Healer of Carthage (37 page)

Cawing seagulls drew Lisbeth’s attention to the open doors
leading to the balcony. She padded across the atrium and stepped into the bright sunlight. Inhaling deep breaths of fresh air for the first time in several days, she lifted a few crumbs for the wily scavengers swooping overhead.

Anchored ships swayed in the harbor’s pristine waters, and a soft breeze indicated a slight cooling trend might be coming this way. Idyllic, really. No wonder Mama loved growing up on the Mediterranean. Except for the seriousness of this plague, Carthage would make a great place for a real honeymoon with Cyprian.

“BISHOP!” FELICISSIMUS
hammered at the door.

Lisbeth came running.

The slave trader burst into the atrium. “Bishop!”

“Stay back, Felicissimus!” She dodged occupied mats and whizzed past Caecilianus and Barek, who were sticking their heads in from the kitchen. “What’s happened?”

“A Roman warship has drifted into port.” Red-faced and gasping for breath, the tubby slave trader had obviously run some distance. “All aboard have perished.”

Panic tore through the ill, roused from their naps.

“Brother and sisters,” Caecilianus shouted over the coughing and shuffling about in the beds, “I urge you to remain calm!”

“Did I not warn you, Bishop?” Felicissimus heaved his girth atop a stone bench, then held up his hands as if he intended to preach a sermon. “This plague is sweeping the empire faster than Christian persecution.”

“We don’t know why those sailors died,” pointed out Ruth as she and Barek joined Caecilianus at the door. “Or if they are dead for certain.”

“Does this woman you bed think for you, too, Bishop?” The
chubby little man seemed pleased that his insult had recaptured the attention of the crowd.

“Hey, don’t talk about my mother.” Barek started over the line, but Ruth pulled him back.

Felicissimus shook a finger at Lisbeth. “Cyprian has sent me to warn you.”

“Cyprian?” Not caring that she might be contaminated, Lisbeth jerked the squatty slave trader down from the bench. Her face in his, she shouted, “Where is my husband?!”

“If we stand idle, we’ll no longer have to fear the arena. There’ll be no one left alive for the wild cats to shred.” Buoyed by cheers of support, Felicissimus raised a clenched fist above his head. “Christians must leave while we still have breath. We owe the empire nothing.”

“Where is my husband?” Lisbeth demanded, tightening her grip on his collar. “Tell me now.”

“He’s on the ship.”

“No!” screeched out of Lisbeth. “Ruth, get my cloak!”

“I’m coming with you.” Ruth gave orders to her son before Lisbeth could argue. “Barek, fetch Magdalena.”

Minutes later, Lisbeth and Ruth were flying down the balcony steps. “Maybe those sailors simply died of scurvy or some kind of environmental contamination.”

Ruth dared to say the words out loud that might seal a fate Lisbeth wasn’t ready to accept. “If they had the plague and Cyprian was on that boat . . .”

“They don’t.”

She and Ruth arrived at the harbor, agitated as the circling seabirds.

“If those are the troops Aspasius ordered,” Ruth cautioned, “he will not be happy with anything less than a boatload of able-bodied men.”

Lisbeth and Ruth stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the wharf, sucking in the scents of seaweed, sewage, and spice while contemplating the next move. “Do you see that, Ruth?” Lisbeth pointed to the water and the flame moving toward the wooden vessel listing to one side, its square mainsail the only one hoisted in the entire port. “What is it?”

“A torch.” Ruth shielded her eyes against the sun. “And Cyprian.”

“What’s he doing?”

Ruth’s face went pale. “He’s going to burn the ship.”

“If he burns that ship, the proconsul can claim his soldiers were murdered by Christians.” Lisbeth shed her cloak. “I’ve got to stop him.”

Ruth laid a hand on her arm. “But if we let a plague-ridden ship dock, we risk far more.”

“Agreed.”

Saving a dying world, a world that according to history eventually recovered and swept the heroism of Christians into obscurity, would have to take second place to saving her husband. Scanning the port, Lisbeth noticed the manmade island in the center of the harbor. Narrow launching ramps, perfect for the flotilla of military triremes docked in the slipways.

For her, leapfrogging from vessel dock to vessel dock was the fastest way to her husband. “I’m going after him.” Lisbeth pulled off her sandals.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I’ve had every vaccination known to man. You haven’t.”

“Are you determined to get yourself killed?”

“Quite the contrary, my friend. I have every reason to live.” She raced down the dock, weaving through stacks of wine crocks and clay jars filled with fish sauce awaiting export. Once she was even with the ship Cyprian was nearing, she drew the hem of her
garment between her legs, looped the excess fabric through the front of her belt, and dove into the water.

Stroke for stroke, she swam toward the life-size version of Papa’s museum model ships. Her father would have given his right arm for this incredible opportunity to actually board one. She, on the other hand, prayed she didn’t have to, but she would to save her husband.

As she neared the warship’s keel, she called out, “Cyprian!”

“Lisbeth?” He popped around the bulk of the ship, bobbing in the water like a floating candle. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Careful. There’s a razor-sharp ramming beak lurking just below the waterline.” He swam toward her, the torch in his hand.

She dodged the primitive missile and met him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she didn’t know whether to kiss him or strangle him for stupidity. She opted for the kiss. “Let’s go home.”

“This ship can’t reach shore.”

“Then I’ll go aboard and—”

“No, you won’t.”

They argued over who should go aboard the warship. He pointed out that while her sharp tongue could hold its own against the blade of any soldier, a man was better suited to handle the unknown dangers. He lunged for the rope ladder, leaving Lisbeth to tread water and fume.

Cyprian’s toga clung to his body and sinewy legs as he scrambled toward the outspread sail of purple, the torch in one hand. They were from such different worlds, and though they were in love, every time those worlds collided, sparks flew.

Treading water in the shadow of creaking hull timbers, Lisbeth nervously picked at one of the barnacles stuck to the tarred planks. The crustacean fell into her hand. Gazing at the spot where it had resided, Lisbeth noticed the heads of several copper nails aged to a
green patina. Romans were known for keeping their fleet freshly painted and scoured immaculately clean. This boat had to have been at sea for a long while. Why?

She kicked against the chill. “Cyprian! Come back!”

When he didn’t answer, she grabbed hold of the ladder’s first slippery rung. “I’m coming up.” Doubling her effort to compensate for the weight of her gown, she strained to hoist herself out of the water.

As she neared the top rung, she heard a frantic clip-clop pounding on the deck. Toes curled around the rope, she slowly pushed up. When her eyes cleared the railing, she saw an emaciated stallion pawing the air.

The horse’s hooves struck the deck with a wood-splintering crack. Cyprian dropped his torch in a copper fire pit and approached the wild-eyed beast. He talked in low, soothing tones as he reached for the loose tether. The horse, wanting no part of this stranger, reared again, then lunged. Right before impact, Cyprian stepped aside. The horse sailed over the railing, his front hooves nearly brushing the top of Lisbeth’s head.

“Whoa!” Clinging to the swaying ladder, she watched the animal land a belly flop, lift his nose in the air, and begin a desperate paddle for the shore.

When she glanced up, Cyprian was staring down at her. “You could have been killed.”

“Me? What about you?” She struggled for a firm grip on the railing. “What in the world was that?”

Cyprian offered his hand. “Commander’s mount.” He hauled her over the rail, and she tumbled into his arms. “Poor animal was near starved to death. Hasn’t been tended for days. You hurt?”

“No.” Except for the horse’s droppings, the deck was devoid of any recent signs of life. Cookpots, some caked with dried stew, were scattered about. Several wine amphorae lay uncorked, their
spilled contents allowed to stain the salty boards. Lisbeth couldn’t imagine healthy soldiers wasting the emperor’s premium alcohol. Something wasn’t right with this picture. “Where is everyone?”

“Let’s check the holds.” He took her elbow. “Careful, these boards are slick.”

They padded around the large stash of untouched wine stacked beside a huge pile of basketball-size stones covered in something similar to dried moss.

“What are these?” she asked.

“Fireballs.”

She nudged one with her toe. It didn’t budge. “What are they for?”

“Soldiers light them, then launch the flaming balls from this catapult.” He placed his hand on a wooden A-frame contraption that resembled the construction project required by her college physics professor, only this one looked like it might actually work. Disapproval on his face, Cyprian added, “Very destructive for those at the wrong end of the spear.”

“I’m just thinking out loud here.” She pointed at the fireballs. “Why would Rome send a trireme armed for a fight, unless—”

“Aspasius doesn’t plan to police the Christians.” Cyprian cut her off, fire rimming his eyes. “That dog plans to have us destroyed.”

“What are you doing?”

“Altering the proconsul’s orders.”

“How?”

“Burning not only this ship, but his entire fleet.”

“How will that help? Aspasius will just order more troops, and Rome will send more ships and more soldiers. And then they’ll come after you.” Lisbeth stayed his hand. “If this crew died of the plague, which we have no way of knowing, since I haven’t seen the first dead body, then the plague has already spread
throughout the entire empire. Burning a few warships is about as useless as a screen door on a submarine.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Lisbeth pointed at the iron ring attached to a trapdoor that she surmised led to the trilevel holds. “Someone could still be alive down there.”

“Not for long.”

“Really?” She stayed the hand that brandished the torch. “You’re going to burn them alive?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re no better than those who throw your people to the lions in the arena.” Flickering flames reflected in Cyprian’s eyes. “Do you or do you not believe all that
do unto others
stuff the bishop was saying?”

He released an exasperated sigh, but she didn’t miss the desire to slap some sense into her that was still registered on his face. “We must be quick.” He returned the lit torch in the copper cauldron.

A man willing to listen to reason was surprisingly attractive. Hopefully, he could forgive a woman willing to say what she had to in order to accomplish her goal.

Lisbeth bent and ripped a strip of fabric from her hem. “Tie this over your nose and mouth like this.” She demonstrated how to make a surgical mask. “And don’t touch a thing.”

Wishing for a pair of latex gloves and a decent backup plan if they did find someone alive down in the hold, she watched Cyprian brace his muscular legs and heave the door aside.

Putrid gases, ripe with the smell of rancid meat and rotten eggs, gushed forth along with an agonizing scream that came from the belly of the ship.

As they took a step back, a bare-chested man charged up the stairs and body-slammed Cyprian. Both of them went skidding across the deck.

Blades flashed, and the clank of metal upon metal punctuated their groans as they tumbled end over end.

Lisbeth followed the dueling duo around the deck, yelling for them to stop and tried to get a closer look at the filthy man who was acting as erratic as a deprived drug seeker.

Although the man appeared malnourished and coughed like a chain smoker, he managed to point both of his feet at Cyprian’s chest and give a good, strong kick. Cyprian slammed into the fire pit, which launched the blazing torch into the fireballs. Flames exploded and greedily licked their way toward the wine jugs.

“Cyprian!” Lisbeth ran toward him. “Fire!”

He leapt to his feet. “Run, Lisbeth!”

The man from the hold swayed. “Those Roman cowards locked us in the filth and jumped ship.” He waved a knife with one hand and dug at the dark red boils blanketing his entire torso with the other. “The fever killed everyone but me.”

Lisbeth would have preferred a brief peek inside his mouth to check for Koplik spots, but from the maniacal glaze of his red eyes that wasn’t happening. So she did her clinical assessment from three feet away. Runny nose, cheeks flush with fever, and that awful hacking cough. Measles. “Calm down.” She inched forward, hand extended. “I’m a doctor. Let me help you.”

The man lowered his head and charged. Before she could get out of the way, he head-butted her stomach. Doubled in pain, she flew backward. Her right wrist struck the glowing edge of the fire pit. She could hear skin sizzling but was too winded to move.

Cyprian snatched her up and snuffed her burning flesh with the hem of his wet tunic. “Swim to shore.” Crackling flames greedily devoured the tar-sealed planks.

She struggled to get loose. “I need to examine him.”

“No time. This ship is going down.”

Fire climbed the oiled ropes of the mast and gobbled the square topsail in an instant. Black smoke billowed in the breeze. If Aspasius didn’t know things were amiss down at the port, these smoke signals would alert him soon enough.

Lisbeth spotted the delirious man, laughing and running circles around the deck. “It will only take me a second.” Before she could move, the crazy man raised his knife and charged again. “Look out!” Lisbeth screamed.

Cyprian wheeled, dove, and tackled the man with the force of a seasoned linebacker. Knife spinning across the deck, both men scrambled to gain possession of the blade.

The sick man beat Cyprian to the prize. He leapt to his feet with knife raised and came at Lisbeth.