Return to Exile (30 page)

Above the chalk bucket, a flagellum hung from a peg in the stone wall. The whip’s Elmwood handle looked as if it had been carved to fit the big hands of Metellus, and the three strips of rawhide laced with bits of bone still dripped blood from his most recent use.

“Hungry?” Felicissimus opened a dilapidated cupboard. Two little mice squealed. “Greedy little thieves. Scram.” The slave trader
flicked his wrist, and the mice jumped to the floor, dashed about the room in a crazed flurry, then scurried across Barek’s boot.

Maggie screamed and nearly climbed atop Barek’s shoulders as the furry little creatures circled the cell again. Their second lap around, one of the mice found a crack in the plaster, squeezed his plump body into the opening, and disappeared. The other creature hesitated a moment too long. Metellus snatched the whip from the peg. Leather strips slashed the air with a loud crack. The lashes lapped up the rodent’s little gray body and hurled it against the opposite wall. Metellus grunted and returned the whip to the peg.

Felicissimus reached into the cupboard and retrieved a half-eaten round of bread. He brushed away the crumbs gnawed free by the mice as if nothing had happened. “Day old. But at least you won’t starve.” He broke the bread in half and offered Maggie a piece.

Barek could feel Maggie’s fingernails digging through his tunic. “We’re not hungry.” He reached up, pried her loose, then pulled her off his back and set her down beside him. She immediately went into her flamingo imitation, tugging on Barek’s sleeve to keep her balance.

“Suit yourself.” Felicissimus tossed the piece to Metellus. The big slave caught the bread with one hand, crammed it into his mouth, and swallowed without even chewing. Felicissimus flipped over the empty chalk bucket and sat down with an exhausted sigh. “I was surprised to find you out and about after the trouble you encountered with the ox. What mischief were you two planning in the Tophet?”

Maggie’s eyes darted between the dead mouse and Felicissimus. “We were burying his mother.”

“Hush, Maggie,” Barek ordered.

Felicissimus considered this information for a moment. “Of course a good son would want his mother properly laid to rest.” He picked up a hollowed-out gourd from the water bucket and took a
drink. “It is a shame that Aspasius has denied Christians access to their ancestral plots.” He rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowed in thought. “My boy, have you pondered what is to become of you now that both of your parents are gone?” Felicissimus emptied the gourd and tossed it back into the bucket.

“My daddy says Barek is like a son to him.”

“Maggie, keep quiet.”

She crossed her arms to prove that she didn’t need his help and aimed her angry stare at the mouse. Barek could boss her around all he wanted, but he was certain she’d do just as she pleased no matter what he said.

“I’m sure the girl is right.” Felicissimus flicked dried crumbs from his tunic. “Cyprian is an honorable man. He promised your father he would look after you, and so far the new bishop of Carthage has kept his promise. I don’t think you have to worry about Cyprian casting you out.” Felicissimus put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “But what about after Cyprian dies? What’s to become of you then? By law, you can own nothing of his, not even his church, unless he makes you his heir.” Felicissimus let his gaze slither over Maggie. “Which I doubt he will do now that his real heir has appeared out of nowhere.”

Barek followed Felicissimus’s line of sight and noticed Maggie drinking from the gourd. “Maggie! No!”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m thirsty.”

“Wait until we get home.” Barek took the gourd from her hand, tossed it back in the bucket, and picked her up. He turned his attention back to Felicissimus. “I don’t want my father’s church,” Barek declared. “I’m a free man. I intend to learn a trade or join the imperial navy.”

“Admirable.” Felicissimus crossed his arms over his belly. “But slaves are either born or made. And you, my boy, are bound to a master as surely as Metellus is bound to me.”

Barek let his gaze go to the iron cuff around the black man’s ankle and the chain tethering him to the wall. “I told you, I’m a free man.”

“So you tell yourself. In effect, your parents sold you into slavery.”

Barek bristled.
How dare this slave trader speak ill of my father and mother!
“I’ve been sold to no one.”

“Oh, but you have.”

“Who?”

“Christ.” Felicissimus chuckled at Barek’s shock. “Your end will come as painfully as that of the rest of those who choose to disobey their Roman master . . . unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“I’ve made my living judging human flesh and character. From the fire in your eyes, I believe you to be smarter than most, my boy.”

“I’m done with Christ.”

A crooked smile pushed back the slave trader’s jowls. “Then I have good news for you.” Felicissimus reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled slip of parchment.

“Libellus?” The bold word had been inked across the top by a professional hand. “What’s this?”

“Your ticket to freedom.” Felicissimus leaned in. “Trust me, this proof of sacrifice will save your life. Believers have more choices than Cyprian would have them know.” He rubbed his belly.

“Like what?”

Felicissimus tapped the slip of paper in Barek’s hand. “All one has to do is simply pay a clever servant to acquire the necessary vouchers. Then, should their religious loyalties to the gods of Rome ever come into question, they simply show the paper and they are covered.”

“Covered?”

“Safe. Declared free to go about their business.”

Free? Never to be under Rome’s yoke again?
“Do you have one?”

He patted his coin purse. “Keep it right here.”

“But the Scriptures say you are to have no other gods before the one God.”

“I thought you were done with the Scriptures,” Felicissimus said with a grin. “It’s just a piece of paper, lad. God knows it means nothing to me to bow before a slab of chiseled marble.”

Barek turned the slip over before handing it back.

Maggie squeezed his neck. “Let’s go.”

“No need to run off. I know you’re curious. It’ll only take a minute to relieve your curiosity.” Felicissimus waited. Barek nodded, and the slave trader proceeded. “Believers can buy writs after they visit a temple, or they can bribe a magistrate to lie that they participated in a pagan ceremony when, in fact, they did not. Riskier, but doable.”

“Most of the believers are poor. They don’t have money for bread, let alone bribes and fancy pieces of paper. And Cyprian would never agree to finance deception.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. He gave me money. Told me to spend it on making things better in this city. What could make things better than to end the persecution of the church?” Felicissimus cupped his mouth, patted the coin bag attached to his belt again, and whispered, “With my help, believers are now able to get their hands upon the protection they need. But since I am the one taking all the risk, I don’t think it is too much to ask the recipients to help me spread the blessings around. All I ask is that they find a friend also in need of libellus. Once they convince this friend to convince another friend of the unfortunate necessity of bowing to Rome’s gods, the writ is theirs for free. Rome is happy, and the Christians walk away with security in their pockets and perfectly clear consciences.”

Barek felt his heart leap. “Walk away?”

Felicissimus smiled and clasped Barek’s shoulder. “Or sail away, if they are so inclined.” He tucked the writ of libellus into Barek’s pocket and gave it a pat.

“Even Cyprian? He could have one and be safe?”

“Especially Cyprian.” Felicissimus clasped his hands across his belly. “My boy, this paper offers a freedom like you have never known.”

Barek had been so angry at the way Cyprian looked past his mother when Lisbeth arrived. But how ungrateful would he seem if he let Cyprian’s desire for his first wife erase all the good the man had done for him, good he was not obligated to do? “I can’t pay.”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t have to. As Caecilianus’s son you have a whole bunch of prospects who know and trust you enough to want in on this rare opportunity. Find one, and the writ is yours. Find two, and I’ll locate a centurion willing to give you a commission in the royal navy. Find three, and I’ll make certain Aspasius never lays a hand on Cyprian.”

“But I don’t know anyone willing to pretend they’ve sacrificed to Roman gods.”

“Oh, but you do. They sneak in and out of your house by way of the back gate.”

40

T
HE SOUNDS OF A
horse’s soft nickering and the splash of water in a trough stirred Lisbeth from a restless sleep. She opened her eyes. High overhead, cobwebs hung from rough-hewn beams. The stink of livestock assaulted her nose. Pale morning rays kissed the fresh straw she was burrowed into. Though the dried grass covering was light, the weight of her burdens pressed so heavily she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

She quickly shook off the straw but not the feeling of being trapped. Shivers dislodged the painful memories of meeting Cyprian in the stable. Hopes of reconciliation had turned into the permanent severance of their relationship.

She pushed up from the wagonbed. “Pontius?”

Startled by her voice, Cyprian’s friend wheeled, pitchfork in hand. “Lisbeth? What are you doing here?”

“Good question.” She plucked straw from her hair. “I could ask you the same.”

“I sleep here.” He pointed the sharp prongs toward the loft. “I searched the entire estate for you last night.”

“Sorry for your wasted efforts.” She stretched the kinks from her neck and rubbed the throbbing place on her shoulder where Felicissimus had pinned her against the fence. Those bruises would heal. The ache in her soul from Cyprian’s definitive refusal
to let her help him was a wound she would carry always. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to go.”

She unfolded her legs. “I’ll go when I’m ready.”

Even though she and Mama had already laid out the steps of what needed to be done and when, Ruth’s absence would leave a big hole in the fight to stamp out these plagues. She would need to train some more help before she could even think about returning to the twenty-first century. Naomi and Junia, perhaps. She would also have to make sure Diona was on the mend and gather as many herbs as possible to restock the makeshift pharmacy.

Lisbeth shoved aside her disappointment in Cyprian’s reaction and pushed herself back into action. “I’m going to need medical supplies today, Pontius.” She hopped down from the wagon. “Think you could help me scavenge the city after I round?”

Confusion scrunched Pontius’s face. “Round?”

“You know, check on Diona and any new patients we may have gotten in last night.”

He stabbed his pitchfork into the wet straw he was mucking from the stall. “Cyprian will want to go with you.”

That had been her plan all along . . . have her husband want to go far away from here and make a life together. After spending the night alone, she was certain that plan lay in a sodden heap.

“I don’t think so.” Lisbeth brushed straw from her tunic.

“Cyprian was called by God, you know. His end will be as God wills.”

“I envy you, Pontius. Living each day without the fear of tomorrow. It is luxury I will never have.”

Lisbeth strode back toward the villa and the aroma of freshly baked bread. Who had taken Ruth’s place in the kitchen? “Naomi?” Flour covered the large wooden table and the front of the servant girl’s tunic. “What are you doing?”

“Ruth let me help her make the bread sometimes. I wanted to” —tears splashed upon the table’s powdery surface, and Naomi dragged a dusty hand across her nose—“do what I could.”

“It smells wonderful.”

“I knew Barek would be missing his mother, and I just thought . . .”

Lisbeth recognized the signs of unrequited love, and this girl had it bad. Of course, if anyone looked very closely at Lisbeth since her husband had told her to go home, they’d probably find her feelings for Cyprian written all over her face, too. “Well, you know what they say.”

“They?”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Who says that?”

“I don’t know. But if making bread can bring a guy around to a girl’s side, I should have learned how to cook.” She kissed Naomi’s cheek. “I’m starving. After I check on Mama and our patients I’ll come back for a couple of warm slices for me and Maggie.”

“I’ll take her breakfast.”

“That’s okay. I won’t be that long.”

Lisbeth hurried down the typhoid hall. She found Titus pacing like a caged cat while Vivia sat beside Diona, her hands tucked inside her stola and dark circles under her eyes. Neither of these parents had slept much in the past twenty-four hours.

Mama was helping Diona off the chamber pot.

“How’s our patient?” Lisbeth asked.

“No more bloody stools,” Mama said with a smile.

After Mama’s quick recap of Diona’s night, she tossed Lisbeth the stethoscope and encouraged her to do her own examination. The only indication of any remaining pain was a slight grimace when Lisbeth applied direct pressure to the operative site. “Appears she doesn’t have any complications from surgery. No infec
tion. No sign of pneumonia.” She draped the stethoscope around her neck.

“What does that mean?” Vivia asked, her hands twisting wrinkles into her gown.

“It means your daughter is going to live,” Lisbeth said. “Now we’ll just have to wait at least twenty-one days to see if you or your husband present with symptoms.”

Vivia struggled to her feet. “Thank you.” She turned to Mama. “Thanks to both of you. I’m sorry we were difficult, Magdalena.”

Mama smiled. “All’s forgiven.” She reached to pat Vivia’s shoulder, and to Lisbeth’s surprise, the woman didn’t shy away. “Besides, we’re not always at our best when we’re worried about those we love.” Her glance slid toward Lisbeth.

“I know, but I shouldn’t have . . .” Vivia paused. “How can we ever repay your kindness?”

“Here, take this.” Titus undid the coin pouch on his belt. “All of it.”