering salt water and reacting defensively to his attempt to keep her from hightailing it back to shore. “What the—”
He snagged her arm as she attempted to bolt. “Trust me,” he whispered, noting the starfish eyelashes that framed the liquid pools of her eyes, the kind of eyes that reflected the one observing them a bit too clearly for his comfort. A quick perusal of the beach told him the soldiers were taking their time returning to their patrol beat. “Come on.” He hooked her waist with one arm and ripped single-limbed strokes that carried them into deeper water. Several yards offshore, he turned her to face him, noting the soldiers still eyeing them from the shore. He began treading water. “This is where you act like you’re having fun. Put your arms around my neck again and kiss me.” The undercurrent of warning was not to be missed in his voice.
“What?”
He gave a swift scissor kick that buoyed them like a wine cork. “Do it.”
She obeyed, flinging her slender arms across his shoulders. Without hesitation, her lips found his. Fresh-bread soft and setting off a hunger in his belly he longed to quench. Instinctively, he moved toward her, devouring the salty taste of lips he’d imagined the flavor of honey since the first day she’d told him off. He clasped her waist, then scissor-kicked again while drawing her against him. Every curve of her body melded with his, as if the water had dissolved her tunic. Strong. Healthy. Sensual. Flesh against flesh, sucking him deep into a liquid vortex where he couldn’t breathe.
He broke from her lips, yet kept his arms under hers.
Her eyes flew open, wide and wondering. “Are we done now?”
Working to keep her afloat was more difficult now that she had stiffened. A cautious survey of the shore proved them finally alone, but he kept his voice low in case his words carried over the water. “I know where the fever is coming from.”
“What?” Now it was her turn to check for soldiers. She relaxed and drifted close again. “How?”
He put a dripping finger to her lips and lowered his voice even more. “According to my sources, the sickness originated in Ethiopia, then migrated to Egypt. But I wondered why we’ve seen such an increase in deaths despite the closure of the land trade routes.” He nodded toward the ships. “Then Sergia died. He traveled to Carthage via Egypt on a Roman frigate.”
“Is that what you were doing? Looking for measles?” Her laughter, a surprising delight that buoyed him, would also convince anyone lurking in the shadows that they were lovers. “I thought you were trying to get out of marrying me.”
“There are easier ways to dissolve a betrothal contract, woman.”
Her arms circled his neck, and their legs tangled. “Don’t ships have to go through customs or something?”
“Only the freighters.” They kicked in unison, working together to stay afloat, sharing the burden in a way he’d not expected possible of one who couldn’t understand the intricate politics involved.
“The troop reinforcements ordered by Aspasius!” Exceptional brilliance shone in her eyes.
“Warships answer to no port authority.”
“Well, something has to be done.” Her dauntless conviction was fascinating. “The port needs to be shut down, the crews quarantined until I determine they’re fever free.”
“Even if Aspasius admitted that his military transports are hauling sickness and death, it would be political suicide to let a woman close his port.”
Lisbeth released him, and he felt himself sink. “I’m going to check it out.” She glided in the direction of the ship.
“Wait.” He darted after her and caught her arm in midstroke. “We’ve drawn enough attention tonight.”
“We aren’t going. I am.” Stubborn determination bubbled in her eyes.
“No.” He hauled her toward shore.
“If they have measles, you could catch them,” she sputtered.
Ignoring her pounding on his arm, he trawled to the shallows. When she found footing, she wiggled free and stood. She kicked water and sand in his face.
He wiped the salt from his eyes. “That’s my thanks for saving your life?”
“It’s for whoever is watching the show.” Lisbeth turned and marched toward the villa, her bare feet leaving angry imprints in the sand, her glistening shoulders leaving an even deeper indentation in his heart.
Tossing his recovered tunic over his shoulder, he cursed the day he’d listened to Felicissimus and bought the beautiful slave girl from Dallas … or wherever it was his client had found such a maddening bundle of trouble.
38
LISBETH’S STOMACH HAD A great deal of experience surviving various levels of nervous discomfort. Butterflies before her move to the States. Small birds when she took the MCAT. Vultures while she waited on her residency match. But she hadn’t anticipated flying pterodactyls the day of her wedding. The few grapes Ruth had encouraged her to eat for lunch had not stayed down. Finishing the late afternoon snack of olives and cold meat Naomi had delivered was out of the question.
She didn’t need food. She needed rest. The continual replay of Cyprian’s body against hers as they kissed had kept her up the entire night. Craig’s kisses had never ignited such passion.
Infuriating as Cyprian could be, she had to admit he was right about not going to the ships with soldier patrols crawling all over the wharf. But she was right, too. If the ships did indeed harbor the virus, they needed to be burned. Somehow, winning the plague war had diminished in importance compared to a more pressing battle raging inside her.
Despite days of planning, too many things could go wrong at this wedding. Things like Laurentius blurting out something that would expose her or Mama. Or what if Aspasius suddenly remembered her from the slave cell? Or worse, she imagined Cyprian stomping to the altar and announcing that he’d changed his mind, that the attraction they felt as he held her afloat was just part of some crazy horror show. What if he decided she wasn’t worth the risk?
Heady scents of rose, crocus, and myrtle hung in the heavy steam of the bathroom. Lisbeth sank into the tub and slowly dragged the strigil over her body, flinching as the thin blade rounded the tiny curve of her breast. Had Cyprian noted her lack of Roman bosoms and wider hips like she’d noticed every sculpted contour of him? Had he observed that his touch caused her to tremble like a willow in a windstorm?
Usually she didn’t care what men thought of her, but she couldn’t help wondering what was going on in that handsome head of his. Was he attracted to her at all? Or was the physical tension she felt every time he took her in his arms merely the adrenaline rush of the life-and-death situations her presence always seemed to bring down upon his head?
She clambered out of the tub and climbed aboard the massage slab without complaint. For once she didn’t mind the primping and pampering. Queenie always said she’d turn heads if she fixed up a bit. This was her wedding day, after all. Call her shallow, but she wanted to be as beautiful as possible.
Naomi slathered Arabian nard over every inch of Lisbeth’s freshly scraped and scrubbed skin. Ruth was right. This oily stuff was worth every penny. Submitting to the languid motions, Lisbeth allowed her mind to revisit the pleasure of Cyprian’s touch, the protective pressure of his palm on the small of her back, the sure grip of his large hands around her waist, the beat of his heart matching hers with each scissor kick.
Given different circumstances, in a different time, in a different world, perhaps both of them would have willingly embraced the idea of becoming husband and wife. At least that’s what she told herself. What Cyprian was telling himself, she could only guess.
Perfumed and wrapped in a thin robe, Lisbeth waltzed into the bedroom where Ruth and Junia waited for her. “Well, what do you think?”
“You smell good.” Junia shot
out from under Ruth’s grip and bounded into her arms. “You should see your dress. Ruth says my dress matches yours.” At the corner of her perfect lips, one dimple-size mark remained. A scar to forever remind this child of the parents she had lost. “Can I try on your shoes?”
Lisbeth hugged her. “Okay, but don’t trip.” She set Junia down and joined Ruth at the bed. “Oh, my. What’s all of this?”
“I hope you’re pleased.” Ruth proudly pointed to the stunning array of garments, jewels, and the exquisite red sandals with ivory buckles that Junia was already happily clomping about in. “Well, what do you think?”
Lisbeth ran her hand over a piece of linen woven with the reddish-violet hues of an African sunset. “I feel like Cinderella.”
“Who?” Junia asked as she tried to balance herself in the shoes.
“Never mind.” Lisbeth took her hand and helped steady her. Nothing in the bridal magazines she and Queenie had flipped through could compare to the beautiful wedding trousseau laid out before her. “How did you get this together so fast, Ruth?”
“Proper connections and proper help. You’ll learn.” Ruth’s eyes slid from Junia parading across the room in the sandals back to Lisbeth. “The right of dressing the bride belongs to the bride’s mother.”
A twinge of regret prickled Lisbeth’s glistening skin. Mama had missed so much. The loss of Lisbeth’s first tooth. The arrival of her first zit. The onset of her daughter’s menstrual cycle. Poor Papa, he hadn’t known what to do when Lisbeth thought she was bleeding to death. Mama was absent when Papa put her on a plane bound for the States, when she rented her first apartment, and when she graduated from med school. And now Mama would miss the joy of yet another important rite of passage … dressing her daughter for a wedding ceremony.
Up until a few days ago, Mama’s absence would have made Lisbeth angry, salt in a raw wound. But after hearing Mama’s fight to get to Laurentius, she knew her mother would have done anything to attend the wedding. Lisbeth swallowed all the things she wished she’d said but hadn’t that day she went to set her mother’s dislocated shoulder. “Mama would be pleased to have you take her place, Ruth. If she makes it to the wedding, it will be more than I deserve.”
“We’ll start with the sleeveless chemise.” Ruth slid a straight, close-fitting tunic of delicate white fabric over Lisbeth’s head. The slip-like garment molded to Lisbeth’s slight curves, and the hem of intricate embroidery brushed the tops of her bare feet. “Since it’s so warm this evening, I think we’ll do your hair first, and then you can step into your stola later.”
Ruth spent the next hour brushing a lustrous sheen into Lisbeth’s curls. Next, Ruth divided the shimmering mass into six sections with an iron spearhead. She arranged the strands around a small cone she’d fastened to Lisbeth’s head with hand-carved ivory combs. Two hours later, Ruth finally gave the chair a spin.
The princess in the mirror took Lisbeth’s breath away.
“I wish you knew how beautiful you are.” Ruth gathered the ruby-colored stola. “The sun will set soon. We must not keep the bridal party waiting.” Lisbeth stepped into the crisp, linen folds. Ruth wrapped a thin cord of golden threads around Lisbeth’s waist and tied the strands into the knot of Hercules—guardian of wedded life. “Only your husband may untie this knot.” Her sly smile sent the pterodactyls soaring again in Lisbeth’s stomach.
Ruth lifted a transparent, flame-colored veil and secured it to Lisbeth’s head with a wreath of amaracus flowers. “Junia, get out of those shoes.”
39
PYTROS PRODDED THE COALS beneath the bronze feet of his master’s household god. Across the atrium, different-colored birds protested their confinement in the golden cages. Magpies, starlings, finches, and a rare nightingale … all trapped. Pytros understood their frustration. He, too, was trapped. A slave bound by love to a heartless master. He’d risked so much to pry information from Felicissimus and bring Aspasius the secret of how Magdalena had managed to run around behind his back. And how had he been rewarded? He hadn’t. Pytros jabbed the poker into the altar fire and sent coals bouncing across the marble floor.
The uneven click of Aspasius’s built-up shoes echoed in the hall. “There you are, Pytros.” He swept into the atrium, running his hand along the row of gilded bars. A flurry of feathers and empty seed shells spilled through the bars.
“I’m in trouble.” Aspasius stepped up to the cupboard.
Pytros ceased his manipulation of the fire. Had Aspasius just confided something personal, something more deep and meaningful? “I am here to serve, my lord. How can I help?”
“Offerings must be made to Mercury until the gods are appeased.”
“I’m honored to assist such a powerful man. A noble man. A man admired by the gods.” Pytros stirred the coals. “I’m sure the gods will eagerly answer your prayers.”
“Then why is there such trouble in Carthage?” Aspasius stared at the rise of a single yellow flame. “There are still some in the Senate who disagree with my tactics to bring the Christians into submission. The fever among my stone workers has brought several renovation projects to a halt. And if Cyprian’s wedding is not stopped, his election will be secured. He’s very favored, especially with those who adored his father.”
A blue flame joined the attack upon the slivers of wood Pytros fed the fire. He’d considered the merit of laying another option upon the altar. But why? His last attempt had resulted in dashed hopes. So far, his disgusting groveling and fawning over Aspasius had gotten him nowhere.
“What should I do?” Had Aspasius spoken to Mercury or to him?
Pytros cocked his head. “Must you stop the wedding, my lord?”
“I must, if I don’t want to be banished from Carthage.” Aspasius snorted and pulled a small packet of grain from his pocket. “Wishing Cyprian dead would defile all of my sacrifices. I cannot afford to anger the gods worse than they already are.” Hand over the brazier, Aspasius funneled the finest oats money could buy onto the smoldering wood.
Greedy flames leapt from the center of the bowl. Within seconds every kernel had been devoured. A grain-fueled glow reflected red on Aspasius’s distraught face. Oh, how this man needed him, Pytros thought. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around his master’s expansive girth and hold him close.
Pytros checked the hall for signs of that wretched woman Aspasius had kept chained to his bed since he discovered her secret life. Perhaps the time had come to share the rest of what Felicissimus had told him. “I believe there is another way, my lord.”
Aspasius turned slowly and smiled; a flicker of appreciation registered in the simmering coals of his eyes. Pytros was delightfully encouraged. Aspasius took the fire poker from Pytros’s hand and hung it on the iron hook beside the cupboard. “Tell me more.” He clasped Pytros’s shoulder.
Hope, as greedy and warm as the altar flames, sparked in Pytros’s loins. He gazed into the black eyes of his master, hungry for a kernel of fuel.
Pytros followed Aspasius from the atrium. As he passed the bird cages, he dragged his free hand along the bars and joyfully sent the aviary into another round of enviable protest.
40
OUR NUMBERS ARE GROWING, Bishop.” Felicissimus paced the library with the chip on his shoulder that he’d worn since Cyprian dismissed him at the arena. “Why not stage a rebellion? Have Cyprian publicly proclaim his allegiance to Christ, and storm the proconsul’s palace? War seems a better plan than this marriage.”
“For whom? Do you plan to take up the sword, little man?” Caecilianus closed the door, shutting off the view of the nosy wedding guests mingling in the hall. “The church must never become the spear pointed at Rome.”
“Better we remain the dung beneath Rome’s boot?” Felicissimus asked with a growl, casting his disapproval before Cyprian, who stood staring out the windows that overlooked the garden. “What say you, solicitor?”
Caecilianus jumped in with an answer. “I’m certain Cyprian is grateful for your
concern, but he’s graciously agreed to this wedding as a means to a peaceful, legal resolution.”
“Is it true, then, my patronus?” Felicissimus’s outrage bore into Cyprian’s back, but he continued watching the slaves flutter about, lighting lamps and candles for the biggest night of his life. In the eyes of the one God he and Felicissimus may be equals, but in his house he did not have to explain his decisions to one of his clients. “You intend to marry the slave girl I found floating in a cistern?”
Cyprian could take no more of this badgering. “In less than ten minutes I’m placing a ring on the finger of a woman I hardly know. A woman whose crazy ways scramble every logical thought in my head. The very woman the Lord provided … through you, I might add.” He turned and faced Felicissimus. “Who are you to question from whence our blessing came?” Cyprian hooked his finger to loosen the neck of his wedding tunic, and still he found it difficult to breathe. “We all must work with what God has given us … even if that means working with—” Cyprian cut himself off, but he could see he was too late. His irritation had wounded Felicissimus. He put a hand to the little man’s shoulder. “Forgive me, friend. I know you have the best interests of the church at heart … as do I.”
“So the church must play charades while Aspasius gathers soldiers?” Felicissimus asked, his disapproval obvious. “It’s not how I’d run things.”
“If the one God were to ever appoint you bishop,” Caecilianus said, patting the slave trader’s shoulder, “then you can do as the one God commands you.”
41
DRESSED IN FULL WEDDING finery and feeling every bit the fairy-tale princess, Lisbeth sipped honeyed wine near the atrium fountain.
Ruth pulled her aside. “Before I fetch Junia, let me pray for you.”
After all this woman had done for her, Lisbeth could hardly say no. She bowed her head and thought of Queenie and the pleased grin that would split her churchgoing friend’s face if she could see her dressed for the red carpet and praying. She could almost hear Queenie’s hearty belly laugh. Lisbeth cracked open one eye. No Queenie. No hospital break room. Nothing familiar. Funny how her mind insisted on believing her old life waited for her to come home. Everyone had probably moved on without so much as one backward thought.
