Healer of Carthage (12 page)

Once the great hall was cleared, only Cyprian, Ruth, Caecilianus, Mama, and the wounded boys remained.

“Give me your hand, buddy.” Lisbeth wrapped Laurentius’s chubby fingers around the wooden tube. “You must hold this steady. Can you do that for me?”

Laurentius gave a pained nod, his eyes becoming more aware and following her every move with an unsettling curiosity.

“Sorry to do this to you, little buddy, but I need to get you upright somehow so that tube can drain.” Lisbeth wrestled Laurentius against the bench, doing her best to achieve a forty-five-degree angle of his torso without dislodging the arrow shaft. “You’re a brave guy.”

His smile, despite the discomfort from moving him, gave her the impression he’d fly to the moon if she issued the order.

“Wish I had some antibiotics for you, or at least something to take the edge off your pain.” The adrenaline that had powered a jagged reed into this boy’s chest ebbed from Lisbeth’s extremities. Exhaustion, compounded by the fact that so much had happened in such a short amount of time, would soon have its victory. She needed sleep, or a stiff shot of caffeine, to keep up with her mother.

Hands trembling, Lisbeth fumbled with the excess bandages scattered about the floor. Slipping through the time portal had fried every logical synapse in her body and made her clumsy. She should give herself a break, but if she sat still for even a moment
she’d need a crane to get her back on her feet. After all, in the last twenty-four hours she’d been dropped through a time warp, sold as a slave, dressed up and paraded around like a prom Barbie, forced to perform a delicate medical procedure in primitive third-world conditions, and, toughest of all, discovered her long-lost mother was alive. Those thirty-hour ER shifts were cakewalks compared to what she’d been through in Carthage.

Despite the mental pep talk, her legs had turned to jelly. If Abra’s death had taught her anything it was that exhaustion leads to mistakes. Catching her breath was the right thing to do. She sank beside Laurentius. The steady rise and fall of his chest was thin comfort. He surely had so many other medical issues that things could have just as easily gone the other way—still could at this point. Who was this boy? According to Papa’s history lessons, the Romans abandoned their imperfect children on the bluffs. Yet, here she sat, tending a Down syndrome child who’d survived past infancy. How had he defied history? Who had taken such good care of him? Had her mother’s medical skills kept this boy alive? These questions stirred others.

Why had Mama been dodging Roman soldiers with two teenage boys? Did she seek help at Cyprian’s mansion, or had she realized these people held her daughter hostage? If so, why did Mama help them instead of trying to save her?

Finally, and most importantly, had Mama even tried to find a way back, or had she consciously chosen to stay here?

Lisbeth pried Laurentius’s fingers from the reed. “I’ll spell you, buddy.”

Somehow she had to maneuver Mama out of earshot of these people so they could talk. Lisbeth finished bandaging the tube in place. Pleased with the rosy bloom in her patient’s cheeks, she let her eyes wander the hall, searching for an exit far from the watchful eyes of servants guarding the front door.

Cyprian turned to Mama. “You and Laurentius must go as well, Magdalena. We cannot risk Aspasius’s discovery.”

“Go where?” Indignation sharpened Lisbeth’s voice. “This boy can’t travel.”

“She’s right. Laurentius can’t jostle that reed.” Mama doused the raw place on Barek’s operative site with a golden liquid that perfumed the damp air with evergreen. “Lisbeth is a . . . healer. I’m confident she can care for both boys.”

“Wait a minute,” Lisbeth protested. “Who said I wanted to be in charge of
your
patients?”

“The care you offered bears witness to your heart.” Mama’s assumption that a few hours in the same emergency room had made them some sort of medical team did not remove Lisbeth’s angst. Or cancel the doubt taking up residence in Cyprian’s eyes.

From the way this handsome lawyer so expertly colluded with Felicissimus, Cyprian was a man well trained in the different shades of truth. How long before her bright-eyed captor put two and two together and figured out the true relationship between the healer and his newly purchased slave? Anybody with half a brain could spot the resemblance. Ebony hair. Sea-green eyes. Long, agile fingers. And the same sharp, outspoken mouths.

“You’re right, Magdalena.” Cyprian turned to Ruth. “Fetch my cloak. I’ll take the healer back to Aspasius myself.”

“Hold on.” Lisbeth scrambled to her feet and grabbed her mother’s arm. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re willingly going back to that jerk?”

“I have no choice.” The flicker of indecision was brief, but Lisbeth hadn’t missed it. “You’re more than competent to handle their recovery.”

“Assuming I have the medical training to handle third-world medicine is not right. In fact, it’s a pitiful excuse for leaving me on
call with no attending, no antibiotics, no oxygen, no nurse, and no idea of what to do next!”

“You need to rig up some sort of suction for that chest tube.”

“With what?”

“Be creative.” Mama handed her the flask. “Dribble a few drops over Barek’s shoulder again in four hours.”

Lisbeth held the vial up to the light from the torch on the wall. “What is this foul stuff?”

“Oil of cedar.”

“That’s it?” Anger shredded Lisbeth’s vocal cords. “A bottle of Christmas perfume is the best you’ve got?”

“It disinfects and promotes healing. You’ll be amazed.” Mama raised the hood of her cloak. “Without removing the shaft, irrigate Laurentius’s sutures.”

Before Lisbeth could protest, Mama directed her next instruction at Ruth. “Mix a pinch of crushed yarrow leaves into a cup of warm sow’s milk.” As if she intended to cover all her bases before she left, Mama turned and pointed at the stethoscope wrapped around Lisbeth’s neck. “May I?”

Lisbeth ripped it free. “I want it back.”

Mama fingered the instrument. “Such a luxury.” She dragged the bell across Barek’s chest, stopping to listen intently to his heart and then his lungs. “Good. Everything sounds good.” She turned and knelt beside Laurentius. “No worries. This won’t hurt, boy.” She completed her exam and stood, a smile spreading across her face. “Excellent work.”

Lisbeth thrust out her hand. “My stethoscope.”

Mama dropped the instrument into Lisbeth’s palm. “Your father must be very proud.”

Lisbeth flipped the rubber tube around her neck. “Papa sacrificed a great deal for me.”

Pain skittered across Mama’s eyes. “I knew he would.”

Ruth’s return with a steaming ceramic mug interrupted Lisbeth’s desire to heap a few more coals upon her mother’s head.

“This is a mild coagulant.” Mama directed the medicinal cocktail to Lisbeth. “See that Barek takes generous sips throughout the night.” She turned to leave.

“Wait.” Lisbeth ran after her, frothy milk sloshing over the sides and scalding her hand. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“The best you can.” Mama caressed her cheek. “That’s all any of us can ever do.” She glanced at Laurentius. “Don’t delay on that suction rig.”

“Go ahead. Walk out!” Lisbeth shouted. “It’s what
you
do best.”

12

M
AGDALENA SLOSHED THROUGH THE
tunnel passages under the proconsul’s palace. She’d been so caught up in the joy of finding her daughter she’d forgotten about the unpredictability of mugwort. If Aspasius awoke in an empty bed, she might never see Lisbeth again.

Once she reached the secret panel at the office entry, Magdalena took a deep breath and placed her ear upon the chink in the mortar.

Quiet.

She snuffed her light and returned the clay bowl to the ledge. A quick tug on the metal lever activated the stones. Through the jagged opening, Magdalena slipped into the space she would never call home.

Someone grabbed her shoulders from behind. “Where have you been?”

“Kardide?” Magdalena said with a start. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

“Coming for you. We feared you’d been killed. Moments ago, soldiers reported to Aspasius that there had been trouble last night. Curfew offenders shot.”

“But not apprehended.” With a pleased smile, Magdalena took a small bow, then kissed her friend’s cheek. “So the bear’s awake?”

“Roaring like a caged animal,” Kardide snatched her hand. “And demanding your presence.”

Their rush through the atrium aroused the birds and sent them fluttering against their cages. Fooling Aspasius into thinking she’d merely slipped out to use the chamber pot in her room would be tricky, since his pets had sounded the alarm.

When Magdalena reached her room, she stopped. “I need to change. Fetch a breakfast tray with all of the master’s favorites.”

Fear crossed her friend’s face. “There’s no time.”

“I’ll be quick. Trust me.” Magdalena raced inside and shut the door. She ripped off her soiled tunic, then donned the gauziest dress she could find. A couple of brushstrokes removed the cobwebs from her hair. A splash of water rinsed the blood traces of the night’s trauma from her face. She gazed in the polished brass mirror. Presentable, except for the black-and-blue ring impression below her eye. No need to cover that little souvenir. Aspasius loved admiring his handiwork.

She lifted the leather cord from around her neck and kissed the gold ring. How proud Lawrence had been of his discovery when he gave it to her. She opened the nightstand drawer and buried it beneath the scarves and trinkets Aspasius insisted she wear when accompanying him in public. Her trembling fingers encountered the tiny silver box kept well hidden.

When she lifted the lid, a mixture of earthy pine bark and tannin sumac stung her nostrils. She plucked out a generous pinch of the fine wood shavings, sprinkled the flakes into a mortar bowl, then added a tablespoon of clean olive oil. With a pestle, she pulverized the ingredients into a muddy paste. She dragged a cotton ball–size piece of wool back and forth through the mixture until every last drop of liquid had been absorbed. Sitting upon the bed, she lifted her leg. She inhaled and stuffed the saturated plug deep into the scarred crevice of her body.

Whether or not her prime had safely withered was a risk she wouldn’t take. Never again would she carry his child. Ignoring the sting between her legs, she tucked one of the small bags of mugwort between her breasts, an added safety precaution should his mood prove too foul.

When Magdalena exited her bedroom, Kardide stood ready with the tray. “What if he finds out where you’ve been?”

“He won’t . . . unless you tell.”

“My lips are sealed, but that scribe of his cannot be trusted.”

“Then our master must be detained from business today. Tell Pytros, and anyone else who seeks an audience with the proconsul, that our master is not well.” Magdalena relieved Kardide of two bowls heaped with tiny fish, a carafe of wine, and several varieties of cheese. “Do not follow me. No matter what you hear. Understand?”

Under protest, Kardide backed off and left Magdalena to travel the master’s hall alone. At Aspasius’s bedroom door, Magdalena balanced the tray with one hand and rapped with a clenched fist.

Quiet. Too quiet.

She clicked the latch and stepped inside. The shutters were still drawn, but the lamp beside the bed had been lit. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, then slowly made their way to the proconsul’s bed.

“There you are, my pet.” Aspasius lay naked upon the pillows, his body arranged as if he knew she would come to him and he intended to make her pay.

The repulsive sight incited her flight instincts, but she stood her ground. Smiling sweetly, she employed a trick learned from a college speech teacher and aimed her gaze to a point directly over his head.

She fought to control the bloodlust coursing through her veins. “I’ve brought sardines.” She prayed the flirtatious swaying of
her hips would convince him to play along, to believe that if he cooperated she would reward his preparation.

He scowled, looking her up and down. “I’m not hungry.” He motioned her forward.

Was his anger left over from yesterday’s defeat at the slave auction, the result of a drug-induced hangover, or brought on by the fact that she hadn’t been in his bed when the soldiers shook him awake? Either way, she must douse the embers before his temper fanned into flame.

She set the tray on the table beside his bed. “Perhaps a swig of your favorite vintage to start your day then?”

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You know how I start my day.”

“That I do.” Doing her best to hold the carafe steady, she filled a chalice with wine. “Let the entertainment begin.” Magdalena tossed him a provocative smile, one laced with just enough agreement to keep him waiting patiently. She turned her back. Hands trembling, she undid the tie on her garment.

As the flimsy gown slid to the floor, so did her drug packet. She didn’t dare turn to see if he’d noticed, nor did she dare bend to pick it up.

“Quit stalling, wench.”

Her mind raced back to her daughter and the passion dancing in her daughter’s eyes, a fire she’d inherited from her father. Yet, something unsettling flickered in that flame. Fear? Insecurity? Unhappiness? Revenge? Lisbeth was obviously trained, but something had shaken her daughter’s confidence; she could tell from the quiver in her voice. Talking Lisbeth through the procedure had helped, but there was still something off. Lisbeth needed her. Whether the notion was a mother’s intuition or a fool’s hope, the prospect of once again being involved in her daughter’s life would sustain her until her message reached
Rome. Once Aspasius was removed from office, she could safely extricate her family.

“Magdalena! Now!”

She kicked the corner of her robe over the packet of mugwort, picked up the wine goblet, and climbed onto the bed.

Aspasius grabbed her wrist. “Don’t lie to me again.”

Did he know? He couldn’t know. Kardide assured her Pytros had not been seen outside the servant quarters this morning. Who else could have told Aspasius she’d been gone for hours?