Return to Exile (16 page)

“My
jaddah
said I could call him Larry.”

“Jaddah?” Lisbeth smiled.

“It was what you would have called my mother had she lived.”
Mama motioned her in, a pleased glow on her face. “We’ve all become fast friends.”

Barek snorted.

“Except for him, Mommy. He’s cranky.” Maggie nodded toward Barek and then quickly turned her attention back to her art. “Larry, show me how to do ears without smearing.” She blew on the parchment. “Junia, come sit by me.”

“You taught her our language?” Mama’s question was really more a pleased statement.

“And how to be bossy,” Barek muttered.

“Barek,” Ruth scolded. “That’s enough.”

Lisbeth started to say something to Barek, but Mama’s shake of the head indicated she should let this one go. “Papa deserves the credit. He thought Maggie should know her heritage.”

Mama’s face brightened at the mention of Papa. “I was afraid to ask if Lawrence came with you, in case he didn’t want to.”

“He wanted to. More than anything.” Lisbeth hated crushing her mother’s hope. “At the last minute, we decided he should stay with Maggie. But she jumped in after me, and there wasn’t time for him.”

“Oh, no, I messed up again.” Maggie waved Laurentius over. “I need your help, Larry. I want to draw my daddy.”

Laurentius grinned and ducked his chin. Lisbeth loved how her half brother stroked her arm, hanging on to her like he never wanted to let her go. She prayed his great capacity to love had helped ease Mama’s guilt for choosing to stay in his world. The animosity she’d once felt for her mother’s choice had long since vanished. She couldn’t even leave Maggie with Queenie for a few days; she didn’t know how her mother had borne the thought of leaving her with Papa forever.

“Larry!”

“Maggie needth me.”

“We all do.” She kissed the top of Laurentius’s head.

He released her arm, returned to his seat, and picked up a writing quill. “Watch.” He held the stylus between clubbed fingers. “Firth you dip the tip, then you drag it thlowly along the horn rim so it won’t drip.”

Of all the ways she’d imagined this scene, she hadn’t prepared herself for the overwhelming emotions of having nearly everyone she loved in the same place. Giving up the dream of having Cyprian as the head of their family would not be easy. Maggie would be crushed.

“Hungry?” Ruth offered Lisbeth an opened fig.

Lisbeth locked eyes with Ruth. The knife of betrayal stabbed her again. “Not really.”

“Oh.” Ruth placed the fruit on a plate and wiped her hands on a towel. “Thirsty, then?”

Face-to-face, they stood on opposite sides of the table, silently staring at each other. Best friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. Each of them hanging on to the friendship they remembered. Neither of them knowing how or where to start the sticky conversation likely to end their treasured relationship once and for all.

Lisbeth opened her mouth to say—to say what? “
How could you marry my husband?”
—but it was Ruth who once again made the first move.

“Barek, fetch one of our best wines from the cellar,” Ruth said.

He frowned. “Mother, I’m no longer a child who needs to be sent out of earshot.”

“Go,” Ruth said pointedly.

Once Barek left the room, Ruth glanced at Maggie and then back at Lisbeth. “I’m sure you’ll tell us all about what’s happened in your life when you’re ready.” Ruth had mustered her old familiar tone, the one that said they could fix this. Forgive one another and
be friends again. “If I’d known Cyprian had a daughter,” she whispered.

“You knew he had a wife.” Lisbeth didn’t hide her hurt. “And you married him anyway.”

Sadness flickered across Ruth’s face. Her hand flew protectively to her belly. “If we’d known you would come—”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“We didn’t know that.”

“You saw me go down the cistern.”

“But I didn’t know what happened to you.”

“You could have waited to find out.”

“How long?”

“Long enough to at least mourn the death of
your
husband. Did you even cry over Caecilianus?” Lisbeth instantly regretted the verbal shot and Ruth’s stunned recoil. They’d been friends; Ruth deserved a civil conversation and a chance to voice her point of view. “I’m sorry.” Her weak apology didn’t stanch the tears flowing from Ruth’s eyes. The damage had been done.

“Mommy?” Black ink smudged Maggie’s cheeks. “Why are you fighting with the nice lady?”

In less than ten minutes, Maggie had done exactly what Lisbeth had done upon her first meeting with Ruth, become completely taken with the strong, compassionate woman. Is that what had happened to Cyprian? He’d come home to an empty bed and the warm smile of the enchanting blonde running his household. Who could blame him? Every life Ruth touched was instantly infused with her unconditional love. “I’m not fighting, baby. I’m—”

Mama pulled Lisbeth aside and whispered out of Maggie’s hearing. “This misunderstanding is my fault. I sent you home for a reason. I expected you to stay there. It’s too dangerous here. Aspasius is a constant threat.”

“Me? What about you? I couldn’t let that jerk hurt you anymore, Mama.”

“Is that why you came back? To get me?”

“And Laurentius. And . . .”

“Cyprian?” Ruth’s voice quivered. “You came to get Maggie’s father, right?”

Maggie’s head snapped up, the quill dripping ink on her design. “Right, Mommy?”

Lisbeth could feel her daughter waiting for her answer. Now was not the time to hash this out. Now was the time to make the unhappy trip back to the twenty-first century without Maggie’s father as easy as possible on her child.

“I came to help fight the measles.” Lisbeth reached into her backpack, praying Maggie would let this one go until she had some sort of explanation figured out. “I brought vaccines.” When she presented her treasured box of MMR vials and another box of the diluents, she was relieved Maggie had returned to her art for now. “Since there’s no way to maintain the proper temperatures to ensure viability, I’ve got to use them up fast.”

“Is it still a two-dose protocol?” Mama asked.

Lisbeth nodded. “Two rounds would be ideal, but the recipients have to wait four weeks between doses. Without a fridge that’s not happening. So I’m hoping one shot is better than nothing.”

Mama came and stood by Laurentius. “Start with your brother.”

Inoculating someone with Down’s made her nervous. “Any signs of leukemia?”

“No.” Mama immediately dismissed the possibility that Laurentius’s genetic mutation increased his odds of contracting a cancer. Vaccinating him was extremely dangerous. “And he for sure has never had chemo. It’s safe,” Mama desperately insisted.

Without a battery of blood work to confirm or deny Laurenti
us’s health, Lisbeth would have to rely on visuals. Laurentius did not seem overly tired. Nor did he suffer any unusual bruising. Other than a little weight loss, which could be explained by the lack of good nutrition available, he seemed fine. She’d never forgive herself if he contracted measles and died because she’d withheld the one thing that could save him. “Roll up his sleeve.”

Mama set to work preparing Laurentius while Lisbeth turned her back and loaded the syringe.

When she faced Laurentius with the needle, his eyes grew wide, and he backed into Mama. “Will it hurt?”

“Don’t worry, Larry.” Maggie continued drawing. “Shots only sting for a second. I know. Mommy made Queenie give me lots of them before we got on the plane.”

“Who’s Queenie?” Laurentius asked.

“She’s my aunt in Texas.” Maggie blew on the parchment. “Ruth’s my aunt here.” Maggie had already made them all into one big, happy family.

“Laurentius, can you keep your eyes on Maggie’s mice?” Lisbeth flicked the side of the syringe. “Look, I think I see them moving.” The moment Laurentius was distracted she inserted the needle at a forty-five-degree angle into the posterolateral fat of his upper arm.

Laurentius flinched. “Ow!” His face scrunched. “I don’t like thots.”

“You were a brave boy.” Mama rubbed his arm and unrolled his sleeve, relief on her face. “Thank you, Lisbeth.”

“Who’s next?” Lisbeth looked at Naomi. The girl needed a nudge from Mama, but she took her shot without complaint. “Next?”

Ruth stepped forward, rolling up her sleeve. “I’ll go.”

“Sorry, this shot is best given
before
pregnancy.” The old Lisbeth, the one who only thought about herself, would have thought
leaving Ruth unprotected served her right for stealing her husband. This new Lisbeth, the one with the Holy Spirit constantly perched on her shoulders, felt sick to her stomach. She tried to soften her response. “If you haven’t gotten measles yet, then I suspect you’re already immune.”

“Barek and I have had the measles.”

“When?”

“Right after you left.”

“Who cared for you?”

“Those we’d cared for—”

“Help!” Cyprian’s shout rang through the whole house and cut Ruth off.

Ruth dropped the towel and raced from the kitchen.

“Do
not
leave this room, Maggie.” Lisbeth scrambled after Ruth, tripping over mats while Ruth moved more with the ease of a gazelle than a very pregnant woman. “Ruth!” She caught up and took Ruth by the shoulders. “For the baby’s sake, I can’t let you go in there.”

“And who do you think has been in there in your absence?” Ruth pushed past her and began directing the new arrivals to the vacant mat in the last free corner.

Barek emerged from the wine cellar. “What’s going on?”

“More sick.” Ruth took the crock from him. “Naomi, fetch my herb box.” Ruth dished out orders with the ease of a charge nurse. “Barek, more hot water.” Ruth motioned to Cyprian. “Over here.”

“The floor?” A tall man with his arms hooked under the limp arms of a young woman had his back to them. Cyprian was on the opposite end, supporting the girl’s ankles. Standing beside the sick girl was a woman Lisbeth guessed to be the girl’s mother. She was an exact replica of the younger one, except for the scowl on her face, and she had her hands tucked inside the folds of the very expensive stola
draped around her graceful figure. The impressive
shimmer and rustle of Coan silk accompanied her slightest movement.

“We’ll make her comfort—” Ruth looked up from her preparations and gasped.

Lisbeth’s gaze followed the bead of Ruth’s focus: The man holding the beautiful girl with light blond hair, perfectly chiseled features, and flaming red spots scattered across her neck and chin was the same man who’d been there that horrible day she and Ruth were hauled before the council. The man who had voted to kill Caecilianus and exile Cyprian. Anger boiled inside Lisbeth, and it was all she could do not to charge headfirst into the man.

The man’s bloodshot eyes assessed the crowded villa halls, his nose wrinkling slightly at the hacking patients rousing from their mats. “The daughter of Titus Cicero does not sleep on the floor with plebs.”

“Patricians are nothing but trouble,” Barek said.

“Hush, son,” Ruth scolded. “We’ll do our best to make her as comfortable as possible.”

“She’ll have a bed away from plebs,” Titus demanded.

“Hold your tongue, Cicero,” Cyprian said. “After what you did to Ruth’s husband, it is only by the grace of God that she’ll help you at all.”

Titus looked shocked, like he had no recollection of Ruth or the man she loved. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The old bishop you had beheaded!” Cyprian snapped.

“What?” Barek lunged for Titus.

“It’s all right, son.” Ruth snatched Barek back. “I’m sure Titus is just worried about his daughter. Any parent would be. She’s obviously very sick.”

“He had my father killed!” Barek pulled against her hold. “I’ll kill him.”

“He was not the only one who voted that day,” Ruth soothed.

“I’ll kill him.”

“I don’t blame you, Barek, but you’re not killing anybody tonight.” Lisbeth stepped between Barek and Titus. “Your daughter can either receive treatment on the floor or die in your arms. The choice is yours.”

The man bristled at their unified front. His eyes conjured the image of a wildcat sizing up prey. Arresting. The eyes of a dangerous man. “Who are you?”

Lisbeth kept her gaze steady. “I am the woman whose husband you sent into exile.”

“Titus?” Vivia’s hands churned beneath the yards of fabric draped across her shoulder. “What are these strange people talking about?”

“Coming here was a mistake.” Titus started to back out, stretching Diona between him and Cyprian.

“Titus, what have you done?”

“It was business, Vivia. Just business.”

“Tell that to the people whose lives you ruined,” Cyprian said.

Lisbeth could see the patient deteriorating. “You can hold him down, and I’ll punch him later, Cyprian. That girl needs help.” She put her hands on her hips. “You want the bed or not, mister?” She waited, giving Titus little time to weigh his options. “If not, I’m sure we can find someone who will. Might even be you in a few days.”

Titus struggled under the weight of the girl’s limp body obviously growing heavier and heavier in his arms.

“Do it, Titus,” the woman with him ordered. “Now!”

“Very well, Vivia. But don’t blame me when they murder our daughter on that filthy mat.”

17

L
ISBETH STOOD ON THE
balcony watching the moon slowly slide into morning. Ruth had handled the shock of seeing Titus with the enviable maturity of the saint she was. Forgiving those who’d betrayed her like they’d simply stolen a piece of bread rather than murdered her husband. If mature faith could grant someone that kind of peace, then Lisbeth had a long way to go. Not only did she have to fight back the urge to slap Titus, this impossible mess with Ruth and Cyprian still made her fume.

By the time Lisbeth and Mama had the Ciceros settled to Titus’s satisfaction, the MMR vaccine she’d brought had warmed beyond the recommended safety margin. She hated that Ruth and Barek had suffered through measles without her, but she was grateful the church had nursed them. Laurentius was now safely vaccinated, and Junia was immune since she’d had measles before, too.