Authors: Lynne Gentry
Once they reached the curator’s office, the stout little man paused outside the door. “I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you.” Taher led them inside, closed the door, then indicated they should have a seat. “I have seen this image only one other time.”
“Where?”
“In a book.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?” Magdalena asked.
Taher shifted as if the beautiful doctor was triaging him on the spot. He cleared his throat. “In the southern Berber regions, a place where hot winds swirl the desert sands into mountains ten stories high, only the nomads survive. They are a sun-leathered people who keep to themselves. But every so often, one of their legends escapes by way of a brief encounter with an unexpected traveler. I thought the story in the book to be one of their legends. Nothing more.”
“Taher, we’re kinda pressed for time.” Lawrence pulled the shard out of his pocket again. “Do you know this little guy or not?”
He gave a slight nod. “He is from the Cave of the Swimmers.”
“Almásy’s cave?” Magdalena asked.
Lawrence looked at her, surprised. “You know of the Hungarian and his book?”
“Yes,” she said. “
The Unknown Sahara
. I haven’t read it, but I know Almásy was an explorer who went in search of a lost oasis and found some Neolithic rock art instead.” She pointed at the shard. “So this is one of Almásy’s mythical swimmers?”
Lawrence wondered what other random bits of information were tucked beneath that glorious head of hair. “Your brain must never stop.”
Taher interrupted. “You must not keep the swimmer, Dr. Hastings.”
Lawrence remembered the insistent expression on Magdalena’s face when she’d returned the shard to him at the hospital. “So I’ve been told.” He’d thought she was just being protective of Carthaginian artifacts. Maybe she’d been afraid. He reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers. This time she did not pull away.
Taher pushed back in his chair. “Few men have laid eyes on the cave paintings and lived to tell of it. Once there was a Bedouin camel driver who lost his herd in a sandstorm. He tracked his animals to the Cave of the Swimmers. He went in . . . and he never came out. Death resides at that place.”
“Well, obviously not everyone dies at the cave. Almásy came home,” Lawrence argued.
“He did not go inside,” Taher countered.
“Then how did he write a book that describes the cave’s interior?” Magdalena asked.
“His exploration partner went in.” Taher leaned in close. “And he died.”
“Clayton died of polio two months
after
they got home,” Lawrence declared. Rumors and legends were the kind of things that made finding definitive proof so important. “Not in the cave.”
“Either way, a bad omen.” Taher slid the baggie back to Lawrence. “I cannot help you.”
“Then how are we going to find out how this ten-thousand-year-old image magically appeared on a third-century funerary urn when everyone who has supposedly seen it firsthand has died?”
“Maybe it is best not to know.”
“If you won’t help us, then I guess we’ll have to go to the Cave of the Swimmers ourselves.” Magdalena stood. “Just one more thing, Taher.”
“Yes?”
“Where exactly is this haunted cave?”
“In the pit of hell.”
6
M
AGDALENA PUSHED THROUGH THE
glass doors of the hospital. The confined stench of antiseptic hung in the corridors, stale and stifling compared to the fresh air she’d enjoyed at the harbor. Maybe her sudden attraction to fresh air and freedom had nothing to do with the demands of the hospital. Maybe it sprang from the raw vigor of the man who’d opened a window and shoved her toward a world of dangerous yet exciting possibilities.
“
We
are going to the Cave of the Swimmers?” Lawrence huffed, trailing behind her with as much speed as he could muster. “I thought
you
had work to do.”
Her proper pedigree had paved the way for acquiring the proper credentials to ensure a proper, well-ordered, and safe life. And where had that gotten her? Engaged to a proctologist, that’s where. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a break from her exhausting responsibilities, let alone indulged in a little adventure. Father would be furious if he found out about today’s unexplained absence. He’d have a heart attack if he knew her time away from her duties had been spent chasing after the origin of a possible pathogen in a mythical cave with an itinerant American archaeologist. She would tell her father the truth once she shucked the attraction to this world traveler and slid safely back into her preordered routine.
“I haven’t necessarily committed to hopping a camel and trudging through the desert, but exploring the cave would be the most efficient way to trace the origin of the disease.”
“
We
haven’t even proven those kids died of disease.”
“Not yet.” She slipped into her white coat and set a brisk pace for the medical library.
“Dr. Kader?” Kaifah blocked her path. “Your father is looking for you.”
“Could you please tell him I need to do some research?”
The nurse’s suspicious eyes darted from Lawrence to Magdalena. “He’ll ask what you’re working on.”
“Uh . . . a case.” Which wasn’t a lie. So far, all she had to back her theory of some unknown virus was a strong hunch. If she could somehow tie a pathogen to the mysterious deaths at the legendary desert cave, they would be one step closer to understanding what had happened at the Tophet. “Excuse us, Kaifah, we’ve work to do.”
Gray light filtered through the windows of the quiet library. Magdalena scanned the stacks and discovered the research assistant face-planted in an open book and snoring loudly. “This way,” she whispered. “We must be fast. Kaifah won’t keep our secret long.”
She skipped the reference books and went straight to the medical history section. High on a shelf, she spotted a dusty tome:
Plague and Pestilence in the Roman Empire.
Lawrence dragged over a chair.
“Let me. I don’t want you to ruin those perfect stitches.” Despite his protests, she climbed aboard the chair and tugged the heavy volume from obscurity.
She blew away a layer of dust and hauled the book to a table tucked into a corner. Lawrence crowded in close. His arm brushed hers, but neither of them moved away. Quickly skimming anything before the mid-third century, she stopped when she came to a bold, black heading.
“‘Plague of Cyprian,’” she read aloud.
The cries of a thousand voices, pained and hopeless, swooshed through her head.
She slammed the book shut.
Her head throbbed. Sweat trickled down her neck. Her heart bucked against her chest. She thought of the heat that had seared her hand. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d had two of these freakishly terrifying moments. She dragged her clammy hands across her face, wiping away rivulets of moisture.
“Mags, are you okay?” Lawrence’s arms steadied her.
She could feel the racing beat of her own heart.
Mags. Mags. Mags.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“No.” She sucked in the stagnant air of the library. “Let’s finish this.” She slowly opened the brittle pages and found the entry again. She dragged her finger along the blistering words:
AD 250 . . . plague thought to have originated in Egypt . . . spread through desert to North Africa . . . brief remissions . . . number of dead outnumbered survivors in Carthage . . . temples full of stacked bodies . . . fiery pustules that spread over the body . . . chief target of attack . . . children.
“So?” Lawrence encouraged her response. “What do you think it was? Yellow fever? Typhoid? Carthage was in a rebuilding phase in the third century. A major push to restore the aqueducts and bring running water to the tenement dwellers wasn’t immediately successful.”
“From the stacked bodies, it’s tempting to blame poor sanitation.”
He tapped her forehead. “But I can see those wheels turning. You don’t think it was typhoid, do you?”
“There’s no mention of vomiting or diarrhea.” She read the entry again. “From the rash description, I’m thinking measles or possibly smallpox.” She closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she’d ever read about contagious diseases that had practically been eradicated in her lifetime. “Both are easily transmitted by a simple cough. They have fairly long incubation periods, which would allow them to infect a healthy traveler, who could then hitchhike their way across the desert.” She opened her eyes. Lawrence was staring at her, hanging on her every word. “And either virus would be deadly to a population who’d never been exposed.”
“You’re amazing.” He picked her up and spun her around.
Worries of fiery pox and pandemic transmissions swirled away. Magdalena was aware of nothing except the pressure of his hands upon her waist and the unexplainable need to kiss him. But she knew once she tasted adventure, there would be no going back. No Mutfi Zaman in her future. No pleasing Father.
Her gaze moved along the angled planes of Lawrence’s tanned face, taking in the lock of chestnut hair that had slipped over his brow. “I think anyone could have—”
Lawrence returned her feet to the floor. “For once, don’t think so much.” He leaned in and kissed her. His mouth pressed directly against hers, not awkward and unfocused but with purpose, exploring and searching the depths of her with a determined intent to know everything about her, the girl who so desperately wanted to step outside of her structured and planned-out life to make a real difference—and he wasn’t afraid. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her spirit drink in the nourishment for her soul.
• • •
“MAGDALENA?”
“Father?” Magdalena untangled her arms from Lawrence’s neck, the sweet taste of his kiss still on her lips. “What are you doing in the library?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He stood frozen beside the open volume of
Plague and Pestilence.
His surgical mask dangled beneath his chin, and blood was splattered on his paper gown. Kaifah must have interrupted his surgery to tattle on her.
Lawrence stepped around her. “Dr. Kader, I don’t think we were formally intro—”
“Leave us.”
“But, sir—”
“Now.”
Lawrence gave her a confused look, and she shook her head. “Please go, Dr. Hastings.”
“All right. But I’ll call you.” He kissed her cheek. “We’ll get this figured out.” He limped to the end of the stack, turned and winked at her, then disappeared.
The silence that hung between Magdalena and her father was not like the comfortable stretches of quiet they’d shared in the evenings when they both had their heads in medical books. This silence crackled with the tension of a distant storm. Lightning splitting the clouds long before the rumble of thunder. Magdalena didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bear the disappointment in her father’s eyes. “Father—”
“Explain to me again why you agreed to traipse after the American.”
“Because he valued my help.”
“Since when is it acceptable for the daughter of the chief of surgery to abandon her hospital duties?” He ripped his surgical gown from his massive frame. “Not to mention that you willingly did the bidding of a strange man. Have you no shame, Magdalena?”
“He’s not a stranger. He was my patient.”
“Even worse.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.” He tossed his gown on the table. “Americans roam our city with no regard for its fragile heritage. I don’t have to sit down to a meal with this foreigner to know that he is nothing but a treasure seeker.”
“Lawrence . . . I mean,
Dr.
Hastings is different.”
“He’s not a medical doctor, Magdalena.” Disappointment fractured her name.
“He’s a brilliant PhD—”
“Who plays in the sand for a living.”
“Who makes important discoveries for posterity.”
“Posterity and destiny are not the same. I want you to settle down. Have a good marriage and a stable home that keeps my grandchildren within easy reach. Chasing after a wanderer is no way to live.”
“And giving up medicine will break my heart.”
7
A
BAD FEELING HAD PLAGUED
Magdalena for days. Between thinking about possible viruses, the archaeologist, and her future as the wife of a proctologist, she was a distracted mess. She hadn’t heard from Lawrence since Father discovered them in the medical library. She’d thought her efforts to solve the mystery had meant as much to the American as his kiss had meant to her.
She’d been a fool to take up the cause of the archaeologist. Her foray into adventure had simultaneously opened a chasm between her and Father and closed the door to her ever finding happiness with Mutfi. What did it matter whether those children buried in the Tophet had died from plague or were sacrificed to appease Roman gods? Finding the answer after all these years would make them no less dead. And yet, she could not quit thinking about the different possibilities.
Father folded his paper. “Mutfi has been patient, Magdalena. What is your answer?” He’d served his question gently, as if it were honeyed tea meant to start her day off in the right direction.
“As you wish, Father,” she said with an edge of bitter resignation.
“Your unhappiness is my fault.” Father spoke with a humble regret she’d never heard in his voice before. “Without your mother around, I’m afraid I raised you to be independent, to think like a son.”
She lifted her chin, eyes smoldering with hurt. “But I’m not the son you wanted, am I?”
His shoulders slumped, and she knew that for the first time in her life she’d wounded him. “What kind of a father would I be if I did not secure my only child’s future?”
“Must it be with the colorectal surgeon?”
“I’d hoped when the time came for your marriage that you would not have to choose between being the surgeon you are gifted to be and becoming a happy wife, that the expectations would have changed.” Father tapped the table, weighing his words carefully. “But Mutfi’s ways will grow on us, I’m sure.”