Healer of Carthage (22 page)

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

“I hear it!”

“Of course you do. You’re going to be a great doctor someday.” Mama’s smile warmed her clear to her toes. “That’s the sound of my love for you, a tiny seed growing into a mighty tree. A diagnosis you must never forget.”

“Lisbeth?”

The desperation in Mama’s pleading snatched Lisbeth from the past. She gently released her hold, unwilling to allow even a flicker of emotion for fear of releasing an uncontrollable torrent. “That slash on your face needs stitches. I’ll see what I have for pain.” She turned and dug in the bag she’d brought, pretending to search for some kind of analgesic while she blinked back hot tears.

“Laurentius is stronger now,” Mama continued. “He had all kinds of problems at first.”

“I don’t have anything for pain.” Lisbeth wiped the moisture from her cheeks, not wanting to hear how easily Mama could recap the details of her half brother’s life. “Your injury is several days old. I think the Milch technique will be the easiest on you.”

“Do whatever you think best.” Mama offered a weak smile. “From the beginning, Laurentius had trouble nursing, respiratory infections, and weak ankles. He eventually managed to crawl, but I didn’t know if he’d ever walk. It was all I could do to keep him alive. He could not have withstood the rigors of time travel, even if I could have found the way back. So I’ve kept him hidden down here.”

Lisbeth wondered if her mother had ever worried over
her
health. She longed to tell her of the time she had the croup so bad that Papa had Nigel fly them to Carthage so he could rent a hotel room with a hot shower. But she decided to let it pass, afraid to interrupt the flow of information, facts she’d waited twenty-three years to hear.

“I’ve had to invent excuses to slip away.” Mama’s lip quivered.

“This is going to hurt.” Lisbeth took Mama’s wrist and slowly abducted the affected arm until it stretched out behind her mother’s head.

“Owwww.” Mama did her best to keep the volume down.

She needed to get her mother out of here. But how? She gently applied longitudinal traction while externally rotating the arm. “Ready?”

“You saved Laurentius’s life.” The praise, shredded and useless, slipped through her mother’s gritted teeth. “Your brother thinks a lot of you.”

Mama was once again asking more than she was saying. Seeking more than the formation of a bond between siblings, she sought absolution.

Seized by the sickening feeling that forgiveness was all she had to offer, Lisbeth used two fingers to locate the humeral head. She let her gaze drift to Laurentius. Hunched over a parchment, he was carefully inking a new masterpiece. Her half brother had inherited the best of Mama’s qualities. A sense of selflessness, optimism,
acceptance. Admirable traits. Yet something about his innocence irritated her to the core.

Laurentius lifted his eyes from his drawing and smiled. “Thith one’th for you, Lithbutt.” Drool dripped from the corner of his cracked lips. The boy was a mess, one that would never be righted to perfection. But his hampered mental abilities did not obscure his message. He was happy. No matter his circumstances, he had joy. That was it. The unquenchable joy of Mama and Laurentius angered her the most. They were two united as one against their circumstances.

She wanted to believe their story. Needed to believe that had her mother not been raped and forced to hide a Down’s child, she would have come home. Come back to her. But that’s not what happened. So where did she fit into the story of a woman who couldn’t leave a handicapped child?

A sense of shame enveloped Lisbeth. Laurentius couldn’t help who his parents were any more than she could. “I’ll be sure and take your art with me.” Holding Mama’s arm in traction, Lisbeth spoke to Tabari. “Close the door.”

“He’d go with you,” Mama said.

“Go where?”

“Home.”

“I don’t know how to go home, Mama.” She pushed with all of her strength. “Do you?”

“Noooooo!” Her mother’s scream echoed off the stone walls. Laurentius covered his ears and ducked his chin, turning his back so he didn’t have to watch. She listened for the clunk of the humeral head sliding into the glenoid fossa, then quickly released the pressure.

When Mama finally relaxed, sweat beaded her brow. She looked lost, like her mind had traveled back to the century from which she’d been separated and the journey through so many
memories had taken its toll. “Please,” she said, huffing for breath. “I’m begging you. Find the portal, and take your brother away from here.”

Lisbeth blinked the sting from her eyes. “What if I can’t find it?”

“You must.” The pleading tone of a once-proud woman begging tore through Lisbeth’s heart. A single tear slid down Mama’s cheek. “Laurentius is not vaccinated.”

26

C
YPRIAN SKIPPED THE MASSAGE
tables after his plunge into the frigid political waters that surrounded the man who was supposed to have been his friend. The idea that Rome intended to impose another layer of impossible demands upon the citizens of Carthage left him in no humor for further manipulation. He and Pontius set a straight course for home, striding through the streets crowded with people who had no idea their way of life was in the crosshairs. Aspasius would use the Decian edict to beat the Christians into submission, but his evil would not stop there. The emperor had, in essence, given Aspasius the legal recourse to deal with anyone who dared defy him in any way and in whatever evil manner he saw fit.

He needed to talk over his plan with Caecilianus. The bishop would speak wisdom, but would it be enough to counteract the political double-talk that had soured his belly?

He found his mentor poring over his precious parchments in the quiet of the library, Ruth sitting nearby winding rolls of bandages while the dogs lazed at her feet. Enviable domestic tranquillity, a picture of united spirit and purpose.

“What exactly is a
libellus
?” Ruth asked.

“Written proof of sacrifice.” Cyprian paced the length of the library, the dogs darting back and forth in his path.

“One more crafty way for Rome to control the thinking of its subjects.” Caecilianus snagged the collar of a passing hound. “Quite similar to their secretive purpose for arena games. The masses think the bloodletting is for their entertainment when, in fact, the games are designed to entice them into a holding tank, a place to keep tabs on them, to influence their thinking, to keep the thirst for blood ever before them. How else can Rome justify its continual quest for more and more territory if their people became squeamish over the loss of human lives?” He absently patted the dog’s broad head. “Lambs led to slaughter.”

“Won’t the issuance of such certificates increase the government’s administrative responsibilities?” Ruth snapped her fingers, and the hound Caecilianus could not reach heeled at her feet. “Cost Rome more in the long run?”

“She has a point, Cyprian.” Caecilianus stroked the dog’s long snout. “Signed parchments can hardly guarantee the compliance of Roman subjects.”

“For the right price, anything can be bought,” Cyprian said.

“Not everything.” Ruth sat forward. “Surely the emperor does not think he can purchase peace of mind.”

“That is exactly what he hopes to secure,” Cyprian exclaimed. “Decius fears Rome’s inability to stop an assault on its ever-expanding borders. The emperor is desperate to summon divine protection.” He plopped upon the chair opposite the desk. “And Aspasius is desperate to prolong his term. That greedy slug intends to capitalize upon the emperor’s determination to maintain Rome’s borders. Mark my words, our proconsul will wield this little bone of opportunity like Nero’s torch. In the name of smoking out who supports the throne and who does not, he’ll set fire to every freedom we hold dear.” Cyprian glanced at the mallet bruises on his shins. “Our unwillingness to bow to anyone other than the one God will be declared treason.”

“What are you suggesting?” Caecilianus asked.

“New aqueducts must reach the tenements. New customs must reign.” Cyprian tried to assess the impact of his words upon his mentor. “New blood must infuse the Senate. Old rulers and their unreasonable edicts must be removed.”

“Then we’re back to where we started.” Caecilianus rested his chin upon his clasped hands. “Finding you a wife.”

“But who? Cyprian has already knocked on every viable door. I don’t think we can outlast the women who wait to see if his sores materialize.” Ruth added her bandages to the wads in the basket. “Besides, the wrong woman could do more harm than good.”

“I’ll do it.” The voice intruding upon their private conversation was winded but sure.

Cyprian turned to see his missing slave standing in the doorway; she was disheveled and her face was as white as his toga.

“Lisbeth, your hair!” Ruth leapt from her chair and ran to Lisbeth. “You’re covered in cobwebs.”

Cyprian eyed his missing slave, too stunned at her voluntary return to move. “Where have you been?” A runaway’s willing return was unheard of. Something wasn’t right.

“To the healer.”

“You went to the palace?” Cyprian sprang from his chair and grabbed her arm. “Why on earth would you risk something so foolish?”

“She was hurt.” Lisbeth winced at his hold. “Only Tabari knows I was there.”

“Servants talk.”

Ruth charged between them, her arms spread out as if he intended to strike this young woman. “I said she could go, Cyprian.”

“You? Why?” He sidestepped Ruth. “Why would you risk the welfare of everyone in my house?”

Lisbeth lifted her chin, a storm brewing in those sea-green
eyes. “After all the healer’s done for you and your kind, you would let her suffer?”

“Of course not.” He stiffened. “But Magdalena knew the risk of getting involved in this movement. Her misfortune does not excuse
your
disappearance. You left without
my
permission or protection.”

Her stare cut him to the quick, then bounced from him to Ruth and back to him. “Would you have let me go?”

“No.”

“Then you have your answer.”

“I could have you flogged and shackled.”

She straightened her shoulders, drawing herself up to a height that brought her full lips within easy reach of his. “Or you could marry me and put that monster out of business.”

27

S
ILENCE PUNCTUATED THE IMPASSE
of their predicament. Cyprian had no reason to trust her, and Lisbeth had no one else to trust. Her plan sounded crazier with her captor’s restatement of the high points, but so far neither Cyprian nor his aged mentor had provided a better option. If she didn’t stop the man torturing her family, no one would.

“Let me see if I have this straight.” Cyprian rubbed his temples. “
You
are Magdalena’s daughter?” Disbelief weighted every word of his question. Really, she couldn’t blame him. If she hadn’t pinched herself black and blue, she’d swear the whole impossible tale was nothing more than a nightmare.

Lisbeth worked to keep her voice steady. “You need a wife, and I need someone who’ll help me get my mother away from Aspasius.”

“And what of Laurentius?”

“He’s my half brother. I won’t leave him behind.”

“How can that be?”

His refusal to believe a word she said left her no choice. “Aspasius raped my mother.”

“What the proconsul does with his slaves is his business.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She was wrong to think the man who bought her off the slave block would understand. “Help me out here, Ruth. I can’t leave my mother in that situation.”

Ruth floated between them in that regal way of hers that commanded control of a situation. “The marriage would put rumors of your nasty malady to rest, Cyprian.”

A new round of skepticism scrunched Cyprian’s handsome features. “My wife must make public appearances.” He circled Lisbeth, but his agitation was aimed at Ruth. “Aspasius has seen her. He’ll recognize her as the slave I stole out from under him the first time she makes an official appearance at the arena. And no matter what we think of the games, I must rub elbows in the royal arena box if I’m going to win this election.”

“I was so banged up,” Lisbeth countered, “I doubt he’d remember a slave girl he met only briefly.”

“Aspasius forgets and forgives nothing.” Cyprian spit his decision with finality: “I’ll not risk such foolishness.”

“We could make her over,” Ruth offered. “Dye her hair. Rim her eyes with kohl. Dress her in silks. Veil part of her face. She does clean up remarkably well, remember?”

Cyprian’s eyes bore into Lisbeth’s, sending a fiery jolt straight through her. “No.” From the discomfort on his face, he’d felt the spark that had passed between them the first time he saw her dressed as a lady, the night he’d dragged her into the church service. He took a step back, as if placing himself in that compromising position again didn’t appeal to him any more than it suited her. “It’s too risky.”

“We don’t have to have a real marriage,” Lisbeth stammered. “I help you get elected, and you use the law to get my family away from Aspasius. We both get what we want, and then we go our merry ways.”

“Divorce? Absolutely not.” The muscle in his jaw tensed. “Fortunately, it’s against Roman law for patricians and slaves to marry. And you are going nowhere.”

“What if we had her liberated?” Caecilianus fiddled with
a corner of parchment. “That’s what you’ve eventually done for the other slaves you’ve acquired.”

“I free them once they can be trusted.” He glared at Lisbeth. “Look at her. She finds trouble wherever she goes.”

“We’d need a magistrate to say the words over her, dear,” Ruth interjected as if she’d not heard a word of Cyprian’s dire predictions. “Unfortunately, all the officials in this province are tucked safely inside the belt of Aspasius. Not a one of them will help us this time.”

Cyprian raked his curls. “Marrying a freedman slave offers no benefits. I need political connections if I’m to be elected. I need a life partner. The best I could hope to do without arousing suspicions about Lisbeth’s origins would be to try passing her off as a lesser-known tradesman’s daughter.”