by Lynne Gentry
“We’re playing a game.” Lisbeth hated lying, but the truth would rip the scab off the dark hole Maggie wasn’t ready for. “Hide-and-seek. Only with doctors’ masks.”
“No.”
“Look, Miss Magdalena. I’ve got mine on.” Papa danced around like a circus clown trying to coerce a smile, but his gyrations were getting nowhere. “Let me help you.” He quickly slipped the strap of the pleated paper over Maggie’s head.
Her little limbs immediately tensed. “It’s too tight.” Maggie clawed at the mask and tried to wiggle free at the same time. “I can’t breathe.”
“Loosen the metal clip across her nose, Papa.”
“That’s the best I can do,” Papa said.
Maggie took evasive action and squirmed out of Papa’s grasp. “I can’t.” She ripped off the mask. “I won’t.”
“Baby, it’s just paper. Air can pass straight through. Watch.” Lisbeth demonstrated breathing in and out. “Want to try again, baby?”
“No.” Maggie threw the mask on the ground. “I can’t.”
“What if we get a mask for your baby doll, too?” Papa bent to retrieve the soiled mask.
“Take her home, Papa.”
“She’ll be fine. Give her a minute.” Papa put an arm around Maggie. “She’s got to learn to face her fears.”
“Not today, she doesn’t.” Lisbeth waved them away. “Get her out of here!”
“Okay. Calm down.” Papa scooped Maggie up and started for the parking lot. Then he stopped, turned around, and handed Lisbeth a thick manila envelope he’d pulled from beneath his coat. “Almost forgot why we came. You need to see this.”
“Mail? You put my child at risk to bring me mail?” The Vatican Apostolic Library was stamped in the upper left-hand corner. “Your early-church research can wait until I get home.”
“When’s that gonna happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then no, this can’t wait.” Papa lifted Maggie’s hood over her head. “Promise you’ll read that as soon as you can.” He thumped the envelope in Lisbeth’s hand. “That paragraph I marked changes everything.”
6
Carthage
WINTER REFUSED TO GIVE way to spring. The sun hid behind clouds as heavy as Cyprian’s mood these long, dark days since his return from exile. Nothing was coming together like he planned.
The boy he and Magdalena rescued from the herb shop had died within hours of their homecoming. Cyprian had wanted to bury the lad in the back corner of the garden, but before he could dig a proper grave, several of the others who lined the mats in his halls had died as well. His gardens, while exceptionally large for a city property, did not have the space needed for multiple graves. The best he could do for the deceased was to wait until nightfall, put a cloak over his head, drag them out of the neighborhood, and place their bodies upon the growing heaps in the slums.
“You really should let Barek do that,” Ruth had said, insisting he take her place in the gardener’s cottage. “We’ve both had the measles. I don’t want you exposed.”
“Who took care of you?”
“Those we’d helped.” She had a pleased smile, one he couldn’t understand. “It was as if the hand of God put the cooling cloths upon our heads.”
Her ability to forgive was a root that ran deep, an anchor that shamed him. “Lisbeth declared me immune after my run-in with that infected sailor. I’m not worried about catching measles.”
The reminder had satisfied her, and they’d all quickly settled into the new arrangement of Barek and Laurentius bunking with him in the cottage while Ruth, Junia, and Magdalena shared his master suite in the villa.
Daily more and more ill arrived on his doorstep, their faces flush with fever and their eyes wild with desperation. Magdalena and Ruth had done their best to tend the people, to offer them peace and comfort in their last hours, but without Lisbeth to share the load, the sick were dying faster than they could stock the vaporizer pots. At night, after he finished his accounts, Cyprian added a body or two to the rotting pile.
Tonight he stood at the tiny window of his groundskeeper’s cottage watching another northern gale toss anchored ships. Spotty reports came by way of the daily addition of sick. Foul weather had delayed the launch of the ship meant to fetch him. But once the waters warmed and his escape was discovered, Aspasius’s soldiers would tear the province apart searching for him. If he had not managed to rally his father’s old supporters by then, he would die in the arena. And the proconsul of Carthage would not only be free to steal Cyprian’s wealth, he would never have to answer for his dirty deeds.
Cyprian had used these days of lying low to get his finances in order and prepare for the possibility of the confiscation of his estate. He’d done as much as he could without an outside agent acting on his behalf, one who could secretly convert the sale of his properties into the cash required to transport Ruth and Magdalena beyond the proconsul’s reach. Pontius could do the foreign sales without risk of exposing their early return, but for Cyprian’s local holdings Ruth had suggested he use Felicissimus. Someone no one would suspect.
Turning over something this important to a former client bothered him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the pudgy little slave trader. In fact, over the years, this particular client had proven exceptionally trustworthy. He and Felicissimus had conducted several secret and very successful business transactions after Cyprian’s conversion to Christianity.
They’d been introduced by their mutual friend Caecilianus. The old bishop believed if Felicissimus and Cyprian worked together, not only could Felicissimus be rehabilitated from the lying cheat he’d been before he became a believer, but together they could curtail Aspasius’s ability to acquire slaves. As one of the city’s shrewdest slave traders, Felicissimus knew of Rome’s latest conquests and what merchandise would appear on the block long before even the most prominent buyers. It was, after all, Felicissimus who’d alerted Cyprian to Lisbeth’s arrival. That he’d been allowed the opportunity to spare her from Aspasius, if only for a brief season, was a debt Cyprian could never repay.
Rescuing slaves with a slave trader did not make him uncomfortable. What bothered him was the blurring of well-defined lines of social standing. Caecilianus had encouraged him to let his patrician prejudices go. While his mentor was close at hand, Cyprian had to confess that he’d made progress. After all, hadn’t he married a slave? But he found it unsettling to see women doing men’s work, masters caring for slaves, and Felicissimus an appointed church deacon. If Caecilianus had lived, he would have relished the dissolution of the walls that separated the church into distinct classes. But Cyprian was not Caecilianus in more ways than that. The whole idea of “neither slave nor free” felt like shifting sand beneath his feet.
Wishing things were different would change nothing. He had no better ideas. If Ruth believed Felicissimus a suitable agent, she would not let the idea go until he gave it serious consideration.
An urgent rap at the door drew Cyprian from his brooding thoughts. “Ruth?” Water gushed from the eaves and soaked her head covering. The dogs rushed inside and began to shake water everywhere. “You’ll catch your death getting out in this storm.”
“We need the rain.” She swept into the room. From the basket upon her arm came the enticing scent of freshly baked bread. “You need dinner and a haircut.”
Ruth handed Cyprian the basket. She removed her black scarf and shook out the water. Since her husband’s death, Ruth had abandoned her elaborately styled hair in favor of a simple sunshine-colored braid that hung to her waist. She’d also taken to wearing bland, serviceable cotton tunics stained with her hacking patients’ phlegm. She turned down offers to purchase something better, claiming tailored silk stolas could be put to far better use ripped apart and converted into vaporizer tents.
Ruth looked up to find him staring at her. “I’m glad you’re here. Barek has been missing the companionship of a father … a man.”
Though she
tried to lace her voice with cheer, sorrow had etched its deep, dull pain into the sunken eyes of Caecilianus’s young widow. A widow at thirty-four. Still beautiful, yet stripped of the vivacious sparkle that had always turned a lackluster gathering into a party, Ruth stood before him in her loose-fitting dress, brave on the outside, so vulnerable and lost on the inside. An alabaster jar whose seal had been broken, the priceless perfume poured out and wasted.
Guilt closed his throat. He’d failed to save his friend. He would not fail to save his friend’s family. If wealth could restore the luster to Ruth’s eyes, he would give his fortune. “Barek is a fine young man. You’ve done well raising him.”
“Kind of you to say, but he can certainly benefit from a man’s influence right now.”
Neither dared venture into the deeper truths they’d once sat around in his library sharing with Caecilianus. Since Cyprian’s return, they’d perfected the art of keeping their private griefs concealed beneath the surface of small talk. Admitting their bereavement risked the possibility of breaching the walls protecting their hearts and overwhelming them both with sadness. Instead they focused on the tasks at hand.
The business of surviving one more day.
In his absence, Ruth had thrown herself into caring for the sick and was continuing to do an admirable job. But Cyprian couldn’t help but see Lisbeth’s face in every vaporizer tent, every pot of boiling water carried in for proper hand washing, and in every cup of pomegranate juice spilled upon his expensive carpets.
Cyprian set the basket on a small, low table surrounded by plump cushions. “Barek isn’t here.”
Ruth rubbed warmth into her crossed arms. “I told him he could meet his friend Natalis for a few hours of fishing.”
“In this weather?” Cyprian noticed her shivering and draped a blanket around her shoulders. “Can’t have either one of you getting sick.”
“Barek doesn’t really fish anymore. Natalis is such a fine young man. I was hoping he could help cheer Barek.” Her hand grazed his as she reached to clasp the wrap.
An unexpected jolt of longing sparked through him. He stepped back. “The lad has suffered a great loss.”
“He’s always struggled to find joy. The darkness has worsened since his father …” She turned from him, as if she’d felt the same desolate ache, and lifted the basket’s covering. “I encourage his love of water in hopes that the roar of the sea will drown out the failure pounding in his head.” Hands trembling, she removed the food and also a pair of shears and a comb.
“Maybe if I talk to him?”
“Will he even look at you?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” She uncorked a wine flask and filled a cup. The dogs whined, and she tossed them each a scrap of bread. “My son feels that if he’d done more to defend me his father would still be alive.”
“That’s not true. The blame is mine.”
“If truth and blame could erase pain, the Roman temples and arenas would be empty.” She offered Cyprian a drink. Water trickled from the wisps of hair plastered to her forehead. “Pain is the way of this life, but that doesn’t make our wait for heaven any easier, does it?”
“Do you ever question the promise of a better life?”
“I’d be lying if I said no. Everyone questions. My son’s questions keep him from taking his father’s place as bishop.”
Cyprian took the cup. “He’s young. Give him time. He’ll grow into it.”
Rain splattered the windows. The drops, no bigger than tears, merged into sad, pathetic little streams that cut through the foggy film obscuring the garden view.
“The church does not have time for Barek to mature into his heritage, Cyprian.” Ruth motioned for him to sit. “Enough of my troubles. Let me see if I can restore order to those curls.”
“I don’t see the point. No one even sees me.”
“I do.”
He sighed. “If you think a haircut will make me human, have at it.” He sank upon the stool.
“I’ll be glad when you can make your presence known in the church.” She draped a towel around his neck, her hands skimming his shoulders.
“I don’t think the church will be anxious to welcome someone into their midst that they believe to be a coward.”
The word, sharp with accusation, stuck in his throat. If there were those who didn’t believe he’d run from trouble, they would find it disappointing to learn he was now hiding in his gardener’s cottage while a widow continued the brave work of Caecilianus. Cyprian told himself his plans must be protected, kept secret until everything was in place. He knew proceeding without the support of the Senate was foolishness. But was he wise or simply too frightened to take bolder, brasher steps? He thought of the story of Peter, how the apostle of Christ had sworn he’d follow his savior into battle. But when the day of reckoning arrived, he ran. How could a man lop off ears one moment, then turn tail and hide the next? Cyprian remembered sitting at the feet of Caecilianus listening to the tale and judging Peter’s desertion rather harshly.
Now he couldn’t help but wonder. Had disappointment and fear similarly softened his own resolve?
“I was there the day you offered your life in exchange for ours,” Ruth said, as if she could read between the lines of his conflicted thoughts. “I’ll tell them you are the bravest man I know, next to my Caecilianus.” She reached for the shears and dropped them.
Cyprian bent and picked them up. “I have not been nor will I ever be half the man your husband was.” He steadied her hand. “You’re shaking.”
She withdrew her fingers and took up the comb, her eyes large and weary. “The believers will need help if we are going to save the movement.”
“I’ve turned over my house for their use. I’m depleting my accounts. What more can I do?”
Clip. Clip. Clip. The cool iron slid across the base of his neck in a forceful line. “I’ve spared you the worst of it, Cyprian.”
“Why?”
“You’ve needed the opportunity to grieve Lisbeth’s loss.”
“Will it bring her back? Spare me no more, Ruth.”
She removed the towel from his shoulder, careful to catch the locks that had not fallen upon the floor. She retrieved a small hand mirror from her basket and passed it to Cyprian.
He held the polished side down. It had been more than a year since he’d looked at himself, and it would take more than a haircut to clean up the nasty unruliness that had sprouted deep within his soul.
Ruth came and stood in front of him, her head cocked to the side. Her thoughtful perusal gave him the feeling she was checking for more than the accuracy of her work. “As the persecution and plague worsen, it has become difficult for the church to assemble. They’re less likely to risk coming together for worship when there’s no bishop to explain the Scriptures. Without regular fellowship and encouragement, I fear, some believers will recant, desert their faith, and flee the city to protect their families.”
“I can’t say as I blame them.” Cyprian considered his reflection in Ruth’s huge blue eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. A broken and tired man who questioned the validity of a faith that required so much suffering in addition to the weighty sacrifice he’d already made—or, for that matter, that Caecilianus had made. Where was the just and loving God the bishop had introduced him to? The path they’d chosen that day in the proconsul’s chamber had changed everything. Were he given the choice today, would he do the same? Would he look Aspasius in the eye and boldly proclaim himself a follower of Christ? Or would he do everything he could—including deny his God—to retain the leverage to free his wife? How foolish his bravery seemed now.
He didn’t need a mirror to know that the man he’d been was no more. “Tell me what you want me to do, woman, for I have no answers of my own.”
“Help the church.”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing if I ask Felicissimus to take over the liquidation of my properties?”
“No one knows better than I what
you have already done and intend to do for the cause of Christ.” She lifted the mirror to his face. The hardened features staring back at him were not a shock. “But I think God is asking for more.”
“More?”
“You should assume your rightful position as head of the church.”
Cyprian placed the mirror facedown upon the table. “No.”
“Barek may have grown taller in stature since his father’s execution, but with each passing day he seems to grow smaller in confidence.” She took in a sharp breath. “You are the bishop they need. The one to share the Scriptures and offer words of hope. The one to lead them through their fear.”
Cyprian pulled away, the empty space in his soul bigger than ever. “I agree that Barek may not be up to the task, but there must be someone better suited to provide the spiritual guidance these people need.”
“Who else but you?” The reluctance in her voice, no more than the faint flapping of a bird with an injured wing, drew him to her side. Before he could stop himself, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him, as if his support were the only thing keeping her upright. “Caecilianus adored you. You trained at his feet. Did you not proclaim yourself the future bishop of the church that day in Aspasius’s office?”
“It was the proclamation of a desperate and foolish man.” Cyprian backed away.
Ruth took Cyprian’s hands, pressing her need into his. “My husband confidently gave his family into your care.” Her voice hiccupped, but she kept going, determined despite the sudden flow of tears. “He would be more than confident that the church should be in the hands of no one else.” The request had taxed the last of her strength, but she managed to sob out the only thing that did not need to be said. “Oh, Cyprian. I miss him so.”
“As do I.” Cyprian gathered her into his arms once again. “Your grief is one more reason Aspasius must pay.”
“Promise me you will let the Lord deal with Aspasius.”
He could not bring himself to confess the vengeance in his heart. “Ruth, I …”