Healer of Carthage (16 page)

Lisbeth’s eyes traveled the hairy leg of a linebacker-size man. Decked out in shin greaves, a red cloak, and a crested helmet, he looked like one of those Roman soldiers immortalized on the pages of Papa’s history books.

He lifted his foot and yanked her upright. Three other troopers backed him, standing ready with their boots planted on the pavement and their hands poised over gleaming swords peeking from leather scabbards. “Who is your master?” His breastplate glistened in the morning sun. “Speak or die, pleb.” He squeezed her wrist, making the painful imprint of his boot on her hand inconsequential.

Fighting tears, Lisbeth searched the sea of harried shoppers, their rubbernecking slowing the flow of traffic headed toward the market booths. “Ruth!” She twisted but couldn’t break free, even with the extra adrenaline pumping through her body.

“What’s your hurry, girl? You have more pockets to pick?” The soldier pulled the hood from Lisbeth’s head and pushed her into his uniformed pals. “Let’s have some fun with this beauty.”

Suddenly a blue cloak barreled into the jeering circle of
testosterone. “Unhand the property of Cyprianus Thascius”—Ruth stepped between Lisbeth and the soldier—“the chief solicitor of Carthage.” Ruth grabbed Lisbeth’s hand, sending the wooden spoon she clutched clattering to the cobblestones. “Unless you wish to explain why you’ve kept the solicitor’s favorite from her chores, you’ll let us pass.”

Lisbeth watched over her shoulder as Ruth dragged her away from the openmouthed soldiers and deeper into the maze of market stalls.

They darted into and out of the vendor booths, hurrying past the putrid scents of the carcass hanging in the butcher’s stall and the toothless woman hawking bowls of soured milk curds. At the nearest alley, Ruth pulled Lisbeth into the shadows where she’d left the cart.

“Favorite?” Lisbeth asked with a huff, hands on her knees, heart pumping faster than it had when she and Queenie had tackled a marathon race in the grueling Dallas heat. “When did I become that man’s favorite?”

“Shush.” Ruth’s normal rosy blush was missing from her face. She gathered Lisbeth’s hood and returned it to her head. “Not another word from you.”

“Not even thanks?”

Ruth slapped three stiff fingers to Lisbeth’s lips. “Nothing.” She snatched the cart handle.

Still winded, Lisbeth followed her bossy little keeper through the alley, admiring Ruth’s willingness to jump in to right a wrong. Mulling over her encounter with the third century’s version of real, live killing machines, she wondered if she would have had the guts to do the same. The damage Roman soldiers had inflicted upon Barek and Laurentius had surely frightened Ruth as much as they’d terrified her, yet this slip of a woman had charged in without regard to her own life. First Cyprian and now Ruth. These people
succeeded where she failed. If it hadn’t been for Ruth, she would have more than likely suffered far worse than a few inappropriate touches. Running out now seemed as cheap as ducking out on a restaurant tab, but what choice did she have?

They emerged in a different section of the forum, an upscale shopping mall for the rich. Booths displayed exquisite works of glass, alabaster, and ivory. Gorgeous lengths of linen and brightly colored silks swayed from long wooden poles. Tavern workers served pickled ostrich eggs and warm drinks that smelled of cinnamon to men dressed in white. Perfectly coiffed women dragged silent slaves from stall to stall, loading stacks of parcels upon their brawny arms.

Lisbeth kept her eyes peeled for the time portal. She wasn’t expecting a neon sign, but maybe something familiar would jog her memory. Papa had taken her to Carthage dozens of times as a child. Together, they’d visited the local bazaars and poked through every inch of the Roman ruins. She scanned the buzzing market. Strange to see the city she knew as ruins somehow magically restored. More magnificent than the artist reconstructions in Papa’s books, yet totally disorienting. Her father would jump at the opportunity to experience this post–Punic Wars rebuilding phase. She, on the other hand, just wanted out.

“You’ll find what you need here.” Ruth pointed out the wooden sign swinging over the door of a tiny shop. Someone had carved a snake wrapped around a staff into the weathered plank. “Don’t be long.”

Continuing the ruse seemed the best option, considering she hadn’t seen the first thing that looked like a time portal. She left Ruth guarding the laundry and ventured into the dark, scented coolness of the third century’s version of a pharmacy. Clusters of dried flowers hung from low ceiling beams. “Wish Aisa was here,” Lisbeth muttered as she drew a bundle to her nose.

Papa’s cook had acted as the camp doctor after Mama left. His box of brittle weeds and smelly salves comprised the sole extent of Lisbeth’s knowledge of homeopathic medicine, a fact she didn’t dare disclose to Ruth while making the case for doing her own herb shopping.

Lisbeth moved quickly, untying the plants she identified as a few of the remedies Aisa kept in his box. Mint for calming upset stomachs. Garlic for disinfecting wounds. And borage, a fuzzy leaf that tasted of cucumber no matter how much sugar Aisa added to the strong tea he used to treat her bouts of asthma. Upon the recommendation of the wrinkled woman trying to make a buck off a sneezing foreigner, Lisbeth purchased every dried plant that looked familiar and a few she didn’t recognize. She tucked under her arm the bundle of aromatic treasures she had no intention of using and joined Ruth.

They left the main street and turned down another alley, coming face-to-face with the behind-the-scenes labor required to keep the rich looking their best. Steamy air scented with sweat, lye, and urine billowed from the open door of the fuller’s shop.

Lisbeth recalled the summer she and Papa had visited the ruins of Pompeii at the base of Mount Vesuvius. Beneath excavated mounds of ash and pumice had sat a fully equipped fuller’s shop. How strange now to cross the threshold here in Carthage and see real men clad only in loincloths trampling garments in the pressing bowls, their raw hands clamped on to the half walls separating each worker’s water basin.

Behind the counter, a red-cheeked shopkeeper, her hair kinked by the steam of the wash pots, sorted through piles of laundry. Business was good at the cleaners. Ruth removed a numbered stone from the bowl on the counter. They assumed their place at the end of the line.

Ahead of them, a thin black girl shouldered a large bundle.
When the laundress barked out a number, the girl checked her stone, then lugged her load to the counter. The shopkeeper untied the knots and pawed through the clothes, scratching down an accounting after each piece.

“This one is covered in blood.” The laundress held up a stained wad of gauzy green and eyed the girl. “The proconsul’s woman have a problem the patrols need to know about?”

Lisbeth craned her neck. Icy fingers crawled up her spine. “That’s Ma . . . Magdalena’s dress.” She started toward the counter.

Ruth grabbed her arm. “Say nothing.”

What had happened after Mama left Cyprian’s? Did Aspasius kill her upon her return to the palace? Or was her mother caught out after curfew again by those nasty soldiers? Lisbeth strained against Ruth’s hold, intent to learn more.

“My mistress had trouble with her monthly,” the slave girl mumbled.

“I don’t care what the proconsul claims; that woman he drags around town is no mistress.” The laundress raised a skeptical brow. “I can see you didn’t soak this in cold water, Tabari. These stains are never coming out.”

“No worry.” Tabari lifted her chin and looked the women in the eye. “My lady has garments to spare.”

“And extra blood, I pray.” The laundry woman tossed the gown into a woven basket. “Next.”

The dark slave girl gathered the empty cloth wrapper. “You know where to send the bill.”

If this girl was the same Tabari, the one Cyprian said accompanied Mama on her missions of mercy, her retort indicated Mama was alive. Or maybe that’s what Lisbeth was choosing to tell herself? The alternative sucked the air from her chest. She wanted to snatch the spindly slave girl and shake her until she spilled every detail of Mama’s return to that awful man.

Lisbeth started forward, but Ruth’s grip tightened on her arm. Ruth gave her another firm glare, released her, and advanced the pull cart to the counter.

“I’ve got to ask what she knows of Magdalena.” Lisbeth wheeled. Bolting from the shop at full speed, she ran smack into a man waiting on the other side of the threshold. They tumbled onto the pavement in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Watch where you’re going!” He wiggled to get free of her.

Lisbeth pushed herself off the surprised man. “Are you hurt?” Breathing hard, she offered her hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see—”

The man scrambled to his feet. “I must find the healer.” Without taking the time to dust his filthy hands, he gripped her shoulders. “Is she here? I saw Aspasius’s slave girl and took a chance that she accompanied the healer.” Hope floated atop the terror spilling from his eyes. “I know you. You’re the one who raised Laurentius from the dead.”

Lisbeth checked the street for signs of Tabari, but she’d disappeared. “Look, I’m just—”

His dirty fingers dug into her flesh. “I need a healer.” His breath reeked of a very empty stomach. “When my wife got the fever, I spent all we had on a physician. Now my daughter is very ill. Since I can’t pay, the Roman dog won’t come. What am I to do?”

Lisbeth suddenly remembered this man, the one the old bishop called Numidicus, the one who’d jumped from a second-story balcony to plead his concerns. She remembered the fear in his voice as he begged the bishop to reconsider staying behind. “How old is your daughter?”

“Four.”

Don’t get sucked in
raced through Lisbeth’s head as the next question spewed from her mouth. “Does she have a fever?”

He nodded. “And coughing.” He released her and wiped at the
tears streaking a path over sharp crags. “I’m afraid she has the same thing that made my wife sick.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Ruth had been detained by the laundress. “Take me to her now.”

Relief sparked his full-on sprint down the uneven pavers. Lisbeth tightened her grip on the bag of herbs she’d purchased, her common sense flying well beyond her grasp. She hiked her tunic and trailed the man into the bowels of the city.

19

N
UMIDICUS PROVED HIMSELF QUITE
fleet-footed for one so malnourished. He threaded Lisbeth through a network of alleys, bypassing the fine houses and the red-cloaked legionnaires that patrolled the right-angled streets.

Shallow stone steps took them deeper and deeper into a series of run-down buildings crammed little more than an arm’s-width apart. An air of neglect hung over this rough part of town that hadn’t received much in the way of Roman upgrades. Apparently the 1 percent short-changing the less desirables of society was nothing new. The fingers of poverty reached far in every direction.

Lisbeth shooed a rail-thin dog blocking her path, silently debating whether she should have at least told Ruth where she was going. But, then again, why would she? The decision was already made. She would not spend her life as Cyprian’s slave. Accompanying this man to his daughter’s sickbed wasn’t a long-term commitment. She’d do what she could; then she’d disappear into the maze of the slum district, free at last to search for Mama and the way home.

Lost in her plans, Lisbeth ran smack into Numidicus, who stood huffing in front of a door slightly ajar.

“I seem determined to mow you down.” She surveyed rows of
warped doors running the length of the bottom floor of a six-story, multifamily apartment building. “Is this where you live?” If his home waited behind the sun-faded planks, why didn’t he go in? She followed his distracted gaze to a neighboring stoop.

Three dirty children sat with their hands clasped in their laps, sad eyes begging for relief. On the balcony above these frail stick-figures, a crying woman rocked back and forth, clasping her swollen belly.

“Her husband died last night.” Numidicus tore his eyes from the spectacle. “Her youngest passed the day before.” He nodded toward two lumpy bundles stacked neatly on the shaded side of the alley.

Lisbeth’s gaze darted between the bodies, the woman, and the hopeless children.

He grabbed her arm. “You must not leave us.” Fear raised his pitch. “Please.” His agitation resembled that of every parent who paced outside the ICU, praying for the best yet anticipating the worst. “You’re all we have.”

“If that’s true, you’re in trouble, mister.”

He dropped to one knee and lifted clasped hands. “I beg you.”

How many times had she taken a few extra minutes with a patient because she was their only shot at getting well? Not enough. Maybe never. She’d spent the first few months of her residency so tired, so stressed out, and so pressed for time that patients received only a fraction of the attention she’d sworn to give every human life.

How many people had fallen through the cracks in the medical system because Dr. Lisbeth Hastings couldn’t or wouldn’t stop long enough to help? Maybe Abra would still be alive if . . . “Where’s your daughter?”

Numidicus jumped to his feet and opened the apartment door. Fecal-tainted air blasted Lisbeth’s nostrils. She recognized
the odor of bodily fluids released in death. What horror awaited her attention? Numidicus dragged her inside the sweltering little room and shut the door.

It took a moment for Lisbeth’s eyes to adjust to the dim light of a single oil lamp flickering on a stone ledge. Drab, stucco-covered walls and a low ceiling formed a space no bigger than her bedroom back in Texas. She and Papa had excavated bigger burial vaults.

Numidicus seemed unwilling to step away from the door but graciously waved an offer of the only seat in the house, a crude contraption of sticks and cloth held together with strips of leather. The raspy wheeze of labored breathing drew Lisbeth’s attention to the single bed at the far end of the tiny room.

“I’ll need more light, Numidicus.” Despite the closed door and the room’s obvious lack of windows, she could still hear the cries of the distraught neighbor. “You’re going to have to open that door. I can’t breathe.”