Healer of Carthage (15 page)

What was she doing here? Trying to balance the scales of justice? Seeing this child’s recovery through wouldn’t alleviate her failing or bring Abra back from the dead. Some scores could never be settled. She should have climbed out the window and made a run for it when she had the chance.

The door opened, and two dogs barreled toward her, followed by a freshly scoured and clothed Barek.

“I’m fine, Mother.” Barek shirked the grip Ruth and Naomi had on each elbow. “Really.”

“You’re well when I say you’re well,” Ruth shot back.

The teen paused at the foot of Laurentius’s bed, his eyes taking in the bruises and chest tube protruding from the boy’s chest. “At least I gave it back tenfold to the ones who gave it to him.”

“Barek!” Ruth said, gasping.

“I’ve watched my father turn the other cheek, only to see Rome slap him down again and again. I’ll not do it, Mother.” Barek refused to be cowed or coerced into bed. Instead, he stood as tall as his arm sling would allow, spotted Lisbeth, and redirected his venom. “Who are you?”

“She’s Lisbeth. Of Dallas.” Ruth smoothed the sheets. “A healer.”

“We don’t need her.”

“You’re feeling better.” Lisbeth picked up the flask on the bedside table. “Let me redress your wound.”

“Don’t touch me, slave.”

“Barek!” Obviously this wasn’t the first time Ruth had struggled to control the boy who towered over her by a head. “I’m sorry, Lisbeth. My son is not easily caged, and once he regains full strength it will be difficult to keep him down.”

“Then let him up.” Lisbeth kept her eyes fixed on the
smooth-faced teenager sure to be as handsome as his mother one day. “It’s actually better for his lungs if he moves around. His body will tell him when to rest.”

Barek muttered under his breath that this strange woman wasn’t a real healer and she wasn’t about to touch him. Loud enough to hear. Harder to ignore. Why he’d taken such an immediate dislike to her she didn’t know, or care.

“You’re in luck, big boy.” Lisbeth shook the bottle Mama had left. “We’re out of this stuff anyway.”

“He’ll need more,” Ruth said, gratefully seizing the distraction Lisbeth offered. “Naomi has to take the laundry to the fullers. I’ll have her stop by the market while she’s out.” She pressed Barek back upon the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“With Naomi,” he said, huffing. “I’ve got scores to settle.”

Lisbeth watched the ensuing disagreement with interest. Worried mother pitted against a teenager afraid to admit he was frightened. Ruth’s face mirrored the frustration she’d seen on Papa’s weathered brow when she resisted going to the States for medical training. Papa had thought her anger stemmed from possible separation anxiety. Anger was subterfuge, a smoke screen hiding the real truth. Truth she knew would crush him. How could she tell him that she was afraid? Frightened that at any moment she might lose him, too? Losing a parent was an experience she did not want to go through twice.

Poor Papa. Single parent. Motherless girl with raging hormones. Had she made Papa’s life miserable? She’d tried to be good, to do everything she could to fill that gigantic hollow Mama’s disappearance had carved in his heart.

Lisbeth stuffed the empty bottle into the pocket of her tunic. Who was she kidding? She was still that scared five-year-old scanning the desert horizon for signs of Mama.

Lisbeth interrupted. “Laurentius’s chest tube must come out
in a few hours, but he’s going to need something for pain. I’ll go with Naomi.”

Ruth wasn’t so distracted by her son that she didn’t catch Lisbeth’s meaning. “Cyprian can fetch the healer.”

“Laurentius is
my
patient,” Lisbeth insisted. “I’ll choose the herbs that will help him tolerate a surgical procedure. Cyprian can take a chill pill.” She pointed at Barek. “And you have no idea how lucky you are to have a mother.”

17

C
YPRIAN PACED THE LENGTH
of his library while Pontius and Felicissimus pored over the tax records the slave trader had secretly acquired from a friend in the assessor’s office.

“What about Acquilina?” Pontius placed his finger on the scroll and looked up. “Her father is Blasius, the well-respected wine merchant.”

“Good gods, man,” Felicissimus hissed. “Have you seen her?”

“Only from a distance,” Pontius confessed.

“Last year Blasius brought Acquilina to my shop when she was in need of a new handmaiden.”

“And?” Cyprian hated sounding anxious, but marriage discussions reminded him of how far apart he and his father had been in their views of life and family.

“Beady eyes of a hawk. Eagle’s beak for a nose.” Felicissimus shook his head. “She could peck away at a man’s soul with the mere flick of her head.”

“Perhaps we should keep looking?” Pontius and Felicissimus returned to the list.

“What about Camilla Flaccus?” Felicissimus said proudly. “Her second husband left her extremely well placed.”

“
Second
husband?” Cyprian wasn’t keen on taking on the
problems inherent with another man’s castoff. “What happened to her first husband?”

Felicissimus shrugged, “I assume the same thing that happened to her second?”

“And what was that?” Pontius demanded.

“Died in her bed.” A twinkle lit Felicissimus’s eye. “Apparently, Camilla needs a man of sturdy constitution. Which you most assuredly are, my patronus.”

“Keep looking,” Cyprian ordered. “You’d think in a city of this size there would be one marriageable female.”

“What of the lovely Diona Cicero?” Pontius said.

“Now there’s an idea,” Felicissimus eagerly concurred. “A real goddess if ever there was one.”

“She’s only fourteen,” Cyprian protested.

“But her father’s quite the forward thinker. According to bathhouse rumors, Titus has granted Diona full charge of her marriage choice.” Felicissimus rubbed his hands together. “And that’s not the best part. Titus owns most of the fields between here and Curubis, as well as every single granary. Think of the power your combined fortunes could wield. An alliance this powerful would hold Rome by the throat.”

“And if you hold Rome by the throat,” Pontius added, “you will have Aspasius by the—”

“But is she a religious woman?” Cyprian had just turned thirty-four. Not only was he imagining himself as an old man tottering after a woman half his age, he was also wondering how they could possibly ever find anything in common. Especially if Diona’s heart belonged to Roman gods. Perhaps Caecilianus was right. No wife was better than acquiring the wrong wife. “Why would she want to marry an old goat like me? Especially once she learns of my conversion.”

“Power grows more attractive with the years. Besides, when you clean up, you’re not painful to look at.” Felicissimus closed the tax record. “Let’s go.”

Cyprian stopped Felicissimus. “You aren’t going anywhere. Too risky. Return the tax records before we’re found out.”

“Yes, my patronus,” Felicissimus said, sulking.

Two hours later, Cyprian stood on the marbled stoop of Titus Cicero. Fresh from the baths and wearing his whitest toga, he tugged at his belt. “You’re certain Diona will be home?”

Pontius stood beside him with a small wooden chest tucked beneath his arm. “Her father assured me.”

The door swung open. A slave girl showed them into a lush garden, a testament to Titus’s green thumb.

“Solicitor.” Titus swept into the room, a tall man with sprigs of gray at his temples. “May I present my daughter, Diona.”

A girl with white-blond curls, pink lips, and only a year into the bloom of womanhood slipped out from behind Titus. Felicissimus was right: her perfect features rivaled the chiseled gods gracing Titus’s beautiful home.

She lowered her chin. “How kind of you to come,” whispered from her lips.

“Diona is . . . shy.” Titus waved them toward the couches. “Please sit.” He clapped, and a servant appeared with a tray of refreshments. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? Diona has final say in her betrothal, but, so that there are no misunderstandings, let me lay out the terms.”

“Of course.” Cyprian could not help but think about how Diona had not made eye contact with him once while that snit of a slave girl he’d rescued could readily bore holes through him with her sea-green stare.

“Diona comes with a substantial dowry of jewelry, slaves, and eventually my vast land and grain holdings.”

Suddenly a woman who appeared to be an older version of Diona rushed in, all aflutter in her peacock blue silk. “A word, husband.”

“In a moment, my dear.”

“Now, Titus.”

As Titus scurried after his wife, Cyprian wondered if beneath Diona’s quiet exterior her mother’s temperament simmered.

Diona peered over her fan. Her eyes were two black doors closed to deeper investigation. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and that made him even more nervous.

Titus appeared in the doorway and took a deep breath. “Cyprian, I must thank you for your offer, but I’m not quite ready to part with my little girl.”

“Pontius, show him the chest.” Cyprian’s friend came forward and placed a large wooden box upon a stone table. “Open it.”

Diona’s breath caught at the sparkle of gold and rare jewels. “I choose him, Father.”

“I know I gave you free rein on the selection of your husband, but you’ll have to trust me on this when I say no.”

“No?” Cyprian knew a fleecing when he saw one, but his list of marriage prospects was growing short. He plowed his hand into the treasure. “There’s more where this came from.” Coins slipped through his outstretched fingers.

“And the biggest villa on the sea. Right, solicitor?” Diona asked with a smile.

“Yes. I, too, have many holdings.”

“I want him, Father.”

“Diona, he has the creeping pox. We are lucky that your mother heard the news in time.”

“I what?!” Cyprian shouted.

“I know I’ve spoiled my daughter and given her too much freedom in this matter, but she cannot marry anyone without
my permission and I will not grant it in this case. And that is final.”

“This is outrageous! I could very well argue the fallacy of this ridiculous rumor, but I suppose in the end only time will support my claims of perfect health.” Cyprian closed the wooden box. “I thank you for your time, Titus.”

“Good luck on the elections, solicitor.”

18

T
WO MASSIVE DOGS TRAMPLED
Lisbeth’s feet as she helped Ruth drag the heavy laundry cart through the villa gate. “Doesn’t Cyprian have slaves to do his wash?”

“What Cyprian does with his slaves is not your concern.” Ruth wrestled the worn cart handle out of Lisbeth’s hand. “Besides, political togas require professional care to retain their elegant draping.” She flipped the hood of her cloak over the blond coils wrapping her head and was immediately transformed from aristocrat to peasant. She lifted her chin in a quick little motion that indicated Lisbeth should do the same.

“You’re sure Naomi can handle that son of yours?” Lisbeth steadied the mound of clothes the bishop’s pouncing dogs seemed determined to upset. “What if his bandages need changing before we get back?” She hoped appealing to the frazzled mother’s sense of guilt for leaving her injured son would entice Ruth to reinstate Naomi as her guide on the errand run. The young slave girl would be much easier to ditch.

“Say no more,” Ruth said with a hiss, hammering home the fact that making friends and influencing people weren’t part of Lisbeth’s skill set. “Your accent will draw unwanted attention.” She shooed the dogs inside the gate and set off down the street, the cart rumbling behind her.

Lisbeth knew Ruth couldn’t go two minutes without talking; all Lisbeth had to do was wait the woman out. When Ruth finally cracked, she’d gather the data she needed and be on her way. Leaving the eventual removal of Laurentius’s tube for Ruth’s untrained hands caused a few ripples of guilt, but not enough to change her plans. An opportunity to search for the passageway connecting the centuries might not come again. Surely the tunnel between yesterday and today went both ways. Exactly how she’d find the time portal wasn’t settled in her mind. The faint memory of nearly drowning was her only clue.

She’d caught a glimpse of the harbor from Cyprian’s balcony. How strange to see the stone donut fully restored and two hundred ported Roman warships. Finding her entry point into this century could be a challenge.

Stepping up her pace, Lisbeth rounded the corner and scurried after Ruth, her hood sliding off her hair. “So if you had to fetch water, where would you go?” Women toting baskets on their heads and a child on each hip cast disapproving glances at Lisbeth’s tumbled mass of curls.

“Raise your hood,” Ruth warned.

“So where’s the closest well?” Lisbeth tugged the hemp-colored hood over her hair. “Look, I know you’re probably worried about leaving Barek, but he’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know that,” Ruth snapped, “and neither do you.”

“We’re out now and can’t do anything about our patients at the moment. So why don’t you tell me a little about Carthage? If I’m going to be living here and helping to run errands, it would be wise for me to get to know the city.”

Ruth marched on, silent, unimpressed with Lisbeth’s reasoning. They merged with the increasing foot traffic heading toward the smell of seawater and decaying fish, the same market odor she’d dreaded whenever she and Papa had traveled to Tunis for supplies.

Lisbeth hurried to keep up, determined not to lose Ruth in the crowd until she had some answers. “Is there a cistern near Felicissimus’s auction block?” A woman with a large basket on her head jostled Lisbeth into an elderly peddler hawking wooden utensils. Carved spoons hit the busy street. “Sorry, sir.” She bent to retrieve his wares from the filthy gutter.

“Thief!” The peddler, a lean, haggard creature with a surprisingly vigorous yell, whipped bony hands through the salty air. “I’m being robbed!”

“No.” Lisbeth gathered a fistful of spoons. “I just didn’t see you.”

“Drop it, slave.” A heavy boot came down hard, pinning her hand to the street.