Healer of Carthage (39 page)

“Let me or Barek run your errand,” Cyprian offered once Felicissimus was out of earshot.

“You’re still convalescing.” Lisbeth crossed her arms. She’d
underestimated the power of coupling prayer with the will to live, but he could still use a few more days of rest. Especially if the reports were true and Aspasius had put a price on her husband’s head. “And Barek wouldn’t know a eucalyptus leaf from a mustard seed. Would you, boy?” Barek gave her the fish eye. “I didn’t think so.” A kiss to Cyprian’s cheek let him know that she hadn’t totally dismissed his concerns. She didn’t want to worry him, but drastic times called for drastic measures. “Ruth and I will be quick and discreet.”

“At least take Barek with you.”

Lisbeth gave a resigned sigh. “If it will help you sleep better.” Barek puffed like a peacock, then smugly marched from the library to fetch his mother. “Maybe taking him along will ease the animosity he has toward me.” Lisbeth kissed Cyprian properly, allowing her lips to linger on his with a whispered promise of more when she returned home.

“No heroics.” Cyprian held her a minute more. “Promise.”

“Straight to the herbalist and back. I promise.”

Ruth and Lisbeth donned their cloaks. Barek leading the way, they set off to restock their empty herb baskets. The streets were eerily quiet. For some unknown reason patrons and shopkeepers had taken their midday siesta several hours early.

They trudged on toward the marketplace in silence. None of them admitted the uneasiness drawing their muscles taut as a bowstring, but each of them took turns glancing over their shoulders. Every ounce of wit and cunning would be needed if they encountered patrols. As they neared an intersection obscured by a tall building, yelling and sounds of a scuffle met their ears.

“Trouble.” Barek halted Lisbeth and Ruth with his outstretched arms, acting far more grown-up and brave than his wide-eyed stare suggested. “Stay behind me.”

Barek peeked around the corner. Before he could draw
Cyprian’s borrowed dagger, soldiers ambushed them from behind. The impulse to save herself thrummed through Lisbeth’s veins. She turned and saw that the soldier corral had circled around them. Lisbeth’s nose stung with the sharp smell of sweat, spilled beer, and desperation.

Guards snarled at them. “Bow to the gods of Rome.”

“We will not,” Ruth said with lifted chin.

“Bow or suffer the consequences.” Swords drawn, they shouted accusations of treason and promises of death in the arena.

Barek finally freed the dagger. “Stand down.”

Laughing, the soldiers continued to close in with a uniform precision.

Ruth screeched, “Run, Barek!” In a flash, a brawny soldier clamped on to her and hurled her to the pavement. Ruth’s head hit with a thump. Her body jerked for a second, then did not move again.

“Mother!” Barek broke free of the two patrols binding him. He lowered his head and rammed his curls into the armored belly of the soldier who’d discarded Ruth. “I’ll kill you.” Their bodies fell in a writhing heap upon the cobblestones. Barek swung his fists, pounding the soldier’s face with the fury of a boy set on vindication for the beating he’d taken at their hands. Blood spurted everywhere.

“Ruth!” Lisbeth called, but her friend did not respond. Lisbeth followed Barek’s leading and sank her teeth into the hand of the soldier cuffing her wrist. The big lout released her with a howl. She lunged across the pavement, pulled Barek free, and screamed, “Run!” The shocked boy could only stare, blood dripping from his hands. “Now!” she commanded.

As the soldiers pounced on her, Lisbeth saw Barek sprint from the chaos and disappear into a darkened alley.

55

I
T’S NOT FAIR.” BAREK
retched into the crock Caecilianus held before him for the second time. Both dogs stood guard next to the lad as if they understood his pain. “They set us up. A trap for believers. Lambs led to slaughter.”

“No, it is not fair.” The old bishop comforted his son who so wanted to be a man. Why he wasn’t pressing the boy for more details had Cyprian on the verge of exploding. “But it’s not your fault. This is a fallen world.”

Cyprian could stand the platitudes no longer. “Where have they taken them?”

“I don’t know.” Barek trickled out the rest of the story in painful, mortified gasps. “When I circled back, Mother and Lisbeth were being carted off in chains. Mother is alive. Injured badly, but alive.”

Cyprian loaded his belt and cloak with every weapon he could find. “I’m going after them.”

Someone hammered the front door, and both dogs sprang at the wood in a snarling frenzy.

“Soldiers.” Barek spat the word in a hiccupped sob, fear flashing in his wide eyes. “They’ve come for us, too.”

Cyprian gestured for silence, and the dogs receded with a low, ready-to-attack growl. Caecilianus folded Barek to his chest.
Dagger drawn, Cyprian proceeded to the door and yanked it open.

Magdalena rushed past. “I know the way back. I’ve found the por—” She slid to a stop and spun around in the atrium. The smile, along with any good news she might have carried, melted from her face. “What’s happened?” The distraught state of the men registered in an instant. “Where’s my daughter?”

Barek was the first to speak, his cheeks hot with shame. “Arrested.”

“Nooooo!” Magdalena’s scream set the dogs to howling.

“Mama?” Laurentius shouted from the library. “Tholdiers have our Lithbutt.”

Magdalena threw her arms open. “Come.”

Laurentius hesitated, considering whether to break the quarantine rules Lisbeth had so carefully taught him, but in the end he couldn’t stand everyone being on the other side of the line and ran to his mother. “Where are we going?”

“To bring your sister home,” Magdalena declared.

“I’m coming with you.” Cyprian linked his arm with hers.

Barek swiped his chin. “Me, too.”

“No.” Caecilianus put himself between them and the door, the dogs flanking him on either side. “It is the priests they want. Kill us, and they kill the rebellion.”

“What are you saying?” Cyprian asked.

“A priest is all we have to offer in exchange for the women’s freedom.”

“Father, no!” Barek flung himself at his father’s feet. “I can’t lose you, too.”

“Caecilianus, you can’t . . . the believers need you,” Cyprian pleaded. “Your son needs you. Let me offer money. Aspasius won’t turn down an opportunity to gorge his coffers.”

The old bishop shook his head. “I’ve had my time, my friend. The future is up to you.”

“Me? I can’t—”

“You can.” Caecilianus’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve taught you everything I know, but you, my dear Cyprian, have skills I cannot teach. An abiding strength and deep sense of purpose I do not possess. People will follow your leading. You are the future of the church, not I. Care for the believers with the same love you’ve given me.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m not letting you do this.”

Caecilianus silenced his protest, then lifted Barek to his feet. He clamped a shaky hand on his son’s shoulder and presented him to Cyprian. “You are the only man I trust with my family.”

“If I’m the best you’ve got, then I’ve no choice but to keep you alive.”

56

L
ISBETH AWOKE IN TOTAL
darkness, cold, naked, and certain she’d been beaten. A shroud of dank, musty air was all that covered the different aches of her ravished body. The putrid smells reminded her of the tunnels beneath the proconsul’s palace. Head throbbing, she raised her hand to her scalp and discovered a large goose egg. Who knew how long she’d been out?

Moaning drew her attention to her right, but she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, let alone tell who else was in pain. “Ruth?”

“Over here.” Ruth’s voice sounded weak and parched.

Lisbeth managed to roll to her hands and knees. Ignoring her fear of confined spaces, she blindly crawled across cool, damp stones, searching for her friend. “Are you all right?”

“I’m not dead yet.”

“Could have fooled me.” She found Ruth’s hand, and though it was cold, she’d never held anything that warmed her more. “I’m afraid I got us into a real mess this time, friend.” She clamped Ruth’s birdlike wrist for a quick pulse check. “What hurts?”

“Everything.” Emotion cracked Ruth’s voice. “Where’s my son?”

“Bringing the cavalry, I hope.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” The scuffling of boots sounded outside the door. “Shhh. We’ve got company.”

“Lisbeth, are you naked, too?”

“Yes.”

“God help us,” Ruth whispered.

The door flew open with a shudder, and a soldier bearing a torch entered their cell. “Up.”

The women were dragged through the tunnels. Water and filth squished between Lisbeth’s toes. When they arrived at some stairs, they were ordered to climb. Lisbeth went first, doing her best to keep from slipping, considering the slime on her feet. When she reached the top step, someone shoved her through an opening in the stone wall. Lisbeth stumbled over a thick carpet and landed face-first in an expansive room lined with soldiers’ boots, red patrician sandals, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Soldiers jerked her to her feet. Several men in purple togas turned to appraise the scuffle with scorn, but without a word of comment on her surprising entrance or her obvious state of undress. Lisbeth did her best to cover her naked body with her arms.

Seconds later, Ruth made the exact same entry. Lisbeth helped her up before the soldiers had an opportunity to manhandle her friend. The light streaming through the large windows gave Lisbeth her first good look at Ruth. Other than the hematoma where her head hit the cobblestones, Ruth had no other visible signs of injury. At least being unconscious had protected this fragile woman from the beating she’d taken.

Side by side, Lisbeth and Ruth did their best to cover each other as they digested the silent scene. Where were they? And what in the world was going to happen next? The raspy sound of an unseen throat clearing parted the sea of toga-clad men ogling them and exposed the one man Lisbeth had never wanted to see again.

“Aspasius.”

The proconsul sat behind a giant desk, drumming his fingers on the burled mahogany. A pleased sneer crossed his lips. “Well, I never expected the bodies of treason to be so . . . feminine.” He rose slowly, commanding the attention of every high-ranking politician in the room. One hand resting on the ledge of his belly, Aspasius swept around the desk and came to stand before Lisbeth and Ruth. “What a waste of such perfectly divine flesh.” He pulled a dagger from his belt. Sliding the blunt side across Lisbeth’s neck, he circled her slowly, reminiscent of the day he’d inspected her in the slave cell.

From behind, he leaned in and whispered in Lisbeth’s ear. “I may keep you to torture myself.” He slipped an arm about her neck and pressed the blade point to the fear pulsing through her throat. She could smell his last meal—a sickening combination of garlic and fermented grapes. “We have unfinished business, you and I. Remember?” He knew who she was. How? Who had told him?

“Let her go,” Ruth demanded.

Without releasing Lisbeth, the proconsul backhanded Ruth. “The wench of a Christian I can do without.”

Ruth stumbled but quickly regained her footing. She came at him with everything she had. “Let her go!” Two soldiers clamped on to Ruth’s arms and pulled her back kicking and screaming.

Raised voices outside the library’s closed door snapped Aspasius’s head in that direction. The door flew open, and the old bishop, dressed in a fine white cloak and toga, both edged in purple, stormed into the room.

“Caecilianus!” Ruth seemed relieved and terrified at the same time. She covered herself as best she could. “Go back.”

Fury shot from the old bishop’s eyes. He removed his cloak and tossed it to Ruth. “Release my wife and take me.”

“And me!” Cyprian marched into the room and took his place
beside the bishop. Standing taller than anyone in the room, he commanded immediate attention in his election toga. He, too, sent his cloak hurtling in Lisbeth’s direction. She snatched it up and wrapped herself in its warmth and protection. The senators glanced at each other nervously, murmuring that this whole thing had gotten out of hand.

Lisbeth could understand why Caecilianus would give himself for his wife. They’d been married for years. They had a son. And most importantly, Caecilianus was a priest. History was full of men of God who sacrificed themselves for others. He was simply living up to those same expectations.

What she couldn’t comprehend was why Cyprian would offer himself for her. She knew he loved her, but they’d only been married a couple of weeks. As near as she could tell, she often drove him mad with her outspoken, hardheaded ways. Other than to patch him up after the boat explosion, she’d done nothing to earn this level of sacrifice.

Aspasius holstered his dagger. “Silence.”

“By what authority do you hold upstanding Roman citizens without trial?” Cyprian demanded, his eyes ringed in fire.

“Not that I have to explain myself to one not yet elected to our council, but so that there is no question as to my authority”—he paused and surveyed the room with a dare-to-challenge-me glare—“the emperor himself.”

“I want proof that Rome no longer grants its citizens a fair trial.” Cyprian’s voice rang above the murmurs.

“The illegal act of inciting citizens against the throne is punishable by death.” Controlled accusation laced Aspasius’s tone. “Christians will bring destruction upon us if they are not stopped.”

“Who said they were Christians?” Cyprian demanded.

Aspasius turned to Caecilianus. “Do you deny your treasonous faith? That you are, in fact, the leader of these troublemakers?”

“No,” the old bishop answered without hesitation.

“Soldiers started this, not us.” Lisbeth struggled to break loose of the two brutes cuffing her arms. “But you know that, don’t you?”

Aspasius eyed her carefully, as if he could see every naked inch of her beneath Cyprian’s cloak. “Since we have no witnesses, I will take your offer, Bishop. Your wife’s freedom in exchange for your life.” Something new rang in his voice. Something cold. Something even more evil. “Seize the old man and remove his head.”