Healer of Carthage (23 page)

“Tradesmen can become quite wealthy, and wealth opens many doors.” Ruth crossed her arms. She wasn’t letting him off the hook easily, which made Lisbeth admire her even more. “Were you not strutting about just moments ago declaring the need for a wife? Aspasius’s plot against you has already ended your chances with the Roman women of standing in Carthage. It seems to me that your only option is to marry a mysterious foreign woman.” The thump of the dogs’ tails upon the rug echoed in the silence. “Never have I seen the Lord answer a prayer so quickly and thoroughly. If God can provide a wife, he can see to your election.”

Lisbeth didn’t particularly like being considered a provision sent from God, but her opportunity to save her mother was slipping away too fast to argue religious points. “If you don’t do this, Aspasius will have the liberty to do as he pleases to your little church.”

“And if I do”—Cyprian eyed her coolly—“I will have the liberty to do as I please with you.”

28

A
S RUTH LED HIS
future bride from the library, Cyprian busied himself with coaxing the knots from his belly. Most men in his position would have jumped at the opportunity to wed such a beauty. People marry for all sorts of reasons. Perhaps God would count saving the church from further destruction an acceptable argument for yoking himself to an unbeliever.

Yet, here he was, shamefully hedging despite Ruth’s indisputable evidence that Lisbeth of Dallas was indeed God’s gift dropped into his lap. If God had called him to save his people by engaging in a full-on war, he would have dusted off his sparring sword and bought a suit of armor. Buying a wedding ring was a battle he lacked the preparation to fight.

“Take a good swig of this.” Caecilianus offered him a glass of wine. “It will knock the green from your complexion.”

Cyprian let the weight of the glass anchor his roiling emotions. “Do you see another way, Bishop?”

“Sometimes God’s will is not easily discerned, my boy, but when it is . . .”

Cyprian sighed. “We must act.” He took a sip, the burn sliding into the turmoil. “Aspasius has made it clear that he has no love for Christians. This latest edict will make his mistreatment of us legal. And he has tarnished my name on every front.”

“Sadly, my boy, the law cannot make men upright. Only grace can truly change hearts and behaviors.” Caecilianus poured himself a cup of the blood-red liquid. “So tell me, do you think you can learn to love her?”

“Love her?” Cyprian choked, spraying wine everywhere. “I don’t even know her. Nor do I want to. She is a pagan.”

“As were you less than a year ago.” Caecilianus made his way behind Cyprian’s desk. “I’ve not detected any vulgar vices in her.” He mopped wine droplets from his parchments, then lowered his lanky frame into the seat he’d made his own. “In fact, she’s been remarkably helpful, considering her protestations against her situation. Virtuous enough to pass the most diligent patrician test, I’d say.”

“She’s caused a fight in my home, escaped at her first opportunity, and now proposes that I help her relieve the proconsul of his bed partner.”

“Perhaps virtuous is stretching it a bit.” The old bishop took a long, slow sip of wine that rippled over his rather large Adam’s apple. He wiped wine from his lips. “There’s something you should know.”

Doubtful anything connected to this woman would surprise him, Cyprian pinched the bridge of his nose. “That she has bewitched us all?”

“No.” Caecilianus gazed over his cup. “That your future wife has possibly brought the tenement sickness into your home.”

Cyprian leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember our dear brother Numidicus?”

The name sounded familiar, and from the fondness displayed on Caecilianus’s face, Numidicus was a believer, one Cyprian was expected to know. He had tried to learn the names of the congregants that met in his home, but frankly, he’d been brought up believing that all plebeians were the same. That he’d yet to make
much progress in crossing over that very well-defined line had not escaped the old bishop’s watchful eye.

Cyprian took a stab at identifying the subject of Caecilianus’s concern. “The quarry worker who vocalized his concerns at our last gathering?”

“Yes, impudent, outspoken Numidicus.” The affection on Caecilianus’s face melted into sadness. “Our dear brother and his young wife are dead.”

“How?”

“Fever.”

“I’m sorry.” Cyprian had seen the bodies beginning to stack up when he searched the tenement streets for Lisbeth. Until now, the dead had only been nameless faces, easier to ignore. He knew he’d not completely discarded his Roman way of thinking, but how could he have maintained such a cold and callous disregard? No wonder Caecilianus would not rest until his protégé no longer went through life as an aloof patrician. “I understand the church will take this news hard, maybe even need some reassurances that we’re doing everything we can to contain the spread, but—”

“Your future wife brought their orphaned child here.”

“What? How did Lisbeth—”

“She was in the projects after all.”

Realization punched Cyprian’s gut. “She’s been exposed to the sickness?”

Caecilianus’s long face turned grave, the wrinkles deepening as he continued. “When Lisbeth slipped away from Ruth, she forfeited her escape plans to render aid to Numidicus. A kind thing to do, don’t you agree?” His eyes brightened as if this bit of good somehow balanced the scales. “It was at the tenements that Lisbeth met up with her mother.”

“The healer could have the fever, too?” Cyprian couldn’t let himself imagine facing the persecution the new edict would bring
without the help of the healer. Who would piece together those torn limb from limb in the arena or patch up those stoned in the square? “The church must pray for the healer and do what it can to raise the child.”

“I agree, but”—Caecilianus cleared his throat—“Junia has the fever.”

Cyprian’s quickened heartbeat echoed the fear he heard in Caecilianus’s voice. “God, please, not the child.” If this sickness truly was the result of Rome’s angry gods, Aspasius would see to it that Christians shouldered the brunt of the blame. Even a healthy healer could not stop the flow of blood. “My intended did the right thing to bring the child here.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Pleasure in his voice went a long way in assuring Cyprian that God had the future in his hands, even the horrible course of this plague. The old bishop rested his chin upon his steeped fingers, his hooded gaze fixed squarely upon Cyprian. “So I ask again, can you learn to love a woman who seems to have a heart of gold but lacks a dowry, a notable position, and a true grasp of our ways?”

“I don’t need her money.”

“You avoid the question, my friend.”

“I don’t need a real wife, and I won’t foolishly give away my heart to win this election. I can’t believe you’re asking me to join myself to a pagan who plans on going her ‘merry way’ once she has what she wants.”

Caecilianus directed Cyprian to sit. “Have I told you about Hosea?”

“The ancient prophet called to marry a harlot?”

Caecilianus nodded. “Those were dark days for God’s people. An uncommon faith was required for their survival.” The old bishop’s face sobered. “Cyprian, dark days are upon us again.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “Sometimes
the ways of the Lord are not our ways. All we can do is walk through the doors he opens.”

“And how did it end for this prophet and his pagan wife?”

“They had three children.” Caecilianus smiled. “And God healed his people.” The dogs whined for the bishop’s attention. He stroked their heads. “Sharing your love in this life is the only way you’ll win in the next, my boy.”

Healing for Carthage. Was that not what he wanted?

Cyprian’s mind drifted to the way Ruth and Caecilianus looked at each other, the way they worked side by side for the betterment of the kingdom, and the way they joined hands for prayer. God forgive him, but a love like his friends possessed was what he wanted. “What if she never becomes a believer?”

“Leave Lisbeth’s heart up to God. He knows what he’s doing.”

CYPRIAN STOOD
before the empty shrine cupboard in his deserted atrium. Moonlight filtered through the ceiling skylight, casting a silvery glow on the empty pedestal where the household god had presided over his family’s comings and goings for years. All that remained of Lars were the sooty outlines of two tiny feet perched above the fire bowl. How many grain offerings had he and his father burned before the highly revered bronze statue? How many countless prayers were lifted before this tiny throne? His father claimed his household had prospered under the reign of that cherished little idol. They’d fought over its removal. Their last conversation had been brutal.

Should he have allowed the removal of the last ties to his upbringing? Or had his decision put those he loved at risk? Made them vulnerable as he was feeling? Was this one God of the old bishop big enough to handle the horrors Cyprian felt were sure to come?

When Caecilianus first shared the story of the Nazarene carpenter, a martyr raised from the dead, Cyprian had found the teachings impossible to believe. But something about a god who walked among men spoke to his loneliness. Day after day he had returned to Caecilianus’s rug shop, hungry for the tales of the god-man called Jesus.

He would have walked away, counted the whole experience as a pleasant waste of time, had the old bishop not presented hard evidence, an original copy of the writings of Luke. A record of eyewitness testimonies supporting the resurrection of the one God. Legal proof, difficult to dispute, even in a court of law.

Cyprian traced the blackened footprints where once the eternal flames had burned. Would he have acted so rashly had he known his renunciation and removal of the gods in the cupboard would kill his father in two short days? Despite Caecilianus’s teachings on forgiveness, he was glad to be out from under the constant scrutiny of a man so difficult to love. But he had only himself to blame that the grief of his father’s loss had sent his dear, sweet mother to an early grave.

Now the responsibility for the health and prosperity of the vast fortune he’d inherited was his duty. He felt the burden every time he passed through the villa’s heavy wooden doors. At the very least, taking a wife would give him sons, heirs who would keep his estate from becoming the property of Rome.

The slave girl seemed genuine enough in her offer to help, but so far she’d proven herself anything but trustworthy. If a barbarian with a wicked tongue and eyes that could turn a man’s heart to stone was God’s will for him, why did he feel like a man on the verge of making another tragic mistake? Had Hosea felt the same sense of impending doom before he took Gomer as his wife?

He closed the door to the cupboard and sought a quiet place to pray.

29

L
ISBETH REPLAYED CYPRIAN’S VEHEMENT
reaction to her marriage offer. His expert about-face was not for her benefit. He’d conceded only to placate Ruth and Caecilianus. Cyprian may have conjured an agreeable smile, but she hadn’t missed the anger those piercing blue eyes had directed her way.

Two could play his game. But only one could win. Staying one step ahead of him would require finesse and far more sleep than she’d managed to squeeze in these past few days. But freeing her mother and brother had relegated her needs to low-priority status.

Lisbeth waved off Ruth’s offer of cheese and wine and rushed to the shed to check on Junia. The girl’s bright eyes and renewed appetite supported Ruth’s claims that the child was on the mend. Maybe if she organized proper quarantines and serious supportive care others could be saved from the fever as well. With just a little training, Ruth would be a great charge nurse, Naomi the perfect aide, and this house the perfect hospital.

The idea of making a difference, grand and unrealistic as it seemed, gave her a strange tingle of pleasure. Saving not only her mother and brother, but also a group of people she was beginning to love. An admirable mission. One that she prayed would make up for her colossal failure to save Abra.

“I want my mama.” Junia’s lip quivered.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Lisbeth pulled the adorable little waif into her lap. She felt heavier even though she’d only had access to an abundant supply of nutritious food for a couple of days. “I know she’d want you to get better first.”

“Where is she?” Junia asked. “Where’s my daddy?”

Lisbeth looked to Ruth, unable to get the words past the lump in her throat.

“They’re with Jesus, Junia.” Ruth offered the girl a mug of watered wine. “She wants you to live with us now.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know you do, baby. But you can’t.” All Lisbeth could do was hold her while she cried.

After Junia’s racking sobs subsided, she pulled away and looked at Lisbeth. “I’ll live with you.” She laid her head on Lisbeth’s shoulder and brought her thumb to her mouth.

Lisbeth’s heart did a weird little flutter. She put her arms around the child and hugged her close. Doing what had to be done had not been easy. For the first time it occurred to Lisbeth that perhaps Mama’s heart had broken when she did what she had to do.

Craig had implied on several occasions that she’d built a wall around her emotions, one that didn’t allow anyone to get close. Not even him. He said she needed to do whatever it took to get over the hurt of her mother’s leaving. If he thought for one moment her little indigent-care program and rescue operation was the ticket to her well-being, he’d be the first to declare this mock marriage a necessary means to an end . . . at least that’s how she’d justify marrying a third-century lawyer when she returned to her twenty-first-century doctor.

Lisbeth tucked Junia into bed. As she was leaving the shed, she caught a glimpse of her dirty face in the darkened window
glass. After she freshened up, she’d find Cyprian and outline the specifics of their arrangement, including reiterating one more time that this was not to be a real marriage. After she returned to Dallas, he’d be free to marry the kind of woman he deserved. One who would take up his fight for religious freedom.