Free Return to Exile by Lynne Gentry

Caecilianus in more ways than that. The whole idea of “neither slave nor free” felt like shifting sand beneath his feet.
    Wishing things were different would change nothing. He had no better ideas. If Ruth believed Felicissimus a suitable agent, she would not let the idea go until he gave it serious consideration.
    An urgent rap at the door drew Cyprian from his brooding thoughts. “Ruth?” Water gushed from the eaves and soaked her head covering. The dogs rushed inside and began to shake water everywhere. “You’ll catch your death getting out in this storm.”
    “We need the rain.” She swept into the room. From the basket upon her arm came the enticing scent of freshly baked bread. “You need dinner and a haircut.”
    Ruth handed Cyprian the basket. She removed her black scarf and shook out the water. Since her husband’s death, Ruth had abandoned her elaborately styled hair in favor of a simple sunshine-colored braid that hung to her waist. She’d also taken to wearing bland, serviceable cotton tunics stained with her hacking patients’ phlegm. She turned down offers to purchase something better, claiming tailored silk stolas could be put to far better use ripped apart and converted into vaporizer tents.
    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