Authors: Lynne Gentry
Light from the Little Mermaid lamp next to Maggie’s twin-size bed cast a blue glow over the Mediterranean wall mural Lisbeth had commissioned when she finally finished her fellowship and got a real paying job. Even with her increased income, hiring an artist was a splurge on a hospitalist’s salary. But Maggie loved art. The other three walls of her room were covered with her watercolors and sketches of animals. Living in an apartment didn’t mean they couldn’t put down roots.
Lisbeth thought about Papa’s earlier words. The truth was she really wasn’t afraid of hauling Maggie around the world, but she also believed her daughter deserved a normal life . . . if a child conceived from a cross-temporal marriage could ever be considered normal.
Maggie’s pale legs were sprawled atop the covers, her latest crayon creation clutched in her hand. Lisbeth resisted the urge to cover her. Instead she bent and removed the drawing of a reindeer, then lifted a strand of hair stuck to Maggie’s angelic face. Her daughter had inherited silky blond tresses, blue eyes, and a perfect forehead from her aristocratic father. Her claustrophobia, unfortunately, had come directly from her mother’s genes. No matter what they tried, Maggie refused anything that could possibly pin her arms and legs down. Lisbeth found it easier to wait until her daughter was sound asleep before attempting a proper tucking in.
Even then, she proceeded with caution. She was certain Maggie had some sort of built-in sensor capable of detecting confinement . . . the very reason Lisbeth could never take her down that tight time portal shaft.
Lisbeth kicked off her shoes and freed the blanket from beneath Maggie’s legs. She slid in next to the perfect little body, careful not to crowd her.
Maggie roused. “Mommy?” Her hand found Lisbeth’s face. “Is he here?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“Who, baby?”
“My daddy.” Her solid expectation was a balled fist to Lisbeth’s stomach.
Lisbeth brought Maggie’s hand to her lips. Cinnamon tainted her fingers. Fighting tears, Lisbeth kissed each chubby digit. “Not yet, baby.”
“Santa will bring him, right?”
Maggie’s vaccinations would fend off measles, but Lisbeth knew for certain the shot had not been invented that would protect her daughter from a broken heart. Inhaling the scent of tear-free shampoo, Lisbeth wished she could seal her baby inside a sterile bubble. A place where nothing bad ever happened to children or their mothers. A place where little girls didn’t wish for parents who couldn’t or wouldn’t return. A place where families were never separated. No such place existed. Past or present.
Lisbeth pulled Maggie close. Her tiny, fist-sized heart beat steadily beneath her thin gown. Lisbeth held her breath waiting for her daughter to launch her usual struggle for freedom. When she didn’t, Lisbeth drew her closer. Maybe Papa was right. It wasn’t Maggie she was protecting, but herself. She’d crack if she couldn’t hang on to the reason she’d given up both her mother and the love of her life to stay in the twenty-first century.
Any explanation she could offer for Santa’s inability to bring
Maggie’s daddy from his world and put him under their tree would break Maggie’s tender heart. What kind of a mother gives her kid heartache for Christmas? But Maggie was a smart kid. Perhaps the time
had
come to start working through Maggie’s need for a father. She could tell her a little about him and save the rest of the impossibly-difficult-to-believe story for when she was older.
“Daddy lives far away. If he could, I know he would come to you.” Lisbeth swallowed the lie stuck in her throat. “Somehow. Some way.”
“If Santa can’t bring him, I’ll ask God.”
She’d tried prayer. A million times. So far God hadn’t reunited her family. The silence had drilled holes in the rookie faith she’d brought back with her from the third century. No doubt about that. But prayer was the only hope she had to offer. “Good idea.”
Maggie wiggled free. “Too tight, Mommy.”
“Sorry.” Lisbeth eased her grip, and Maggie’s tiny body relaxed. “’Night, baby.”
Maggie drifted back to sleep. Lisbeth waited until she was out soundly; then she carefully tucked little arms and legs inside the blanket. Cyprian’s exile had carried him miles from the portal. He couldn’t come to them, even if he knew his daughter existed. And until Egypt opened access to the cave, going to him was impossible.
In the glow of the Little Mermaid lamp, Lisbeth traced the outline of Maggie’s perfect little face. Mama’s words drifted into her thoughts.
“You can’t possibly know how much I love you until you become a mother.”
She was right. The moment the nurse placed the swaddled baby in her arms, Lisbeth had known instinctively why small animals charge predators twice their size to protect their young. She could do it. Fight to save her child, even against something as difficult to pin down as the unpredictable consequences of parental loss.
Lisbeth couldn’t help snuggling in beside Maggie. She held her breath, waiting to be pushed away. When Maggie didn’t move, she inhaled the sweet scent of her, savoring each breath as if she’d just surfaced from being underwater too long.
For now, she’d focus on what she
could
do for her child: get this current measles outbreak under control. There had to be a simple explanation for the patients she’d lost in the past few days. Compromised immune systems. Weakened hearts. Something. Until she had autopsy reports, though, speculating on the connection was borrowing trouble and wasting valuable time and energy.
Lisbeth gave in to the exhaustion, allowing her heavy eyelids to close and shut off the nagging feeling that she’d missed something important. Gradually, her own respirations synced with the peaceful in and out of Maggie’s slumber.
But the sudden vibration of her phone jerked Lisbeth alert. One arm around Maggie, she struggled to fish the cell from her pocket.
A text from Nelda glowed on the screen.
Five new cases. Help.
3
Curubis
C
YPRIAN PULLED OFF THE
humiliating garment of a man stripped of everything. He would have agreed to spend the rest of his days as an outcast in exchange for Lisbeth’s freedom ten times over if need be.
His life for his wife’s.
But if something unspeakable had happened to Lisbeth that Ruth was hesitant to mention in her letter, then neither his legal skills nor this one God for whom he’d forsaken his Roman upbringing had been enough to save her from Aspasius. Perhaps he should have known better than to trust a god he couldn’t see or touch.
Cyprian waded into choppy waters the exact color of his wife’s eyes, intent on washing the disgraceful stench of lingering doubt from his body. What was happening to him? He’d meant every word of the declaration of faith he’d so boldly made that day before his accuser. Now he questioned the wisdom of that choice. Had his rejection of his Roman heritage condemned not just himself but also Lisbeth?
Scrub as hard as he might, nothing could purge the torture from his soul. The failure to protect Lisbeth belonged on his shoulders. Not God’s. He was the one who had entered into a marriage for political gain. He was the one who’d put her life in danger by al
lowing her to cast her lot with Caecilianus’s little band of believers. And he was the one who’d let her go to the market without him. Saving her from a fate worse than death was his responsibility.
But how? Aspasius had reduced him to a man without title or influence. His father’s supporters had turned their backs in disgust when he denounced the gods of Rome. The average citizen had no idea what had really happened in the proconsul’s private chambers. And most painful of all, according to Felicissimus’s earlier letter, the majority of those in the church now considered him a deserter, one intent on saving his own skin rather than finishing the fight alongside Caecilianus.
Return to Carthage now, and he would be bereft of support. No one would follow a coward. What could he do without an army behind him? Storming the palace of the proconsul alone was suicide.
Cyprian waded deeper into the pounding surf. Every day spent here was one more day those he loved suffered. Not only must he rescue Lisbeth, Ruth had written that the church and hospital also needed his help.
He would no longer play by the rules of Rome and act the dutiful citizen forced to wait for the ships of Aspasius to haul him before the Senate. No, he would return to Carthage on his own terms. At the moon’s first light, he and Pontius would pack their meager provisions and set out on foot. The rational course, the one Aspasius would expect once he discovered his enemy had slipped through his fingers, was to follow the sticky web of highway that hugged the North African coastline. The paved roads were the easier land route for two men used to wheeled vehicles, a retinue of servants to attend their every need, and a proper lodging every ten to fifteen miles.
He and Pontius were no longer those same coddled men.
In case the envoys of Aspasius marched the cobblestones
promoting the expansion of Roman commerce, he and Pontius would take a path only bandits dared to travel . . . they would cross the sparsely populated plains of the Cap Bon peninsula. Fewer farms and villages meant scant opportunities for restocking their supplies, but it also meant less chance of detection. If they moved at night, he figured, they could reach his country estate in two or three hard days. From the shadows of rural obscurity he would regroup. Once he assembled those still willing to believe in him, he would march to the city and take back what was his.
Cyprian shook the salty water from his hair and strode ashore. In the shade of the lean-to, he and Pontius ate a small portion of a fire-blackened cod. Their hunger only partially satiated, Pontius wrapped the flaky remains in a broad leaf and hid their rations inside the mail sack. While they awaited nightfall, Cyprian stowed the bag under his head and settled down for a short nap.
A few hours later, Pontius shook Cyprian awake. “It’s just a dream.”
Cyprian stopped his thrashing and worked to shake off the acute sense of fear the ghostly images had left in his head. “What time is it?”
“The moon has crested. Gather your wits, and let’s be off.”
Cyprian pushed up on his elbows, hoping the change in his position would stop the world from spinning. “A storm is coming.” Sweat trickled down Cyprian’s neck despite the cool fall breeze pushing the waves ashore.
Pontius lifted his eyes to the twinkling stars. “I don’t see any clouds.”
“God has revealed my future.” Cyprian swiped his mouth.
“From your lack of color, I take it what awaits you is bleak?”
Cyprian nodded. “A spear, a sword, and an executioner.”
Pontius helped Cyprian to his feet. “Your work on behalf of
the believers stirred a flurry of conflict among the togas of Carthage, but I’m sure things have calmed by now.”
“This time I won’t escape.” Cyprian let the words sink in. “You don’t have to go with me, Pontius.”
If marching to his possible death had in any way unseated his faithful deacon, Pontius gave no indication. “From the day I followed you into faith, I knew there would be consequences.” He lifted the mail sack and stuffed in the scrolls that recorded the true story of their exile.
“This struggle will not be like the last.”
Pontius turned his gaze to the blaze of moonlight dancing on the dark waters. “Since it has pleased God to forewarn you, then it seems to me he’s giving you a choice. Go or stay?”
Cyprian had only told his friend a portion of his dream. His steadfast and loyal friend. The one person he could count on to follow him through the gates of the proconsul’s palace with or without an army. A loyalty that meant everything to him.
Cyprian took the bag from Pontius and hoisted the sack over his shoulder. “To Carthage we go.”
* * *
THEY WALKED
for what seemed like hours. By the time the sky began to pink, their strength was spent, but they pressed onward. Until the eastern coast and its swarms of mosquitoes were far behind, they couldn’t afford to rest. As the morning’s first rays crested the horizon, Cyprian was pleased to see that the landscape had changed. They’d reached the peninsula’s fertile plains, the breadbasket of the empire.
Soaked with sweat, Cyprian pushed on. “Fields up ahead. We’ll seek cover in the stalks.”
They forded a dried streambed and set out across the parched earth. Knee-high wheat stalks succumbed to their passing and
crunched beneath their blistered feet. Tender shoots of winter green would have replaced these dried husks had the normal seasonal rains fallen. Two years of drought had carved big cracks in the once productive soil. If Rome’s grain supply dried up, hunger would carve an even bigger hole in the bellies of the ravenous empire. Someone would pay for the emperor’s displeasure at the gods’ withholding of blessings. And Cyprian knew exactly upon whom the ax would fall.
In the distance the rhythmic march of Roman scavenging parties beat a warning. Cyprian glanced over his shoulder. “Not enough cover here.”
“I see a cave up ahead.” Pontius nodded toward a small outcropping of limestone at the field’s far edge. “Hurry.”
They raced through the stalks. When they reached a small indention in the rock, they dove headfirst into a space just big enough for the two of them. Hunkered down with their backs pressed against the jagged stone, they worked to slow their breathing as they watched the mouth of the shelter and waited. Cyprian’s eyes darted past the cave entry and on to the distant two-horned rim of Mount Bou Kornine, his home away from home. How could something so desired be so close and yet so far away?
The sounds of a lone horseman crashing through the stalks came closer and closer. Neither man dared breathe. Less than a stone’s throw from where they hid, the soldier reined his mount. Hooves pawed the sandy soil, nervous and wary. Clouds of vapor huffed from the animal’s lowered nose as if he smelled the cornered prey that they were.
“Easy.” The captain patted the horse’s neck, scanning the area with a trained eye.