Shades of Surrender (6 page)

The teakwood ship creaked into the substandard quay. The boat’s lofty goose-neck stern, decorated with an intricate carving of the bearded face of Neptune, blocked the sun. In the shadow of the fierce-eyed god, Cyprian muscled to the front of the crowd, eager for the advantage of being recognized for the powerful man he was . . . used to be.

“Stand back.” The port’s lone stevedore pressed the crowd from the gangplank landing.

Upturned faces, every one of them as scraggly and sunken-cheeked as Cyprian’s, searched the ship’s deck. Instead of the usual hustle of a crew eager to make landfall, not a soul stirred onboard. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. What was taking so long? Why weren’t the slaves lowering the gangplank? Where was the security detail that accompanied every vessel commissioned for Rome’s service? An eerie quiet settled over the dock.

A heavy rope sailed over the ship’s railing. The crowd cheered and swelled forward. Cyprian grabbed a pylon to steady himself against the surge of filthy bodies. The grating slide of iron bolts signaled the release of the gangplank. Before all could get clear, the bridge crashed upon the dock, forcing some to dive into the water or be crushed. A ragged boy appeared at the ship’s opening. He planted his red-speckled legs and raised a sword twice the size of his scrawny body to block the entrance.

“Unclean!” he shouted. “We carry plague. We’ve only ported to rid ourselves of the dying.”

Howls of horror erupted. Men pushed and shoved in the opposite direction.

Cyprian caught sight of a Roman captain’s crested helmet near the bow. Desperate for news as the others were to escape possible contamination, he knew what he had to do. Cyprian pushed through panicked men, forcing his way along the dock until he reached the front of the ship. He cupped his hands to his lips. “Captain!”

A square-shouldered man came to the railing. Several days’ growth on his chin made him appear uncharacteristically disheveled and unkempt for a Roman officer. He did, however, still possess that unmistakable air of Roman authority.

Cyprian shouted, “Any correspondence for Cyprianus Thascius, solicitor of Carthage?” Unsure if he’d been heard over the thundering retreat of frightened men, he shouted his question again.

When the captain spotted Cyprian a scowl wrinkled his brow. “What if there was?”

“Even exiles are entitled to send and receive mail,” Cyprian demanded in his most forceful barrister voice. The voice that had once bellowed with power in the imperial courts. The voice he had once used to instill fear in his adversaries. The voice he barely recognized anymore. “If you refuse to hand it over, I shall appeal this abhorrent treatment to Decius.”

“Not if he’s dead.”

“Dead?” The word rang with a hope almost impossible to believe. A new emperor on the throne could possibly end the persecution that had sent him into the abyss. “When? How?”

“Killed in battle against the Goths. Nearly a year ago.” The captain stooped, retrieved a bag, and threw it at Cyprian’s feet. “Traitors! The lot of you. Unfit to live on Roman soil.”

“He’s got food!” one of the retreating exiles shouted. The others quickly forsook their fear of disease and swarmed in Cyprian’s direction.

“Pontius! Run!” Cyprian grabbed the bag and leaped from the dock. His bare feet hit the sand hard. Pontius landed right behind him.

Legs pumping, they scrambled down the beach, cutting through the dune scrubs, sand flying. They sped toward the marshes and plunged into knee-deep water. Cyprian tossed the mail sack over his shoulder and sloshed after Pontius. Deeper and deeper they trudged into the shadows of the cypress trees. A startled marsh bird took flight, signaling their location to the ensuing mob.

“This way.” Pontius ducked behind a large root, and Cyprian followed. Backs to the smooth bark, they panted. Listening. Nothing but the sound of their own hearts thundering in their ears.

“Think we lost them?” Pontius whispered several minutes after the sounds of wildlife returned.

“Not for long.” Cyprian held the bag tight. “Powers of action always equal a man’s desires. The outcast hunger for news as much as food.” He slowly peeked around the tree. “Keep a sharp eye out, Pontius.” He tore through the mail sack.

“What are you looking for?”

“Proof that Aspasius has lost Rome’s backing.”

Pontius checked for pursuers. “Would a new emperor be more sympathetic to our plight?”

“If there is any justice in this life.”

At the bottom of the mailbag, Cyprian found a small parchment addressed to him, folded and sealed with wax. “It’s from Ruth.”

“What does she say?”

Cyprian broke the seal and began reading the scratchings from Ruth’s hurried hand. “Plague. Persecution. Struggles to keep both the hospital and the church going.” He scanned the rest of the letter. “Valerian is the new emperor and”—he couldn’t believe what he was reading—“and rumor has it that the proconsul has been ordered to summon us home.”

“Yes!” Pontius pumped his fist. “God has not forgotten us.” He wrapped Cyprian in a bear hug, then pulled away when Cyprian failed to embrace him. “Why are you not pleased, my lord?”

“If Aspasius is still in power, our return will not be without challenge. He will dispatch an escort to see us safely delivered to his court.” Cyprian folded the letter. “Mark my words, no matter what I do, that eel will still find a way to see me martyred in the arena.”

Pontius swallowed. “And Lisbeth? What news does Ruth give of your wife?”

Cyprian read the widow’s words one more time, praying he’d missed something in his haste the first time through, then shook his head. “Not one word.”

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About the Author

Photograph by Jacob Knettel

L
YNNE GENTRY WAS A
finalist in Westbow’s 2010 fiction contest. She is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), and three of her novels have been selected as finalists for the ACFW Genesis contest. Lynne is a pastor’s wife and the mother of two grown children.

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