by Lynne Gentry
When they arrived back at the villa, Felicissimus stood waiting, wringing his hands. “Oh, dear. Not my patronus. What can I do?”
“Stay out of my way.”
51
LAURENTIUS PACED THE LIBRARY Lisbeth had converted into a private ICU ward for Cyprian. Her brother had became so uncontrollable when they hauled Cyprian’s unconscious body into the villa she’d had to grant him limited access to his hero just so he could breathe. But without knowing the root cause of Cyprian’s refusal to wake up, Laurentius’s presence in the same room as her husband made Lisbeth very nervous.
Was Cyprian’s fever the result of some kind of infection from his near drowning, or had he not been immune to measles after all? Until the incubation period had passed, she preferred sending her little brother back to the palace. Not the best option, but she didn’t have the heart to lock him in the shed. At least in the dank, little underground cell the boy’s life would go back to his normal.
Laurentius plunked down beside her. “Don’t worry, Lithbutt. I’m praying.” He patted her hand, as if these simple words solved everything. “Thyprian will be okay.”
Her brother may be a bit out of sorts, but he was the only one in the household who’d not adopted Lisbeth’s pensive mood. Even the frequent appearances of Ruth and Barek at the library door were clouded with worry. If only she saw life as simply as her brother. For a brief instant she was envious of the comfort his unsinkable hope must have given Mama over the years.
Remembering how Mama used distraction to redirect Laurentius, Lisbeth kissed his chubby cheek and said, “Why don’t you draw Cyprian a picture?”
Smiling, he shot from the room and left her to fulfill her craving for a moment alone with Cyprian. She gently lifted one of her husband’s slack eyelids. The blank stare remained. “Please wake up, my love.”
Three days of stubbly growth darkened Cyprian’s slack jaw. She missed the way his smile pushed parenthetical lines on either side of his full lips. What would she do if he never regained consciousness? The twenty-first century has lost its appeal. The idea struck her hard, as if someone had shouted and slapped her at the same time. She sat up straight and glanced around the room.
Nothing had changed. The dogs still slept at her feet. A sea breeze was still drifting through the open balcony doors and ruffling abandoned parchments spread across the desk. She was still treating a critically ill patient with a wooden bowl of broth and a clay mug of strong tea. And yet, everything about this picture felt right. She was home. She belonged here in the ancient impracticality of the third century. She’d fallen in love with this man, his people, and his problems.
A firm hand came to rest upon Lisbeth’s shoulder. “Caecilianus? You shouldn’t be in here. Cyprian may have the virus.” She rose from the chair and tried to push him toward the door. “And measles are no respecter of social standing.”
“Nor am I.” The old bishop gently moved her aside. “I’ve come to pray.”
Determination twinkled beneath Caecilianus’s hooded eyelids. Lisbeth stood transfixed and unable to further protest. If she’d admired the bishop’s speaking skills from afar, up close she found the ready-to-take-action confidence of this grandfatherly man overwhelming. No wonder followers like Cyprian were so devoted.
Caecilianus withdrew a small vial from his tunic, poured a drop of golden liquid on his finger, then smeared it on Cyprian’s forehead. The bishop placed a large, gnarled hand over the shiny spot. “In the name of Jesus Christ, the Messiah, who rose from the grave on the third day, I command this spirit of sickness to leave this young man. Bring him peace, Father. Bring him rest. Bring him healing.”
The earthy fragrance of blessed olive oil reached Lisbeth’s nostrils and stirred impossible expectations. Foolish hopes similar to those who paced the hospital rooms of the dying. Holding her breath, she leaned forward, waiting and watching.
Another round of unintelligible delirium tumbled from Cyprian’s lips, and he began to convulse like a man with fever.
She placed her palm on his clammy forehead. No change. “Now what?” she asked, her disapproval far more obvious than she’d intended.
“We wait upon the Lord.”
Lisbeth crawled in next to Cyprian, twining her arms and legs around his in an attempt to calm him. But his excessive heat did little to warm the dread that chilled her to the core. Would he ever ask her to explain flying once again? Or insist that he go first when they approached danger? Or sleep contentedly after they made love? She waited for the click of the library door latch before she flooded her husband’s chest with tears of disappointment. She was going to lose him along with everything she’d come to love. His body slowly stilled, and Lisbeth couldn’t bring herself to move.
“I dreamed I’d lost you,” Cyprian’s parched voice rumbled beneath her ear.
She popped up on her elbow. “You’re alive!” Without taking the time to examine him, she threw her arms around his neck, laughing and crying at the same time. “It worked. The bishop’s prayers worked.”
“I didn’t lose you?”
“No.” Thinking he may not be as recovered as she thought, she sat up. She knew his lips, had watched the various changes in coloring during these frightening days, but she never dreamed how grateful a smile could make her feel. “I’m right where God wants me.”
“I love you.” He pulled her to him, and she was hopelessly lost.
52
AFTER THE INCUBATION PERIOD passed and Cyprian remained measles-free, Lisbeth declared him one lucky man. Cyprian claimed luck had nothing to do with his protection. God had spared him. Since Lisbeth had no better explanation for his escape from contracting the virus after his wrestling match with the man on the ship, she had to agree. God had given her her husband back, and she was going to cherish every moment.
Today was one of those moments. Caecilianus felt the church needed to gather. Many had lost loved ones to the fever. The old bishop thought the survivors needed encouragement and a strategy to cope with their losses going forward. Lisbeth had agreed, with a few stipulations. Only those who had survived the fever or had remained in her controlled quarantine were allowed to attend.
Without grousing, Lisbeth joined Cyprian and the cleared believers in the garden for worship. Miraculous recovery buzzed on everyone’s lips as they swarmed Cyprian like it was Old Home Week. The survivors had been so grateful for Lisbeth’s care that they willingly volunteered to help her nurse the new measles cases that arrived every day. In the process, these people had lost their suspicions of her, and she’d come to admire her brave new friends.
In the middle of Caecilianus’s prayer of thanksgiving, Felicissimus burst into the garden. “Rumor has it that Aspasius blames the Christians for the fire that destroyed his ship.”
Lisbeth and Cyprian exchanged nervous glances. Besides the paunchy slave trader, only Barek, Ruth, and Caecilianus knew about the ship. And they would never tell. Had the soldiers gotten a better look as they fled the scene that day than they had thought? Had Aspasius discovered their connection to the church?
Looking as sour-faced as ever, Felicissimus continued, “He promises to kill a priest every full moon until he has the one responsible.”
53
MAGDALENA RELIEVED TABARI OF the watering can and dismissed her from the daily task of cleaning bird cages. She wanted the atrium to herself while she confirmed her suspicions, because she hadn’t decided exactly what she’d do with the information once she had it.
The sound of someone tapping on a door down the hall caused Magdalena to glance in the direction of Aspasius’s office. Pytros, tablets in hand, stood ready to enter. He caught sight of Magdalena staring at him and cast a smug smile her way. Then, without further ado, he waltzed into the room and shut the door. What was that little weasel up to? Who else was in there?
She busied herself with the care of the birds for nearly an hour, but when she could no longer stand the suspense, she set aside the soiled parchment liners. E
ars and eyes on high alert, she padded down the hall and carefully placed her ear to the carved door.
“I’ve only found two.” The voice belonged to Felicissimus, the mystery man she’d seen scampering down the hall like the rat that he was.
“And where do you find these slaves?” Aspasius demanded.
“In the tenement cistern.”
A gut-punched gasp escaped Magdalena’s lips.
The cistern. Of course.
Lost details buried deep in her memory awakened with an electrifying intensity. Faded paintings on the sandstone cave wall flickered like a slideshow in her mind. She paused on the grainy picture of the family of potbellied swimmers with the scarlet child. Those tiny outstretched arms had reminded her of Lisbeth, the rag doll caught between her and Lawrence in a desperate tug-of-war on how they were going to live.
She remembered feeling responsible for her daughter’s happiness, and failing. She wanted to provide Lisbeth with the same wonderful life she’d had growing up. Proper schools, friends, museums, concerts, a house by the sea. Not a canvas tent in the middle of nowhere.
That night in the desert, when she’d stomped off, she wasn’t running away from their nomadic life as much as desperately running toward the hope of a normal, stable life. Seeing the family of swimmers on the wall that reminded her so much of what she hoped to have, she’d touched the scarlet child. A choice she would regret as long as she lived. A choice that could never be undone.
Falling through the hole must have somehow funneled her into one of those subterranean aquifers Lawrence believed crisscrossed the Sahara and emptied in Carthage.
Felicissimus said he’d found her at the tenement cisterns. The painting on the cave wall was the exact same painting she’d noticed on the cistern stones years ago. She’d seen the family of potbellied swimmers every time she fetched water to tend the sick. Why had she never connected the two? Unless subconsciously she knew that the guilt over how she was raising her daughter had propelled her into this world, and guilt for what would happen to her son had kept her from returning.
Adrenaline pumped through Magdalena’s limbs. She knew exactly where to find the portal Felicissimus had mentioned. She knew exactly what she must do to go home.
Magdalena bolted down the hall.
54
I’M NOT ABOUT TO let Aspasius keep me from doing my job.” Lisbeth had been arguing with Cyprian and Barek since breakfast, and she was making no headway. “I need those supplies.” She turned to Felicissimus, who sat quietly sipping a cup of tea. “Help me out here, Felicissimus. Tell him the streets are safe.”
The slave trader, whose daily visits had not only cheered Cyprian in his recovery but also kept him apprised of Aspasius’s plans, held up a grubby hand. “I’m just here to give a report on the latest slave shipments, not to referee a domestic dispute. Barek, you’d do well to follow my lead and keep your opinions to yourself.” He set the cup upon the library desk. “I’ll let myself out. Good to see you feeling better, my patronus.”
Cyprian clasped his hand. “Thank you, friend.”
Lisbeth wasn’t sad to see Felicissimus go. Unlike Cyprian, she didn’t trust the man. To her, his presence was like fingernails on a chalkboard, especially after that shameful stunt of trying to get the believers to leave town. Someday she’d tell Cyprian what a little rat his slave trader friend really was, but not until he regained his strength.
“Let me or Barek run your errand,” Cyprian offered once Felicissimus was out of earshot.
“You’re still convalescing.” Lisbeth crossed her arms. She’d underestimated the power of coupling prayer with the will to live, but he could still use a few more days of rest. Especially if the reports were true and Aspasius had put a price on her husband’s head. “And Barek wouldn’t know a eucalyptus leaf from a mustard seed. Would you, boy?” Barek gave her the fish eye. “I didn’t think so.” A kiss to Cyprian’s cheek let him know that she hadn’t totally dismissed his concerns. She didn’t want to worry him, but drastic times called for drastic measures. “Ruth and I will be quick and discreet.”
“At least take Barek with you.”
Lisbeth gave a resigned sigh. “If it will help you sleep better.” Barek puffed like a peacock, then smugly marched from the library to fetch his mother. “Maybe taking him along will ease the animosity he has toward me.” Lisbeth kissed Cyprian properly, allowing her lips to linger on his with a whispered promise of more when she returned home.
“No heroics.” Cyprian held her a minute more. “Promise.”
“Straight to the herbalist and back. I promise.”
Ruth and Lisbeth donned their cloaks. Barek leading the way, they set off to restock their empty herb baskets. The streets were eerily quiet. For some unknown reason patrons and shopkeepers had taken their midday siesta several hours early.
They trudged on toward the marketplace in silence. None of them admitted the uneasiness drawing their muscles taut as a bowstring, but each of them took turns glancing over their shoulders. Every ounce of wit and cunning would be needed if they encountered patrols. As they neared an intersection obscured by a tall building, yelling and sounds of a scuffle met their ears.
“Trouble.” Barek halted Lisbeth and Ruth with his outstretched arms, acting far more grown-up and brave than his wide-eyed stare suggested. “Stay behind me.”
Barek peeked around the corner. Before he could draw Cyprian’s borrowed dagger, soldiers ambushed them from behind. The impulse to save herself thrummed through Lisbeth’s veins. She turned and saw that the soldier corral had circled around them. Lisbeth’s nose stung with the sharp smell of sweat, spilled beer, and desperation.
Guards snarled at them. “Bow to the gods of Rome.”
“We will not,” Ruth said with lifted chin.
“Bow or suffer the consequences.” Swords drawn, they shouted accusations of treason and promises of death in the arena.
Barek finally freed the dagger. “Stand down.”
Laughing, the soldiers continued to close in with a uniform precision.
Ruth screeched, “Run, Barek!” In a flash, a brawny soldier clamped on to her and hurled her to the pavement. Ruth’s head hit with a thump. Her body jerked for a second, then did not move again.
“Mother!” Barek broke free of the two patrols binding him. He lowered his head and rammed his curls into the armored belly of the soldier who’d discarded Ruth. “I’ll kill you.” Their bodies fell in a writhing heap upon the cobblestones. Barek swung his fists, pounding the soldier’s face with the fury of a boy set on vindication for the beating he’d taken at their hands. Blood spurted everywhere.
“Ruth!” Lisbeth called, but her friend did not respond. Lisbeth followed Barek’s leading and sank her teeth into the hand of the soldier cuffing her wrist. The big lout released her with a howl. She lunged across the pavement, pulled Barek free, and screamed, “Run!” The shocked boy could only stare, blood dripping from his hands. “Now!” she commanded.
As the soldiers pounced on her, Lisbeth saw Barek sprint from the chaos and disappear into a darkened alley.
55
IT’S NOT FAIR.” BAREK retched into the crock Caecilianus held before him for the second time. Both dogs stood guard next to the lad as if they understood his pain. “They set us up. A trap for believers. Lambs led to slaughter.”
“No, it is not fair.” The old bishop comforted his son who so wanted to be a man. Why he wasn’t pressing the boy for more details had Cyprian on the verge of exploding. “But it’s not your fault. This is a fallen world.”
Cyprian could stand the platitudes no longer. “Where have they taken them?”
“I don’t know.” Barek trickled out the rest of the story in painful, mortified gasps. “When I circled back, Mother and Lisbeth were being carted off in chains. Mother is alive. Injured badly, but alive.”
Cyprian loaded his belt and cloak with every weapon he could find. “I’m going after them.”
Someone hammered t
he front door, and both dogs sprang at the wood in a snarling frenzy.
“Soldiers.” Barek spat the word in a hiccupped sob, fear flashing in his wide eyes. “They’ve come for us, too.”
Cyprian gestured for silence, and the dogs receded with a low, ready-to-attack growl. Caecilianus folded Barek to his chest. Dagger drawn, Cyprian proceeded to the door and yanked it open.
Magdalena rushed past. “I know the way back. I’ve found the por—” She slid to a stop and spun around in the atrium. The smile, along with any good news she might have carried, melted from her face. “What’s happened?” The distraught state of the men registered in an instant. “Where’s my daughter?”
Barek was the first to speak, his cheeks hot with shame. “Arrested.”
“Nooooo!” Magdalena’s scream set the dogs to howling.
“Mama?” Laurentius shouted from the library. “Tholdiers have our Lithbutt.”
Magdalena threw her arms open. “Come.”
Laurentius hesitated, considering whether to break the quarantine rules Lisbeth had so carefully taught him, but in the end he couldn’t stand everyone being on the other side of the line and ran to his mother. “Where are we going?”
“To bring your sister home,” Magdalena declared.
“I’m coming with you.” Cyprian linked his arm with hers.
Barek swiped his chin. “Me, too.”
“No.” Caecilianus put himself between them and the door, the dogs flanking him on either side. “It is the priests they want. Kill us, and they kill the rebellion.”
“What are you saying?” Cyprian asked.
“A priest is all we have to offer in exchange for the women’s freedom.”
“Father, no!” Barek flung himself at his father’s feet. “I can’t lose you, too.”
“Caecilianus, you can’t … the believers need you,” Cyprian pleaded. “Your son needs you. Let me offer money. Aspasius won’t turn down an opportunity to gorge his coffers.”
