Healer of Carthage (31 page)

She clambered out of the tub and climbed aboard the massage slab without complaint. For once she didn’t mind the primping and pampering. Queenie always said she’d turn heads if she fixed up a bit. This was her wedding day, after all. Call her shallow, but she wanted to be as beautiful as possible.

Naomi slathered Arabian nard over every inch of Lisbeth’s freshly scraped and scrubbed skin. Ruth was right. This oily stuff was worth every penny. Submitting to the languid motions, Lisbeth allowed her mind to revisit the pleasure of Cyprian’s touch, the protective pressure of his palm on the small of her back, the sure grip of his large hands around her waist, the beat of his heart matching hers with each scissor kick.

Given different circumstances, in a different time, in a different world, perhaps both of them would have willingly embraced the idea of becoming husband and wife. At least that’s what she told herself. What Cyprian was telling himself, she could only guess.

Perfumed and wrapped in a thin robe, Lisbeth waltzed into the bedroom where Ruth and Junia waited for her. “Well, what do you think?”

“You smell good.” Junia shot out from under Ruth’s grip and bounded into her arms. “You should see your dress. Ruth says my dress matches yours.” At the corner of her perfect lips, one dimple-size mark remained. A scar to forever remind this child of the parents she had lost. “Can I try on your shoes?”

Lisbeth hugged her. “Okay, but don’t trip.” She set Junia down and joined Ruth at the bed. “Oh, my. What’s all of this?”

“I hope you’re pleased.” Ruth proudly pointed to the stunning array of garments, jewels, and the exquisite red sandals with ivory buckles that Junia was already happily clomping about in. “Well, what do you think?”

Lisbeth ran her hand over a piece of linen woven with the reddish-violet hues of an African sunset. “I feel like Cinderella.”

“Who?” Junia asked as she tried to balance herself in the shoes.

“Never mind.” Lisbeth took her hand and helped steady her. Nothing in the bridal magazines she and Queenie had flipped through could compare to the beautiful wedding trousseau laid out before her. “How did you get this together so fast, Ruth?”

“Proper connections and proper help. You’ll learn.” Ruth’s eyes slid from Junia parading across the room in the sandals back to Lisbeth. “The right of dressing the bride belongs to the bride’s mother.”

A twinge of regret prickled Lisbeth’s glistening skin. Mama had missed so much. The loss of Lisbeth’s first tooth. The arrival of her first zit. The onset of her daughter’s menstrual cycle. Poor Papa, he hadn’t known what to do when Lisbeth thought she was
bleeding to death. Mama was absent when Papa put her on a plane bound for the States, when she rented her first apartment, and when she graduated from med school. And now Mama would miss the joy of yet another important rite of passage . . . dressing her daughter for a wedding ceremony.

Up until a few days ago, Mama’s absence would have made Lisbeth angry, salt in a raw wound. But after hearing Mama’s fight to get to Laurentius, she knew her mother would have done anything to attend the wedding. Lisbeth swallowed all the things she wished she’d said but hadn’t that day she went to set her mother’s dislocated shoulder. “Mama would be pleased to have you take her place, Ruth. If she makes it to the wedding, it will be more than I deserve.”

“We’ll start with the sleeveless chemise.” Ruth slid a straight, close-fitting tunic of delicate white fabric over Lisbeth’s head. The slip-like garment molded to Lisbeth’s slight curves, and the hem of intricate embroidery brushed the tops of her bare feet. “Since it’s so warm this evening, I think we’ll do your hair first, and then you can step into your
stola
later.”

Ruth spent the next hour brushing a lustrous sheen into Lisbeth’s curls. Next, Ruth divided the shimmering mass into six sections with an iron spearhead. She arranged the strands around a small cone she’d fastened to Lisbeth’s head with hand-carved ivory combs. Two hours later, Ruth finally gave the chair a spin.

The princess in the mirror took Lisbeth’s breath away.

“I wish you knew how beautiful you are.” Ruth gathered the ruby-colored stola. “The sun will set soon. We must not keep the bridal party waiting.” Lisbeth stepped into the crisp, linen folds. Ruth wrapped a thin cord of golden threads around Lisbeth’s waist and tied the strands into the knot of
Hercules—guardian of wedded life. “Only your husband may untie this knot.” Her sly smile sent the pterodactyls soaring again in Lisbeth’s stomach.

Ruth lifted a transparent, flame-colored veil and secured it to Lisbeth’s head with a wreath of amaracus flowers. “Junia, get out of those shoes.”

39

P
YTROS PRODDED THE COALS
beneath the bronze feet of his master’s household god. Across the atrium, different-colored birds protested their confinement in the golden cages. Magpies, starlings, finches, and a rare nightingale . . . all trapped. Pytros understood their frustration. He, too, was trapped. A slave bound by love to a heartless master. He’d risked so much to pry information from Felicissimus and bring Aspasius the secret of how Magdalena had managed to run around behind his back. And how had he been rewarded? He hadn’t. Pytros jabbed the poker into the altar fire and sent coals bouncing across the marble floor.

The uneven click of Aspasius’s built-up shoes echoed in the hall. “There you are, Pytros.” He swept into the atrium, running his hand along the row of gilded bars. A flurry of feathers and empty seed shells spilled through the bars.

“I’m in trouble.” Aspasius stepped up to the cupboard.

Pytros ceased his manipulation of the fire. Had Aspasius just confided something personal, something more deep and meaningful? “I am here to serve, my lord. How can I help?”

“Offerings must be made to Mercury until the gods are appeased.”

“I’m honored to assist such a powerful man. A noble man.
A man admired by the gods.” Pytros stirred the coals. “I’m sure the gods will eagerly answer your prayers.”

“Then why is there such trouble in Carthage?” Aspasius stared at the rise of a single yellow flame. “There are still some in the Senate who disagree with my tactics to bring the Christians into submission. The fever among my stone workers has brought several renovation projects to a halt. And if Cyprian’s wedding is not stopped, his election will be secured. He’s very favored, especially with those who adored his father.”

A blue flame joined the attack upon the slivers of wood Pytros fed the fire. He’d considered the merit of laying another option upon the altar. But why? His last attempt had resulted in dashed hopes. So far, his disgusting groveling and fawning over Aspasius had gotten him nowhere.

“What should I do?” Had Aspasius spoken to Mercury or to him?

Pytros cocked his head. “Must you stop the wedding, my lord?”

“I must, if I don’t want to be banished from Carthage.” Aspasius snorted and pulled a small packet of grain from his pocket. “Wishing Cyprian dead would defile all of my sacrifices. I cannot afford to anger the gods worse than they already are.” Hand over the brazier, Aspasius funneled the finest oats money could buy onto the smoldering wood.

Greedy flames leapt from the center of the bowl. Within seconds every kernel had been devoured. A grain-fueled glow reflected red on Aspasius’s distraught face. Oh, how this man needed him, Pytros thought. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around his master’s expansive girth and hold him close.

Pytros checked the hall for signs of that wretched woman Aspasius had kept chained to his bed since he discovered her secret life. Perhaps the time had come to share the rest of what
Felicissimus had told him. “I believe there is another way, my lord.”

Aspasius turned slowly and smiled; a flicker of appreciation registered in the simmering coals of his eyes. Pytros was delightfully encouraged. Aspasius took the fire poker from Pytros’s hand and hung it on the iron hook beside the cupboard. “Tell me more.” He clasped Pytros’s shoulder.

Hope, as greedy and warm as the altar flames, sparked in Pytros’s loins. He gazed into the black eyes of his master, hungry for a kernel of fuel.

Pytros followed Aspasius from the atrium. As he passed the bird cages, he dragged his free hand along the bars and joyfully sent the aviary into another round of enviable protest.

40

O
UR NUMBERS ARE GROWING,
Bishop.” Felicissimus paced the library with the chip on his shoulder that he’d worn since Cyprian dismissed him at the arena. “Why not stage a rebellion? Have Cyprian publicly proclaim his allegiance to Christ, and storm the proconsul’s palace? War seems a better plan than this marriage.”

“For whom? Do you plan to take up the sword, little man?” Caecilianus closed the door, shutting off the view of the nosy wedding guests mingling in the hall. “The church must never become the spear pointed at Rome.”

“Better we remain the dung beneath Rome’s boot?” Felicissimus asked with a growl, casting his disapproval before Cyprian, who stood staring out the windows that overlooked the garden. “What say you, solicitor?”

Caecilianus jumped in with an answer. “I’m certain Cyprian is grateful for your concern, but he’s graciously agreed to this wedding as a means to a peaceful, legal resolution.”

“Is it true, then, my patronus?” Felicissimus’s outrage bore into Cyprian’s back, but he continued watching the slaves flutter about, lighting lamps and candles for the biggest night of his life. In the eyes of the one God he and Felicissimus may be equals, but in his house he did not have to explain his decisions to one
of his clients. “You intend to marry the slave girl I found floating in a cistern?”

Cyprian could take no more of this badgering. “In less than ten minutes I’m placing a ring on the finger of a woman I hardly know. A woman whose crazy ways scramble every logical thought in my head. The very woman the Lord provided . . . through you, I might add.” He turned and faced Felicissimus. “Who are you to question from whence our blessing came?” Cyprian hooked his finger to loosen the neck of his wedding tunic, and still he found it difficult to breathe. “We all must work with what God has given us . . . even if that means working with—” Cyprian cut himself off, but he could see he was too late. His irritation had wounded Felicissimus. He put a hand to the little man’s shoulder. “Forgive me, friend. I know you have the best interests of the church at heart . . . as do I.”

“So the church must play charades while Aspasius gathers soldiers?” Felicissimus asked, his disapproval obvious. “It’s not how I’d run things.”

“If the one God were to ever appoint you bishop,” Caecilianus said, patting the slave trader’s shoulder, “then
you
can do as the one God commands you.”

41

D
RESSED IN FULL WEDDING
finery and feeling every bit the fairy-tale princess, Lisbeth sipped honeyed wine near the atrium fountain.

Ruth pulled her aside. “Before I fetch Junia, let me pray for you.”

After all this woman had done for her, Lisbeth could hardly say no. She bowed her head and thought of Queenie and the pleased grin that would split her churchgoing friend’s face if she could see her dressed for the red carpet and praying. She could almost hear Queenie’s hearty belly laugh. Lisbeth cracked open one eye. No Queenie. No hospital break room. Nothing familiar. Funny how her mind insisted on believing her old life waited for her to come home. Everyone had probably moved on without so much as one backward thought.

When Ruth’s prayer ended, Lisbeth did feel a bit better, as if the blessings Ruth had pronounced over her might actually compensate for her losses and somehow make this day bearable.

“I wish I could believe in your God.”

“Only fools say there is no God. And I have never believed you a fool, Lisbeth of Dallas.”

A warm calm crept through Lisbeth’s veins despite the fact that she was about to marry a man under false pretenses. A man
she hardly knew, a strong, powerful man who judged her to be beneath his station. A man who believed her to be a third-century slave on the one hand and a royal pain on the other. While normal men tended to shy away from her intelligence and drive, Cyprian was not the least bit intimidated. Figuring out the best way to keep him on board with her mission once he knew the truth would not be easy.

“My lady?” Naomi appeared.

Lisbeth handed her the silver chalice. “Is she here?”

The nod of Naomi’s head indicated that Lisbeth should turn around.

Lisbeth whirled. “Mama?” Her mother’s dual black eyes drew Lisbeth up short, but relief that she was alive won out. She threw her arms around the neck she hadn’t hugged since she was five. “I knew you’d come.”

“I’ve missed so much of your life. I couldn’t miss your wedding.” Mama held her tightly, as if she’d never let her go again. Lisbeth drank in the smell of her, a combination of the dusty herbs she kept in her medical bag.

Laughter spilling over from the garden broke the spell.

“Let me look at you.” Mama reluctantly released her and gave her a one-eyed appraisal. Lisbeth could only guess what this day had cost her mother. Shame didn’t begin to describe what she felt—thinking about herself and what Mama’s absence from her life had meant to
her
while her mother thought only of protecting her children. “You’re absolutely beautiful . . . even with red hair.”

The praise washed across Lisbeth’s parched soul. It was pathetic to think that she’d wasted so many years believing her mother had left her on purpose. Even if she spent the rest of her life making it up to this woman, it wouldn’t be enough. “Like mother, like daughter.”

“Far better. Some of your father, too.” Mama’s trembling hand
went to her eye, deflecting a flash of deep regret. “Thanks for getting Laurentius.”

“So Tabari got word to you that he was safe?”

“She did.” Mama led her away from the garden door. “God help me, but I had prepared myself to kill that brute if I had to.”

“It would have been self-defense, but I’m glad God did help you.” Taking a life when her mother had worked for years to save lives would destroy her, a truth Lisbeth knew all too well. “Hopefully, Laurentius won’t say anything when he sees you. He’s been so excited all week that we thought about not letting him come to the wedding. But Cyprian didn’t have the heart to lock him away.” She’d meant the comment to be a compliment to Cyprian rather than a judgment on the choices her mother had been forced to make, but she could tell from Mama’s flinch that keeping Laurentius hidden all these years had not been easy. “I know you only did what you had to do.”