Shades of Surrender (4 page)

Waiting until Metras began to snore, she quietly set about cleaning ashes from her mother’s face and hair. Even the cat needed a bath, which she would see to after she tended her mother’s minor burns and laundered the tunics that reeked of smoke. She stripped her mother bare and added the soiled dress to Metras’s pile of dirty clothes.

“Climb under these covers and nap while I do the wash.” She emptied the oil lamp so there wouldn’t be any chance of another fire. After her mother fell asleep, Ruth loaded her arms with laundry and went to the large tubs simmering over red-hot coals in the apartment courtyard.

She scrubbed soot from her mother’s tunic wearily and absentmindedly listened to the other women stringing clothes on a line.

A chunky one with a broad nose shook out a wet garment. “If there’d been a breeze, the whole district would have gone up in flames.”

“I think it was that crazy woman who sits by the window,” said another. Ruth recognized her as the one she had seen peering into her shop one day while she was working at the loom.

Ruth was glad she’d not taken the time to wash the soot from her own face. But just in case someone still recognized her, she lowered her head and dunked the garments into and out of the boiling water as fast as she could.

“Don’t know how Metras will eat without his rent money,” the chunky woman said.

“He’ll want whoever did this punished.”

Ruth wrung the water from the last tunic, gathered up the wet clothes, and hurried back to check on the very man who would see her crucified.

7

R
UTH POURED THE BASIN
of dirty water from the apartment window. Her back ached from three days of hard work bringing order to the small home of Metras, and her eyes were heavy from the sleepless nights of keeping vigil by the old man’s bed.

She wiped the basin with a fresh towel. “This place was filthy.”

“Hasn’t had a good cleaning since my wife left me.” Metras surveyed her work from his propped-up position on the bed. “Don’t think a clean floor makes us even, though.”

“You saved my mother. I owe a debt I can never repay.”

A rap at the door gave Ruth such a start she almost dropped the pottery. Had the soldiers found her? She put a finger to her lips to warn her mother to stay still—which was wasted effort, since the fire had not thawed her mother’s frozen voice.

Metras nodded his head toward the door. “Aren’t you going to answer it, girl?”

Ruth set the basin on the small table and reluctantly went to the door. She slid the latch and slowly peeked outside. No shiny armor. No drawn swords. No one. She opened the door all the way. At her feet she found a basket of bread and cheese, a crock of wine, and a fresh tunic that looked to be her size exactly.

“Well?” Metras asked.

She quickly snatched the supplies and closed the door. “Someone brought us dinner.”

“Who would do that?”

Her first inclination was to think Caecilianus; then she remembered the look on his face when she’d refused him and knew better. “Maybe someone from the church.”

“You mean one of those Christians?” Metras’s leathered face creased up worse than a rocky crag of limestone. “Why would they bring us food?”

Back in the day when her family had extra, she’d proudly packed baskets and left them on doorsteps to surprise people in need. Never could she have imagined she would eventually be the one on the receiving end. “To help.”

Over the next few days, there were several knocks at the door. Ruth’s heart skittered between hoping it was Caecilianus and praying it was not soldiers. As more gifts appeared, her curiosity got the better of her, and she forgot all about her fear and rushed to catch the delivery person at the slightest sound. But there was never any sign of who had gifted them with salted mullets, a jar of garum sauce, a round of goat cheese, and a basket bulging with fresh bread and soft blond dates. Who could have known of her need for clean bandages and an extra pot of the ointment the healer had prescribed on the exact day she was to switch Metras’s treatment from the honey mixture to the pig fat concoction?

“Metras.” Ruth unwound the bandage on his left arm, careful not to yank it from the fresh pink skin. “What can you tell me about the day of the fire?”

“Not much.” He cringed like she’d tugged too hard. “Smoke was already pouring from the window when I came to collect my rent money.” He shifted. “I could see your mother. I called to her to take my hand through the window, but she wouldn’t let go of that cat.” He licked his lips. “I remembered you kept a water pot by the door. I thought I could put the fire out myself, but when I opened the door, flames leaped out. I put my hands over my face and ran in, grabbed her, and got out fast as I could on this bum leg.”

“You could have left my mother to burn.”

He scowled. “Just because I need my rent money on time doesn’t mean I’m heartless.”

An awkward pause in the conversation left Ruth unsure of what to say next.

“You were more than fair with me about the rent, and you’ve been more than kind to not tell the soldiers about my mother.” She dabbed ointment over the shrinking blisters. “I think you’re very brave.”

“I didn’t do anything so special.” His cheeks had bloomed red as his hands. “The real hero was that fellow who appeared out of nowhere and carried us out of there. Who was that?”

“An old friend.”

“Is he the one leaving all the gifts?”

Tears stung her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I pushed him away one time too many.”

8

B
Y THE LIGHT OF
an oil lamp, Caecilianus massaged dye into the wool strands. The rich hue emerging did not change the shade of his grief. It had been almost a week since the fire and the mess he’d made of his friendship with Ruth. He never should have encouraged her to leave her mother unattended, and he never should have delayed her with his inability to let her go. She obviously did not feel the same way as he. She had made that clear when she refused his offer of a place to stay until she could get back on her feet. He had seen the wariness in her eyes.

His gaze traveled the lengths of yarn hanging from his rafters. Each skein had been wrapped to perfection by Ruth’s fine hands. The laughter and companionship they’d shared echoed in the quiet of the neat and tidy rows. He would never forget that brief moment of sheer joy that had passed between them as snails slid down the slope of her nose.

He lifted the dripping batting from the vat and held it up to the light. Adding a tinge of red to the snail liquor had created a clotted-blood color. This piece of raw wool would cure to the perfect shade of imperial purple and fulfill the emperor’s order. Caecilianus draped the fleece over the drying rack.

At the washbasin, he scrubbed dye from his beard, then attacked the madder-root stains on his arms with more than the usual vigor.

“You the fellow that pulled me out of the smoke?”

Caecilianus wheeled to find Metras standing at his door, leaning on the new cane a carpenter friend had whittled and secretly delivered just a day ago. “Good to see you up and around, Metras. We’ve all been worried.”

“You talkin’ about you and your Christian friends?”

“Yes.”

The old man gave a little grudging nod. “They’ve been almost as good to me as Ruth has been.”

Ruth’s name sank like a stone in Caecilianus’s stomach. “What
you
did for those women can never be fully repaid.”

“You did the same for me.” Metras dragged his bandaged hand over his beard. “I’m hopin’ to square the debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Metras.”

“Maybe not, but I owe Ruth. And I’ve seen how her eyes mist up when she talks about you.”

Caecilianus felt his heart stutter. “She talks about me?” He offered Metras a seat.

“I’m thinking that girl’s worth charging into the flames again if need be.”

“She’s a fine woman.” Caecilianus shook his head. “But she’s made her choice clear.”

“Look, I had to sneak out before first light to come here. Soldiers are poking around. Asking questions. Lookin’ for someone to blame.” Metras put his cane between his knees and dragged his tongue over his cracked lips. “They can’t abide arsonists. If there had been a breeze that day this city wouldn’t be here. It’s only a matter of time before they find her.” He pointed his cane at Caecilianus. “You going to help her or not?”

9

C
AECILIANUS RAN A COMB
through his unruly hair and wiry beard. He changed his tunic so that the purple stains would not give him away. His chest throbbed like someone was using a snail hammer to crack him open. Purposely choosing to go before the proconsul of Carthage was never a good decision . . . especially for a Christian. Everyone knew how Aspasius despised those who did not pay tribute to the temple gods. Caecilianus tightened his sash. If his plan to save Ruth did not go well, she would not be the only one facing arena lions.

The moment the fleece was no longer damp to the touch, Caecilianus folded it carefully and slid the dark batting, along with his hesitation, inside a small Turkmen bag. He prayed the proconsul’s pride and love of luxury outweighed his devotion to the emperor.

Pink streaks of light were barely peeking over the horizon, and already the avenues were jammed with thousands of spectators loaded down with picnic baskets, skins of new wine, and handheld fans made of parchment or ostrich feathers.

Game day at the Colosseum.

Caecilianus held tightly to his bag and fell in with the sea of people heading toward the Travertine arches of the amphitheater. Vendors of roasted meats and souvenir carvings of the gladiator favorites had claimed the prime locations days in advance. Brightly colored banners fluttered from their booths along with flowery promises of the best prices to be found at the games.

Exotic-animal dealers arrived with carts pulled by long-tusked elephants. In their iron-barred cages, lions, tigers, and hyenas paced. Animal keepers who spent game days toiling in near darkness below the arena floor emerged from the tunnels. With squinted eyes, they backed the trailers and opened the cage doors. Hungry animals shot from one form of captivity, only to disappear into an even darker future. Soon their blood would stain the sand, and the bloodthirsty Romans would howl with pleasure.

Stuffing his desire to set them all free, Caecilianus elbowed his way through the crowds melting in the rising heat and hurried around the massive perimeter. He was careful to avoid the soldiers who cracked whips over the heads of a thousand slaves manning the winch ropes. With each crank of the massive wheels, the sailcloth awnings slowly unfurled above the amphitheater’s tiered seating.

He passed the numbered entrances used by the plebeians and continued on with feigned confidence until he reached the giant portico topped with a gilded horse-drawn chariot. He tidied his cloak and fell in behind the servants of a patrician wearing inferior purple.

“Halt!” A beefy guard’s sword came down in front of Caecilianus. “Where do you think you’re going, pleb?”

“I have a delivery for the proconsul.”

“Name?” asked the soldier with the roster.

“Caecilianus, purveyor of purple.”

The guard checked his list and scowled. “Merchants and plebs use the numbered gates.”

“But I must see—” Before he could explain, two guards hooked him under the arms, lifted his feet off the ground, and hauled him from the entrance. “Wait.” He wiggled until he managed to open his bag and reveal a corner of the rich purple hue. “This was originally intended for the emperor. The proconsul will not be happy when he learns he missed an opportunity to bid for the finest purple in the empire.”

At that, he was immediately released and waved through. The wide marble corridors were crawling with royalty. Caecilianus tossed his bag over his shoulder and proceeded to the stairs that led to the box seats of the rich. His purple was worth fifteen times its weight in gold, but would it be enough to accomplish his plan without incurring the proconsul’s wrath? Palms sweating, he climbed the steps to the box of the ruler of Carthage. Caecilianus’s feet felt two sizes too big for the narrow stone slabs.

Lord, help me.

He reached the box gate without falling on his face. Relieved, he flashed the deep-hued fibers to the attendant and was granted admission.

Aspasius, dressed in last year’s purple and draped in gold chains, eyed Caecilianus’s approach over his wine goblet. The beautiful woman sitting beside the proconsul was Magdalena, the healer he’d brought to help Ruth with Metras. From the intensity of her stare, he knew he was not to mention her kindness in front of her master.

Caecilianus waited to be waved forward, then climbed the stairs, careful to place his feet squarely on each step. “My lord,” he said, bowing. “I am Caecilianus.”

“I know who you are.” The proconsul sipped his wine.

“And I can see you know of my purple.” Caecilianus pulled the batting from his bag, and everyone in the box gasped. “This is a special order for the emperor.”

Curiosity and greed raised the proconsul’s brows. “Why have you brought this to me?”

“I have come seeking a trade.”

10

R
UTH WOKE WITH A
start, her neck stiff from sleeping upright in a chair next to Metras’s bed. Her eyes struggled to focus in the bright light coming through the shutter slats. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How long had it been since she changed Metras’s dressings?

“Metras?” Ruth jumped from her chair and ripped apart her landlord’s empty bed as if he’d somehow disappeared in the sheets. “Metras!”

She raced to her mother’s mat. “Mother!” She shook her awake. “Have you seen Metras?”

Her mother pointed at the door.

“He left?” Ruth’s heart pounded. “Oh, no.” Had he gone to tell the soldiers? She knew she’d not worked off her debt, but she thought he’d at least softened toward her in recent days. “We’ve got to get out of here!” She started gathering up the few things people had brought them over the past few days. “Wait.” She dropped everything and crouched beside her mother. “Did you just point?”