Return to Exile (8 page)

Ruth looked up to find him staring at her. “I’m glad you’re here. Barek has been missing the companionship of a father . . . a man.”

Though she tried to lace her voice with cheer, sorrow had etched its deep, dull pain into the sunken eyes of Caecilianus’s young widow. A widow at thirty-four. Still beautiful, yet stripped of the vivacious sparkle that had always turned a lackluster gathering into a party, Ruth stood before him in her loose-fitting dress, brave on the outside, so vulnerable and lost on the inside. An alabaster jar whose seal had been broken, the priceless perfume poured out and wasted.

Guilt closed his throat. He’d failed to save his friend. He would not fail to save his friend’s family. If wealth could restore the luster to Ruth’s eyes, he would give his fortune. “Barek is a fine young man. You’ve done well raising him.”

“Kind of you to say, but he can certainly benefit from a man’s influence right now.”

Neither dared venture into the deeper truths they’d once sat around in his library sharing with Caecilianus. Since Cyprian’s return, they’d perfected the art of keeping their private griefs concealed beneath the surface of small talk. Admitting their bereavement risked the possibility of breaching the walls protecting their hearts and overwhelming them both with sadness. Instead they focused on the tasks at hand.

The business of surviving one more day.

In his absence, Ruth had thrown herself into caring for the sick and was continuing to do an admirable job. But Cyprian couldn’t help but see Lisbeth’s face in every vaporizer tent, every pot of boiling water carried in for proper hand washing, and in every cup of pomegranate juice spilled upon his expensive carpets.

Cyprian set the basket on a small, low table surrounded by plump cushions. “Barek isn’t here.”

Ruth rubbed warmth into her crossed arms. “I told him he could meet his friend Natalis for a few hours of fishing.”

“In this weather?” Cyprian noticed her shivering and draped a blanket around her shoulders. “Can’t have either one of you getting sick.”

“Barek doesn’t really fish anymore. Natalis is such a fine young man. I was hoping he could help cheer Barek.” Her hand grazed his as she reached to clasp the wrap.

An unexpected jolt of longing sparked through him. He stepped back. “The lad has suffered a great loss.”

“He’s always struggled to find joy. The darkness has worsened since his father . . .” She turned from him, as if she’d felt the same desolate ache, and lifted the basket’s covering. “I encourage his love of water in hopes that the roar of the sea will drown out the failure pounding in his head.” Hands trembling, she removed the food and also a pair of shears and a comb.

“Maybe if I talk to him?”

“Will he even look at you?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” She uncorked a wine flask and filled a cup. The dogs whined, and she tossed them each a scrap of bread. “My son feels that if he’d done more to defend me his father would still be alive.”

“That’s not true. The blame is mine.”

“If truth and blame could erase pain, the Roman temples and arenas would be empty.” She offered Cyprian a drink. Water trickled from the wisps of hair plastered to her forehead. “Pain is the way of this life, but that doesn’t make our wait for heaven any easier, does it?”

“Do you ever question the promise of a better life?”

“I’d be lying if I said no. Everyone questions. My son’s questions keep him from taking his father’s place as bishop.”

Cyprian took the cup. “He’s young. Give him time. He’ll grow into it.”

Rain splattered the windows. The drops, no bigger than tears, merged into sad, pathetic little streams that cut through the foggy film obscuring the garden view.

“The church does not have time for Barek to mature into his heritage, Cyprian.” Ruth motioned for him to sit. “Enough of my troubles. Let me see if I can restore order to those curls.”

“I don’t see the point. No one even sees me.”

“I do.”

He sighed. “If you think a haircut will make me human, have at it.” He sank upon the stool.

“I’ll be glad when you can make your presence known in the church.” She draped a towel around his neck, her hands skimming his shoulders.

“I don’t think the church will be anxious to welcome someone into their midst that they believe to be a coward.”

The word, sharp with accusation, stuck in his throat. If there were those who didn’t believe he’d run from trouble, they would find it disappointing to learn he was now hiding in his gardener’s cottage while a widow continued the brave work of Caecilianus. Cyprian told himself his plans must be protected, kept secret until everything was in place. He knew proceeding without the support of the Senate was foolishness. But was he wise or simply too frightened to take bolder, brasher steps? He thought of the story of Peter, how the apostle of Christ had sworn he’d follow his savior into battle. But when the day of reckoning arrived, he ran. How could a man lop off ears one moment, then turn tail and hide the next? Cyprian remembered sitting at the feet of Caecilianus listening to the tale and judging Peter’s desertion rather harshly.

Now he couldn’t help but wonder. Had disappointment and fear similarly softened his own resolve?

“I was there the day you offered your life in exchange for ours,” Ruth said, as if she could read between the lines of his conflicted thoughts. “I’ll tell them you are the bravest man I know, next to my Caecilianus.” She reached for the shears and dropped them.

Cyprian bent and picked them up. “I have not been nor will I ever be half the man your husband was.” He steadied her hand. “You’re shaking.”

She withdrew her fingers and took up the comb, her eyes large and weary. “The believers will need help if we are going to save the movement.”

“I’ve turned over my house for their use. I’m depleting my accounts. What more can I do?”

Clip. Clip. Clip. The cool iron slid across the base of his neck in a forceful line. “I’ve spared you the worst of it, Cyprian.”

“Why?”

“You’ve needed the opportunity to grieve Lisbeth’s loss.”

“Will it bring her back? Spare me no more, Ruth.”

She removed the towel from his shoulder, careful to catch the locks that had not fallen upon the floor. She retrieved a small hand mirror from her basket and passed it to Cyprian.

He held the polished side down. It had been more than a year since he’d looked at himself, and it would take more than a haircut to clean up the nasty unruliness that had sprouted deep within his soul.

Ruth came and stood in front of him, her head cocked to the side. Her thoughtful perusal gave him the feeling she was checking for more than the accuracy of her work. “As the persecution and plague worsen, it has become difficult for the church to assemble. They’re less likely to risk coming together for worship when there’s no bishop to explain the Scriptures. Without regular fellowship and encouragement, I fear, some believers will recant, desert their faith, and flee the city to protect their families.”

“I can’t say as I blame them.” Cyprian considered his reflection in Ruth’s huge blue eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. A broken and tired man who questioned the validity of a faith that required so much suffering in addition to the weighty sacrifice he’d already made—or, for that matter, that Caecilianus had made. Where was the just and loving God the bishop had introduced him to? The path they’d chosen that day in the proconsul’s chamber had changed everything. Were he given the choice today, would he do the same? Would he look Aspasius in the eye and boldly proclaim himself a follower of Christ? Or would he do everything he could—including deny his God—to retain the leverage to free his wife? How foolish his bravery seemed now.

He didn’t need a mirror to know that the man he’d been was no more. “Tell me what you want me to do, woman, for I have no answers of my own.”

“Help the church.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing if I ask Felicissimus to take over the liquidation of my properties?”

“No one knows better than I what you have already done and intend to do for the cause of Christ.” She lifted the mirror to his face. The hardened features staring back at him were not a shock. “But I think God is asking for more.”

“More?”

“You should assume your rightful position as head of the church.”

Cyprian placed the mirror facedown upon the table. “No.”

“Barek may have grown taller in stature since his father’s execution, but with each passing day he seems to grow smaller in confidence.” She took in a sharp breath. “You are the bishop they need. The one to share the Scriptures and offer words of hope. The one to lead them through their fear.”

Cyprian pulled away, the empty space in his soul bigger than ever. “I agree that Barek may not be up to the task, but there must be someone better suited to provide the spiritual guidance these people need.”

“Who else but you?” The reluctance in her voice, no more than the faint flapping of a bird with an injured wing, drew him to her side. Before he could stop himself, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him, as if his support were the only thing keeping her upright. “Caecilianus adored you. You trained at his feet. Did you not proclaim yourself the future bishop of the church that day in Aspasius’s office?”

“It was the proclamation of a desperate and foolish man.” Cyprian backed away.

Ruth took Cyprian’s hands, pressing her need into his. “My husband confidently gave his family into your care.” Her voice hiccupped, but she kept going, determined despite the sudden flow of tears. “He would be more than confident that the church should be
in the hands of no one else.” The request had taxed the last of her strength, but she managed to sob out the only thing that did not need to be said. “Oh, Cyprian. I miss him so.”

“As do I.” Cyprian gathered her into his arms once again. “Your grief is one more reason Aspasius must pay.”

“Promise me you will let the Lord deal with Aspasius.”

He could not bring himself to confess the vengeance in his heart. “Ruth, I . . .”

“Know this, Cyprianus Thascius: I shall die if I should lose you twice.” She melted against him. Months of bottled anguish poured forth.

When she’d cried herself out, she pulled away silently. She slowly lifted her tearstained cheeks. Red-rimmed eyes took him in, but he could not be sure if she saw him or Caecilianus. Before he could speak reassurance, she threaded her arms around his neck, drew him close, and kissed his lips.

Pull away.

His hands found her waist, thin and easily grasped. He tried to push free, but the solidity of her existence caused his own grief to slowly unravel. He pulled her tight and returned her kiss with the passion of a man tired of exile.

God forgive him; while his arms held Ruth, his mind held only Lisbeth.

7

C
YPRIAN PACED THE GARDENER’S
cottage, alternating between wringing his hands and readjusting the folds of his old election toga. His attempt to wear the simple homespun tunic of his exile had resulted in Ruth burning the rag, declaring it beyond redemption. She’d dug through one of his many storage chests and produced what she called a more respectable garment.

To prevent rumors of his return reaching the ears of Aspasius, she’d cleaned and pressed his electoral swag herself with the same efficiency and perfection of the professional laundry houses. When he’d stepped out from behind the dressing screen, Ruth had proclaimed him restored to his old self.

For the first time since his return, she’d smiled. “The church will be so glad to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same.” The garment felt heavy and awkward upon his shoulders, but he was done arguing with her. This meeting was going to happen. The sooner he got it over with, the better.

He was grateful that Ruth’s preparations had distracted her from probing into the blackness of his soul. His discomfort stemmed not from the weight of the wool but rather from the anger he wore like a soldier’s breastplate. Even Ruth’s eternal optimism had failed to penetrate the armor around his heart. He was
not his former self. Before the exile, he’d been a man of ambitious views. A man comfortable in gold, jewels, embroidered garments, and the possibility of leading a radical movement from obscurity into victory. But since those long days adrift and his discovery of the loss of Lisbeth, he’d become a man of plain apparel, shattered heart, and depleted faith.
A man uncertain of where to place his feet.

As per his promise, he’d taken in the widow of Caecilianus. Kissing her was a mistake they’d silently agreed never to mention, in exchange for his agreement to gather the church for encouragement. He would put to death the feelings her nearness stirred in him and treat her with the respect his promise deserved.

Cyprian had spent hours poring over Caecilianus’s Scripture parchments and personal notes, searching for the perfect words to say to the believers. Words to comfort, restore, and unite the frightened flock against this blight of plague and persecution. Words he could deliver to pacify Ruth without choking on his own hypocrisy. He glanced at the notes he’d carefully crafted. His stomach had not been this knotted since his first day in court.

Ruth’s gentle rap on the cottage door cinched the knot tighter. “The sun has set. It’s finally safe for the believers to make their way here. We haven’t met in weeks. I’m so excited to have everyone together. I think it best if I go first and break the news of your return and my reason for calling this special assembly.” She smoothed a fabric fold at his shoulder. “After you deliver your message of encouragement, I think you should move among them.”

Cyprian felt himself flinch. “Move among them?”

“Speak to them. Touch them. Reassure them. Like Caecilianus used to do.” Ruth snapped her fingers, and the dogs leaped to their feet and followed her.

“I’m not Caecilianus.”

Ruth was so excited he doubted she’d heard his reply. Which was just as well. It wouldn’t take her long to see what a mistake this had been.

Cyprian waited outside the door to the garden, notes twisting in his hands.