Shades of Surrender Read online

  He knew he’d nearly talked her ear off all the way home, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop his foolish prattle. He kept telling himself it was because he was overly anxious about Ruth’s situation, which was serious. When Natta’s family had become unable to pay their taxes after his sudden passing and lost their home and shop in his neighborhood, he’d offered help. But Ruth had done exactly as he expected and turned him down. His concern over her burden of caring for her mother and keeping a roof over their heads was one of the very reasons he made up excuses to visit every Tuesday.

  The other reason was a recent development.

  Lately, it seemed that every time he got near this girl whose skin looked as soft as lamb’s wool, his legs either went out from under him or his tongue came unhinged. That’s why he limited his visits to her shop to once a week. He was afraid seeing her more often would turn him into a quivering mass of snail jelly.

  “Once the sea snails discharge their waxy secretions,” Caecilianus continued, busying his hands with the removal of Brutus’s leash, “their juices lack the needed consistency. That is why I buy my snails before the summer sun warms the seas.” He waved his arms over the vat, and Brutus began to howl for his breakfast. “This is a secret known in only the finest of dyers’ shops,” he shouted over the dog. “Oh, I didn’t mean that to sound like I was bragging.”

  “Hush, Brutus.” Ruth snapped her fingers and pointed to the mat in the corner. Brutus immediately slunk to his place, circled, then showed his disdain by plopping down with his rear pointed in their direction. “You don’t have a proud bone in your body, Caecilianus.” She straightened one of the drying racks. “My father used to say, ‘Our neighbor is a true artisan. He doesn’t sell the fool’s purple, like the light blues and deep violets hawked by the lesser talents.’ ”

  Caecilianus tried to concentrate on the vat, but his eyes kept straying to hers. They were a stunning shade of caeruleus. He’d tried numerous times to reproduce that luscious blue-green of deep-sea water but could never quite match the intensity.

  “No one in the empire can coax Tyrian purple from murex indigo and red madder root like you, Caecilianus. No wonder weavers come from as far away as Persia to purchase your beautiful skeins.”

  Heat crept up his neck and flushed his face. “Kind of you to say.”

  She shrugged. “Truth is truth.” She lifted her eyes to the rafters, where skeins of yarn hung from every peg. “How will we ever find the saffron twists in this mess?”

  He tapped his forehead. “I keep order here.”

  “You may have skill at the color vat, but you could use my help with presentation.” She found the stool she used to stand on to watch him hammer snails as a child, climbed aboard, and began taking down long, loopy skeins. “If we arrange the yarn by color, it will be so much easier to keep up with your inventory, and buyers will be able to see the subtle variations in shades.”

  “But I know where—”

  “Hold these.” She handed him an armful of yarn. “This whole place needs serious work. Once I’ve established order up here, I’ll take a broom to that horrid floor and organize those mounds of raw wool by the crimp count.” She looked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me.”

  How could he tell her she could organize his shop as much as she liked, but there was nothing she could do about the disorder her presence brought to his heart?

  He sighed in surrender and held out his arms for more yarn.

  3

  FOR ALMOST AN HOUR Ruth sorted through stacks and stacks of yarn. Then she convinced Caecilianus to stand on the stool while she paced the floor, directing the new placement of every color. When they were finished, the ceiling was a rainbow of perfectly ordered inventory.

  Tapping her finger to her lip, she tallied the colors. “No saffron.”

  “It’s here.” He climbed down from the stool. “Somewhere.”

  “Then it must be hidden under this layer of dust and snail shells.”

  She whisked a broom across the floor efficiently until there wasn’t a speck of dust or a single mollusk shell left for Brutus to sniff. Then, after giving the windows a thorough scrubbing, she invited Caecilianus to step outside and see how they sparkled. The shop now had a clean, cheery feel, and so did she. For the first time in months, everything did not seem so dark, and she had Caecilianus to thank.

  “I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.” Caecilianus handed Ruth a cup of watered wine.

  “We,” she corrected proudly. “We accomplished, Caecilianus.”

  He wiped the smudge from her cheek. “You take on lost causes the way I take in lost pups.”

  She cleared her throat nervously. He could never know how lost she was right now, how close she was to losing everything. No one could. She emptied her glass and handed it back. “Now to sort the raw wool.”

  “It can wait.”

  “I intend to leave here owing nothing.”

  “After all your hard work today, I believe I owe you.”

  “I have six months of your charity to repay.”

  “That is a debt already forgiven. Besides, kindnesses between friends are never charity. They are a privilege.”

  “In that case”—she turned him toward the bucket of snails sitting by one of his big vats—“you go about the business of making your dyes, and I’ll go about the privilege of making your shop presentable.” She brushed aside the perplexed expression on his face, squatted beside a pile of uncombed fleece, and plunged her hands into the greasy fibers. “Twenty twists per finger length, right?” She held up a strand, then glanced over her shoulder to find Caecilianus watching her while he whacked spiny-shelled mollusks with a mallet.

  He gave a nod. “Better suited for the fine togas that must hold their shape from the fuller’s vats of urine to the steamer’s pressing bricks.”

  “We shall keep the fine wools in this bin.” She scooped up the pile, then retrieved a strand from another. “Ten twists for blankets, right?” She moved to the next pile. “Three twists, the requisite number required for carpet wool. Coarse, resilient, and better able to withstand the scuff of passing feet.”

  “Very good.” He poured the bowl of snail glands into the vat of salt water. “Come spring, you will be shrewd enough to purchase your own wool. No Bedouin will want to face you on the shearing floor.”

  A strange sensation, like a sinking stone, rippled in Ruth’s stomach. Freeing Caecilianus of his obligation by learning to stand on her own two feet was the right thing to do. So why did the idea of losing him hurt so badly? Ruth’s father had taught her the secrets of a tight weave, but what she needed to know about friendship, faith, or how to run a successful business she had learned in this shop, from this humble man.

  “Look what I found.” She held up a golden-toned skein of yarn.

  He came to her side. “Told you it was here somewhere.”

  She fingered the yellow strands, sensing the labor of love involved in the long process. “So many flowers must have had to surrender their petals to achieve the brilliance of this shade.”

  “It is in the surrender that everything is made more beautiful.”

  She slowly turned to him. Could he see into her soul? To that part of her so afraid to let go? Before she could express her gratitude and convey the terms by which she could accept his help, Caecilianus continued.

  “Some dyers use cheaper plants like weld.” His lips were so close his breath mingled with hers. “But rich colors like this come from mixing the bright red stigmas of the saffron crocus with—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “It’s perfect.”

  “It is the color of the golden flecks in your hair,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then he immediately straightened and increased the space between them. “I mean, sometimes colors stick in my head, and I can’t rest until I re-create them and …”

  When had Caecilianus acquired the strands of gray threaded throug
h his beard? They didn’t make him appear older the way the rapid onset of gray streaks had aged her mother before her time. Instead, the silvery strands shimmered soft as moonlight and made Caecilianus’s smile seem even more sympathetic … more charming … more irresistible … more …

  He reached for her hair. “Ruth, I—”

  A loud clattering startled them both and cut off whatever Caecilianus was about to say. They wheeled to find Brutus standing in the middle of a puddle of purple dye and the tin vat rolling around his feet. His long tongue frantically lapped up the black liquor of rotted snails, sea salt, fermented urine, and toxic madder root.

  “My clean floor!”

  “My dog!”

  “Brutus!” Ruth splashed through the slimy mess. She reached for the dog’s collar, but he ducked and took another daring swipe. “Brutus, no!” Purple stained the big tongue hanging from his panting mouth.

  The dog wobbled for a moment, then looked at her as if to say, Help me.

  “Brutus?” Slowly the dog’s legs slid out from under him, and he landed on his belly with a thunk. “Get water, Caecilianus. We must flush the poison.”

  Caecilianus grabbed the water crock and dropped to his knees. “Brutus!” The dog began to shake violently. “Brutus, open your eyes, please, boy!”

  Ruth pried open the dog’s mouth. “Water, Caecilianus. Now!”

  She held the dog’s mouth open. Caecilianus poured water over the big purple tongue until it faded to pale lavender. She wasn’t sure how long they worked on Brutus, but by the time he began to perk up, all three of them were stained dark as a winepress.

  Caecilianus carried drunken-acting Brutus to his mat and then helped Ruth to her feet. “You saved his life.”

  A chuckle escaped her lips. “I’m afraid you’ll have to shear him like a sheep if you are to ever recoup your losses today.”

  He looked her up and down. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave your tunic, for it, too, is now mostly covered in my best purple.”

  Her chin lowered, and she took in the huge stains. She picked up a handful of snail glands and threw them at him. “Then you shall have to sell your own garment as well.”

  Caecilianus flicked snail glands back at her and hit her right between the eyes.

  Ruth stepped back incredulously. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  They looked at each other and burst into laughter. Unexpected joy bubbled up from the dark pool of her soul and cascaded down her face in the form of unspent tears. “No one makes me smile like you, Caecilianus,” she said between gasps for air.

  His eyes locked with hers.

  They both suddenly sobered.

  His eyes held her fixed in place. “I miss having you next door.”

  Ruth’s breath knotted in her throat, making speech impossible. Her gaze traveled to his lips. What would it be like to taste a mouth filled with so much kindness? No, she couldn’t let her mind wonder such things. Caecilianus deserved the most special of women, someone who could serve the church as selflessly as he, someone who would not weigh him down with her debt.

  Caecilianus cupped her face in his hands. Giant and rough, yet gentle as butterfly wings. Heat spread from her cheeks and warmed her limbs. His right thumb skimmed her cheek and smeared a glob of dye. “The color of royalty suits you.”

  All thoughts of the perfect wife the future bishop of Carthage deserved fled her mind. She could think of nothing but the splatters of purple caught in the fine hairs around his pink lips and the safety of his touch. “And you.”

  Caecilianus slowly leaned in. Ruth watched as he drew nearer, holding her breath, and suddenly they were kissing. He tasted of sea water, snails, and the sweetness of hope. Tingles spread clear to her toes. Above her the shades of a rainbow danced in the breeze.

  When he released her, his eyes were moist, but the mist did not obscure his regret. “I’m sorry, Ruth. I shouldn’t have—”

  She pulled back, surprised and ashamed at the intense desire his kiss had kindled within her. The desire for a husband, a home, a family as whole as the one she’d lost. “No, I am the one who shouldn’t have come here today.” She’d allowed herself to soak up Caecilianus’s generosity and kindness the way raw wool drank in his deep, rich purples. What could she ever give him in return? She was a fool who couldn’t even pay for her yarn. “I should never have left my mother,” she stammered. Then she snatched her yarn and ran from the dyer’s shop faster than a spooked rabbit.

  4

  RUTH’S FEET FLEW OVER the cobblestones. Was she really so desperate that she’d allowed her heart to hope for someone this impossibly beyond her grasp? To reach for this mirage of a happy future? Thank goodness her mother wouldn’t know what a fool she’d made of herself.

  She was nearly home before she realized the burning in her throat was not from her confused tears but from the acrid scent of smoke.

  “Fire!” People were pouring out of their shops and apartments, water crocks sloshing in their arms as they ran toward the black smoke billowing into the late-afternoon sky. “Fire!”

  Ruth’s legs pumped faster. She rounded the corner, short of breath and perspiration dripping down her back. A gray haze made it impossible to pinpoint the fire’s exact location. Whatever was going on, she could tell this was far worse than a bakery oven overheating again.

  She put her arm across her nose and mouth and pushed through the crowd. “What’s burning?”

  “It’s the rug shop.” A woman thrust a jug at her. “Here, help bring water.”

  “No!” Ruth knocked the jug from the woman’s hand and forced her way into the smoke. “Mother!” She pushed to the front of the water brigade. “Mother!”

  “You can’t get any closer.” Someone grabbed her and dragged her away just as flames leaped from the window where she’d left her mother and their new kitten.

  “My mother’s in there!” Ruth fought to break free. Intense heat singed her face. “I’ve got to get my mother!”

  “The place is going to collapse any minute,” the man said.

  “She can’t get herself out.” She struggled against his hold and screamed, “Mother!”

  Red-hot flames shot from the door. A loud pop, followed by a large cracking sound, sent men and women scattering. Ruth looked up to see the timber trusses of their roof give way and crash into her loom.

  “No!” The roof caved in with a bang.

  The masonry wall bearing her OPEN sign cracked, then tumbled into the street. Glowing bricks and plaster rained down. Soon the entire shop was engulfed in a raging blaze.

  “Mother!” Ruth’s screams shredded her throat. “Mother!” She shook herself from the man’s grip and dashed into the flames.

  5

  THE BELL ABOVE CAECILIANUS’S shop door jangled as Ruth fled the mess he had made of things.

  His shop was not the only thing kissing Ruth had altered. He was a man never to be the same.

  Caecilianus plunged a wooden paddle into the horrendous stench of the dead snails he had returned to the vat. His stirring fouled the air the same way his lack of self-control had fouled their friendship. What had he been thinking? It would be far easier to coax Tyrian purple from the fermented liquor of crushed snails than to convince a beautiful young girl such as Ruth to love a clumsy fool such as he was. Of all the awkward things he’d ever done in her presence, kissing her and then acting sorry about it were the worst. He would apologize more thoroughly next Tuesday. If she allowed him the opportunity to restore their friendship, he would never again be the source of the hurt he’d seen crease her perfect face.

  Shouts drew his attention to the window. People rushed by. Horror on their faces. Water jugs and crocks in their arms. He dropped his paddle and threw open the door. “What is it?”

  “Fire,” huffed an overweight silk merchant. “Low-rent district.”

  Caecilianus wheeled, grabbed his water jug, and sprinted toward the cloud of smoke darkening the sky. The closer he got to Rut
h’s street, the more his stomach twisted. This was worse than an unattended cooking fire. Hopefully, Ruth and her mother were watching from a safe distance. As he ran, he scanned the streets for signs of Ruth’s blond braid.

  He skidded around the corner and came to a dead stop. Crimson and gold flares burst through the smoke pouring out of the room Ruth and her mother rented.

  His jug crashed upon the sidewalk. He raced into the throng of people, fighting his way through those running in the opposite direction.

  Caecilianus grabbed a short man. “The woman who lived here. Is she all right?”

  The man coughed and shook his head.

  “This can’t be.” Caecilianus rushed into the blinding haze of the smoke. “Ruth!” His throat burned, and his nostrils stung with the sharp scent of burning wool and mud bricks. “Ruth!”

  “Here! Over here!”

  “Ruth!” A chill ran down Caecilianus’s spine despite the intense blast of heat coming from Ruth’s shop. “Where are you?”

  “Caecilianus!”

  He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and dove deeper into the thick smoke. “Ruth!”

  “Here!”

  He followed the sound of her voice, not stopping until he stumbled on something solid. “Ruth?”

  Her trembling hand grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Please. Help me get Mother out of here.”

  He felt around until he found the outline of a frail woman and wrapped his arms around her. As he scooped her up he noticed another body lying nearby. “Who is that?”

  “It’s Metras.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes. I’ll stay with him. Take her out.”

  “No. Come now. I’ll come right back.”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “Woman, do you want to get us all killed?” Ruth stubbornly remained firm, and Caecilianus sighed. He stood up, skirting glowing bricks and debris, moving as quickly as he could through the growing heat. Once he was a safe distance from the smoke, he lowered Ruth’s mother to the ground. “Don’t move.”