Authors: Lynne Gentry
“Bacteria?” Naomi asked.
“Another kind of sickness,” Mama patiently explained.
“How will we know the difference?” Barek asked.
“Smell.” Lisbeth kept her eyes off Cyprian and the tender way he wrapped the shivering Ruth in his cloak. “Typhoid patients have an infection in their intestinal tracts that produces a yeasty, baking-bread odor on their breath and skin.” She let that disgusting detail sink in before moving on with the worst. “They also tend to have a white coating on their tongues, severe abdominal pains, and a soupy diarrhea.”
Ruth didn’t even flinch. “Can we touch them?”
“Not a good idea,” Mama said.
“You should have let me kill them when I had the chance. Patricians are nothing but trouble,” Barek said.
Ruth placed her hand on Barek’s arm. “Son, please. That’s not helping.”
“These bacteria thrive in water,” Lisbeth continued. “Eating or drinking anything contaminated could be fatal. Sweat, urine, wet cough, blood . . . coming into contact with any excreted bodily fluids is extremely dangerous.”
“Then how are we going to care for these people?” Ruth asked.
“I’ve started Diona on a pretty strong antibiotic. We’ll have to move things around and create a quarantine ward in one hall and a measles ward in the other. After we get everything settled, it will be important to keep her hydrated. We’ll add some herbal remedies. Cool drinks of boiled cloves and honey, some dried echinacea flowers steeped like a tea, and mixtures of boiled pomegranate
skins and raisins. Once she’s able to hold down fluids, we’ll introduce some carrot soup laced with crushed peppercorns and eventually get her back on solids.” When Lisbeth realized she’d flown through her list, she paused to give everyone time to catch up. “Ruth, how are our herbal supplies?”
“I think we’ve got enough to get started.”
“Good.” Lisbeth passed out latex gloves. “These will protect your hands. I could only bring a couple of boxes, so use them sparingly. Unless you’re working with the Cicero family . . . then double-glove.” She demonstrated the proper technique for removing contaminated gloves, then stowed the box inside her bag. “All soiled linens must be burned. All drinking water, boiled.
“To eliminate flies, we’ll toss sawdust or ashes down the latrines after every use, and we’ll bury Diona’s waste far from any water source.” Lisbeth thought of all the flies crawling over the meat in the market. This thing could spread fast. She swallowed hard. “We need to spread the word through the tenements . . . no more tossing the contents of any chamber pots onto the streets. And most important of all, every one of you will wash your hands with soap and hot water, even if you wore gloves. No exceptions. Are we clear?”
Everyone nodded.
“What can I do?” Cyprian asked.
“Gather the church,” Lisbeth said. “Anyone who’s immune to measles. We are going to need a lot of help.”
20
“F
ORGIVE ME, RUTH.” CYPRIAN
slung his wet tunic into a basket. “My return has brought destruction upon your head. First, the threat of Aspasius. Then the ill-mannered Titus Cicero. And now another plague.”
“Lisbeth’s right.” Ruth handed him a towel. “We are going to need the help of the church.”
He could see that the task at hand was greater than the smattering of healthy people left on his estate could manage. At the same time, he could also recall the disgusted faces of the weary believers who’d risked their lives to meet in his garden for a bit of encouragement a few months ago. When they’d learned Ruth had chosen him as their spiritual leader, they’d made their positions quite clear. They were unwilling to follow a man they believed to be a coward and a traitor.
Sending him to gather the church would be a catastrophe.
Of course, when Lisbeth asked this of him, there was no way she could have known of his earlier failing. He should have told her the truth the moment she asked. But when her tired eyes sought him for help, his lips had remained sealed. She still thought him the brazen noble who’d boldly stood before a roomful of senators and declared himself the new bishop of the Lord’s church. If only he was that man.
So much had changed during their exiles. Much more than a child he never knew about and a marriage Lisbeth never expected. It was something deep within him that he wanted desperately to change back.
Cyprian scrubbed his dripping head. “I should not have allowed Titus Cicero to set foot into my home. Not after what he did to us.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“Then why is every good I do rewarded with evil?”
Ruth placed her hand upon her stomach and smiled. “Not everything.”
“You know I didn’t mean . . .”
“No one is expecting you to be perfect.” She paused. “No one except you.”
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Promise me you’ll stay out of the typhoid hall while I’m gone.”
“If you’ll promise me that you will take Felicissimus with you.”
“Then you agree he should lead the church?”
She silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Just in case you run into trouble.”
“You mean in case no one will follow me.”
21
T
HE COLD, SOUR FEELING
in Lisbeth’s belly had nothing to do with typhoid.
Lisbeth had seen them together . . . Cyprian and Ruth . . . when she went to the cottage to ask if Maggie could stay there. Out of harm’s way. They were hunched over a scroll spread across the low dining table. Their shoulders touching. Their faces intent upon the Scriptures. They were a team, an intricate relationship bound by more than vows spoken before a priest. Cyprian and Ruth’s shared understanding of what was at stake and comfortable familiarity with the same time period required no long explanations. No raised brows. No fights.
The weight of Lisbeth’s loneliness bore down heavily on her steps. No matter how much she’d hoped Maggie would bridge the gap, she and Cyprian would never be so united. They were two different people who saw the world from two different vantage points.
His eyes looked ahead.
Hers always looked behind.
The twenty-twenty hindsight was killing her. The thought of him dying such a horrendous, senseless death made her blood curdle. History didn’t have to follow the course written in some musty old books. If she thought Cyprian would choose her, she would
beg him to come back with her to her time. But he was far too noble to desert his pregnant wife, and to tell the truth, she loved him all the more for it. At the very least, perhaps she could persuade him to take Ruth and Barek and flee Carthage until this turmoil settled. Anything rather than face Aspasius. Her heart would remain forever broken, but at least Cyprian would have a shot at a future.
“Mommy?” Maggie tugged on Lisbeth’s sleeve, pulling her back to the task of getting Maggie to safety. “I don’t know how to flush.” She pinched her nose and peered into a small oblong hole carved into the marble latrine.
“You don’t flush.” Lisbeth shoveled ash into the hole. “You just go, toss in a little of this, and leave it.”
Maggie scowled at the idea of letting things lie where they fell. She reached for the long stick with a sponge tied on the end resting in a communal bucket of salt water.
“No!” Lisbeth grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch that filthy thing.”
“But Junia says that’s how you wipe in Carthage.” She pointed at her new friend washing her hands at the basin. “Right, Junia?”
Lisbeth ripped the hem from her tunic. “Not now. Not ever for you. Or you either, Junia.”
This world had so many different mediums for passing typhoid and other assorted diseases. Keeping Maggie safe required full-time attention, which, thankfully, Ruth had agreed to provide. She hated being indebted to Ruth, especially since they hadn’t been able to sit down and work things out, but for now she didn’t have a choice.
Lisbeth instructed Maggie to join Junia at the bowl of freshly boiled water cooling on the counter.
Maggie moved her hand through the diminishing steam. “It’s too hot.”
Lisbeth stuck her hand in to test. It wouldn’t burn. “I’m sorry, baby, but it has to be a little warmer than you’re used to in order to kill the germs. Stick your hands in and out as quickly as you can.”
“Watch me.” Junia plunged her hands into the bowl, then held them up for Maggie’s inspection. “See? Not even pink.”
Maggie examined Junia’s hands. “It didn’t hurt?”
“Not if you do it fast.”
Maggie closed her eyes and cautiously slipped her hands beneath the water. She scrunched her face, swished her hands for less than a second, then yanked them out. Her eyes flew open, and a big smile lit her face. “I did it, too.”
Lisbeth kissed her forehead. “You are becoming such a brave girl.”
“Not all the time.” Maggie dried her palms on her tunic. “I’m scared to live with my daddy. He doesn’t know me.”
“Not yet. But he already loves you.”
“Why do I have to move into the cottage?”
“I told you why.” Lisbeth herded Maggie and Junia out the door. “There’s a really sick girl in this house, and I don’t want you and Junia catching the bug she has.”
“But you said all those mean shots Queenie gave me would keep away bugs.”
“Unfortunately, vaccinations are not always a hundred percent effective. I’m not taking any chances. Besides, aren’t you the girl who asked for a daddy for Christmas?”
“And a doll.”
“Maggie.”
She sighed. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Baby, that’s not true.”
“He likes me.” Junia skipped ahead. “He’ll like you.”
Maggie flashed Lisbeth a doubtful look.
In all fairness, Cyprian had a lot on his mind. His first wife’s
unexpected return. An evil man hunting him down. A new health crisis. Plus, having to navigate fatherhood in two different centuries.
“If there’s anything I know about your daddy, it’s this: Cyprianus Thascius will do anything in the world for you.”
“But will he love me?”
“Baby”—Lisbeth knocked on the cottage door—“he already does.”
Ruth answered. Her normally sunny smile graced her tired face, and from what Lisbeth could tell, her joy at being able to take Maggie in was genuine. “Here you are.”
Junia flung her arms around Ruth’s thickened middle for a quick hug, then marched on in.
“Maggie?” Ruth peered around Lisbeth. “I’ve made some sweets.”
Maggie pressed a stack of parchment to her chest and scooted closer to Lisbeth.
“Baby, you need to go in.”
Maggie shook her head.
Ruth offered her hand. “Barek and I have rearranged and made a pallet for you next to your uncle Laurentius.”
“Maggie!” Lisbeth’s half brother sat cross-legged on a small mat. “You brought paper?” A crooked smile split his face. He waved her over. “Leth draw.”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t want to draw mice.”
Laurentius nodded and patted the mat. “Okay.”
“We can play doctor or house,” Junia offered.
Maggie only had to consider the offer for a second. “’Bye, Mommy.” She dropped Lisbeth’s hand and went in without looking back.
Papa would pop the buttons on his chambray shirt if he could see how independent and brave Maggie had become. Lisbeth, on
the other hand, would love to have her father’s bony shoulder to lean on right now, to reassure her that letting go of the person she loved the most was a good thing.
“Where’s Cyprian?” Lisbeth asked Ruth. “I’d hoped he’d be here to help his daughter settle in.”
“He and Felicissimus are rounding up the church.”
“Felicissimus?”
Lisbeth hadn’t seen the sleazy little slave trader since her return. She’d just assumed he’d taken his two-timing, deceitful self and either left town or publicly joined forces with Aspasius. It hadn’t occurred to her that he would dare to hang around the very man he’d betrayed. What was he? Some kind of vulture waiting for his chance to pick at the bones of the church? But, when she thought about it, he really wasn’t risking much to stick around. When Mama pushed her back into the twenty-first century, Lisbeth had taken the truth of what she’d seen in Aspasius’s palace with her. With Cyprian out of the way and Lisbeth reported as dead, Felicissimus must have felt it safe to swoop in and take what he’d wanted all along. In the chaos of her return she hadn’t thought to mention Felicissimus to anyone.
She started to tell Ruth what she knew about the little traitor, but she caught a glimpse of Maggie eyeing her, waiting to see if she and Ruth would get into it again. Her daughter had enough uncertainty to deal with; she didn’t need controversy.
Now was the time to make peace, gain allies; for when the time came to deal with Felicissimus, she would need a friend she could count on, someone who would back her insistence that the little snake not be allowed anywhere near Cyprian or his family. “Ruth, about Cyprian. I’m sure we can work something out so that he doesn’t—”
Ruth laid a finger across Lisbeth’s trembling lips. “We both love him.”
“Ruth, I—”
“Two are always better than one”—she squeezed Lisbeth’s hand—“for when one falls down, there’s a friend to help them up.” She smiled. “We’ll sort this out. Together.”
How could they possibly sort this out? Cyprian had two wives. One of them would have to go, and Lisbeth knew she was the logical choice. She glanced past Ruth. Maggie lay sprawled on her belly between Junia and Laurentius demonstrating the proper way to draw a family. A mom. A dad. And, in the middle, a child. Taking Maggie away from her father would crush her dreams. Staying and watching Cyprian love another woman would break Lisbeth’s heart.
“Sorting this out may be easier said than done, Ruth.”
22
C
YPRIAN WRAPPED A CLOTH
around his face and then stuffed his hands into the tight blue gloves Lisbeth had demonstrated to the workers he’d gathered. The air in the villa crackled with excitement rather than the fear he’d expected from such a dangerous task. All around him, people hurried. Clearing the hall of measles victims, toting heavy pots of hot water, scrubbing walls and floors, comforting those too ill to help, or carrying food to the sick. Even Quinta, the forty-year-old grandmother who’d taken over the care of her grandson after she lost her daughter and son-in-law, had strapped the infant to her back, rolled up her sleeves, and started washing dishes.