Authors: Lynne Gentry
That just left eradicating this plague and taking Mama and Laurentius home. Okay, maybe an eradication plan was too grandiose when comparing her limited vaccination supply with the destruction she’d seen. But she wasn’t ready to concede that the virus may have multiplied beyond her ability to implement focused surveillance and mandatory quarantine. She could also increase survival rates by improving supportive care. The good thing about measles, if
there was a good thing, was that survivors gained lifetime immunity. The faster she could reduce the number of viable hosts, the faster the virus would flame out. Lessening the plague duration would save many lives in the third century and eliminate heartaches for future centuries. She could only pray that her efforts this time around would somehow make up for having left these people the first time.
She’d vaccinate whoever she could and get the hospital going again; then she’d gather Mama and Laurentius and shake the dust of Carthage from her shoes forever.
“I brought medicine.” Lisbeth adjusted the weight of the backpack. “I guess I should go check on Maggie, then get started on the reason I came.”
“Maggie” slipped from Cyprian’s lips. “After your mother.” In her dreams, Lisbeth had heard him say their daughter’s name many times. But never in a million years could she have predicted how the actual sound of his approval would tug at her heart. He smiled and whispered “Maggie” again. “Perfect.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and gave a slight nod. “The best work either of us will ever do.”
He took a step toward her, his quick breaths forming heavy clouds in the night air. “She’s a masterpiece.”
Lisbeth stepped toward him, drawn until her breath mingled with his. “The best of you and the best of me.”
Had he touched Ruth in the same places he’d touched her? Sent her soaring into the blissful worlds they’d promised to share with no one else? Lisbeth blinked away hot tears. Of course he had. A person didn’t have to be a doctor to know how Ruth’s child took up residence in her womb.
He reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “A beautiful legacy I do not deserve.” His fingers traced the outline of her jaw, and she felt her flesh melting into his.
She pulled away before the fire consumed her. “No, you don’t.”
15
S
TARING INTO THE EYES
of Lisbeth had been like looking at a ghost. It wasn’t until he held her, until he felt the heat of her flesh and tasted the sweet tang of her lips, that he knew his dream had come true. His love had returned to him, complete with his exquisite child in tow. He’d give anything to take back the hurt he’d seen in Lisbeth’s eyes when she realized he’d given up on her and married Ruth.
Two wives
.
Impossibly complicated. Truth was he could more easily sort this mess than keep either of them safe. If he could not unseat Aspasius before he discovered that Lisbeth was within easy reach, the proconsul would unleash his full wrath. He would haul Cyprian into the arena to face certain death. Both Ruth and Lisbeth would become grieving widows.
Difficult as these new developments seemed, it was the good-bye in Lisbeth’s voice twisting his gut. Their discussion had ended with Lisbeth saying she would leave the medicine she’d brought to stop the plague. Then she’d take their daughter and her mother and brother back to Texas.
Texas.
How far away was Texas? Was Lisbeth’s strange world far enough away to keep her and Maggie safe? “Maggie.” The name felt
foreign in his mouth. An acquired taste he could quickly come to love.
The sound of scuffling feet right outside the gate drew Cyprian back to his unsettled present. Soldiers of Aspasius? Coming for him?
He quickly doused the lamp and listened. Voices, thin and anxious, argued outside his walls. He eased toward the commotion.
A desperate rap, rap, rap rattled the gate hinges.
“Hello,” a raspy, male voice whispered. “Anyone home?”
Cyprian peeked through a chink in the wall. Two hooded forms labored to support a third stretched out between them. More sick. He was in no mood for more surprises or doling out more charity. “We’ve retired for the night.”
“We need help,” the man insisted. “I can pay.”
In his absence, Ruth had continued offering the hospital care Lisbeth had started. This might please Lisbeth. It wouldn’t lessen her hurt to know the demand had grown so great Ruth and Magdalena could barely keep up with the constant stream of poor seeking help. Ruth insisted that the comings and goings of plebs shouldn’t worry him. He argued that increased foot traffic also increased the risk of Aspasius learning of his return. She felt certain the destitute wouldn’t out the man who’d given them shelter when no one else cared. And even if word of his return spread outside the tenements, patricians rarely put much stock in the words of plebs.
But this man offering payment for medical services was obviously not the average plebeian beggar.
Cyprian listened to the desperate groans of the visitors struggling with their load on the other side of his gate. The numbness caused by Lisbeth’s return quickly reorganized into alarm. Lisbeth’s presence had put them all at risk. If he granted entrance to
someone of means, Aspasius would surely discover her whereabouts. As much as the proconsul wanted Cyprian . . . he wanted Lisbeth more.
Cyprian plastered his cheek against the chink. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Cyprian,” the man said, loud enough to rouse the neighbor’s dogs, “I’ll report you to Aspasius.”
He couldn’t place the voice, but Cyprian recognized the razor-sharp edge of patrician condescension when he heard it. Ruth had been wrong about the influence of the plebs. If word of his return had already climbed this far up the social ladder, it was only a matter of time before the news reached the top rung.
He’d misjudged the power of gossip as surely as he had misjudged Lisbeth’s love and loyalty. His wife had returned on her own volition and at her own peril. No one held a knife to her throat. Lisbeth hadn’t given the reasons for her return, but the threat to her life had precipitated Magdalena’s need to send her home. And yet here she was. Bolder and more beautiful than he remembered.
For certain, Aspasius would take Lisbeth should he discover her living under Cyprian’s roof. When that day came, how could he protect her?
“Let us in, man. Please.”
Cyprian shoved his fear aside, undid the latch, and opened the gate. Two people stumbled in, nearly dropping their load. The man supported the arms of a limp girl. The woman carried the girl’s feet.
“Titus?” In the moonlight, Cyprian could tell that the second-wealthiest man in Carthage had come begging at his door.
“Our driver refused to bring us,” the man huffed. “We’ve had to carry our daughter all the way up your hill.”
“You brought Diona here?” He remembered the spoiled waif
from a brief encounter at her home a few weeks before everything had turned upside down. “Why?”
“She has slum sickness.” Titus’s back bowed at the deadweight of his burden. “One of our slaves told us you have a healer.”
Cyprian’s mind raced back to the day he had stood before the Senate begging for the life of his wife. Titus Cicero had remained silent when Cyprian needed help from a longtime family friend and received none. The land baron’s vote of exile should not have surprised him.
Titus had blamed him for Diona’s embarrassment at their broken engagement. But Cyprian had not been the one to call it off. It was Titus who’d believed the rumors of Aspasius and set out to ruin Cyprian’s political career.
No. Titus Cicero was not on his list of loyal senators he hoped to rally against Aspasius. Nor was he on the list of people he intended to befriend. “You know how untrustworthy a rumor can be, Titus.”
“I obviously received false information concerning your health, Cyprian.”
“You believed lies.”
“I’m sorry. I know I have no right to ask for your help.” Titus shifted his weight, barely able to keep Diona’s damp, unbound hair from dragging on the pavers. “My daughter’s been feeling poorly for more than a week.”
“We’d been very careful to keep her away from the sickness,” his wife, Vivia, explained. “But just to be safe, we decided to risk losing our city properties to the hands of Aspasius and leave town.” Vivia’s shoulders sagged under the weight of lifting anything heavier than a ruby ring. “Before we could set out for our mountain villa, Diona doubled over in pain. Now she’s burning with fever and mumbling things we can’t understand.”
“Please,” Titus begged. “In the name of your god, help us.”
“Where are
your
gods?”
“I’ve done all the temple priests have asked, and still my gods do not answer me.”
“Nor will they.” With this declaration, Cyprian felt a sudden surge of . . . he wasn’t sure what. Conviction seemed too strong a word, but he had no other name for the swelling in his chest.
“Then will your Christian friends help us?”
Cyprian surveyed the face of the delirious young woman. Sweat beads glistened on Diona’s forehead. Skin, once velvety as a lamb’s ear, hung loosely from her aristocratic features. Her plump, rosy cheeks had turned sallow and sunken. Her snowy blond curls were a matted tangle unbefitting a self-respecting lady of her standing.
He wouldn’t wish her condition on any man—save Aspasius Paternus, the tool of Satan who’d manipulated Titus Cicero into becoming an enemy.
Cyprian closed the gate. “Come.” He took hold of Diona’s ankles and relieved her mother. “But no one must know.”
16
L
ISBETH LEFT CYPRIAN STEWING
in the havoc of his hasty remarriage. Searing tingles radiated from the shock to her system. Her husband had married another woman. How could she explain to Maggie what she didn’t understand herself? She took a few breaths, pressed her hand to the throb at her temple, and stepped inside the villa.
The atrium was lit by two wall torches. Simmering eucalyptus and the fevered stench of measles combined into a nauseating aroma similar to wet chicken feathers. Add another surprise to the list of things she never expected in the third century: Ruth had kept the hospital going.
Multiple rows of woven sleeping mats lined the great hall. Most were equipped with the vaporizer tents Lisbeth had designed on her first foray into the third century. She remembered the long days she and Ruth had spent converting Cyprian’s home into a makeshift hospital ward. Difficult, rewarding work that had forged a bond beyond friendship. Until today, she’d thought Ruth felt the same way.
Lisbeth bent beside the nearest vapor pot and lightly touched the side. Temperature perfect. She hadn’t really expected Ruth to continue offering supportive care after Cyprian went into exile and Aspasius sequestered her and Mama in his palace. From the orga
nized precision of added vaporizer tents and steaming water pots, Ruth had taken over Lisbeth’s hospital as skillfully as she had taken over Lisbeth’s house and husband.
Maggie’s laughter floated from the kitchen. Ruth was not getting her daughter, too. Lisbeth set off for the back side of the house. She pushed open the kitchen door unnoticed.
Laughter galloped from the table where Maggie, Laurentius, and Junia had their heads pressed together over pieces of parchment.
Mama perched on a nearby stool, enjoying every minute of the touching reunion. Barek leaned against the wall, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed belligerently over his chest. Obviously he wasn’t any happier about this than she. For once, she felt an affinity with the teen. Naomi stoked the oven fire, cutting her eyes at Barek like a lovesick schoolgirl who thought no one was looking.
Ruth stood on the other side of the table, her head bent in concentration on her task. Her long, slender fingers split open the violet skins of fresh figs with the same grace and enthusiasm she had poured into Lisbeth and Cyprian’s wedding day six years ago. From Lisbeth’s custom-designed dress to the exquisite table decorations, every detail had been executed with Ruth’s unmatched perfection.
“Here, Maggie. Try this.” Ruth held out a section with the amber jelly of the fruit exposed.
“Yum.” Juice dripped from the corner of Maggie’s lips as she stared at Ruth with undeniable admiration, like she was looking at a Disney princess or something.
Lisbeth remembered when she’d first met Ruth a lifetime ago and thought her far too elegant, well-spoken, and witty for the grandfatherly Caecilianus. But never had she considered her old friend the mesmerizing vision she was now, peeling figs in the glow of yellow lamplight.
Ruth’s thick braid shimmered with golden highlights women
in Dallas mortgaged their houses to acquire. The usual black line of kohl was missing from above Ruth’s thick lashes. Despite her pregnancy, she’d lost so much weight that a pale, loose sheath of skin revealed her cheekbones, yet her eyes sparkled with the intoxicating contentment of an expectant mother. A playful smile tugged her perfect pink lips as she watched the children enjoying each other. No wonder Cyprian had fallen in love. Ruth was an angel.
Lisbeth worked to smooth the kinks the wild waterslide ride had left in her mane. “What have we here?”
Junia threw down her stylus and ran across the kitchen. “Lisbeth!”
The malnourished orphan had grown a couple of inches, and her missing teeth had come in perfectly straight. And from the twinkle in her eyes, this victim of so many tragedies had found healing. No doubt Ruth deserved the credit for the healthy girl standing before her now. Lisbeth’s blood boiled.
“Lithbutt!” Laurentius jumped up and joined in the giving of big hugs. “You’re home.” Laurentius, only six years younger than Lisbeth, buried his head in her shoulder like a three-year-old. Her half brother had aged, but thankfully his childlike mind meant he would never have to deal with adult heartaches. “Thyprian came home. Ruth thaid if we prayed my whole family would come home . . . and they did!”
“Look, Mommy.” Maggie held up a scrap of paper. “Larry is teaching me to draw mice.”
“Larry?” Lisbeth released her half brother, giving him a closer examination. His almond-shaped eyes were watery, and he’d lost a few pounds, but not his endearing, saw-toothed smile. “My brother’s name is Laurentius, Maggie.”