Free Return to Exile by Lynne Gentry Page A

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