Healer of Carthage (8 page)

“This can’t be.” Lisbeth buzzed around the bathroom, intent on gathering her things when suddenly she realized she had nothing to gather. Panic clogged her airway. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Where is this Dallas of which you spoke?”

“It’s”—Lisbeth wasn’t sure how to explain that she’d somehow slid almost eighteen hundred years down a time continuum—“very far from here.” With nothing more to say and no strength in her legs, she plopped down on the nearest bench.

“Maybe you’ll feel like going later.”

Tears scalded Lisbeth’s cheeks. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Ruth let Lisbeth have a good cry, which only served to make Lisbeth more upset.

She never cried. Not even during the long torturous days of searching for her mother. Papa had cried enough for the both of them. She was the strong one. This rare breakdown must be chalked up to sheer exhaustion. Physical limitations had derailed her once again, and that made her even madder.

Between Lisbeth’s sobs, Ruth chattered on about how she would find her place in this house as she gently tended Lisbeth’s scrapes, plaited her hair, and layered her naked body with yards of flowing pink fabric.

Lisbeth worked to regain control of her emotions. Angry tears would not help her stitch illogical fragments into some sort of logical explanation. Strangely dressed people. Slave auctions. A male model dressed like he was ready for a frat house toga party. The faint smell of the sea that had swirled in the back of her mind from the moment she’d awakened in the cell. The fact that she’d passed over that clue far too easily hit her hard. How many other important pieces of information had she foolishly failed to register? Assigning each part a place in this crazy equation was the only way the truth would emerge.

No matter how she calculated or recalculated, the odds that she’d fallen down an
Alice in Wonderland
hole and ended up in the third century came up zero.

None of this made any sense.

A tug at her shoulder brought Lisbeth back to the present, which, to her muddled thinking, was really the past.

“This gown color is good with your dark hair.” Ruth smoothed the wrinkles. The touch of this foreign woman’s hand pressed reality into Lisbeth’s situation. This was not some crazy dream.

Lisbeth shuddered. Even though she knew Ruth meant to distract her, to comfort her with the tangible, sorting out this time-travel thing had given Lisbeth a tremendous headache and left her in no mood for chitchat. If the impossible had really happened, she was both miles and years away from Papa. She couldn’t bear the thought of her father facing his uncertain future without her. How was she going to get back to him? Could she even go back? What would become of Craig? Or her job at the hospital, tenuous as it was?

Ruth gathered the soft fabric at Lisbeth’s left shoulder and pinned the folds in place with a golden brooch topped with an amethyst cameo. She cinched Lisbeth’s waist with a belt of shiny coins. In short order, heavy jeweled earrings pulled at Lisbeth’s
earlobes, and two hammered metal bracelets dangled from each wrist.

“Much better.” With a pleased smile, Ruth spun her around to face a wall of highly polished bronze. “What do you think?”

Lisbeth considered her distorted reflection. Her gaze flitted between the cotton candy confection in the mirror and the beaming stranger peering over her shoulder. How could she tell anyone what really tumbled in her mind? No one would believe her.

“You could be mistaken for nobility,” Ruth said. “Cyprian will be pleased.”

Whether or not some guy strutting around in a toga found her attractive was the least of Lisbeth’s worries. What did bother her was that this woman, who couldn’t be more than five years older than her, lived in this moment. A naive bishop’s wife who didn’t have a clue how dire the future was about to become. Ruth probably couldn’t comprehend the terrors even if Lisbeth spelled out everything she could remember from Papa’s history lessons. Third-century Roman writings recorded a
bloody, volatile mess in the African provinces. Everything this innocent woman believed to be true about her world was going to change rapidly and drastically.

And not for the better.

Lisbeth clasped Ruth’s hand. “If you want to live, you’ll leave this godforsaken time with me, and you’ll do it now.”

8

M
AGDALENA PRESSED HER EAR
against the master’s chamber door. She listened for the sound of silver bouncing across the marble. Once she heard the clank of the chalice, she counted under her breath. At the number ten, a muffled thud seeped through the cedar. Slowly, she lifted the latch and forced open the carved slab.

Golden lamplight flickered on a small table in the far corner. The smooth-faced, wide-eyed scribe perched like one of Aspasius’s parrots on the dictation stool, a wax tablet in his lap and a stylus pointed toward the bed. “I don’t know what happened,” he muttered.

Magdalena waded through the litter of discarded tunics, robes, and half-written scrolls scattered over thick carpets imported from Egypt. She hated how the disorder of Aspasius’s personal life repeated itself in his erratic and spendthrift governing. Doing what she could to bring his reign to an end would benefit more than just herself. History itself would thank her one day.

Aspasius lay sprawled facedown upon sheets, sheets she’d wanted to shred every time he dragged her bruised body across them. Naked, except for his loincloth and red shoes, he resembled the beached whale she and her husband had spotted during their honeymoon on the eastern coastline of Africa.

She chose the safest path to the bed. She had always thought Aspasius a dirty old man, perverted in a way that made her blood run cold. But in the last few months, unexplained chills had caused the proconsul to take on another habit of old men. Every morning Aspasius ordered Tabari to wrap his feet in strips of woolen cloth to keep his feet warm and his shoes from rubbing blisters. As she neared his upturned soles, she could tell that his efforts were failing. Yellow pus oozed from the bindings that stank of festering ulcers.

Careful not to touch the infection, Magdalena nudged the thick sole of his built-up shoe. Aspasius didn’t move. She placed her knee upon the down tick and reached for his neck. Working her fingers beneath the fleshy folds, she searched for the sweet spot, the place where she kept tabs on his beating heart after a slug of his headache powders. Exact dosing was something she’d yet to master. She only wanted him unconscious for a few hours.

Aspasius mumbled something unintelligible. She sighed with relief. He sputtered, turned his flushed face toward her, and eyed her with a glassy stare. Magdalena froze. Despite a drug-induced glaze, he seemed to take her in. Would he remember this night?

She smiled and patted his cheek. “There, there, my love.”

His eyelids fluttered, then sank against the weight of the drug.

Magdalena stood. “You may go, Pytros.” She watched the smooth-faced scribe gather his wax tablets, his eyes darting between her and their master. The eager scribe’s name meant babbler, a singing canary who would not keep what he’d seen to himself if she wasn’t extremely careful with her words. She summoned a concerned scowl to her face. “Our master is overwrought. He suffered a great loss today. We must let him rest, not mention his humiliation beyond these doors. Do you understand, Pytros?”

The scribe’s halfhearted agreement did not grant Magdalena
the assurance she preferred, but more pressing matters deserved her worry at the moment. Securing Aspasius’s slumber took more time than she’d planned. Changing her tunic would delay her further, a risk that would put her waiting escorts in greater danger. She would have to wear her silks.

Magdalena snuffed the lamp and followed Pytros from the room. She quietly pulled the door closed. “Remember, not a word.”

She waited until the scribe was well on his way to his quarters, then turned in the opposite direction. The click of her heels made too much noise on the polished marble. Arousing the birds would not be good. She stopped and removed her sandals. Straps hooked on her finger, she continued down the corridor that led to Aspasius’s office. A light rap on the thick wooden door elicited a muffled response. She released the latch and slipped inside. Slivers of moonlight filtered through the shutter slats.

“We’re here, my lady,” a gruff voice whispered in the darkness.

Once Magdalena’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted Kardide, Iltani, and Tabari huddled in the far corner. The undeserved respect they heaped upon her had helped restore her purpose, but excess adoration also brought with it greater responsibility.

Magdalena hurried across the carpets and fell into their embrace. “We have but a few hours.”

“You mustn’t go to the assembly tonight.” Kardide, as vigilant as her name, gripped Magdalena’s shoulders. “Aspasius has added extra patrols. I heard him give the order to kill anyone out past curfew.”

“I’ll be careful.” Magdalena tried to keep the fear from her voice. “Did you bring my cloak?”

“Have you not heard a word I said?” Kardide asked with a hiss. “You can’t go.”

“My dear Kardide, do you trust me?” Far below the palace balcony, the roar of the ocean crashed against the harbor breakers.

“Yes,” Kardide finally admitted. “But—”

“Then you must pray.” Magdalena felt a little hand slip into hers and squeeze. “And you too, my sweet Tabari.”

“At least take Iltani with you,” Kardide begged. “She could be of assistance should you encounter trouble.”

“No. It’s too risky.”

“Then why are you going?” Kardide asked. “Ruth will care for the sick if you can’t make it tonight.”

“Something happened today . . . and I must find out more about it. I have to.”

Iltani held out a coarse woolen tunic, her concern communicated in the mute tears that spilled onto her cheeks.

Magdalena slid her arms into the sleeves and lifted the hood over her head. If, for some reason, she was spotted, she preferred to be mistaken for a tenement peasant. An arrow through the heart would bring an instantaneous death, which would be God’s blessing. She could not bear the agonizing worry that would accompany a slow demise in the arena.

Iltani pulled off her wooden shoes.

Magdalena traded her jewel-crusted sandals for plebeian slave footwear. She hugged each woman tightly. “Stay alert, my friends.”

Kardide moved aside, grumbling her disapproval. Magdalena stepped up to the elaborate chariot-racing mural painted across the stone wall behind Aspasius’s desk. She placed her index finger on the foaming mouth of the bridled stallion and traced the taut reins to the hand of an armored charioteer. Years ago, Aspasius had locked her in his office for her unwillingness to kiss his ring. She’d nearly climbed the walls trying to escape. Quite by accident, she’d discovered the secret lever cleverly hidden in the soldier’s cuff. The hammered piece of metal, a key that unlocked a secret passageway,
had saved more than her sanity. It had saved the one thing that had kept her here all of these years. Good from bad. A blessing she never expected.

Magdalena stuck her finger into the cold iron ring and tugged.

The wall of stone groaned. Mortared rocks slid on a rusty iron track. Dank, cool air swirled into the office. As the horse’s mouth inched slowly toward the charioteer’s lap, a narrow opening exposed a dark stairwell. Magdalena reached around the stone door. Her fingers found the ledge where she kept an oil lamp for nights such as this. She struck a flint, lit the wick, then cupped the flame.

The faint glow illuminated the fear-sobered faces of her friends.

“Stay strong.” Magdalena blew them a kiss and squeezed into the darkness.

9

C
ALFSKIN LEATHER PINCHED LISBETH’S
toes. “I really can’t stay, and neither should you, Ruth.”

“Eat something at the feast. You’ll feel better.” As if they’d been best friends forever, the bishop’s wife looped her arm through Lisbeth’s and dragged her toward the open door at the end of the hall. “Wait until you meet the church. They’re going to love you, and you’ll love them.”

“Church?” Lisbeth yanked free of Ruth’s hold. “I thought you dressed me up like a pageant contestant to impress the bishop.”

“He’s with the believers.”

“Believers of what?”

“The resurrection. Followers of Christ.”

Snatches of Papa’s history lesson sent fear rippling through Lisbeth. How had she fallen in with one of the most persecuted sects of the century? “Christians?”

Ruth nodded, her twinkling eyes offering no sign of the terror Lisbeth would have expected.

Maybe she was wrong about Rome’s disdain for this religious group. She really didn’t know that much about Christians. After all, she’d only attended one church service in her life. And she wouldn’t have gone that time, except her roommate, Queenie,
the shiny buckle on the Bible Belt, had promised a platter of her mother’s homemade fried chicken afterward. Starving med students never turned down home cooking.

Lisbeth would never forget that Sunday morning in Texas. She remembered questioning the accuracy of her phone’s GPS when the blinking blue ball took her to an enormous building that resembled an upscale shopping mall. She wheeled into the parking lot. Men in bright orange vests waved fluorescent wands. By the time she found an empty parking slot she was a good fifteen-minute shuttle ride from the two-story glass foyer. Once she stepped inside the door, smiling greeters stuffed slick brochures into her hands and pointed her in the direction of the coffee shop. She elbowed her way through women dressed in silk suits, fully aware that the black slacks and ballerina flats she wore were poor choices. Nearly as poor choices as agreeing to go to church in the first place. And to make matters worse, she never did find Queenie, or have that fried chicken her friend had raved about for weeks.

Lisbeth tried to extricate herself from Ruth’s grasp. “I really don’t have time to—”

A blur of voices, the melancholy notes of a cane lute, and the clink of silver chalices floated through the open doors.