Return to Exile (21 page)

“Like a family,” Junia said, smiling.

“Like a family,” Ruth said, allowing her eyes to drift to Cyprian.

“Family?” Barek stood, dice clattering to the floor. One of the dogs lifted his head to check on the commotion. “We’re
not
one big, happy family.”

“Barek, maybe you should step out into the rain and cool off,” Cyprian said.

“Lisbeth of Dallas drops back into our lives after deserting us,
and suddenly you’re full of courage?” Ruth’s son stalked from the cottage and slammed the door.

The accusation hit hard.

Ruth patted Cyprian’s shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

“Barek’s right. I have been hiding from my responsibilities, shirking my duties to you and the church.” He brought Ruth’s hand to his lips. “No more.” There was no point in denying that the arrival of Lisbeth and Maggie had jolted him from the darkness. If they were brave enough to face the dangers of his world, surely he could muster the courage to face whatever the Lord had in store for him.

He rewarded Ruth’s smile with a smile of his own, a real one that expressed the conviction that suddenly flooded him. He turned his attention back to the girls. “You first, Junia.”

The child thanked the Lord for perfume and the chance to rescue Perpetua.

“Now you, Maggie.”

Maggie clasped her hands and closed her eyes. “Dear God. It’s me, Maggie. I’m a long way from home. But I like my new friend Junia, my uncle Larry, and my jaddah. Thank you for Ruth’s baby. I hope it’s a girl, because I have always wanted a sister.” She opened one eye, catching Cyprian as he swallowed hard. “Most of all, thank you for my daddy. Help my mommy not to be mad at him anymore.” She rubbed her nose. “And, God,
puhleeze
help Barek not to be so cranky. Love, Maggie.” She opened her eyes. “Oh, I forgot one thing.” She bowed her head again. “Make sure Perpetua is still under the bed.”

25

A
BREAK IN THE CLOUDS
allowed the blood moon to shine gloriously upon Aspasius’s palace. The first good sign of the return of the gods’ favor he’d experienced in weeks.

He sat on the edge of his garden fountain, his feet unable to support him for any length of time, even with his declining weight. He tucked his bloated toes beneath the hem of his robe, then plucked fried snails and boiled peacock eggs from the small, boat-shaped dinner plates that floated above a tiled mosaic of a cobra striking a mongoose. The first architect he’d hired to remodel the gardens had counseled against the bloody design, offering samples of exotic fish and full-chested native women as a more peaceful alternative.

Aspasius slowly dragged his hand through the crystal waters. A dozen lacy-tailed fish imported from the East nibbled grease from his fingers. The feeding frenzy stirred ripples over the cobra and created the illusion of a snake rising to its full height, fangs poised to strike.

The image kept him sharp, reminded him that size didn’t matter nearly as much as the venom of one’s bite. A lesson he’d made certain that pompous architect he’d fired remembered right before the executioner’s sword relieved him of his head.

Oh, how he longed for the day he would get even with
Cyprian for trying to make him appear the fool by sneaking back home.

Aspasius’s gaze drifted over the luxurious outdoor space. He did not regret holding fast to his vision. This little oasis had turned out exactly as planned. Large palm trees. A raised stone stage for the naked dancers. Plenty of comfortable seating for his party guests. And a full-size altar that rivaled the granite monstrosity built in the great temple of Juno. Dire times such as these required more than a couple of household gods stuffed in a cupboard. Something much grander was needed.

He was the man Rome had charged with both the financial and spiritual responsibility of his province. Not Cyprian. An altar of his very own was not a luxury; appeasing Juno was a necessity.

Aspasius flicked water from his fingers and popped another rubbery egg into his mouth, thinking something sweet would better ease these cravings he’d had lately. Rattled bleating drew his attention toward the garden gate. “Finally.”

Pytros backed through the opening, dragging a she-goat who’d been held in the temple’s purification pen for the required days. The skittish animal bleated and fought the rope.

Scipios, the long-necked priest, pushed the goat with one hand and held his heavy black cloak closed at the throat with the other. Thin and in poor health, the old flamen signaled a pause, then coughed and doubled over as if he were expelling his lungs. His leather skullcap, with its chin strap and pointy wooden spindle, shifted forward and exposed the base of his pale, shaved head. When Scipios finished his hacking fit and righted himself, the apex spindle protruded from his forehead like the horn of a gemsbok, an exotic antelope imported from the southern plains to give the arena lions something to chase after he’d had to back off Christians.

“My friend.” Aspasius held up a plate of snails. “Come. Have a bite to eat.”

Scipios stepped around the goat and trudged across the garden. His cloak’s heavy fringe dusted the pavers. He eyed Aspasius with slitted, feline eyes. “You should have called me sooner.” He righted his cap.

Aspasius brushed his hands and stood. The priest towered over him by a hand’s breadth, and the advantage irritated Aspasius greatly. But what was he to do? Until the gods removed their curse, the blasted pain in his feet made wearing his heeled shoes a discomfort he could no longer tolerate. “I appointed you to divine how the gods are feeling, not rule my province.”

Scipios peered down his sharp nose. “It may or may not be evident what the gods will.”

“Why must I suffer your vacillating pronunciations? Are the gods really so difficult to pin down? The Christians always seem so sure of
their
one God.” Even as the wildcats sprang from the bowels of the arena, he’d seen beaten and bound believers offer their praise and trust to the one God. “Never in the history of the games have the arena attendees witnessed a single soul rescued from the jaws of a lion, yet the myth that true believers will be spared persists.” His Roman gods were the ones who’d brought this much-needed rain. “Ours is not the strange practice. Ours is the way of truth.” And Aspasius Paternus would never turn his back on what he knew worked. On the two things he trusted: himself and his gods.

“Do your work, Scipios,” Aspasius commanded.

“I’ll need help lifting the sacrifice to the altar.”

“Well, Pytros. Don’t just stand there. Help the man.”

“Me?”

“Surely you don’t expect your master to manhandle the animal?”

Pytros let out a disgusted sigh and circled the goat, not quite sure where to start. He wrinkled his nose and lowered himself
close to the hooves. He grabbed hold of a hind leg, then a front leg, and flipped the animal on its side. The goat’s flailing feet clipped the scribe’s chest. Pytros let a string of curse words fly as he wrestled the animal atop the smooth altar stones. Quick as Pytros was with the stylus, he was a bit awkward securing the thin legs with the lead rope, but he finally managed the task.

“Step aside.” Though Scipios appeared frail, his execution of the sacrifice was quick. His long, slender fingers wielded the knife with the skill of a field surgeon. Blood sprayed from the deep slit across the goat’s throat and splattered Aspasius’s robe. He lowered his chin to his chest and smiled at the redemptive sign. Scipios made another incision, and goat entrails spilled upon the altar.

The old priest clamped his buckteeth over his lower lip and reached inside the animal’s warm cavity. He lifted out a gelatinous mass and brought it close for examination. A scowl drew his eyes in tightly.

“Tell me what you see,” Aspasius demanded.

The priest laid the liver upon the red-hot altar. “A black spot.”

“What does that mean?”

“The gods have aligned against you.”

“Look again!”

Scipios stepped up to the altar. Tiny tongues of fire had charred the edges of the slick organ. He peered through the smoke. “An army of men, women, and children rising like mist from the sea and marching toward Carthage.”

“Whose side are they on?” Aspasius pressed in until smoke stung his nose. He hated relying on others, especially when the margin for error was so great. “Mine or the Christians’?”

The priest looked back at him dumbly. “I don’t know. They’re covered in blood.”

“I’m trying to save Carthage!” Aspasius bellowed. “I need more than mist and blood. I need something that will nail Chris
tians to crosses.” He jerked the priest from the altar. “I swear, if you’re lying to me, I will see that you are the first to die.” Aspasius stared at the curling liver, waiting for some sort of sign that the priest was wrong. “Make another offering.”

“Huff all you want, Aspasius.” The priest wriggled free. “It won’t change the fact that the people of Carthage have turned from the gods. Religion commands their service but no longer endears their hearts. Juno has forsaken you.”

“Bridge this chasm with Juno.” He shook the priest. “Bridge it now, or I’ll have your head.”

“Your threats do not scare me.” Scipios coughed, raising his bloody hands to support his chest. When the hacking fit stopped, he cleared his throat. “The gods have not granted me long life. My glory will not surpass my ancestors’.”

Aspasius raised his hands to the priest’s neck and clamped down hard. “Then I shall send you on your way with great speed.”

“Master! No!” Pytros pulled him off. “Kill a holy flamen and you will bring protesters pounding at your doors, no matter how much they seem to disregard the gods.”

The room was spinning as Aspasius backed away. “What do you suggest I do?”

Scipios held out his bloody knife grimly. “Say Scipios has succumbed to his cough. When I am out of the way, you can install a more effective mediator, one who says what you want to hear.” Scipios waited, baiting Aspasius to end his miserable life. When Aspasius waved the knife away, the priest wiped his knife upon his cloak. “Or you could demand all of Carthage return to the gods.”

“I’ve done that, you fool.”

“Then make them listen this time.”

“How?”

“Close the cemeteries outside the city. When they can no longer find a fresh breath of air, they will seek the gods.” Although
Scipios tried to give the impression his own life mattered little to him, he beat a hasty exit, rubbing his neck on his way out the gate.

Aspasius turned and snarled at Pytros, who was trying to tidy up the altar. “Leave that.”

“But the stench.”

“We have more pressing business.”

“Closing the cemeteries?”

“That and more.” Aspasius went to the fountain and dipped his blood-splattered hands. “I want Christians afraid to leave their homes.”

“How?”

“Scare them. Rough them up in the marketplace. Make them afraid to walk the streets. If Cyprian’s army can’t gather, they can’t fight. If that doesn’t work, we’ll herd them into their hovels and do as Nero did: light the fires, burn them and the plague from our midst.” Fish fanned the waters pinking beneath his fingers. “From the ashes of the heretics we shall raise a more solid populace. Mark my word, Pytros. Before spring my city shall once again be favored by the gods. And once it is, the friends of Cyprian’s father will no longer be able to deny the danger of allowing the nobleman’s son to live.”

26

T
HE RANCID STINK OF
certain death and dying hope fouled the west wing of Cyprian’s villa.

So far, Diona’s fever had followed the typical pattern of typhoid, rising as the sun lowered. In her fevered delirium, she mumbled constantly and picked at her bedclothes.

Diona’s parents stayed close by her mat. Titus paced. Vivia’s hands churned beneath the folds of her stola. Lisbeth thought the woman’s behavior odd compared to most mothers of critically ill children. Usually they were so desperate to relieve their child’s suffering they couldn’t keep their hands off them.

But Vivia kept her hands hidden—as if she couldn’t stomach any contact with things beneath her. The aristocrat’s strange phobia might save her from the bad, but her unwillingness to reach out also kept her from experiencing anything good. The feel of a newborn’s skin. The refreshment of cool water. The dying grip of her daughter, which was exactly where Diona was heading if something didn’t turn around.

Lisbeth had no experience treating typhoid. But she knew two things: First, antibiotics and oral rehydration must take priority over other interventions. She’d already used up one of the three precious rounds of her oral antibiotic supply and poured every herbal remedy Mama mixed down the girl’s throat. Yet, after nearly
twelve hours of supportive treatment, Diona’s condition had actually worsened. Apparently stopping typhoid’s predictable progression would be very difficult without intravenous drugs. Second, she couldn’t go back to the future and leave these people to suffer. At least not right away.

“Diona has always been so dramatic.” Vivia watched as Lisbeth and Mama balanced on their knees, wrestling a bedpan out from under their patient. “Pouting over the many suitors her father turned away.”

Titus looked up from his pacing. “It was always for her own good, Vivia.”

“Diona didn’t eat for nearly a week after you forbade her marriage.”

“Don’t blame me. You’re the one who insisted Cyprian had the creeping pox.”

Lisbeth’s head snapped up, and she nearly spilled the foul-smelling bedpan. “Cyprian? Engaged to Diona?”

“Oh.” Vivia tried to appear as if she’d made an accidental faux pas, but the jab felt intentionally placed. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

“Lisbeth,” Mama interrupted before Lisbeth could press the woman for details, “look.” Her head tilted toward the bedpan. “Blood.”

Satisfying her jealous curiosity would have to wait. “Vivia, how long have Diona’s stools been bloody?” Lisbeth asked.

“Two, maybe three days.” Vivia’s hands twisted.

“Why would you delay your daughter’s treatment?”