Healer of Carthage (14 page)

“I need a wife,” Cyprian blurted out, completely abandoning the script he’d worked out in his head.

“Oh?” Caecilianus punched a hole in Cyprian’s solid declaration with the simple lift of his brow. “Since when?”

“According to my political advisers, if I’m to be taken seriously in this election, then a wife is a necessity.”

“Don’t look so distressed, my boy.” Caecilianus dipped his pen into the ram’s horn inkwell. “There are worse things than taking a wife.”

Cyprian patted the dogs that’d stationed themselves on either side of him. “Like taking in more strays?”

“Taking the
wrong
wife.” Caecilianus lowered his quill and stroked his beard with ink-stained fingers. “But then you know that, don’t you?”

Cyprian paced the well-worn path in front of his desk, the rut he’d watched many of his father’s debtors tread when they sought mercy, the rut his father had never allowed them to escape. “I’m quite satisfied with the current state of my household.”

Caecilianus chuckled. “Is it me you try to convince or yourself?”

“Inviting you, Ruth, and Barek to share my roof was my choice.” Lonely suppers in that huge
triclinium—
he at one end of the reclining couch, his father stationed as far away as possible on the other—were memories he preferred to keep distant. “Chaos suits me. I would change nothing.”

“Not even to rid yourself of these ferocious eaters?” Caecilianus whistled, and the dogs flew to his outstretched palm. “Or the steady stream of problems that accompany those who choose to follow the teachings of the Galilean?”

“I risk nothing for my faith. Only those who sneak into my home to worship our God know of my conversion.”

“As long as Aspasius is determined to rid Carthage of Christians, it is best to keep secret the names of all who have dared forsake the Roman gods.”

“I understand the wisdom of your thinking, but . . .” Cyprian dismissed Caecilianus’s protestations. “Barek was the one who put his life on the line to accompany the healer and Laurentius. Your son owes the Lord no more than me.”

“Thus, you don the white toga . . . and take a wife you don’t need or want.”

“If I can’t battle Aspasius in the court of public opinion, then winning a Senate seat is the only way we can truly help those suffering in the slums. Utilizing the power of the law is the logical course of action.”

Caecilianus laid his pen aside and thoughtfully steepled his blackened fingertips.
“So, in your educated opinion, relying upon the power of our Lord is futile?”

“I’m not discounting God, but surely the Lord does not expect us to sit upon our hands? Do nothing? Allow evil to run its ugly course?” Cyprian cleared a chair opposite the desk but could not make himself sit. “I think not, Bishop.” His voice had slipped into the oratorical cadence capable of melting juries into whatever mold he needed. “That is why this wife of mine must have the proper connections. Money. Influence. Power enough to help me rid Carthage of Aspasius Paternus.”

“And love? Is there room for love in these grand plans to take matters into your own hands?”

“Love will not bring running water to the tenements or goad Aspasius into doing what is right,” Cyprian pointed out, his volume perking the dogs’ ears. “God has withheld the rains for nearly two years. Drought and famine nip at the empire’s heels.” Cyprian took a breath and drove his closing argument home. “Improving sanitary conditions in the projects is the best way to stay this fever before sickness spreads to the wealthier districts.”

“So you’re running for office to secure the mortality of the rich?” Disappointment fringed his friend’s voice.

“What more must I do to prove my loyalty to the cause of Christ? I’ve put bread in empty bellies, canceled debts, and bought every slave Felicissimus funnels my way. Doing nothing could bring death to us all. What if God awaits the relinquishment of my resources?”

Caecilianus drummed his fingers on the desk, weighing his response. “If you are determined to assume the role of God, then know this”—he pulled a ledger tablet from beneath the scrolls and slid it across the desk—“the cost will be great. Is it a price you are willing to pay?”

16

C
OME QUICK.” RUTH SHOOK
Lisbeth awake and hurried out of the room, calling behind her, “Laurentius does not breathe.”

Lisbeth bolted upright. So far, her third-century experience had been a frightening blur of disorientation and anger. She added frustration to the list as she hurriedly leapt from the bed where she’d been sacked out for more than a day, willed her body to disregard the need for a hot shower or even a sudsy soak in that huge tiled tub, and threw on the simple woolen tunic someone had left at the foot of her bed. Responding to Ruth’s version of a Code Blue, she burst into the hall.

Empty.

No blood on the glistening floors. Benches completely cleared of wounded boys and crude medical equipment. No sign of the petite blonde who’d acted more like a first-rate ICU nurse than the pampered wife of a bishop. Not a trace of the man who kept her prisoner in his home.

“Ruth?” Lisbeth’s voice echoed off the frescoed walls. Her bare feet slapped the marble as she trotted down the corridor, checking every door. Even the dogs were nowhere to be found. “Ruth!” She pushed open the last door.

Her gaze landed on the handsome owner of this mansion. Cyprian sat on a stool between two beds, holding out his clenched fists
and encouraging her bright-eyed, chest-tubed patient to pick a hand. “Where’s the grape? Right or left?” His face serious, he watched Laurentius vacillate between choices. “Careful, my little man.”

Laurentius’s tongue swept the circumference of his o-shaped mouth. “That one.” He slapped Cyprian’s right hand. Cyprian chuckled and flipped his fist. His fingers sprang open and revealed an empty palm. “You cheated.” Laurentius smacked Cyprian’s left hand, and the grape dropped upon the rumpled sheets. The boy snapped up the plump fruit and popped it in his mouth, chewing and smiling at the same time.

Lisbeth rushed in. “What’s going on?” Purple juice dripped from Laurentius’s chin, and a healthy color stained his cheeks. She immediately checked the reed’s entry site. “I thought Ruth said he couldn’t breathe?”

“I cleared the tube, and now he’s fine.” A pleased grin lit Cyprian’s face. “Right, Laurentius?”

The boy nodded, then nudged her arm with his stubby index finger. “You’re preddy.” He ducked his chin and folded his hands, suddenly shy.

“What did you say?” Lisbeth asked Laurentius.

Cyprian lifted the boy’s chin. “Tell her again. Like a man.” Kindness threaded his rebuff, the same gentle prodding Papa employed with the workers he hired, especially the ones capable of little more than toting camping gear.

Laurentius’s eyes flitted between her and his clenched fists. “You’re preddy, Lithbutt.”

“Lith-butt?” Biting back a laugh, she reached for Laurentius’s wrist to check his pulse. “Who told you my name?” She gazed at Cyprian, who shrugged off any involvement in the massacre of her name.

Laurentius pointed at Cyprian. “Girlth are preddy. Boyth are hanthome.”

“And did Cyprian tell you that as well?”

“No.” Laurentius’s tongue lapped his crooked smile. “The healer.” He scanned the room, worry clouding his countenance. “Where ith thee?”

“The healer had work to do at the palace.” Cyprian plucked another grape from the tray on the bedside table. “Don’t worry, friend. We’ll have you back at your post as soon as you’re well.” He held out his fists, so comfortable and at ease in his own skin. “Want to try again?”

Laurentius slapped both of Cyprian’s fists with his palms, popping the fruit free. “I won.”

“Cheater.” Cyprian scrubbed Laurentius’s head with his brawny hand. “I think he’s going to make a full recovery, don’t you?”

“It appears so.” Lisbeth noticed the empty bed. “Where’s Barek?”

“His mother insisted he bathe. And I believe we’ll all be the better for it.” Cyprian poured a bit of watered wine into a cup. “After I figured out how to clear Laurentius’s tube, I told Ruth I’d keep an eye on this rascal while she scraped the damage of Rome from her son.” He handed Laurentius the wine. “Here, my friend. Wash down that grape.”

Cyprian steadied Laurentius’s hand as the boy brought the cup to his lips. The gentle, caring gesture reminded her of Papa. Love buried beneath a layer of steel. Cyprian would make an excellent father someday. Would history give him that opportunity, or would this man suffer the horrible fate marching toward his city? She couldn’t remember. Had she known Papa’s lecture questions would become a real test, a matter of life and death, she would’ve paid attention, taken notes, maybe even tattooed the facts on her arms.

Why would a Roman of Cyprian’s standing stoop to
befriending the mentally challenged? The sight of him entertaining Laurentius with such joy reduced her disdain, but not her focus. A fleeting good impression, no matter how intoxicating, did not change the fact that this man held her prisoner. She couldn’t let adolescent warm and fuzzy feelings detour her mission to free her mother and go home.

She steered her attention back to Laurentius. “I can’t leave this reed in him forever. Too much risk of infection.” Running her fingers along the tube, she wished Mama had reviewed the extraction steps with her before she walked out. “The only way to tell if his lung leak has sealed and regained proper adhesion is to clamp off the suction for a few hours.”

With Cyprian eyeballing her every move, she took Laurentius’s vitals. “Good improvement.” She kinked the tube, then secured the seal with a leather cord borrowed from Cyprian’s sandal. Holding her breath, she watched the rise and fall of Laurentius’s chest. The bruises had changed from deep purple to mustard green. A surprisingly fast healer. Either there was something to the miraculous powers of the old bishop’s prayers, or Mama’s version of third-world medicine had some merit.

Laurentius grinned at her dreamily, obviously breathing comfortably as he drifted off to sleep. From the corner of her eye, Lisbeth noticed Cyprian leaning in, watching her patient intently, and matching the boy’s breathing with his whole body.

He caught her smiling and immediately straightened. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He rose and strode toward the door, one used to having the final word.

“Wait.” She tamped the desperate edge in her voice. “Can you explain to me how this happened?” She waved her hand over the sleeping boy.

Confusion or annoyance, she wasn’t sure which, drew Cyprian’s brows. “You saved his life.”

“I don’t mean that.” Deciphering the emotions of this man was difficult, and an eighteen-hundred-year difference in their ways of thinking didn’t have a thing to do with their communication barrier. His feelings were tucked so deep beneath the folds of his toga, she’d need a scalpel to dissect them. “How did a kid like this get beat up in the first place?”

“The healer said soldiers—”

“No. I understand about the soldiers—well, not really—but why were the three of them together? Barek lives here, right? And Ma . . . Magdalena and Laurentius live in Aspasius’s palace, right? So how did they all end up in the same hot mess?” The twitch of his jaw muscle said she’d pushed too far, but she didn’t care. Lisbeth crossed her arms, determined to wait him out. “Well?”

“Hot mess?” He repeated vernacular she’d learned from Queenie like she’d spoken Martian or something. “You are a strange woman.”

“Me?”

He crossed to her, close enough that she became self-conscious of how long it had been since that luxurious scrubbing Ruth had given her in the Neptune-tiled tub. “I can’t decide if you are a curse or a blessing.”

“Look, the better the patient history, the better the patient care.” Her failure to follow this simple standard of practice had cost a child her life. No way was she repeating that fiasco. “I need information.”

Cyprian’s eyes searched hers. “Since the proconsul has invoked a sundown curfew, no one should travel the streets alone. When believers at our Sabbath feast need medical attention”—he paused, as if weighing whether to say more—“I send Barek for the healer. She always brings a helper. Sometimes, the dark-skinned slave Tabari. Sometimes, this boy.”

“Oh.”

For a moment his eyes locked with hers. “What possessed me to acquire such an odd curiosity?” He wheeled and strode toward the exit. “You’ll settle in. Give yourself time.” He closed the door with a decisive click.

“I don’t want to settle in!” Lisbeth spent several seconds staring at the smooth oak plank. “And for the record, I’m not the one who’s odd.”

Once again she’d been summarily dismissed and left to war with the infuriating odor of Cyprian’s musky cologne and the fact that she wasn’t making any progress toward going home and wouldn’t if she didn’t earn his trust. What was it about that man that pushed her blood pressure through the stratosphere? She’d encountered tough men her whole life. Papa’s digs attracted all sorts of scientific bullies intent on having their own way. Med school had been worse. And residency had thrust her into a sea of testosterone teeming with pompous attendings who believed having more experience made them gods.

Yet, somehow, this third-century aristocrat, with his broad shoulders and X-ray vision, caused her to question what she thought she knew about people. She’d worked at the county hospital for six months, and not once had she seen the wealthy involve themselves in the suffering of the poor. Why did underprivileged, third-century plebs traipse into and out of Cyprian’s home? What was the gain? A big part of this equation was missing. Uncertainty infuriated her. She didn’t appreciate having her world turned upside down, no matter how charming or handsome the upheaver.

Lisbeth stomped to the bed of the sleeping boy with low-set ears, angelic countenance, and healing bruises. Who could have been so cruel? Apparently, not every Roman had adopted Cyprian’s benevolence. She shoved her anger aside and counted her patient’s respirations. Less than twenty per minute. Continued symmetrical chest rise on the inspiration. No longer short of
breath. Laurentius was doing well, actually breathing easier than she was at the moment.