Return to Exile (25 page)

Dawn crept through the shutter slats, shedding light on the truth. Despite everything they had tried, life was quickly ebbing from Ruth.

Mama wiped her brow with the back of her hand, then peeled off her gloves. “We have to let her go.”

Lisbeth wrapped her fingers around Ruth’s limp hand, wishing she could somehow will her own strength into her friend. She watched Ruth’s chest, counting the expanding gap of seconds between the rise and fall of her respirations. Ruth gasped, went rigid, then slowly released her last breath.

Grief constricted Lisbeth’s airways and shredded her protest. “No.”

Mama gently closed Ruth’s eyes and covered her face with a cloth. Drenched in blood and exhausted, she stepped back from the table, dropped her head into her hands, and wept.

Lisbeth stared at the damage her return had inflicted. The
kitchen was a mess of soiled rags and discarded medical instruments. Mama’s strong resolve had dissolved into an emotional wreck. And despite the brightening of the sun, the room had the darkness that comes when pure light is snuffed out.

She had always heard that life passes before your eyes right before you die. What had Ruth thought when she looked up to see a thousand pounds of flailing hooves hurtling toward her? Had her eyes searched the alley for kind, old Caecilianus or for her handsome second husband? Or was Ruth so focused on saving the daughter of her dear friend that she’d not been thinking about herself at all? Lisbeth raced for an empty pot upon the shelf and retched.

“Are you okay?” Mama rubbed her back as Lisbeth continued purging the ugliness inside her.

Lisbeth nodded and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

As a doctor, she knew the mechanics of death. She could recite the sequential order of the devastating effects of trauma, organ failure, and the final shutting down of every system. But despite having watched more than her fair share of people expire, she wasn’t prepared for the emotional destructiveness of losing the best friend she’d ever had.

31

L
ISBETH RINSED HER MOUTH,
but the bitter taste lingered on her tongue. It took a few minutes before her trembling hands regained enough stability to help Mama prepare Ruth’s body for viewing. While Mama sponged the blood from Ruth’s battered limbs, Lisbeth undid her friend’s thick blond braid. She brushed all the dirt and dried fluids from the golden waves, then arranged the shimmering cascade around Ruth’s pale, bare shoulders. They crossed Ruth’s stiffening arms to form a protective cradle around the bundled baby boy resting on her chest.

Mama raised a clean sheet to conceal the neat row of stitches she’d woven across the empty place in Ruth’s belly. “We’ve done all we can.”

“Did we?” In the sputtering light of the torch, Ruth looked peaceful. The beautiful mother, woman, and friend she had always been. “I shouldn’t have let her go.”

“Her Junia was lost, too.” Mama tucked a strand of Lisbeth’s hair behind her ear. “You’re a mother. Could someone have stopped you?”

Lisbeth filled a wooden bucket with water and dropped to her knees. She dragged a rag over the tiles. The more she scrubbed, the wider the red circle grew. Cold, wet stains seeped through the fabric stretched across her knees. Her tunic would
never be the same, and neither would she. How was she going to tell Cyprian?

The prospect of facing him turned Lisbeth’s empty stomach. She’d had to announce deaths to family members before. It seemed like just yesterday when she had to tell that young father his wife had died of measles. Sad as it was to watch him sob, she’d been able to extricate herself, put distance between his grief and her failure. But this was different. Despite all that had transpired, Ruth was like the sister she never had. And hardest of all, Ruth would still be alive if she hadn’t come back and screwed everything up.

Tough as Cyprian’s grief would be to witness, telling Barek, Junia, Maggie, and Laurentius was the chore she most dreaded. She predicted inconsolable meltdowns. She was as ill-equipped as this ancient kitchen to handle the trauma of this awful news.

She hated the power of death. Wasn’t that why she was here? To stop a plague from killing innocent people in the future and to prevent Cyprian’s senseless death in the past? So far, not only had she failed to accomplish her tasks, she’d made things worse.

She kissed Mama’s cheek. “I guess it’s time to tell everyone.” She prayed God would give her the perfect words. Something wise. Something reassuring. Something as comforting as Ruth would say to her.

She stepped into the garden where Cyprian and Barek paced.

“Lisbeth?” Cyprian asked hopefully.

She willed herself to look into their anxious faces. “The baby didn’t make it.”

Cyprian sank onto a bench. “And Ruth?”

Lisbeth shook her head. As the news lowered his shoulders, she longed to reach for him, to take him in her arms and absorb the brunt of his grief.

“You let my mother die?” Barek cursed, and hit the wall.

“What?”

Barek wheeled and shook his fist in her face. “You wanted her dead. Out of the way so you could have Cyprian to yourself!”

Had she? His accusation was more than that of a frightened and angry child who’d lost his mother and desperately wanted her back. Barek had put into words what she hadn’t the courage to allow herself to consider. If Cyprian had chosen her, what would have happened to Ruth? To their child? To the home they’d built together?

“Your mother was my friend.” Lisbeth tried to sidestep him. “We had a problem to solve, but she said we would work things out. And I believed her.”

Barek grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. “You killed her!”

Cyprian snagged Barek’s elbow and jerked him around. “Barek, she did not—”

“Don’t defend her to me.” He shook loose. “You made my mother an adulteress.” He bolted from the garden.

Cyprian and Lisbeth stood there staring at each other. Neither knowing what to say next. In the tiny span of silence she watched Cyprian process.

“Cyprian . . . I didn’t mean for her to die. . . .”

Finally, he spoke. “He’s upset.” Weariness weighted his voice. “I know you wouldn’t hurt Ruth any more than she would hurt you. You loved each other.” Cyprian’s blue eyes pierced deep inside her soul.

Did he see how much she loved him, or did he see what she feared she’d become? A petty, jealous woman standing at the edge of a cliff, her feet slipping closer and closer to the perilous drop of all-consuming envy. Her attempts to manipulate the past into her version of a safe, happy future tumbled like rocks into an abyss.

“Cyprian . . . please . . . I . . .”

“I have a funeral to plan.” He strode past her without another word.

32

A
SPASIUS ADJUSTED THE LAUREL
of bay leaves slipping down over his eyes. Pytros had insisted on weaving the fragrant wreath to protect him from contracting the plague during his trip to the public bathhouse. So far he’d heard no reports of plague from the wealthy patrons who frequented the upscale salon. But then, he’d also been the last to know about sickness in the house of Titus Cicero, the whereabouts of his slave, and the secretive return of Cyprian.

He tightened the sash on his robe, noting that achieving a good fit required him to pull the belt several notches tighter. Even though he couldn’t seem to get enough sweets, weight had fallen off him these past few weeks. In his wasted state, he had to agree with Pytros: he could not be too careful with the little bit of health he had left.

Pytros sprinkled lavender oil over the new dressings binding his foot. “Ready?”

“You’re sure none of the servants will talk?”

“I’ll make certain their lips are sealed.”

“The same way you made certain no one knew of Valerian’s edict? Somehow Cyprian learned it was safe to come home, and look what it has cost me.”

“That was not me. I swear.” Pytros rang a bell, and six strong
men matched in size and dressed in gorgeous liveries of royal blue entered the bedroom and hoisted Aspasius into his litter. One of the litter bearers caught a whiff of the nauseating odor and retched all over Aspasius’s marble floor.

Pytros called for someone to clean up the mess. When Iltani appeared with a towel, Pytros yanked her aside and proceeded to parade Aspasius’s speechless slave past the litter bearers. He pried her mouth open. “Should any of you breathe a word of what you see or hear tonight, your mouths will also be empty.”

Satisfied with the men’s obediently downcast eyes, Pytros climbed in beside Aspasius, closed the curtains, and with a tap to the frame, they were off.

Aspasius closed his eyes, contemplating how easily rumors of Valerian’s edict had spread across the empire and how a convicted heretic known and recognized by many could have slipped back into town without a word from anyone. He rested his head on a cushion but did not allow the rhythmic patter of footmen toting him at top speed to lull his fury.

They arrived at the back entrance to the Baths of Antoninus, and Pytros directed the litter bearers to deposit them at the sauna. Once Aspasius limped inside his private compartment, slaves carefully removed his clothes.

Exhausted from the slight effort, Aspasius plopped his naked body on the mottled, marble bench inside the steam chamber. He tugged at the sagging skin where his rotund middle used to be.

He, and he alone, knew best how to save Carthage, and he intended to live long enough to see his scheme carried out.

“I’ll fetch Felicissimus from the corridor.” A chilly breeze cut the steam as Pytros exited.

Aspasius leaned back against the tiled wall mosaic of Neptune. He could feel the angry sea god cracking the whip over his chariot and mocking his decision to allow the horse doctor to return and
botch the bloodletting. Galen’s torturous procedure had not healed him. In fact, the moment the quack’s blade slit his skin, Aspasius knew the wound had opened him up for the entrance of evil spirits. All through the night, fiery spasms rose past his knee, traveled beyond his thigh, and were now eating away at his core.

Aspasius signaled the wine attendant and snapped an order at the glistening slaves stoking the fire pit. “Hurry, fools.”

Their black eyes cut curious glances at him as he waited for the wine to thin the sludge in his veins. He laid his head against Neptune’s pronged fork, listening to the sounds of heavy stones being pushed across the tiles and shoved into the flames. When the stones were white-hot, two strong-armed men wearing long gloves and carrying giant metal tongs pulled the glowing rocks from the fire and doused them with water. A blast of hot fog filled the room.

Steam scalded Aspasius’s skin. His gritted teeth nipped his scream. He willed his mind through the excruciating discomfort, which was more than twice the level of pain he’d suffered all these years from his ill-set leg.

Felicissimus poked his head in. “Aspasius?”

“Over here.” Aspasius ordered the attendants out.

“Did something die in here?” Felicissimus appeared before him, bare-chested, a towel wrapped around his girth, two fingers pinching his nose. Obviously the slave trader had not only grown fat but also irritatingly sassy on the extra business Aspasius tossed his way as part of their previous agreement. Should Felicissimus forget his debt and try to weasel out of his obligations, Aspasius could think of any number of ways to collect what was due him. And he would not hesitate.

“Don’t stand there gawking.” Aspasius patted the seat. “How many writs of libellus have you sold to the Christians?”

“A few.”

“Obviously destroying the church from the inside out is not working. No one is following you anywhere.”

Felicissimus shifted in his towel. “If that foul odor is coming from you, you have a problem far more pressing than who does or does not follow me.”

“My problems became your problems the moment you came to me with the promise of delivering Cyprianus Thascius and shifting the loyalties of these Christians. If you fail to hold up your end of our bargain, I will see to it that your hopes of leaving the slave trade to become my well-paid bishop with his own little kingdom of adoring subjects vanishes.”

Felicissimus smiled. “You will need me come spring if you insist on bringing Cyprian before the masses and making him a martyr.”

“Cyprian is already home! You know it, and so do I.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me, Felicissimus.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you’re determined to keep Cyprian alive. From the beginning you have insisted he be spared.”

“Once you execute Cyprian, the church won’t be the only ones to hold him up as a martyr. You know how martyrs can make a movement grow. Look what happened after Perpetua.” Felicissimus sipped his wine. “You do not want Cyprian turned into some kind of saint.” The slave trader wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his towel. “I said I’ll sell those writs, and I will. I must wait for the right moment. For now, the church is happy with Cyprian’s return and scurrying about doing his bidding.”

“How is it a good thing for me to allow Cyprian to amass an army?”

“An army?” Felicissimus cackled. “They’re a straggly little group who have rallied to Cyprian’s call for help rearranging the
sick in his house. They’re making plans to clear the streets of bodies and take turns running their little home for the afflicted. Busywork that makes them feel righteous. But I know these people. They don’t want to suffer.”

“Are you saying my soldiers should go house to house?”

“Fear is our greatest weapon. When push comes to shove, even the most devout will wonder what has become of their one God. They will offer a pinch of incense to the gods of the emperor to save their own necks. If Cyprian has no one left to lead, then he will no longer be a leader in need of elimination. But remember, if you have Cyprian killed, you will make enemies.”

Aspasius’s laughter rang in the chamber. He stood and tossed his glass into the flames. “All the greats of history have inspired enemies. And I intend to make history.”