Authors: Lynne Gentry
Quiet murmurings of sickness, death, and persecution filtered out. The somber mood did not match his memories of the joyous gatherings that used to fill his gardens. Judging from the believers’ concerned whispers, he was not the only one suffering disillusionment. When he could stand the suspense no longer, he peeked around the door. Ruth was right. Between deaths and desertions, the number of believers had definitely dwindled.
He spotted Felicissimus sitting next to Ruth and sighed. Ruth would find a way to bring up Cyprian’s need for a local agent. Given his circumstances, partnering with his former client didn’t look so bad.
Ruth welcomed everyone, then gave a quick update on the sick. “I thank those who have aided my struggle to fill the shoes of my late husband. I know each of you has sacrificed time and supplies to help me keep the hospital running.” She waited for the murmurs of approval to die down. “However, as the plague worsens, my duties to the sick increase, and the time I have left to care for the church lessens. Before his death, my husband chose one man to take his place as your spiritual leader. I’m excited to say, today that one man is here.” Felicissimus shot to his feet with a self-satisfied expression, but before he could say anything Ruth pointed to the door. “Cyprianus Thascius!”
A collective gasp held Cyprian stationary as he watched expressions turn into a mixture of confusion, doubt, and hostility.
Ruth called again. Cyprian wiped the light sheen of perspiration from his forehead. What had she done? He had agreed to encourage the church. He had not agreed to assume the role of
bishop. Tightening his belt, Cyprian stepped out into the chilly, torch-lit evening.
Shocked faces communicated everything from disgust to distrust. He could almost feel the crowd physically shrinking back, as if he were covered in the dreaded red blotches of plague. The respect his entrance would have commanded a year ago had sailed with his exile ship.
Ruth beckoned him to the dais, Felicissimus at her side, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
Cyprian followed the dogs as they cleared the path to Ruth. He forced himself to stop and apply Ruth’s admonition to speak to as many as possible. By the time he reached the center of the garden, all he could say for the effort was that the distance between him and the church was greater now than when he was living on a beach in Curubis.
“Felicissimus!” Cyprian lightened his voice and opened his arms. Surely the man who’d helped him rescue many from bondage would recognize his current entrapment.
“My
patronus
. I had no idea you had returned.” Obviously Ruth had kept Cyprian’s return a secret from Felicissimus. He seemed completely taken off guard, but he adjusted his surprise with the speed of a man skilled at culling the most profitable flesh from a slave freighter. He accepted Cyprian’s embrace and quickly shored up his sagging confidence with a hearty greeting. “Welcome home.”
Cyprian patted him on the back. “Ruth tells me your efforts to aid the church have earned your election as deacon.”
Red flushed Felicissimus’s cheeks. “I did what I could.”
Cyprian leaned in and whispered, “Truth be told, I think Ruth should be bishop.”
“But she has chosen you.” Felicissimus folded his arms over his stomach. “And a fine choice she has made.” His sincerity did not match his words.
Before Cyprian could reply, Ruth told everyone he had a few words of encouragement to share.
Cyprian pulled his gaze from Felicissimus and removed his notes from his pocket. Fear of omitting a single word of his well-planned speech kept his eyes glued to the parchment. “Friends, I—”
“Friends don’t desert their friends,” said a man in the shadows.
An older woman stood, a baby in her arms. “You left us to suffer alone. My daughter and son-in-law died covered in the pox. Who will raise their child when the pox takes me?”
“Quinta, you know we’re all pitching in,” Ruth said. “Didn’t Lydia send you a basket of freshly laundered wrappers and two skins of goat’s milk?” Ruth’s smile softened the pointed edge of her rebuke, and the woman gave a reluctant nod.
“He tossed us a few crumbs and fled to the mountains like the rich in summer.” The man in the shadows stepped into the light of the torches, holding tightly to a small walking stick.
“You saw me board the exile ship in chains.” Cyprian could not believe how quickly they’d forgotten all he’d done for them . . . all he continued to do. “You eat my bread, drink my wine, and enjoy the safety of my walls. What more do you want from me?”
“Giving us bread does not give you the right to lead us.” The bent-over old man waved his cane.
“Metras!” Ruth chided. “You have no idea what this man has given for the sake of Christ.”
“I did not come back to be your bishop. I only came back because—” Cyprian’s explanation was cut off.
“If we don’t leave, soon there will be no one left to bury the dead!” shouted another.
“Brothers and sisters!” Felicissimus held up his hands, and order was immediately restored. “This is what matters: our brother Cyprian has come home.” He put a hand on Cyprian’s shoulder.
“He had the means to go anywhere in the empire, and he returned to us.”
Cyprian had done what Ruth wanted him to do: he’d appeared to the church. Yet the effort had not encouraged them or diminished the rumors of his cowardice.
He glanced at the dogs resting at Ruth’s feet. Their eyes were closed, and their paws were crossed over their large ears. Even the old bishop’s dogs doubted him capable of leading these people anywhere.
8
Dallas, Texas
L
ISBETH SAT ALONE IN
a quiet corner of the hospital cafeteria, terror pounding a warning in her chest. Reshaping fate would not be easy. Time had an uncanny way of refusing to deviate from the path of least resistance.
She struggled to focus on the papers spread across the table. On the slim chance the emergency plan forming in her head was simply career suicide and complete foolishness, she reread the highlighted paragraph in the article.
Relevant evidence of a significant disease load has been preserved in the human bodies discovered in the mass graves of Carthage. Contrary to previous conclusions, these children were not the victims of some sort of religious sacrifice. More likely they died as the result of a deadly plague. These new facts support the writings of Pontius. This third-century church deacon and onetime exile claims that were it not for the valiant efforts of one man, Cyprianus Thascius, a wealthy Roman Christian whose head was struck off on the 14th of September, AD 258, the loss of human life would have ended the Roman Empire.
Beheaded.
Nausea flooded Lisbeth’s grave of white-hot memories. That
deepest part of her where painful memories resided no matter how hard she tried to forget. She could almost smell the dust rising in the sultry Mediterranean air. Hear the jeering crowds stomp their feet upon the Colosseum’s marbled seats. Taste the mob’s thirst for blood. Feel the pressure of the evil proconsul’s crushing grip upon her wrist. See the iron gates rise with the simple wave of her captor’s sausage-shaped index finger. But instead of the wild beasts the crowd expected, soldiers decked in pageant finery had marched into the arena dragging an old man with a lion’s mane of white hair. Trailing the entourage was a dour-faced, black-cloaked priest wearing a leather skullcap. Gray smoke snaked from the brass incense burner the priest swung back and forth. As the soldiers tightened the prisoner’s chains, Lisbeth had increased her own efforts to break free. Once she realized all she could do was scream, she did. At the top of her lungs. Until the entire arena stilled. The old bishop’s hooded eyes had searched the crowd. When his gaze found hers, he flashed a forgiving smile, then dropped to his knees. He folded his hands in prayer and lifted his face toward the shaft of light that had broken through the clouds. The executioner raised his blade and swung. In one horrifying, slow-motion stroke, the sharp mind of Ruth’s husband was forever severed from his oversized and forgiving heart.
Lisbeth wiped the sweat from her forehead.
When she first returned to the twenty-first century, she’d spent hours trying to make sense of her experience. She read the accounts of prominent Roman historians. Livy, Cicero, Varro. The bloody transformation of a rugged frontier turned world-power franchise fascinated her. She’d picked Papa’s brain. Memorized the list of emperors. Studied the judicial system. Pored over the records of a society based on good behavior, trust, and a sense of duty undergirded by a strict standard of public service. She’d been
surprised to learn that in the empire’s beginning, the haves cared for the have-nots. But as centuries of social evolution destroyed their founding qualities, only a handful of third-century Romans possessed any desire to care for others. The hungry masses and the sick had been left to die alone, and the stench lingered in her nostrils even these six years later.
If this obscure paragraph she’d never seen before were true, Cyprian faced the same fate as her old friend Caecilianus. Her strong, proud husband would be forced to bow before the executioner’s sword. If she did nothing, she’d be no better than those people in the Colosseum who’d turned their backs on the dying. She must act quickly.
Hands shaking, Lisbeth reached for her cold coffee.
Going after him was the right thing to do.
This time she would enter the situation better prepared than when she took that initial accidental tumble. She would go to the third century not as a green, first-year medical resident but as an experienced internist with a specialty in epidemiology. She’d pack everything she needed to beat back measles and reunite her family. This time everything would be different, including Cyprian’s fate. She would convince him to come home with her.
Then why this knot in her belly?
Maggie, that’s why. Maggie was a child who hated tight spaces even more than she. What if they were zipping down the time portal hole and Maggie panicked? Any child who would claw her way out of a surgical mask could never withstand miles of confinement in a solid rock waterslide.
These concerns didn’t even include what would happen when Maggie found out her father was a third-century Roman noble. Where does one start explaining such impossibilities? She’d been so careful with what she told Maggie about her heritage. She’d allowed Papa’s Latin lessons and Roman history quizzes as games,
not survival tools in case her daughter happened to fall into a different world.
And then there was Papa. Even if she wanted to give him the slip, which she didn’t, no way would he miss his chance to see Mama. His desire to reconnect with his wife was as great as her hunger to reunite with Cyprian. Papa would be the first one down the hole.
The whole idea of going back to the Cave of the Swimmers and purposely launching an old man and a little girl through a time portal was crazy thinking. How could she even consider risking the health and safety of the two people she loved more than her own life? Especially when a trip into the past was such a gamble? Say, by some miracle, the current-day political climate suddenly changed in Egypt and they were allowed back into the country. Say they even gained access to the cave. She still didn’t know exactly how to return to the exact moment in time that would save Cyprian.
Jumping blindly into an underground aquifer with nothing to steer her direction or keep her on track meant she might not land anywhere close to where she was needed. Maybe not even in the exact same location. Miss the date of Cyprian’s death by even a day, and she would be too late. Miss her hoped-for destination, and she might never reach him. Although she hadn’t fully explored the possibility of Cyprian’s life being recorded in history until now, she
had
studied everything she could get her hands on about time travel. Isaac Newton. Albert Einstein. Even modern-day philosophers and physicists. All of their theories were either sheer speculation or just plain fiction. Nobody could say definitively how time worked, and none of the endless rhetoric was the least bit reassuring.
Since her return to the twenty-first century, almost six years had passed. So much had changed for her in that amount of time. She’d given birth. Finished her medical education. And, most im
portantly, fully embraced the faith she’d seen demonstrated so many lifetimes ago.
If time proceeded at the same rate and linear progression in Cyprian’s life, going to him with her newfound faith now would be useless; she would not arrive in time to save her husband from an execution that happened less than two years after his return from exile.
But, then again, who knew how the time portal worked for certain? Should she still try? Even if she could arrive in third-century Carthage today, was there enough time to find Cyprian, rescue her mother and half brother,
and
save the world from further attacks of this virus? She didn’t know. But if she didn’t at least try, there was one thing she knew for certain: her family would remain fragmented this side of heaven.
She thought she’d chosen her future based on her experience in the past, but now it seemed her past had been a preparation for the future . . . in the past. Lisbeth dug her phone from her pocket.
Her father answered on the first ring. “So you read the research?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I think I should go.”
“You mean
we
should go.”
“No, I’m going after him myself.”
“I’m not missing an opportunity to find Magdalena, and you know your daughter is not going to miss a chance to find her father.” Papa paused, letting the thought of Maggie crying her eyes out at Queenie’s sink in. “You and I have traveled all over the world and lived to tell about it. Don’t you think it’s time Maggie got a little sand under her nails?”
Maggie.
That was the first time her father had dared to separate his granddaughter from the memory of his wife.
Lord, what should I do?
Leave Papa behind and dash his hope that their family could be reunited? Take him and Maggie and run the risk of losing everything that mattered to her?