Return to Exile (26 page)

33

F
ROM THE SHADOWS of
the colonnade, Lisbeth and Mama watched as hired musicians led the funeral procession from the kitchen to the
rogus
Cyprian had constructed in his garden. He’d laid the funeral pyre logs himself, refusing any help offered by the believers. In the hollow middle of the pyramid-shaped structure, he’d stuffed straw and kindling.

Aspasius had forbidden the Christians access to the cemetery outside the city walls. This edict meant Ruth could not be buried beside her beloved Caecilianus. Cyprian had furiously paced the garden, threatening to storm the proconsul’s palace and demand the law be revoked. Ruth had always been the line of civilization that kept insanity at bay, the gentle voice that cooled hot heads. Lisbeth shouldn’t have been surprised when her clumsy attempt to sway Cyprian toward another path had been met with hostility. Luckily, Pontius had intervened with two strong hands on Cyprian’s shoulders and some in-your-face conversation Lisbeth couldn’t quite make out. Whatever Pontius said, Cyprian eventually calmed enough to accept the idea of cremating his wife and baby son in the safety of his private property.

Lisbeth held her breath as Cyprian and Pontius gently placed Ruth’s oil-anointed and properly shrouded body and that of her baby across the tepee-shaped chimney opening. The log funnel
was designed to suck the intense heat to the upper tier and incinerate the corpses to ashes in a few hours.

Across the garden, Barek and Junia stood with their arms crossed over their chests, desperate as she to keep their hearts from leaping into the glowing embers. Lisbeth had purposely chosen to pay her respects from a distance. Not because giving Ruth’s children space was the right thing to do, but because Mama had suggested it might be the best remedy for the hurt on their faces.

Neither of them would have anything to do with her or Maggie, which only added to Maggie’s already bruised conscience. The child could not quit crying, saying she never wanted to play with dolls again. Lisbeth had put Maggie to bed early and patted her back for thirty minutes before she’d finally fallen asleep. When Mama asked Laurentius to stay in the cottage and keep an eye on his little niece, Laurentius cried, begging to go to the funeral. Mama diverted his attention with a fresh piece of paper and a full pot of ink. “Draw Ruth a picture.”

Now, as Lisbeth watched Cyprian kiss Ruth’s swaddled lips, she wished she could trade places with Laurentius. To live in his world of innocence, a world she hadn’t known since she was five.

Cyprian ran his hand over Ruth’s body, stopping at the bulge that was his child. His face contorted in tears. Lisbeth ached to go to him. To tell him she’d throw herself upon the smoldering logs if it would ease the pain on his face and erase the blame from his eyes.

Mama pointed at the back gate. “The church is beginning to arrive.”

Naomi had spread news of the funeral details among the believers. Over the past hour, many of Ruth’s surviving patients and their families streamed through the back entrance. Quinta. Metras. Natalis and his mother. They’d covered their bowed heads with dust to honor the woman they adored. To think, only a day ago they’d rallied around this woman with joy.

To Lisbeth’s surprise, Felicissimus filed in among the mourners. She’d told herself after seeing him in the church meeting that if their paths ever crossed again she would give him the verbal lashing his betrayal deserved. Her eyes locked with his, and she knew Felicissimus understood their business was not finished.

Her breath caught; then she felt Mama’s hand on her shoulder.

“What is it, Lisbeth?”

“A snake in the garden.”

“It can wait.”

“Not for long.”

Lisbeth grudgingly joined Mama behind a pillar, but she couldn’t help peeking around. The sleazy little slave trader waddled across the garden and offered Cyprian his condolences with a grave and sincere face. It appeared that Felicissimus had waltzed back into the life of the man he’d ruined, no questions asked, while here she was, standing on all too shaky ground.

Cyprian scattered a little grain on the stacked driftwood, sprinkled salt across Ruth’s body, and lit the incense burner. Next, he withdrew the scroll tucked into his belt. “From the words of God’s servant John.” Cyprian unrolled the parchment. Collecting himself was taking longer than Lisbeth could bear. She took a step toward him, but Mama pulled her back with a stern shake of her head. Cyprian raised the scroll. He cleared his throat and began to read. “Blessed are those who die in the Lord.” He paused, swallowed hard, and started again. “They are blessed indeed, for they will rest from all their toils and trials; for their good deeds follow them!”

“Amen” rippled through the crowd.

Cyprian slowly rolled the brittle parchment. “Ruth loved the Lord, and her toils on your behalf speak to how much she loved each of you. I, for one, will never let her good deeds be forgotten.” His eyes canvassed the crowd. When his gaze met Lisbeth’s, he
stopped. “In the presence of these witnesses, I declare I will not rest, no matter the trials, until I am certain Carthage is safe from plague and Christians are free of persecution.”

He moved back from the pyre, and Pontius stirred a long metal rod through the red-hot embers.

Hungry flames nibbled at the kindling and then quickly moved on to consume the grain. Scorching tongues licked the muslin and charred a black outline of a mother holding her child. The dry cloth caught fire with a whoosh
.
A pillar of angry smoke rose toward the setting sun.

Caecilianus’s dogs loped into the garden and skidded to a stop inches from the pyre. Their forlorn howls rose above the foul smoke.

Lisbeth breathed in hot, acrid air that seared her throat. Despite the heat the burning pyre gave off, she shivered uncontrollably. Ruth had said everything was forgiven, but Lisbeth knew forgiving herself for making these past few days so difficult would not be so easy.

One by one, mourners filed by, wailing, dabbing their eyes, and pulling their hair. Some even stopped to scoop ashes from the fringe of the fire to add a smear to their faces. Once everyone had cleared but Cyprian and Pontius, Lisbeth made her way across the garden, her eyes stinging from a combination of smoke and tears. She slipped her hand into Cyprian’s and squeezed. He stared straight into the flames, but to her relief, he squeezed back. The pressure created a fixed point in time, a place they had been and a place to which they would never return.

“I’m sorry,” Lisbeth whispered.

“Ruth has exchanged the suffering of this world for a bright and eternal honor.” Cyprian released her hand and turned to face her. “Go home, Lisbeth.” His voice was tired and brittle. “Take our daughter to safety, and leave this place while you still can.”

34

I
T WAS THE LONELIEST
part of the night. The time when the wind died down and the moon plummeted toward dawn. The time when Lisbeth’s mind retraced her steps and tripped over her failures. The time she dreaded most.

Feeling broken and small, Lisbeth slipped out of bed and threw a robe over her shoulders.

The mouse scurrying across the bedroom floor stopped at the sputtering lamp to steal a few licks of the olive oil. She should send the sneaky thief scampering, but she didn’t have the energy to waste on futile efforts. Hundreds of hungry, demanding mice waited behind the stone walls like the desperately ill waited at Cyprian’s doors. The moment this little bugger was out of the way, another would quickly take his place . . . and then another . . . and another.

Lisbeth left the mouse to lap his fill and stepped onto the balcony. She pulled her robe closed and padded to the balustrade.

Needing a compass more than ever, she silently railed at the cloud cover obscuring her view of the stars. She had no answers as to why her good intentions to rescue everyone had gone so horribly awry. It was true she’d been upset with Ruth. But she’d never wanted her friend to die. And she’d never meant to trap Cyprian in the middle of such an impossible situation. She didn’t know how to
fix any of this. All she knew was that opening yourself to love was like opening your veins. The potential for serious harm was great. Everything that mattered could drain away before you knew it.

Torn between staying and going, she weighed her options. Clearly, meddling in the natural flow of events had set in motion unimaginable catastrophes. Cyprian had told her to go home. Obviously, he wanted nothing to do with her. If she went back through the portal now, their daughter would never truly know her father. Surely there had to be better a way. Something she could do.

“Maggie’s had a bad dream.” Mama came from behind and squeezed her shoulder. “I tried to calm her, but she’s asking for you.” She held out a steaming mug. “I’ve made my version of chamomile tea to help her sleep.”

Lisbeth sighed, dragging her eyes from the distant sky, and took the cup. “I’ve spent ten years in the equivalent of indentured servitude trying to learn how to save lives, and when it mattered most . . . I had nothing.”

Mama beckoned her to join her on the bench. “Sometimes the only thing a doctor can do after a loss like this is walk away, drink a cup of coffee, and reflect on how totally useless all of our efforts to fight death sometimes are.”

“Why Ruth?” An apple-scented steam stung Lisbeth’s nostrils. “Less than a foot in my direction, and that bull would have killed me.”

“Things happen. Often with no explanation,” Mama said. “Maybe this was God’s way of protecting Ruth from the arena.”

Lisbeth ran her finger around the mug’s rim. “Who brings their child to a place where being trampled by a crazed ox is preferable to being forced to kneel before the executioner’s sword?”

“I ask myself that question every time I look at you.” Mama wrapped her arm around Lisbeth’s shoulder. “Tell me the real reason you came back.”

Lisbeth wanted to let go of the secret eating her insides, to be free of bearing sole responsibility for the futures of the people she loved so much. Sometimes she even imagined what it would look like to give up the stress of trying to fix everything and let things just happen. Then her instincts always kicked in. She could hear the familiar warnings . . .
Danger
 . . .
Don’t let go . . . No one else is coming along to save the day . . . God helps those who help themselves
.

She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “The first time Papa and I returned to the Cave of the Swimmers I found the portal because of you.”

“Me?”

“You were there. You spoke to me, and I could see you. How is that possible?”

If Mama recognized her dodge, she chose to overlook it for now. “After we die, we dwell in a dimension not bound by time.” Mama pulled away. “You know I’m going to die, right?”

She’d lost her mother twice now. Once when she was five and again when Mama sent her back to the twenty-first century. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Mama a third time to something as permanent as eternity. “How do you do it, stay in this trying place?”

“The same way anyone does anything: one day at a time.” Mama stood and went to the railing. “When I first arrived, I was so afraid.” She glanced back at Lisbeth. “Not for me, but for you.”

“Me? I was safe with Papa.”

“My heart knew that, but my head couldn’t stop worrying. What would happen to my precious little daughter without her mother? What if your father couldn’t fill in the gaps? You know how distracted he can be.” Mama swallowed. “Once I realized I was stuck here, I fought hard. I refused to eat. Refused to submit. One night Aspasius locked me in his office.” She stared at her extended hands. “I made my fingers bloody stubs trying to claw my way out.
But the harder I fought against my new reality, the more things spiraled out of control.” Mama gripped the balustrade. “Then there was that painful, yet glorious moment of change. The moment I knew the only thing I could control in this world . . . or yours . . . was my attitude.”

“What happened?”

“After I gave birth to Laurentius, Aspasius took one look at our baby’s moon-pie face and beat me unconscious. I would have died were it not for the kindness of Iltani, a Christian slave who lost her tongue after a failed escape attempt.” Mama’s eyes scanned the horizon as if she searched for some sort of explanation for the unexplainable. “That precious little slave girl risked her life for me and Laurentius again and again. Iltani hid us in the subterranean tunnels beneath the palace and nursed me back to health with crumbs she stole from our master’s table.” An appreciative smile lit Mama’s face. “By the time Aspasius asked for a healer, I was stronger and I’d made friends in the palace. I knew God. And I knew I’d been called to a purpose. I was no longer afraid, and I was no longer alone.

“Iltani and the other servants helped me work out a system. Laurentius was never left unattended . . . and neither was I.” Tears glistened on Mama’s cheeks. “God was with me.” She took the cup from Lisbeth and set it on the bench. “I understand how difficult it is for you to let go. But as long as your hands are full, my precious girl, your heart will remain empty.”

“I want to trust. Really I do.”

“Then tell me the truth of why you risked everything to come back.”

Lisbeth took a deep breath and plunged into the story, sparing none of the details. One by one, she purged the agonizing months of her pregnancy, her worries about Papa, and the fears of single parenting. She told Mama of her early-church history research,
launching into the specifics of what was about to descend upon this struggling little group of people. By the time she finished, the tea had cooled considerably. “What is to come is far worse than measles or typhoid.”

Mama’s brows raised. “Go on.”

“The church will soon lose its leader and the financier of their good works.”

Understanding sobered Mama’s face. “Cyprian?”

Lisbeth nodded.

“How?”

“Beheading.” Lisbeth wiped the moisture from her cheeks and looked grimly into Mama’s own brimming eyes. “And after what he just declared over Ruth’s grave, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop it.”