Healer of Carthage (29 page)

Lisbeth crawled out from under the sheets. Her mother’s screams still rang in her ears and made her unsteady on her feet.

Why had Cyprian insisted on coming back for her? He’d saved the weaker, mentally challenged boy, something his faith would have expected. But surely even his one God didn’t expect him to risk his life for a stubborn, outspoken slave girl. He could have washed his hands of her. Left the daughter of foreigners to suffer whatever fate the gods dealt. Then he could have found himself a well-connected Roman to marry—one who hopefully had not heard the rumors Aspasius had been spreading about him—and called it a day, a day he was probably as anxious as she to forget.

But he didn’t do either of those easy things. He’d pressed them through the tunnel, practically carrying the clumsy Laurentius every terrifying step of the way back to his villa. And once they’d settled her brother in a clean bed, he’d insisted she rest and let him have the first watch. Even if his impeccable morals wouldn’t have allowed him to leave them to die, he could have put an end to the whole charade once they were safe. Instead, he’d let her sleep under his roof and protection. Why? Had he felt the chemistry between them? Was he beginning to wish their upcoming marriage wasn’t a sham?

All of a sudden it hit her. Cyprian was being kind. Putting her needs before his. He was acting Christian, and she liked it. The unexpected notion pulled her up short, knocked the dizziness from her head.

Selflessness was a trait she’d never assigned to any man, not even Papa. Something within her gut warned that this type of behavior was dangerous. She didn’t like the idea of being in someone’s debt. When expectations were too high, disappointment followed. And that’s exactly what would happen if she didn’t distance herself from Cyprian. He’d done too much for her not to expect some type of repayment. She could never live up to his ideals. Or become a fine Christian woman like Ruth.

Just to be safe, she’d separate herself quickly, before these
crazy romantic notions made going home an impossibility. Before she began to hope that this time things would be different, that she might actually be able to have that family she’d always wanted.

Lisbeth poured water into the basin and splashed her face, the tragedy of how close she’d come to wanting to be married to the wrong man playing in her mind. In less than a week, Cyprian could legally take her to his bed. Legally, he could have had her at any time since her purchase. His reluctance to enter into this arrangement proved he was far too principled to sleep with a woman without the benefit of marriage. But would the principles of a man who would not let her die hold up once she said “I do”?

36

R
UTH INHALED DEEPLY OF
the woody aroma filling Lisbeth’s room. “I love this Arabian nard Cyprian ordered for you.” In one elegant gesture, she returned the lid to the tiny jar and placed it among the collection of vials and smudge pots she’d gathered over the past few days. “The sheen on your skin will be exquisite.”

“Sounds expensive.” Lisbeth sniffed the fiery red ends of her own freshly treated hair, unable to escape the earthy scent of hemp.

“Exorbitant. But not nearly as costly as fetching snow from the mountains to chill the wine.”

“I wish he wouldn’t make such a big deal of this marriage thing.” Lisbeth plopped upon the bed. “No one invests this much money and effort into a wedding ceremony without expecting some kind of reward.” Since their successful rescue of Laurentius, she’d not had a minute alone with Cyprian to thank him, to check him for signs of measles, or, more importantly, to reinforce the platonic terms of their agreement.

“When someone of Cyprian’s social standing marries, it
is
, as you say, a big deal.” Ruth gathered the discarded tunics she’d rejected because they did not adequately show off Lisbeth’s features. “Work to remove that scowl from your face, or I’ll have to send
someone to the desert for sand to scrub those lines from your forehead.”

“At least let me help.” Lisbeth handed Ruth a tunic she’d missed. “What about the guest list?” Inviting Aspasius was dangerous, but short of finding some way to make contact with Tabari, she could think of no other way to learn her mother’s fate. If he’d killed Mama, Lisbeth’s reason for this wedding had died as well. Surprising sadness pricked her heart. “Will you invite the proconsul?”

“His invitation was the first designed and delivered.” Ruth cocked her head, understanding and compassion lighting her eyes. “Who the surly beast will bring as his guest is anyone’s guess.”

“What about the menu? I used to help Papa’s cook, so I could—”

Wide-eyed horror swept Ruth’s face. “A patrician’s wife never cooks. Cyprian’s capable staff will have the scullions stoking the cooking fires day and night.”

“The music?”

“Hired from Italy and setting up in the garden as we speak.”

“Flowers?”

“Imported from the best growers.”

“I guess that leaves just the dress.” Lisbeth sighed. “But unless it’s a laceration in need of sutures, I don’t sew.”

“Cyprian employs two of the best tailors in Carthage. They’ll conduct your fitting within the hour. That leaves just enough time for Naomi to assist with your bath. Go and let her scrub until she finds your smile.” Ruth patted her cheek. “A happy bride is a beautiful bride.” She turned to leave, then stopped, hugging the garments tightly. “You might learn to love him, you know.”

I already have.

Where in the world had that come from? Lisbeth shuddered at the jarring thought. Quickly tucking away the insane notion, she
blurted, “Business and love don’t mix.” Trying not to meet Ruth’s eyes, she went in search of Cyprian to remind him of that very fact, even if she had to tell him the entire truth. Her bath could wait. Cyprian deserved to know who she was, and he deserved to hear the whole crazy story from her before Laurentius repeated something he shouldn’t, something that would raise questions she couldn’t dodge.

She stopped by her brother’s room for a shot of courage, amazed at how quickly he’d wormed his way into her heart. “Hey, buddy.”

“Lithbutt!” Her brother showed off his ample supply of paints. “I get the whole wall.” He danced in front of the large, empty space Cyprian had given him to practice upon before tackling the library mural.

Once again, Cyprian’s extraordinary kindnesses made Lisbeth keenly aware of her own tendency to be self-absorbed. Why had this stubborn Roman patrician overlooked Laurentius’s disability? Treating her flawed brother as a human being of equal value was a huge deviation from his survival-of-the-fittest culture. Perhaps Cyprian had succumbed to the teachings of his mentor and become far more forward-thinking than she’d originally thought. If so, could he offer her and her incredible story the same grace? There she was worrying about herself again. Worrying about what someone would think of her, of how this situation affected her.

She pushed her selfishness aside and plodded to the library, intent on making things right. To prove to Cyprian and to herself that she, too, could act with selfless motives.

The old bishop sat hunched over the desk, struggling to read a scroll in the dim light.

She tapped on the doorframe. “Caecilianus.”

He raised his gray head. “Ah, the lovely bride.” He motioned her in with an affable smile, the same twinkle of delight that won over nearly anyone who encountered him. “You sound as though
you could use a respite from my wife’s zealous ministrations.” His dogs stretched but remained stationed at his feet, regarding her more as family than an intruder these days. That was some progress, at least.

“Ruth means well.” Lisbeth marveled at the ability of one with advanced cataracts to see so clearly into the heart of a matter. This preacher was more than rhetoric and platitudes. Exactly what made him different, she’d yet to pinpoint. “I’m looking for Cyprian.”

“Our boy’s been called to the Senate.”

“No trouble, I hope.”

“More of a sadness, I’m afraid. He must make funeral arrangements for one of those political horse traders.” He offered her the seat across from his cluttered desk.

His disapproving tone surprised her. Weren’t priests required to love everybody? “Who died?”

“Sergia.”

“The ambassador from Rome?” Her heart stuttered. “How?”

Caecilianus shrugged. “He dropped dead in the middle of a torrid disagreement with Aspasius late yesterday afternoon.”

“No!” She bolted for the door and set the dogs charging after her in hot pursuit.

“Wait.” Caecilianus leapt from behind the desk, covered the length of the library with remarkable speed, and snagged her arm as she reached the hall. “You can’t go.”

“You don’t understand.” Dogs circled her feet. “Sergia had measles. If Cyprian touches him, he could die, too.”

“Slow down.” Caecilianus clasped her shoulders. “I think you have something to tell me.” He led her to a cushioned couch. “Sit.”

The weight of doing too little too late sagged Lisbeth’s shoulders. She obeyed like one of the bishop’s dogs and dropped onto the couch. What difference would a couple of minutes matter
now? Cyprian’s contact with Sergia at the arena had probably sealed her future husband’s fate. Whether or not Cyprian believed her time-travel tale wouldn’t matter anymore if the man she was supposed to marry was dead in a couple of weeks.

Caecilianus pulled up a chair and leaned in close. “What are these . . .
meezeles
?”

“Measles,” she corrected.

Lisbeth hesitated as she considered what to say. Telling the truth of where she came from might affect her relationship with Cyprian, but bringing twenty-first-century medicine into a third-century plague could change the course of history. Yes, she’d already stepped in to save a few lives, but this was so much bigger. Was stopping a pandemic her place? Even if it wasn’t, there was too much hanging in the balance.

Risking everything, she took a deep breath and let the story gush forth. She told of Papa’s search for the mythical desert cave and Mama’s unexplainable disappearance shortly after their arrival. She briefly mentioned how she’d only pursued medicine because she wanted to be like her mother. She even went so far as to enumerate some of the medical advances in the future. Her claims of a vaccine that could prevent the fever raised Caecilianus’s bushy brows. Her failings in the medical profession and Papa’s apparent descent into madness she kept to herself. She held her breath as she awaited his response.

“Another time?” Caecilianus ran a hand over his stubble. “The future, you say?”

She nodded.

“But I don’t understand how you came to be in Carthage.”

Lisbeth sighed. “Me either.” Grateful he’d not dismissed her story as foolishness, she felt her lungs expand with her first deep breath since landing in Carthage.

Lisbeth stroked the dog’s head resting in her lap. “The last
thing I remember is touching a faded cave painting of some potbellied swimmers.” She went on to tell about waking up in Felicissimus’s dark cell, unsure of how she’d landed in the third century.

“You did the right thing to tell me.”

“You don’t think it’s crazy that I’m here?”

“You, my dear, are exactly where God intended.”

“God didn’t push me down that hole. It just happened. I can’t explain time travel or how or why I ended here . . . I just did.”

“Everything happens for a reason.” From under his hooded eyelids, his certainty bore deep into her soul. “Magdalena is right. You are the answer to our prayers.”

“What will you tell Cyprian?”

“Nothing.”

Who was this guy? She’d just told him this mind-blowing story, and he’d swallowed it. No questions asked. But of course he also drank the Kool-Aid on the whole Jesus-raised-from-the-dead thing, too. “Don’t you think my fiancé deserves to know the truth?”

“Your story is not mine to tell.”

The dogs stirred and rushed to the door, barking a welcome as Cyprian entered. With his cloak askew and his hair tousled, he looked as if he’d run the entire distance between the Senate and his villa. Sweat dripped from his pale face. “Sergia has brought fever to the doorsteps of the wealthy. Aspasius has finally rallied full senatorial support to pursue all who refuse to bow to the Roman gods.”

37

L
ISBETH STOOD ALONE ON
the balcony. Sea breezes whispered over the moonlit water, changing the shape of the waves.

She’d thought telling Caecilianus about her arrival from the twenty-first century would lift the weight of keeping the truth from people she was beginning to love, and for a brief moment the wonder on his craggy face had given her a reprieve. But when the old bishop proclaimed her an angel, she’d felt hemmed in and suddenly unsure, caught in a web of unrealistic expectations.

Lisbeth lifted her eyes and searched the inky sky for Orion or the Bear. These strange people who’d taken her in believed these pinpricks of light proved a shiny god existed beyond the darkness. In Dallas, the night sky came and went, and no one seemed to notice. Even she’d been too busy trying to keep up with school and residency to give the sky much thought. But here, watching the moonrise fill the universe with a glorious glow, she missed Papa and the heavenly compass he used to find his way home.

There was no going back. There was no fixing the mistakes of the past or the future. There was only her current reality. Time had played a cruel trick.

She was not an angel. She wasn’t even a good doctor. How could she possibly be the answer to the Christians’ prayers?

Despite the warm night, a desperate chill shuddered her body.
Lisbeth tightened the shawl across her shoulders. Caecilianus had said the story was hers alone to share. She’d wanted Ruth’s advice on the best way to break such an incredible tale to Cyprian or, at the very least, to get a couple of tips on how to navigate this pickle before she jumped in. For some crazy reason, he mattered to her. But Ruth was far too distracted with the wedding preparations for a serious heart-to-heart about the best way to proceed with a pretend marriage.