Authors: Lynne Gentry
He stepped back. “And you have proof of his treachery?”
“Am
I
on trial now?” Lisbeth snapped. “No, I don’t have proof.”
“Then it’s your word against his.”
“Look, just because I never liked the guy doesn’t mean I’d lie about him. On the same day you sailed for exile, I saw Felicissimus sneaking out of Aspasius’s office.” She could see Cyprian processing, searching his memory for clues, signs of disloyalty he might have overlooked.
“Why would my friend betray me?”
She shook her head. “Why does anyone stick a knife in someone’s back? Money. Power. Revenge. Hurt feelings.”
Cyprian scowled. “Feelings?”
“Maybe you didn’t listen to his ideas, or perhaps he wanted to be in charge, or maybe he’s just a greedy son of a gun.”
“Gun?”
“Much nicer word than I was thinking.”
“When I came back, I was in no shape to take on the leadership of the church. I tried to dump the responsibility in his lap . . . and he refused. Explain that.”
“Caecilianus chose you. For Felicissimus to blatantly step in and take over now that you’re back from exile could ruffle a lot of feathers. He’s smarter than he lets on.”
“How could you forget what he did for you? He saved you from Aspasius. If Felicissimus hadn’t told me of your arrival on the slave block, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Lisbeth looked down. She was certain the backstabbing slave trader would carry through on his threats to harm Maggie if she said more. She hesitated for a moment, then boldly went on. “All I know is what this piece of paper says.” She swallowed. “The proconsul of Carthage is going to kill you, and I think someone on the inside is helping him.”
“Mommy!” Maggie pushed open the door. “Filly saved us.”
Felicissimus stood in the doorway.
He had one arm around Barek’s shoulders, another around her
daughter, and a very pleased smile crawling across his sleazy face.
42
O
VERNIGHT, SPRING MELTED INTO
summer. Sweltering temperatures matched Lisbeth and Cyprian’s steamy attitudes.
It didn’t help that hot air had pressed in from the desert and turned the villa into an oven and the sea into a boiling stewpot. The added patrols Rome had sent to quash the “dangerously unruly” Christians had become lethargic in the rising heat. Small patrols sought patches of shade and sat doing nothing while the stench of rotting bodies made it nearly impossible to breathe. It seemed the fly population had doubled since the sun came up. By sundown, their dirty little feet would speed the spread of typhoid across the city. Frightening as fighting two epidemics at once could be, it scared Lisbeth far more to see Cyprian dig in and refuse to believe he had a wolf in the flock.
She watched from the balcony as the harbor gates creaked open. The scarlet sails of the imperial fleet unfurled, and all seaworthy ships lifted anchor. Hundreds of oars slapped the water in a rhythmic cadence that could be heard throughout the city. The royal triremes resumed their patrols of Rome’s ever-expanding borders, and in less than an hour, the entire fleet had rowed out to sea.
If she could have been allowed to conduct a cursory inspection of each ship, Lisbeth was certain she would find measles and typhoid stowed away in the bodies of sailors with hacking coughs
or upset stomachs. They were too late to shut down the sea routes, and that meant two extremely contagious and deadly diseases would be carried by flies and ships to every nook and cranny of the empire.
Her gaze followed the ships disappearing into the horizon. With the change of the winds, it would be only weeks before Aspasius’s ship would return to the harbor without the man they’d been commissioned to retrieve from Curubis. Knowing the day of reckoning loomed near would have filled her with terror if she wasn’t certain that day had already come. Felicissimus had too much to gain not to have already alerted Aspasius to Cyprian’s current whereabouts.
Lisbeth stepped into the oppressive heat of the measles hall. Naomi waited nervously beside Mama for her first round of medical training. Lisbeth held out a small vial. “Douse your mask with lavender oil. It will help with the smell.”
She’d thrown herself into dealing with the two plagues, which was just as well because she was not making any headway with Cyprian. Since the slave trader had saved Cyprian’s children, he was now a hero. She suspected Felicissimus had somehow arranged the whole chase scenario through the Tophet so he could swoop in and save the day. Make himself look good in the eyes of Cyprian and the church. Cyprian had given her a look that said Maggie’s safe return was all the proof he needed of Felicissimus’s trustworthiness. So while Cyprian was thinking the guy deserved a medal, she couldn’t help but wonder what treachery Felicissimus planned next. Would he be like Judas and lead the soldiers to their door, then betray Cyprian with a kiss?
Urgent pounding rattled the front door. Low, hostile voices accompanied the scuffle of feet and the authoritative ring of soldered metal.
“I’ll get it,” Naomi offered. “You two stay out of sight.” Naomi
cracked the door. “We have the sickness.”
The soldiers pushed in, knocking Naomi to the floor. Lisbeth broke free of Mama’s death grip.
“Hey, buddy!” Lisbeth shouted, causing the brawny leader with the drawn sword to turn. Wiry red hair peeked from beneath his helmet. Spotty whiskers populated his jutting chin. He was really no more than an oversize boy sent to do a man’s job. Had the sickness reduced Rome’s military? “Didn’t you hear her? This house is filled with measles and typhoid.” Lisbeth stepped between the soldier and Naomi, her balled fists upon her hips in hopes of intimidating this boy with ambition written all over his face. “Breathe too long in here, and you’ll be begging for relief in a week.”
The soldier pointed the tip of his blade at Lisbeth’s throat while his worried eyes made a reconnaissance run over the premises. “Are you the healer?”
Her warning had his pimpled friends backing toward the door, but this young foot soldier appeared determined to earn his stripes. She’d have to rein in her galloping heart and work a bit harder to convince him to leave them alone. “Who wants to know?”
“Aspasius Paternus.”
Lisbeth gasped.
Mama boldly stepped out from behind a column. “I am the healer you seek.”
“No!” Lisbeth placed herself between Mama and the soldiers. “I’m the healer.”
Naomi came to stand side by side with them. “I’m the healer.”
Confusion sanded the young soldier’s bristled bravado. He moved the point of his sword from throat to throat. “We’ll take the old one.” He thrust the tip toward Mama. “Come with us.”
“I’ll need my medical bag and help packing it.” Mama inched
Lisbeth away. “Don’t cause a scene,” she whispered in English.
“No. You’ll come as you are.” The soldier reached for Mama. “Aspasius said you were a sly one.”
Mama calmly lifted her chin. “Young man, I can assure you the proconsul does not want me without my supplies. I’m assuming he’s not well and needs my healing potions, the ones I keep in my medical bag.”
The soldier weighed his options. “Stay within sight.”
“I just have to step into this room. You’re welcome to come, but I must warn you, the sick in this room suffer bloody runs for days and then their bodies convulse and give out.” Mama smiled at how quickly the soldier backed down. “Come, Lisbeth.”
They hurried into the hall where Vivia was spooning broth into an improving Diona’s mouth. “What’s wrong? I heard voices.”
“Aspasius has discovered my whereabouts.” Mama began gathering her surgical equipment. “If he’s contracted one of these plagues, Diona’s sickness was not a fluke. The plagues are officially moving out of the slums.”
“Titus,” Vivia roused her husband from his nap. “You must do something.”
“No.” Mama settled the man struggling to sit up. “There may come a day when I will need the influence of Titus Cicero to save my children. This is not that day.”
“When that day comes, he’ll be there.” Vivia kissed Mama’s cheek. “You can count on us.”
Lisbeth pulled Mama aside and whispered in English, “If you think I’m going to let those Roman thugs take you without a fight, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Plague is hardest on those who have lived soft lives. Aspasius will not do well. I, on the other hand, know hardship, and I am not afraid.”
Guilt prickled Lisbeth’s skin. If she’d somehow prevented
Mama from leaving their desert tent years ago, Mama wouldn’t have fallen down that blasted hole at the Cave of the Swimmers. Papa would have bagged a few archaeological trinkets, penned an award-winning journal article, and carted them off to a far less dangerous site. None of them would have ever discovered the life-changing secret of time travel. None of them would have suffered the heartbreak they all lived with now.
Shame on her if she allowed Mama to walk into danger again. “I’ll go.”
Mama dropped third-century operating tools into her bag, refusing to take the modern tools in case Lisbeth needed them. “Trust me. It’s best if I go quietly.”
“I promised Papa I’d bring you back to him. Don’t you want to go home?”
“Yes.” Mama stopped her packing and put down her bag. “Very much. But it seems my work here is not yet finished.” She took Lisbeth by the shoulders. “Sometimes all you need to be happy is to know that you matter enough that someone would come for you.” She cupped Lisbeth’s cheek. “And you did, baby. You already did.” A tear trickled across the scar carved by the cruel hand of a monster.
“Mama, I—”
“Don’t let
your
daughter grow up without her mother.” Mama wiped her face and hurriedly crammed tools into a cloth sack. “Promise you will
not
come after me again.”
43
S
ITTING BENEATH THE SHADE
of the pergola, Cyprian fingered the limp, worn edges of Caecilianus’s felt bishop’s hat. Last time he’d tried to encourage the church it had turned out to be a dismal failure. Perhaps he was foolish to think wearing his mentor’s head covering could help him replicate the wisdom it once capped. Cyprian set the conical hat upon his head. Until God sent a better candidate for bishop, he was it. He picked up his mentor’s favorite scroll and began to dictate his sermon to Pontius.
“Church, I, Caecilianus Cyprianus Thascius, come before you a humbled man.”
“Caecilianus?” Pontius looked up from his notes and smiled. “You’ve added his name to yours?”
“Have I done the right thing, Pontius?”
His friend’s suspended pen dripped upon the parchment. “The bishop’s name suits you. He and Ruth would be pleased.”
“I mean . . . should I have chosen the church?”
“Over Lisbeth?” Pontius freshened his pen in the ram’s horn inkwell. “Every man stands before the Lord alone. This is a matter for you and God to settle.”
Cyprian shoved the ache of his decision aside. “Ready your pen, my friend.”
Pacing the stone tiles, Cyprian waxed long on how the grace of God had illuminated and strengthened him in the early days of his
life as a new convert. He spoke freely of his difficulties conquering the vices of his former life . . . his enjoyment of bawdy theater shows, the hollowness of political aspirations, and the emptiness of his heart.
Emptiness of my heart.
Cyprian paused and turned the phrase over in his mind. “My happiest days were spent listening to Caecilianus tell the stories of the Galilean carpenter. Like the rest of those gathered, I couldn’t believe the injustices the son of God suffered.” He swallowed. “The day I decided to join this little band and do something to right the wrong was the day the emptiness vanished . . . I’d thought for good.”
He gazed at the sea. “But while I was in Curubis, separated from those of like conviction, it felt as if the Lord had deserted me. I was frightened. Not of the dreams, but of dying empty. I know Ruth was right to encourage me to once again cast my lot with the believers. It fills me with purpose to lead them, to serve alongside them in their sacrifice.” Cyprian rubbed his chin. “So why do I continue to question my decision to send Lisbeth home without me?”
Cyprian often wondered how different his life would have been had Lisbeth Hastings not appeared from a realm beyond his comprehension. He probably would have journeyed to the marbled halls of Rome in search of a woman positioned to help him win a seat in the council chambers. He never would have opened his home to the sick, let alone allowed himself to become quite so concerned for those under his roof. Caecilianus would not have died. And Cyprianus Thascius, the rich Roman convert, would never have been thrust into the uncomfortable position of marrying a widow who deserved more than he could give, choosing between the wife he adored and taking over a fledgling church.
In the end, had Lisbeth never left Dallas, he would have been a different person.
Cyprian stared at the ships rowing out to sea. Any day the dispatched naval vessel sent to fetch him from exile would return
empty-handed. Aspasius would tear this province apart searching for him. Innocent people were sure to die.
He’d been right in insisting that Lisbeth take their daughter to a safer place, hadn’t he? Knowing Aspasius would never be able to touch his wife again would make his choice an easier cross to bear. But was the easier path God’s path? What if God had a purpose for Lisbeth and Maggie in this time?
“Cyprian?” Pontius’s urgent plea snapped Cyprian from his useless ponderings.
He turned to see his deacon’s stylus pointing down the beach. Lisbeth sprinted toward the pergola, screaming his name.
“Something’s wrong.” Cyprian dropped his scroll and ran to her.
When they met, she buried her face in his shoulder. Heaving sobs garbled every word but one:
soldiers
.
“Do they have Maggie?” Heart pounding, he peeled her loose. “Tell me.”
Between gasps, she spit out, “Mama . . . Aspasius took Mama.” She wiped her nose and lifted her chin. “I need your help.”
For reasons he would never understand, just when he’d resigned himself to what he thought was God’s purpose for his life, God seemed to reattach his destiny to this woman. Neither his dreams nor her history pages had predicted the course-changing love that would result from this unimaginable collision.