Return to Exile (34 page)

The slave trader hissed in his ear. “Sell one, and protect yourself. Sell two, and you have your commission in the royal navy. Sell three, and—”

“No one gets hurt, right?”

Felicissimus thumped the stack of signed parchments. “These are the only way to save those you love.”

Barek stepped up to the apartment door, started to knock, then backed away. “I can’t do this.”

“You’re not selling slaves; you’re selling freedom.” Felicissimus rapped on the door. “I’ll show you how easy it is.”

Barek’s friend, a short, stocky boy who enjoyed access to Cyprian’s private pier as much as he, answered. “Felicissimus?” He looked around the slave trader. “Barek? Is something wrong?”

“Sorry to bother you, Natalis,” Barek said.

“Can’t fish today. When Mother comes back from the cooking fire we’re going to Cyprian’s to work a double shift at the hospital.”

“He didn’t come to ask you to fish.” Felicissimus held out the writs. “He came to give you something.”

“Barek’s family has already given us too much. We wouldn’t be
well if it hadn’t been for his sweet mother, God rest her soul.”

“Then you know how much Ruth cared and how hard she worked to keep you well and safe.” Felicissimus thrust two sheets at him. “Now that she’s gone, she would want you to have these.”

“What are they?”

“Protection.”

“From what?”

“Soldiers.”

Natalis’s brow furrowed as he examined the parchment. “Pieces of paper to fend off steel?”

“No. Just show it to them. They are legally required to leave you alone.”

“I can’t read.”

“It says you’ve sacrificed at the temple.”

Natalis’s eyes bulged. “But I haven’t.” He thrust the writs at the slave trader. “And I won’t.”

“I know. You’re a fine young Christian,” Felicissimus soothed. “That’s what’s so wonderful about these certificates of libellus. You don’t really have to bow before the pagan gods; just say you did.”

“That’s lying.”

“It’s being smart, boy.”

Natalis’s scornful gaze slid to Barek. “I’m glad your mother isn’t here to see this.” He gave a disbelieving shake of the head. “It would break her heart.” He stepped inside and closed the door.

Felicissimus turned to Barek and shrugged. “Sometimes you have to knock on a lot of doors before you make a sale. Who else is on your list?”

“I’m done.”

The slave trader pushed him against the building. “We had a deal.” He grabbed Barek by the collar. “There are other fish in the sea, and you will continue to cast your nets until you find them for me.”

46

“Y
OU WERE THERE, LISBETH,”
Cyprian argued. “You saw the faces of Quinta and Metras when I asked for help moving Diona to the next hall. They wanted no part in caring for a patrician.”

Lisbeth crammed her balled fists onto her hips. “Did you or did you not ask me to formulate a plan?” She stepped into his space and squared off. “Are you saying it’s okay for Christians to take the bread and shelter of a patrician like yourself but refuse to give a dying patrician like Diona medical care?”

“I’m not trying to kill them!” He held up his hands and took a calming breath. “The majority of the church is poor. It’s my obligation to care for the less fortunate. I can afford it.” His eyes bore into hers. “But I can’t, in good conscience, ask peasants to risk their lives to provide medical care for the ruling class. Not when those in power are the very ones intent on persecuting the lower classes.”

She was counting on the same chivalrous inclination that had spurred him to save her from the slave block and bound him to take Ruth as his wife to propel him toward taking another unfathomable action. “That’s the point of my plan. Do the absolute opposite of what the pagans would expect. Who empties the bedpans of their enemies or tends their vaporizer tents all night? Can you imagine what would happen if the church repaid evil with good?”

He moved in closer, his breath hot on her cheek. “Believing a
few kindnesses could erase the lines of class distinction and sway the populace to pressure Aspasius into doing what is right is not clever thinking . . . it is insanity.”

Lisbeth did not back down. “Christ didn’t think so, and neither did Ruth.” She paused, the sound of rapid heartbeat thrumming in her ears. “Pretending Aspasius won’t come for you next . . . that’s insanity.”

“You could do this? Care for those who pray to their gods for your death?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Cyprian’s steady gaze appraised her resolve; her eyes did not waiver. He let out a breath. “You are and have always been a mystery to me.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “I believe facing the executioner’s sword would be less painful than continuing to argue with you. All right, let’s see if we can do as Jesus did.” He gave a half smile. “It appears I now have a new sermon to write.”

Lisbeth hurried through her evening rounds with prayers for Cyprian constantly on her lips. She poured another jug of boiling water into a vaporizer pot. A cloud of scalding steam engulfed her in a blistering reminder that her plan had the potential to burn them all.

She had assured Cyprian that the plan would work, even without the church having the unifying emotional high of Cyprian’s martyrdom. But she knew the jury was still out on whether anything they said or did would change the opinions of the ruling class when it came to Christians. Titus Cicero had a favorable opinion of the believers right now, but once Diona was completely recovered, would he stand up in a Senate meeting and tell Aspasius to end their persecution? Or would he forget what had been done for him?

Back home she’d seen scores of grateful patients leave the hos
pital and never look back. Titus could very easily lose his feelings of goodwill, declare his daughter’s right to health care his privilege, and renew his ringside seats at the Colosseum.

Perspiration trickled down Lisbeth’s back. The villa had become a sweatbox. She opened the windows and doors to the balconies. Perhaps once she restocked the vaporizer pots in the measles ward, she could grab Maggie and treat them both to a brief respite in the swimming-pool-size tub before the church assembled.

She dumped boiling water into the last vaporizer pot and stirred in crushed eucalyptus leaves. Fragrant steam filled the tent of a small boy covered in the same miserable red rash she’d come to stamp out. He roused and fussed for his mommy. The frail seamstress who’d arrived on Cyprian’s doorstep covered in the same rash had died the day before. Now the boy had no one else to comfort him. Lisbeth settled beside his mat. She stroked his head until his coughing subsided and he finally slept.

Stiffly she rose, hoping Maggie was in a mood to tolerate a moment of cuddling, because, frankly, life was too short not to hold those you love.

Lisbeth poked her head into the typhoid hall. Vivia was combing Diona’s hair, her free hand tenderly smoothing the blond tresses. So much had changed for this family since Ruth’s gracious act of taking them in. Diona had survived with the help of Mama’s surgery and Lisbeth’s antibiotics. But Mama was right: the best medicine came from a loving touch, a fact she was banking on to change the course of public opinion.

“I’m on my way to the kitchen to check on Maggie. Do you feel like trying to eat something a bit more solid, Diona?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll see what Naomi and the girls have been stirring up all day.” Lisbeth headed toward the sound of Maggie and Junia’s
giggles.

“Mommy, watch.” Maggie stood before a flat, iron plate suspended over an open flame. Wheat kernels slid from her funnel-shaped fist and dropped onto the hot skillet. She clomped to the table in Ruth’s high heels and reached inside a burlap bag for another fistful of unripe grain. “I’m making popcorn without a microwave.”

Maggie let the wheat trickle onto the iron plate. When the kernels began to dance, she stepped back, and Junia took a pot holder and shuffled the red-hot plate over the flame like the Jiffy Pop foil pans Papa’s mother used to send to their campsites. When the heads of grain cracked open, Maggie and Junia giggled like they were at a magic show.

Junia lifted the skillet and dumped the fluffy kernels into a bowl.

Maggie sprinkled sea salt over them. “Try it.”

“Yum.” Lisbeth crammed some into her mouth, suddenly aware that she hadn’t eaten all day. “Your g-pa would love this.”

“Jaddah would love popcorn, too.” Maggie’s brow crinkled in deep thought. “She’s still coming home with us, right?”

“I’m working on it, baby.”

“G-Pa will be so sad if she doesn’t.”

“We’re going to do our best, okay?”

“And pray.”

“And pray.” Lisbeth kissed Maggie’s forehead. “You’re warm.” She pulled Maggie back from the fire. “It’s too hot to be working over an open fire. How about we take a little break and cool down in the bath?”

“Junia, too?”

“Sure, both of you come on. Naomi, Diona feels like eating. I’d appreciate it if you could leave a bowl of that carrot soup at the door of the typhoid hall.”

Naomi nodded, and Lisbeth took the girls by the hand to the
bath.

Refreshed after a dip in the tub, Lisbeth let Maggie and Junia splash about while she braided her own wet hair. “Careful, girls. Don’t swallow any of that water.”

Thirty minutes later, two squeaky-clean girls were tucked in next to Laurentius. When she thought of a picture-perfect family, this was almost it.

Lisbeth said prayers and kissed each of the kids. She affectionately ran her fingers down Maggie’s cheeks, still rosy from standing too close to the popcorn fire. “’Night, baby.”

She closed the cottage door and went to join those gathering in the torch-lit garden.

*   *   *

CYPRIAN WAITED
in the center of the dais he’d built for Caecilianus. Wearing his mentor’s hat and robe bolstered his courage, for he knew exactly what the old bishop would have had to say about Lisbeth’s crazy plan:
“It’s about time we were neither slave nor free.”

Serious-faced believers filed through the courtyard gate. Plague, persecution, and the discouragement he feared would follow Ruth’s death had shrunk the church’s ranks even more since their last meeting. Wary men and women took their seats at the low banquet tables set with baskets of bread and large crocks of wine. They eyed the generous spread, but for some strange reason, they were unusually reluctant to dig in.

Cyprian tightened the belt on Caecilianus’s toga. Beneath the weight of the bishop’s wool he was not a common man, but a patrician. Without Ruth or Caecilianus to bridge the gap, the divide between the classes was huge. If neither side felt comfortable crossing the lines, this plan would never work.

He surveyed the crowd. Quinta rocked her grandson at one table. Metras sat on the edge of the fountain, his cane between his
legs. Cyprian didn’t know whether their expectant faces should make him feel encouraged or even more anxious. Sitting to his right was a bearded quarry worker with the wind-chiseled features of one who hailed from the desert. The man had eagerly volunteered to ash the latrines. Would he be open to this new plan? Tonight the stoneworker had brought his wife, two small children, and a stoic face impossible to read.

Cyprian stepped from the dais and moved toward the stonemason’s family. He placed his hands on the man’s slumped shoulders. He felt the man flinch, but he did not pull away. Cyprian did not speak until the man slowly raised his eyes. “Tell me your name.”

“Tappo.”

“Tappo.” Cyprian studied the man with dirt under his nails and arms that could split a stone slab with one swing of the hammer. “I appreciate all you’ve done for Carthage.”

The man gave a reserved nod and lifted his younger child on his lap with surprising tenderness.

He and Tappo were men from different backgrounds. They wore different qualities of wool and slept under roofs of far different value. But in truth, they were not so different from one another. Tappo was a father who feared what the future held for his family. Cyprian was a father who knew nearly every gory detail. Tappo was right to fear.

Cyprian glanced around at the group in his garden. All of them were considered misfits and outcasts by those in his social circle. Yet here they were, boldly sneaking through back alleys to worship the same God he worshipped.

Caecilianus and Lisbeth were right. The blood of Christ was the great equalizer, the undeniable commonality that bound them. Every pair of eyes staring back at him belonged to individuals who were equally as frightened as he and equally forgiven.

A newfound empathy for the plight of his fellow believers
pressed the tension from Cyprian’s shoulders. He reached into a basket, took a hunk of bread, and offered it to the wisp of a girl in Tappo’s lap. “Hungry, little one?”

Her eyes devoured the bread, but neither she nor her father made any effort to take the offering.

Lord, help me.

Just as Cyprian was about to raise his voice and announce the plan, Felicissimus strolled in.

The paunchy slave trader paused to survey the situation. “Cyprian!” He shouted congenially from across the garden. “I parted a Roman centurion from this expensive keg of beer.” He waved in his slave, Metellus. The big black man came through the gate toting a heavy wooden barrel in his muscular arms. “Where shall I have Metellus crack the seal?”

“Does the centurion who owned the keg follow you to get it back?” Cyprian did not hide his alarm.

“No.” Felicissimus chuckled. “I told him we were toasting your appointment as bishop, and he was only too happy to contribute to the celebration.”

Cyprian felt the crowd tense. “You alerted Aspasius’s soldiers to our gathering?”

“It’s a joke, man.” The crowd tittered with relief. Felicissimus moved among the people, clapping men on the back and tucking the chins of the children who ran to meet him. Tappo’s daughter hopped from his lap and scurried to throw her arms around the slave trader’s knees.

Lisbeth was right. The slave trader had charms he’d never recognized before. “Not a very funny joke.”