Return to Exile

by Lynne Gentry

“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

  SITTING 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.

  Loving Lisbeth of Dallas had opened up his heart to things beyond rules and honor and expectations. Whatever the consequences, he wanted her—needed her—in his future.

  She had risked everything for him. How could he turn his back on her?

  “Then let’s make Aspasius wish we had never returned.” He held her trembling body and whispered into her hair. “I believe we are in need of that crazy plan.”

  44

  STARING INTO THE SUNKEN eyes of the man who’d tormented her for years was harder than Magdalena had anticipated. On the brisk march to the proconsul’s palace she’d worked to conquer the churning in her stomach, but when the soldiers dragged her through the front door and she saw the worry on the faces of her old friends she’d immediately felt the need to vomit.

  Kardide, a hook-nosed Turk, and Tabari, a brown-bean native, had managed to give her a couple of quick hugs before the soldiers tore them apart and ordered them up against the birdcages. Waxbill finches beat their wings against the gold bars, and ringnecked parrots strutted and squawked their protest.

  Neither of her friends said a word. They didn’t have to. From the scars on their faces, they’d already suffered for the help they’d given her months ago. She hated that her return might bring a painful end to their lives. Within a few minutes, Iltani emerged from Aspasius’s bedroom, grave-faced and motioning Magdalena forward.

  With the tip of a soldier’s sword in her back, Magdalena now stood at the door of the bedroom she hated more than the naked man shivering on the bed. All she could think of was the sour taste in her mouth.

  Pytros perched on the scribe’s stool he’d moved beside the bed. He stopped mopping Aspasius’s forehead. “Master, your healer’s been found.”

  A victorious smirk twitched the corners of Aspasius’s mouth. There was no end to the creative ways he could make Magdalena and her friends regret the day she slipped free. Had it not been for Iltani, Tabari, and Kardide force-feeding her dying hope with sips of broth, her skeletal body would have aborted the new life she’d carried in her womb. She would have died without knowing the pain of these years, but she also would have missed the joys. She owed her friends a cool head now.

  Pytros draped the cloth over his master’s brow. “Don’t stand there gawking, woman.” His screeching reminded her of the ringnecks in the cages, brazen and trapped. “Close the door before our master catches a chill.” He lifted a frosty mug from the bowl of snow swift runners had fetched from the slopes of the Atlas ­Mountains.

  She’d never liked Pytros or his sneaky ways. From his condescending tone, the little weasel had full run of the henhouse in her absence. Magdalena did not move. Her nose had detected the sharp, putrid smell of desperation and wet gangrene coming from Aspasius’s bed. Life-threatening combination. Pytros was in over his head. He just didn’t know it yet.

  “Your master stinks.”

  “He’s been unable to visit the baths for several days.”

  Aspasius’s face was flush with fever, and he was sweating profusely. If she was forced to touch him, his skin would surely burn her fingers. He’d always been slow-footed because of his bulk and short leg, but since she’d last seen him, he’d become skeletally thin. Rotting from the inside out. Infection and hatred had withered him to an unrecognizable state. For an inst
ant, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “You’re dying, Aspasius,” she said bluntly.

  He pushed up on his elbows in a shaky show of defiance. “What are you now, a god?”

  “I can smell your decomposition from here.”

  “I allowed a doctor to cut me, and malignant spirits entered my body.”

  “They’ve always been there.”

  “Where do healers come by their arrogance?” Aspasius tried to move his leg and cried out in pain.

  “Do something, wench,” Pytros ordered.

  Magdalena stood rooted to the threshold, unable to move. Somewhere in her head a voice screamed, “Run! He can’t hurt you now.” Another voice quickly countered, “Put the pillow over his face, and end everyone’s misery once and for all.”

  A calming whisper silenced the chaos. She recognized the quiet hush, a soft rustle no stronger than the spring breezes that stirred the sea grasses. It was the same serene melody she’d heard all those years ago, the voice that came to her through the pain and darkness, the voice of hope when she didn’t think she could live another day. The voice she’d chosen to obey even if it meant her death.

  She took a bold step into the room. “I have terms to which you will agree.”

  “Terms?” Aspasius’s labored breaths indicated he was on the verge of pneumonia. “You are my slave. You don’t issue terms.”

  “Nothing happens that is not God’s purpose. I am his slave, and I’m here at the one God’s bidding. Not yours.”

  “Ahhh. The one God.” Aspasius fell back upon his pillow. “I’ll have you and your one God thrown into the arena.”

  “Save your fool threats for the angel of death.”

  “These are not threats,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  “You can kill me”—Magdalena stepped boldly toward the door—“but then who will be left to heal you?”

  Pytros puffed himself up like a preening bird. “There is always Galen.”

  “The vet?” She laughed. “You let that horse doctor cut on you?”

  “What’s so funny?” Pytros demanded.

  She calmed herself and quoted one of the Roman sayings her husband had long ago used to tease her: “He who is born mad cannot be cured in an instant … even if his medic is Galen.” She chuckled again at the memory of Lawrence’s pleased grin whenever his poor attempts at humor got under her skin. “I’ve always wanted to say those words, just never thought I’d have such a perfect opportunity.”

  “What do they mean?” Pytros hated when he appeared the fool he was.

  “It means I might be able to save your master’s leg, but whether or not his mind is salvaged resides with the one whose power he continues to deny.”

  “What do you want from me, woman?” Aspasius asked, moaning.

  So many things. For starters, he could say he was sorry. That he regretted every unspeakable thing he’d done to her. That if he had it to do all over again, he would demonstrate compassion, kindness, and love, not only toward her but especially toward their precious son.

  Those were the concessions she wanted, the repentance he would never embrace.

  To protect her family, she must let her grudges go. She would ask for things his hard, pagan heart could understand. God would work out the rest. “Running water restored to the tenements. The dead bodies removed from the streets. The highways and harbors closed until this sickness passes.”

  “Are you trying to destroy my city?”

  “Quite the opposite. I’m trying to save it from annihilation. While the rich have marble urinals, the poor live in squalid apartments on crooked streets lined with decaying bodies. Burial outside the city walls is prohibited, but that will soon be inconsequential. Soon no one will have the strength to wheel the bodies beyond the gates.”

  Magdalena felt her resolve picking up steam. “The bathhouses need to shut down, because they’re promoting the spread of the epidemic. For a population to coexist in such close proximity it must have pure water, clean streets, and working sewers. Zymotic diseases flourish in crowds—acute infections transfer from one person to another at the rate of a forest fire, leaping from dry undergrowth to dry timber.” She repeated exactly what Lisbeth had told her, letting her own sense of pride at her daughter’s brilliance shine through.

  She did not give him time to wiggle out from under her demands. “I want Kardide, Iltani, and Tabari spared punishment for my actions.” She took a breath. “And most important of all, I want you to grant Cyprian the freedom to do what must be done to save this city.”

  “Cyprian?” Aspasius struggled to prop himself up with his elbows again. His eyes flickered with a knowing that prickled her skin. “What do you know of that traitor?”

  “When he is returned from his exile.”

  “You used to be such a better liar.” He licked his cracked lips. “Do you think I don’t know he’s in my city? That heretic will die in the arena the moment I’m well enough to enjoy the entertainment.”

  Her mind raced, putting the pieces into place. Lisbeth’s reaction to Felicissimus’s appearance at the villa. Her own memory of seeing him leave the palace. “Let me guess … Felicissimus told you.”

  “My business is none of yours.”

  If Aspasius knew about Cyprian, she was almost certain Felicissimus had told him about Lisbeth, too. She couldn’t let herself think of what this could mean for her daughter. For now she had the upper hand on Aspasius, and she intended to use it. “Then you shall die, for I will not set foot into your bedroom.” Magdalena recounted her demands. “Running water. Streets cleared. Harbor closed. Kardide, Iltani, and Tabari spared. Cyprian freed. And Felicissimus exposed for the betrayer he is.”

  Aspasius gnawed on a corner of his chapped lips. “Fine.” He fell back and flicked a feeble wave over his leg. “Do something about this dreadful pain.”

  “Not until you sign off on all you’ve promised.”

  “Write it up, Pytros.”

  “But, master—”

  “Now.”

  Pytros quickly dug through the drawer of the bedside table. He found a scrap of paper, scratched out her demands, and presented the document to Aspasius for signature. The proconsul was too weak to hold the pen.

  Magdalena came to his bedside. “Here.” She cupped his hand with hers and helped him scribble his mark on the promise. “I’ll keep this.” She blew across the ink, then folded the paper and slid it into her pocket.

  “You should have demanded your freedom,” Aspasius croaked.

  “You cannot give me what I already have through Christ Jesus.” Candlelight shadows created hills and valleys that ran the length of his wasted body. “Open the shutters, Pytros. I need fresh air.” She took a moment to enjoy the irritation on Pytros’s face, then opened her supply satchel and removed the pair of latex gloves Lisbeth had shoved into her bag at the last minute.

  A cursory visual examination of her patient revealed the source of the fetid odor. The dime-size sore on the bottom of Aspasius’s foot had grown to the size of a silver dollar. She lifted the appendage for a closer look. Aspasius howled. The leg wrappings he’d insisted on wearing had dug deep, purple indentations into his bloated limb. Restricted circulation and trapped moisture had created the perfect breeding ground for infection. Three of his toes were black. The rest of his foot was bright red, and his ankle was swollen to twice its normal size. She pressed the yellow blister under his arch. It split open, and purulent discharge oozed out.

  “Gangrene.” She carefully lowered his foot upon the stack of pillows Pytros had nervously arranged. “Left untreated, the infection will spread through his body. His organs will become septic and throw him into shock.”

  “What does that mean?” Pytros asked.

  She straightened. “The proconsul of Carthage is going to die a slow, painful death.”

  Pytros wrung his hands. “Oh, dear.”

  “If I die,” Aspasius said with a cough, “she dies.”

  Magdal
ena pushed aside the desire to spin on her heels and let nature take its course. If she truly believed in God’s timing, then she’d been sent here for a reason. As best as she could tell, the reason seemed to be to save this horrible man. Repulsive as the idea appeared, she continued plowing through her options.

  “I could implant live maggots into his festering tissue. They would devour the infection and leave healthy flesh in their wake. The process is slow; it doesn’t fix the circulation problem that prevented his healing in the first place; and, most importantly, the risk of infecting him with typhoid is huge.”

  “Typhoid?” Pytros asked.

  “Another log nature has thrown on the fire that is destroying Carthage.” She examined the infected limb. “A proper debridement of the wound might give the scanty bit of healthy tissue a chance, but without antibiotics and a hyperbaric oxygen chamber, I’m hesitant to embark on such a risky course of treatment.”

  To keep from appearing the fool again, Pytros poured Aspasius another round of wine.

  “No.” She took the cup before it reached the proconsul’s lips. “We must keep his belly empty for the next twelve hours.”

  “But I’m dying of thirst,” Aspasius protested.

  The quickest and safest option was amputation, but she wasn’t quite ready to toss surgery out as an option. She examined the flesh above his knee. Cool and healthy in color. If she removed his leg right below the knee, she could head off the spread of infection and possibly save enough of the joint to support a wooden prosthetic. Fortunately, the infection had ravaged his short leg. Once Aspasius realized he could have a skilled artisan carve a perfect leg, one that would even his gait, he would probably be thrilled. Then again, surgery in these primitive conditions was extremely risky. Blood loss. Infection. Lack of antibiotics. She needed help.

  “Pytros, fetch Tabari, Iltani, and Kardide.” She emptied out her tools. Now she almost wished she would have agreed to bring Lisbeth and her shiny new saw. “And lots of hot water.”

  “Why?”

  “He has developed a diabetic complication.” She continued on, despite the puzzled scowl on Pytros’s face. “I’m going to have to operate, and it will take us a while to prepare everything.”