Healer of Carthage (13 page)

Magdalena bridled the panic clawing her insides and dipped her pinkie into the goblet. “You’re much too smart for lies.” She gently dragged blood-red liquid across his spreading smile. “What makes you think I’ve kept something from you?”

“You left my bed.” His tongue shot from his mouth, and he greedily lapped away the moisture. The vein at his temple throbbed. Keeping one hand on her wrist, his other hand encircled her waist.

“Sometimes a woman just needs a private moment in the lavatorium.”

He drew her so close she could smell the pickled flamingo he’d inhaled the night before. “I’ve worked years to have it all. I will have everything that is coming to me.” His sour breath singed her cheek. “Including that pretty little jewel Cyprian stole on the slave block.” He laughed when she stiffened. “Two at a time. A matched set to keep me warm.” He shoved her away. “Better yet, I’ll sell you and keep her all to myself.”

God help her if he’d noticed the strong resemblance between her and Lisbeth. She’d clamp his nose and drown him in mugwort.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I had a stomachache.” Stilling the tremble in her hands, she offered him the golden chalice. “Let me make it up to you.”

His jowls swayed with the slight shake of his head. “Oh, you’re not getting off that easy.”

Before she could duck, an earsplitting punch to the side of the head sent her reeling from the bed. She scrambled to her robe and fell upon the packet. His laughter rang in her ears as he lumbered from the bed.

He came and stood over her. His kick curled her knees to her chest. “I’ll make sure you never leave me again.”

13

A
SPASIUS CONSIDERED HIMSELF IN
the mirror, then repositioned his girth so as to block out the reflection of Magdalena’s bloodied body. He was tired of her treachery, and her disapproval had wearied him to the point of exasperation. Were it not for the little witch’s skills at easing his headaches, he’d have ridded himself of her judgment years ago.

Magdalena was a foreigner, a captive from the barbaric frontier. What did she know of framing a civilization? She no more appreciated his political efforts than she appreciated the ample bodies of the well-fed ruling class. Granted, his uneven legs had caused him childhood ridicule, but what he lacked in agility, he more than made up for in his impressive lineage. His long list of illustrious ancestors had secured his position as the most powerful man in Carthage. It was up to him to secure his place in history.

He tugged at the heavy girdle around his waist, noting with pride the need to add two more golden links. Expansion came at a price, one he was willing to pay. For his first order of business, he intended to extend his tenure as proconsul. He’d managed to skirt the silly one-year rule in the past. He’d manage again. All he had to do was to cozy up to the emperor. But to do this, he first had to eliminate Cyprian. The godlike solicitor had an uncanny ability to bend ears with his well-honed
oratorical skills. Slanderous reports that the current proconsul was failing to restore the mighty seaport of Carthage must not reach Rome.

According to the rumors, Cyprian planned to run for office once he took a wife. Therefore, he had no choice but to start some nasty rumor, something so evil no decent woman would want the man. Blocking Cyprian’s election to the Senate was a chore he would enjoy as much as stamping out the religious insubordination of a nasty little uprising called Christianity. He must act quickly, or his angered gods would never lift the cursed sickness felling his stone laborers.

Aspasius left the task of clearing Magdalena’s limp body away for the servants. No one cared or would dare question what he’d done to his own property. For a few coppers, she could easily be replaced with something younger and far more pliant. Like the fine little piece of flesh Cyprian had stolen out from under him. Once he ruined Cyprian’s reputation, he’d strip away his vast fortune and the slave girl.

He stopped by the cages of his nightingales, ortolans, and thrushes, riling them into a frenzy that rivaled his own. “Ah, my only trustworthy companions.” Their shrill songs converged into a chaotic melody that calmed him.

Aspasius swept into his office, composed and ready to get to work. His scribe waited in the corner, a stack of parchment and a new reed clutched to his chest.

“Pytros, take a letter.”

The nervous little man drew up a chair, dipped his pen into the ram’s horn inkwell, and readied his hand. “To whom shall I address this correspondence, sir?”

“To the Honorable Emperor Decius Trajan. Mark it urgent.”

For the next hour Aspasius sat behind his desk tracing the intricate swirls in the burled mahogany with his finger while
dictating his requests. His plan was simple, really. Northern Africa had become a cesspool of Jews and Roman traitors who’d converted to Christianity, people who did not appreciate what it meant to keep the gods appeased. A cleansing was necessary. A
return to the pure lineage that would carry the borders of Rome to the ends of the earth. A perfect Carthage.

History would thank him one day. But waiting on posterity had no appeal. He would eagerly appease the fickle gods. Then he would take what was due him.

14

L
ISBETH ROUSED AT THE
sound of the villa’s heavy front doors being flung open and dogs licking her face. Fresh air and sunlight streamed into the atrium. “How long did I sleep?” She rubbed her eyes against the glare.

“Not long from the looks of how well these two are doing.” Cyprian ordered the dogs to their mats and placed a food tray on the floor next to where she sat cross-legged between Barek and Laurentius. “Eat.” He bent to wake Ruth, who slept at Barek’s feet.

“No. Let her rest.” Encouraging Ruth to sleep had provided Lisbeth with a moment of solitude, an opportunity to think, and time to plan. She cupped the hot mug, eyeing Cyprian’s plain woolen garment. He seemed pretty comfortable for a man who’d just delivered a woman into the hands of an abuser. She had unresolved issues with Mama, but she sure didn’t want her hurt. She didn’t understand how Cyprian justified his decision, especially considering his elaborate and secretive scheme with Felicissimus to stop Aspasius from getting his hands on
her
. None of this made any sense.

“I’ll have Naomi bring another tray later.” Cyprian dismissed the slave girl, then pointed at the crude contraption attached to the arrow shaft protruding from Laurentius’s chest. “What’s this?”

“My version of a Pleur-Evac unit.”

His brow furrowed. “A what?”

“Never mind.” Lisbeth sipped the warm wine laced with spices. Not the shot of caffeine she needed, but that was probably for the best. She was already jumpy enough. “I had to figure out a way to restore the negative pressure to his lungs.” Explaining physics without coffee wasn’t going to happen. He knelt beside her, studying her so intently it was unnerving. She sighed and gave in. “Couldn’t think of anything to substitute for rubber tubing, so I dismantled my stethoscope.”

Ripping the hollow tubing from the metal headset and round chest piece had been surprisingly cathartic. A way to permanently sever the memories of playing doctor with the woman who’d walked out on her again.

“Ruth helped me attach one end of the tubing to the arrow shaft and submerge the other end in a water pot and . . . ta da . . . suction.” Lisbeth glanced at the sleeping Laurentius. His respirations were still labored, but his punctured lung was producing the closest thing to a symmetrical chest rise she’d seen all night. “Poor boy wanted to suck his thumb and curl into a ball. Hardest part was keeping him upright, so gravity would work in his favor.”

“Clever.” A slow smile carved parenthetical dimples in Cyprian’s tanned cheeks. “Maybe the healer was right about you.”

Lisbeth pushed the plump pomegranate aside and dunked a hard roll into the wine. “Or maybe you people believe what you want to believe?”

“I believe this boy owes you his life.”

“Apply the good deed to my tab.”

“Tab?”

“You know, my bill, or whatever it’s going take to buy my freedom.”

His eyes locked with hers. “How did the healer know your name?” His expression remained kind enough, so why did she feel trapped on the witness stand?

“It’s common enough where we come from.”

He tipped his head toward the suction rig. “And the trinket you fought over? Is it common enough where you’re from?”

Lisbeth stood. “I really need some more sleep.” She nudged Ruth awake. “Think you can handle things while I nap for a couple of hours?”

Ruth pushed upright and immediately began asking questions. “Any change? Do they need anything? I see Cyprian is back. Did Magdalena get home?”

Lisbeth held up her hands to fend off the incessant barrage. “They finally slept, so I let them.”

“What do I need to do?” Ruth brushed the back of her hand across Barek’s forehead, a gesture Lisbeth remembered her mother using to check her for fever.

“Change Barek’s bandages when he wakes.” Lisbeth handed Ruth the mug. “Your boy will need this to keep up with all of your questions. Call me if that drain tube clogs again.” She fired a laser stare at Cyprian. “And keep his foot off of my back.”

Lisbeth retired to her quarters, the same room Cyprian had locked her in when she first arrived. Somehow the bed looked more inviting than she remembered. She thought she was tired after falling through the portal. Now, she was so beat she could sleep anywhere.

Bright light sliced through a large window that overlooked the garden. Plush, yet spartanly furnished by American standards, the room was larger than the entire two-bedroom apartment she shared with Queenie. Not exactly a cell, but she felt confined all the same.

Lisbeth lifted an exquisite ceramic urn and poured water into
a bowl. She splashed her face, the coolness a sharp contrast to the fiery questions burning in her belly.

How was Papa? Had he slipped through the portal, too? Perhaps he was wandering around in some distant century, lost and looking for her. Maybe he’d escaped her fate only to worry himself into a complete mental meltdown at that blasted cave. She needed to locate the return portal, but she had no idea where to begin the search. Did Mama know?

Mama.

For twenty-three years she’d dreamed of finding her mother, imagined tears and hugs at their reunion. The reunion scene in her head was not the brawl they’d had in Cyprian’s atrium. Who would have thought getting the one thing she wanted more than anything could leave her feeling so disappointed. So empty. So hopelessly lost.

Lisbeth gazed at her distorted reflection in the brass mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Sunken cheeks. Bare neck. She was as broken as her stethoscope.

One by one she removed pins from the drooping curls Ruth had arranged for her debut. Ebony waves tumbled around her shoulders, reminding her of how undone Mama appeared after their fight. Had Mama envisioned a different reunion as well . . . assuming her mother wanted a reunion? So far, everything pointed to a repeat abandonment. A scenario she intended to reverse.

Lisbeth removed the heavy belt from her waist. Yards of pink fabric dropped around her ankles. She stepped over the pile, padded barefoot across the room, and closed the shutters. In the muted light, she found the bed and slipped between the luxurious sheets.

Exhaustion and life-and-death decisions did not mix. She’d sleep a couple of hours. Then she’d climb through the window, snatch Mama from this crazy world, and never look back.

15

C
YPRIAN POKED HIS HEAD
into the library. Light from the open balcony doors formed a halo above the white-haired man scratching upon a parchment. Sea breezes carried the scent of fish, thick oak paneling, and Caecilianus’s favorite inky resin. The room had a lived-in look, a feeling of being useful for the first time in his memory. The bishop’s family had forever erased quiet order from Cyprian’s life. While he found the change miraculously reinvigorating, a breath of fresh air, his colleagues, who still had no idea of his conversion, abhorred his more casual manner of conducting business in the garden. Not once had he regretted the decision to bring the bishop into his home.

Cyprian stepped into the room. “I’ve come for my ledgers.” The dogs sprawled at Caecilianus’s feet raised their heads.

“A good day for settling accounts.” His dear friend pawed through stacks of scrolls. Unbound rolls spilled over the desk and unfurled across the thick carpets. Both dogs leapt to their daily game of pounce. “I, too, have a score to settle.”

“You?” Cyprian picked through the scattered pieces of parchment, collaring both dogs along the way to the desk. “Whom do you owe? Tell me, friend. I’ll have the debt canceled immediately.”

“Your generosity has blessed me and my family many times
over.” The old priest waved off Cyprian’s offer with a flick of the stylus. “But this debt surpasses even your impressive stores.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a debt I owe the Lord . . . for sparing my son.” Caecilianus’s brow crinkled. “Balancing the scales is not the reason you’ve interrupted my study, now is it, my boy?”

Boy? Cyprian did not take offense at the term or the flinty stare daring him to offer some vague disagreement. Unlike his father, who had carried his disdain for Cyprian’s imperfections with him to his grave, Caecilianus saw him as a man. A competent man. One who’d mastered the practice of the law, established a lucrative shipping company, and tripled his family’s fortune. True, he was far from Caecilianus’s level of spiritual maturity, but he felt the bishop’s continual prodding and prayers challenged him in the area of daily growth. Given time, he’d show the old bishop that his labors were not in vain, that he had chosen well when he took on the remaking of Carthage’s chief solicitor.

Settling debts was exactly the reason he’d sought his friend’s counsel. He owed this man and the church more than he could ever repay. The grace he’d been given was free. He understood the concept. Embraced it even. Yet he was not a man to stand idle while interest accrued on his weighty sense of obligation. He had to do something.