Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

  “Is that why you came back? To get me?”

  “And Laurentius. And …”

  “Cyprian?” Ruth’s voice quivered. “You came to get Maggie’s father, right?”

  Maggie’s head snapped up, the quill dripping ink on her design. “Right, Mommy?”

  Lisbeth could feel her daughter waiting for her answer. Now was not the time to hash this out. Now was the time to make the unhappy trip back to the twenty-first century without Maggie’s father as easy as possible on her child.

  “I came to help fight the measles.” Lisbeth reached into her backpack, praying Maggie would let this one go until she had some sort of explanation figured out. “I brought vaccines.” When she presented her treasured box of MMR vials and another box of the diluents, she was relieved Maggie had returned to her art for now. “Since there’s no way to maintain the proper temperatures to ensure viability, I’ve got to use them up fast.”

  “Is it still a two-dose protocol?” Mama asked.

  Lisbeth nodded. “Two rounds would be ideal, but the recipients have to wait four weeks between doses. Without a fridge that’s not happening. So I’m hoping one shot is better than nothing.”

  Mama came and stood by Laurentius. “Start with your brother.”

  Inoculating someone with Down’s made her nervous. “Any signs of leukemia?”

  “No.” Mama immediately dismissed the possibility that Laurentius’s genetic mutation increased his odds of contracting a cancer. Vaccinating him was extremely dangerous. “And he for sure has never had chemo. It’s safe,” Mama desperately insisted.

  Without a battery of blood work to confirm or deny Laurentius’s health, Lisbeth would have to rely on visuals. Laurentius did not seem overly tired. Nor did he suffer any unusual bruising. Other than a little weight loss, which could be explained by the lack of good nutrition available, he seemed fine. She’d never forgive herself if he contracted measles and died because she’d withheld the one thing that could save him. “Roll up his sleeve.”

  Mama set to work preparing Laurentius while Lisbeth turned her back and loaded the syringe.

  When she faced Laurentius with the needle, his eyes grew wide, and he backed into Mama. “Will it hurt?”

  “Don’t worry, Larry.” Maggie continued drawing. “Shots only sting for a second. I know. Mommy made Queenie give me lots of them before we got on the plane.”

  “Who’s Queenie?” Laurentius asked.

  “She’s my aunt in Texas.” Maggie blew on the parchment. “Ruth’s my aunt here.” Maggie had already made them all into one big, happy family.

  “Laurentius, can you keep your eyes on Maggie’s mice?” Lisbeth flicked the side of the syringe. “Look, I think I see them moving.” The moment Laurentius was distracted she inserted the needle at a forty-five-degree angle into the posterolateral fat of his upper arm.

  Laurentius flinched. “Ow!” His face scrunched. “I don’t like thots.”

  “You were a brave boy.” Mama rubbed his arm and unrolled his sleeve, relief on her face. “Thank you, Lisbeth.”

  “Who’s next?” Lisbeth looked at Naomi. The girl needed a nudge from Mama, but she took her shot without complaint. “Next?”

  Ruth stepped forward, rolling up her sleeve. “I’ll go.”

  “Sorry, this shot is best given before pregnancy.” The old Lisbeth, the one who only thought about herself, would have thought leaving Ruth unprotected served her right for stealing her husband. This new Lisbeth, the one with the Holy Spirit constantly perched on her shoulders, felt sick to her stomach. She tried to soften her response. “If you haven’t gotten measles yet, then I suspect you’re already immune.”

  “Barek and I have had the measles.”

  “When?”

  “Right after you left.”

  “Who cared for you?”

  “Those we’d cared for—”

  “Help!” Cyprian’s shout rang through the whole house and cut Ruth off.

  Ruth dropped the towel and raced from the kitchen.

  “Do not leave this room, Maggie.” Lisbeth scrambled after Ruth, tripping over mats while Ruth moved more with the ease of a gazelle than a very pregnant woman. “Ruth!” She caught up and took Ruth by the shoulders. “For the baby’s sake, I can’t let you go in there.”

  “And who do you think has been in there in your absence?” Ruth pushed past her and began directing the new arrivals to the vacant mat in the last free corner.

  Barek emerged from the wine cellar. “What’s going on?”

  “More sick.” Ruth took the crock from him. “Naomi, fetch my herb box.” Ruth dished out orders with the ease of a charge nurse. “Barek, more hot water.” Ruth motioned to Cyprian. “Over here.”

  “The floor?” A tall man with his arms hooked under the limp arms of a young woman had his back to them. Cyprian was on the opposite end, supporting the girl’s ankles. Standing beside the sick girl was a woman Lisbeth guessed to be the girl’s mother. She was an exact replica of the younger one, except for the scowl on her face, and she had her hands tucked inside the folds of the very expensive stola draped around her graceful figure. The impressive shimmer and rustle of Coan silk accompanied her slightest ­movement.

  “We’ll make her comfort—” Ruth looked up from her preparations and gasped.

  Lisbeth’s gaze followed the bead of Ruth’s focus: The man holding the beautiful girl with light blond hair, perfectly chiseled features, and flaming red spots scattered across her neck and chin was the same man who’d been there that horrible day she and Ruth were hauled before the council. The man who had voted to kill Caecilianus and exile Cyprian. Anger boiled inside Lisbeth, and it was all she could do not to charge headfirst into the man.

  The man’s bloodshot eyes assessed the crowded villa halls, his nose wrinkling slightly at the hacking patients rousing from their mats. “The daughter of Titus Cicero does not sleep on the floor with plebs.”

  “Patricians are nothing but trouble,” Barek said.

  “Hush, son,” Ruth scolded. “We’ll do our best to make her as comfortable as possible.”

  “She’ll have a bed away from plebs,” Titus demanded.

  “Hold your tongue, Cicero,” Cyprian said. “After what you did to Ruth’s husband, it is only by the grace of God that she’ll help you at all.”

  Titus looked shocked, like he had no recollection of Ruth or the man she loved. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The old bishop you had beheaded!” Cyprian snapped.

  “What?” Barek lunged for Titus.

  “It’s all right, son.” Ruth snatched Barek back. “I’m sure Titus is just worried about his daughter. Any parent would be. She’s obviously very sick.”

  “He had my father killed!” Barek pulled against her hold. “I’ll kill him.”

  “He was not the only one who voted that day,” Ruth soothed.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “I don’t blame you, Barek, but you’re not killing anybody tonight.” Lisbeth stepped between Barek and Titus. “Your daughter can either receive treatment on the floor or die in your arms. The choice is yours.”

  The man bristled at their unified front. His eyes conjured the image of a wildcat sizing up prey. Arresting. The eyes of a dangerous man. “Who are you?”

  Lisbeth kept her gaze steady. “I am the woman whose husband you sent into exile.”

  “Titus?” Vivia’s hands churned beneath the yards of fabric draped across her shoulder. “What are these strange people talking about?”

  “Coming here was a mistake.” Titus started to back out, stretching Diona between him and Cyprian.

  “Titus, what have you done?”

  “It was business, Vivia. Just business.”

  “Tell that to the people whose lives you ruined,” Cyprian said.

  Lisbeth could see the patient deteriorating. “You can hold him down, and I’ll punch him later, Cyprian. That girl needs help.” She put her hands on her hips. “You
want the bed or not, mister?” She waited, giving Titus little time to weigh his options. “If not, I’m sure we can find someone who will. Might even be you in a few days.”

  Titus struggled under the weight of the girl’s limp body obviously growing heavier and heavier in his arms.

  “Do it, Titus,” the woman with him ordered. “Now!”

  “Very well, Vivia. But don’t blame me when they murder our daughter on that filthy mat.”

  17

  LISBETH STOOD ON THE balcony watching the moon slowly slide into morning. Ruth had handled the shock of seeing Titus with the enviable maturity of the saint she was. Forgiving those who’d betrayed her like they’d simply stolen a piece of bread rather than murdered her husband. If mature faith could grant someone that kind of peace, then Lisbeth had a long way to go. Not only did she have to fight back the urge to slap Titus, this impossible mess with Ruth and Cyprian still made her fume.

  By the time Lisbeth and Mama had the Ciceros settled to Titus’s satisfaction, the MMR vaccine she’d brought had warmed beyond the recommended safety margin. She hated that Ruth and Barek had suffered through measles without her, but she was grateful the church had nursed them. Laurentius was now safely vaccinated, and Junia was immune since she’d had measles before, too.

  That just left Cyprian. So far it seemed he had some kind of natural immunity, because as much as he’d been around measles, he should have contracted them by now. She regretted the need to dispose of the unused vaccine vials before she could inoculate him as an added precaution. The vaccinations may not have gone like she’d planned, but after seeing the relief on Mama’s face when she vaccinated Laurentius, she would plunge through the portal again just to save her half brother.

  Mama had convinced her to put Maggie and Junia to bed and to try to get some rest herself. Mama would take the first shift with Diona.

  Thankfully, Maggie’s preoccupation with her new friend had spared them a long discussion as to why her daddy had two wives. Lisbeth tossed and turned for an hour, but between the continual coughing of patients in the hall and her replaying the events of this long day, sleep would not come. She could not close her eyes without thinking of Cyprian and Ruth sleeping side by side in the gardener’s cottage, his hand upon Ruth’s belly, their child stirring beneath his touch.

  A biting chill seeped deep into Lisbeth’s bones. She drew her shawl. Spring would not be put off forever. Soon warming winds would blow in from the desert, stir Aspasius from his den, and awaken his fury. A ship would be sent to fetch Cyprian home. And when the proconsul learned he’d been bested yet again, there would be no corner of the empire where Cyprian would be safe.

  Lisbeth’s eyes traced the outline of the coast. Not far from the trodden path that led from Cyprian’s villa down to the water was the vine-clad pergola where she and Cyprian had made love for the last time. For six years she’d grieved the eighteen centuries and thousands of miles that separated them. Now here she was, not a stone’s throw from where he slept, and it dawned on her that she’d felt closer to her husband then than she did now.

  To be fair, how could Cyprian possibly have known she would return? He couldn’t. He should have gone on with his life.

  She had. Maggie hadn’t given her much choice. Infants don’t care for themselves. She’d moved forward, but she hadn’t remarried. She’d believed what they had together, although brief, was real. True. Something worth risking everything to keep. Replacing him wouldn’t have felt right.

  Beyond the pergola’s deserted columns, linkboys snuffed the swan lamps of the ships docked in the doughnut-shaped harbor. Once the weather turned predictable, Aspasius would open the harbor gates and launch this life-snuffing sickness throughout the Roman world. Someone had to stop him.

  “Lisbeth!” Mama’s summons drew her attention to the door. “You better come see this.”

  “Is it Diona?”

  “She’s not presenting like the others.”

  Lisbeth grabbed her backpack. “Brief me on the way.” They set off in a sprint.

  “Abdominal pain. Pea soup diarrhea.”

  Lisbeth’s stomach lurched. “Does she smell like freshly baked bread?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Bad hunch.”

  They zigzagged through the maze of mats until they got to the corner Diona’s family had claimed.

  “Why is she getting worse?” Vivia’s hands thrashed beneath her stola.

  “Do something, please,” Titus said.

  “I need you to hold the lamp.” Lisbeth dropped beside Diona. “Can you do that?”

  Titus nodded.

  Lisbeth dug her stethoscope out of her bag. The yeasty smell emanating from Diona’s glistening skin was nauseating. In the flickering light, she did her best to conduct a cursory exam. Fever. Rash. Dry cough. Abdomen tender. “Looks like typhoid.”

  “Are you sure?” Mama squatted on the opposite side of the mat.

  “Without blood tests it’s hard to be certain, but waterborne diseases thrive in nasty environments. Bacteria love to set up house in the ruins of a virus. From what I’ve seen and smelled of the city’s current state, I’m guessing Aspasius still hasn’t completed those aqueducts.”

  Mama shook her head. “His workforce is too depleted.”

  “Without proper sanitation support, sewage backs up. Bacteria can infiltrate the city’s water source and spread through the supply system faster than an army on steroids.” Lisbeth sighed. “And before you know it, every tap in town is contaminated.” Lisbeth’s gut liquidized. “I only brought a limited supply of antibiotics. We’ll have to find a place to quarantine their entire family, start the girl on some serious oral rehydration solutions, and disinfect anything she’s touched.”

  Mama agreed. “I’m guessing your expertise is not an accident.”

  “I did an infectious disease fellowship.”

  “So you went home, had a baby, finished your residency, and tackled a fellowship?” Pride beamed on Mama’s face. “Admirable.”

  “More selfish really.”

  “Selfish?”

  “I wanted to come back and save our futures.”

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “I need to get Maggie out of here.”

  “Didn’t you have her inoculated?”

  “Of course I did. But typhoid vaccinations are still only fifty percent effective in kids.”

  “I was hoping something more reliable had been developed.”

  “You mean like the common sense I seem to be lacking?”

  18

  “ANOTHER BAD DREAM?” Ruth pushed up in bed. The wooden frame creaked with her movements.

  “The same dream.” Cyprian turned from the tiny window, his neck stiff from peering into the darkness.

  He’d spent the night pacing the tiny cottage while asking God questions bigger than the universe. How was he supposed to fix this? Especially now. Titus Cicero had discovered not only his whereabouts, but Lisbeth and Magdalena’s as well. The news was sure to reach the ears of Aspasius before Cyprian had the chance to get everything in place.

  No matter what he did, these precious women were going to get hurt. And what about the children? If Lisbeth took Maggie back to Texas, how could he be in two places at once: a father to the child of his time, and a father to the child of the future?

  So far the dissonant howl of the wind had been his answer. The old closeness he’d felt to the Lord in those early days after his conversion had disappeared into a dark chasm. Perhaps his mummified emotions had made it impossible to detect God’s presence. Or worse, perhaps God had grown as weary as he of his anger and had officially deserted him.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you, Ruth.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. “This one was as restless as his father last night.”

  “He?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I think so.” One hand rubbed her belly, the other patted the bed. “Tell me why you spent the night wearing out the floorb
oards.”

  Living with Ruth these past six months had proven as difficult as he had anticipated. Not because she was hard to live with. She’d done everything she could to make this arrangement work. Their union was her suggestion, after all. A federation of weakened states joining together for the good of the Lord’s kingdom. Marriage would give him credibility with the senators, and Barek would provide the suitable heir necessary to contest Aspasius’s seizure of ­Cyprian’s vast wealth should the unfortunate need arise. But they both knew that he was not the man to fill Caecilianus’s shoes … or his bed.

  Late at night, after their physical attempts to fill the emptiness, grief’s fog would creep between them. Cyprian would roll to his side, and Ruth would turn to hers. As her silent sobs shook their downy tick, icy fingers reached inside his chest and squeezed the breath from his lungs. Unable to bear her tears or his own hypocrisy, he would rise and pace the cliffs. For hours, he’d stare at the dance of moonbeams upon the restless sea. Somewhere across the span of ocean and time Lisbeth might have been looking at the same moon. Did she know how much he had loved her and always would?

  “Cyprian? You’re scaring me.”

  He turned and took her outstretched hand. “It was only a dream.”

  “And was she in your dream?” Ruth’s question lacked the edge he deserved. Instead it was kind and forgiving, like her, and asked with the same genuine concern she lavished upon all the strays, including the ungrateful Titus Cicero.

  His hasty decision to jump into another marriage had done enough damage. Why hurt this wonderful woman with words that should never be thought, let alone spoken? He shook his head, unable to voice a lie, and changed the subject. “I’m sorry about Titus.”

  “I’m not. It will give me a chance to demonstrate to Barek how to forgive those who wrong you.” She looked at him in that disarming way of hers that meant she had more to say. “Back to your dream. Under the circumstances, how could you help but dream of Lisbeth?” Ruth smoothed the tousled strands of her braid. “I feel I’ve aged a hundred years in the time she’s been gone. Yet she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s still so determined and certain of her convictions.” Ruth let her hand slide from her hair to his arm. “And even more breathtakingly beautiful, don’t you think?”