Healer of Carthage (7 page)

The Barbie-shaped blonde who looked to be only a few years older than Lisbeth smiled. “So you do speak a bit of our language? Good. Then you’ll understand when I tell you that this is your new home.” Ruth indicated Lisbeth should sit upon the luxurious bed linens. “What you make of it is up to you.”

Lisbeth knew if she went anywhere near that bed she wouldn’t wake up for a week, and she had no intention of remaining in this nightmare any longer than necessary. “Lady, this is
not
my home.”

“Let’s get you out of those rags before you meet the bishop.”

“Bandits have bishops?”

“Bandits?” Ruth laughed. “Caecilianus is most certainly no bandit.” She clasped Lisbeth’s shaking shoulders, a jolt of unexpected kindness communicated in her firm touch. “Your questions will be answered . . . in God’s time.”

“Time’s one thing I don’t have, lady. I’ve got less than two weeks to convince my father to leave that godforsaken cave and get him home.”

The girl in the tunic returned, her hands full of towels, bath supplies, and a clean garment similar to the shapeless sack she wore. She dumped them on the bed and fled.

Lisbeth locked eyes with her blond warden. “Now what?”

“You are in a precarious position.” Ruth smoothed a fold that ran the length of her cornflower blue silk gown. “Run and risk capture. Stay and acquire freedom. If you’re as smart as you look, you’ll do the latter.” A smile tugged at the corner of her ruby lips. “Tell me your name.”

“You first.” Lisbeth hugged her torso. “I mean, I know Cyprian called you Ruth, but are you, like, . . . uh . . .
Mrs.
Cyprian?”

The woman’s porcelain brow furrowed. “Mrs.?”

Lisbeth searched her mind for the correct phrasing, wishing she’d paid closer attention to the times Aisa blasted Nigel with the ancient language. “You know, how do you say . . . are you married to Cyprian?”

“Oh my, no.” A becoming blush of pink flushed Ruth’s cheeks. “Cyprian is the finest legal advocate in Carthage. He is from the family of Thascius, and he is also my husband’s latest convert.” She curtsied, then presented herself formally. “I am Ruth of Antioch, wife of the
bishop
you believe to be a bandit. And you?” From the perfect arch of Ruth’s brows, remaining anonymous wasn’t an option.

For reasons Lisbeth couldn’t explain, divulging her name felt like she was committing to some sort of long-term relationship, and frankly, she didn’t see the point. This prissy woman seemed nice enough, but they were not friends. The minute Lisbeth got the chance, she was going home . . . precarious position or not. Exactly how she was going back to the cave, she didn’t know. But, in the meantime, answering Ruth’s kindness with silence seemed rude. Besides, she had to admit, Cyprian’s conversation about someone called the healer had stirred her
curiosity. Until she could come up with a workable plan, she had to play along.

“Lisbeth . . . of Dallas.” The moniker sounded nearly as strange as the first time she had entered a delivery room and introduced herself as
Doctor
Hastings to the perspiring woman huffing in the stirrups. She added a tiny smile to beef up the credibility lacking in her voice like she had that exhausting night in the ER not all that long ago.

“Dallas?” Ruth rolled the word awkwardly around in her mouth. “A province to the north, perhaps?”

If she had been smuggled to the coast, it wouldn’t be wise to stir animosities against foreigners. “More west.”

“No matter.” Ruth’s eyes roamed Lisbeth’s tattered clothes. “I can see that you are far from home and have been through quite an ordeal. I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it when you’re ready.” She smiled and offered what looked to be a luxurious robe. “In the meantime, I’m sure there’s a nice figure beneath that cloak and whatever it is you’re wearing on your legs. To the bath with you, Lisbeth of Dallas.”

From the expectation lighting Ruth’s face, she was offering more than the chance to clean up. She was offering friendship, a relationship where two people trust each other enough to share their fears. The idea of having a girlfriend was a luxury to a girl who grew up in male-dominated excavation camps. Queenie still chafed at the distance Lisbeth kept between them, and they’d been roommates since their freshman year of college. Being a loner had served her well, especially on the solitary trudge through the incredible hours of study required for a medical degree, but how was she to proceed in the face of such an offer?

Lisbeth didn’t count herself all that successful at forming friendships. Becoming friends was a long, involved process, a process that wasted valuable time. Time Lisbeth could not let tick
away if she was to get her father out of here and salvage what was left of her career.

Papa.

What had become of Papa? Had he been sucked into this nightmare, too? What if he’d managed to cling to the cave wall? What would happen to him if she didn’t return? The thought of her father wandering the cave in some fruitless search broke her heart. Would losing his only daughter push him into complete insanity? She had to get back to her father. The sooner the better. Papa deserved to know the truth, to know that she’d failed miserably in trying to be just like her mother. She had to tell him that she was sorry for the things she’d said. That she didn’t really blame him for what happened to Mama.

“Looks like I don’t have a choice.” Lisbeth undid the clasp on Cyprian’s cape, flung it on the bed, and wriggled out of the cargo pants. “Let’s do this.”

Ruth slipped the silky garment over Lisbeth’s straggly ponytail, then scooped up her dirty clothes. “Follow me.”

“Hey, wait. What are you going to do with my pants?”

“Dispose of them.”

“No!” Lisbeth snatched the filthy garment. Fumbling with the buttoned pocket flap, she muttered, “My phone will be ruined.” Sure enough. Inside the pocket she found the soggy remains of Papa’s letter, a shattered cell phone, her engagement ring, and . . . “Wait!” She tore through the other pockets. “Where’s my stethoscope? I know I stashed it here.” Maybe the instrument had fallen out while she was unconscious. More likely it had been stolen by that sticky-fingered sex trafficker. She clasped Ruth’s arm. “Look, I think that guy who tried to sell me took something very important to me. I’ve got to go back.”

“Too dangerous.”

Making a break for it would do no good. She didn’t know
where she’d been or even where to look. She’d never find that awful dungeon on her own. Like it or not, without the help of these strangers, she was lost.

“If we could just retrace our steps—” Her plea fell upon deaf ears. Ruth wasn’t interested in allowing a scrappy slave to alter her plans. Lisbeth slipped the ring on her finger, but she felt no closer to home. “Tomorrow I’m going back for my stethoscope.”

“None of us are guaranteed tomorrow.” Ruth took the letter and the phone from Lisbeth and laid them on the bed. “Come with me.” She led her from the room and down the luxurious hall.

Cool marble underfoot didn’t soothe Lisbeth’s burning desire to rip into the paunchy slave trader or the muscled man who’d dragged her here. She’d make these black market traffickers regret the day they’d messed with the camp at the Cave of the Swimmers.

They entered a bathroom bigger than Lisbeth’s entire Dallas apartment. Intricate floor-to-ceiling murals covered three walls. A stone throne that resembled the primitive commodes she’d seen around the world and a sunken bathtub the size of her apartment complex’s communal whirlpool took up the rest of the room. From the base of the far wall, a long concrete trough carried water that splashed upon the tiled mosaic of Neptune. The bearded god of the sea rode a carriage pulled by four sea horses. His maniacal grin and pointed trident dared her to enter the swirling water or make a move toward the silver chalice and a plate of bread, fruit, and cheese waiting on the stone steps.

There must be money in kidnapping
. Lisbeth started to peel out of the robe. “Uh, I’ve got this. You can go now, Ruth.”

“I cannot.”

The determined set of Ruth’s chin cut short any argument. Lisbeth considered her alternatives. Fight, and squander what precious little energy she had left? Or give in, and possibly win Ruth
over to helping her escape in the near future? Resigned to humor her warden for now, Lisbeth shrugged out of the robe. She stuck a foot into the steamy water. Trying not to think about Ruth or Neptune’s watchful eye, she slid in among the floating flower petals.

Ruth insisted she take the wine goblet. Lisbeth’s first sip of the sweet nectar burned the back of her throat. By the third gulp her aches and pains began to dissolve. Hunger pangs prompted Lisbeth to reach for the bread and cheese. When was the last time she ate? She licked her finger and mopped up the crumbs, talking with her mouth full, “A girl could get used to this.”

A cascade of water sluiced over her head.

Bolting upright, Lisbeth wiped her eyes. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Ruth quietly reloaded the pitcher and drowned Lisbeth again. “Searching for signs of the beauty Cyprian must have seen beneath this filth.”

Sputtering, Lisbeth slammed the wineglass on the ledge. “I can wash my own hair, lady!”

Acting like she hadn’t heard a word, Ruth opened a cobalt blue glass bottle and poured a generous stream of golden liquid into her palm. Hands lathered, she waited on Lisbeth’s return to a reclining position. “Whether or not this is pleasant is up to you.”

Offering reluctant cooperation, Lisbeth slid deeper into the water and rested her neck on the tiled edge. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slowed down long enough for a salon shampoo and haircut, let alone spa-like pampering.

Ruth’s fingertips burrowed through the knots in Lisbeth’s thick hair and found her scalp. Eyes closed, Lisbeth allowed the aromatic smells, coupled with the circular motions of Ruth’s nimble fingers, to carry her back twenty-three years, to a time when her mother used what precious little water they’d hauled into the desert to wash her hair over a basin outside their tent.
How could she miss something she barely remembered? Something lost so long ago?

Ruth filled a ceramic jug and rinsed the suds. “I’d like to know how Felicissimus acquired you.”

“Me, too.” Tension eased under Ruth’s very capable hands. “Unfortunately, I was unconscious, so I don’t remember.” Lisbeth gave a dreamy shrug. “All I know is, one minute my life was headed one direction, the next I’m lost in some ancient nightmare.” Lisbeth shot upright, nearly pulling Ruth into the tub with her. “
Ancient?
Wait a minute.” Water trickled down her face. She stuck a hand under the waterfall filling the tub. Cool. But the tub water was comfortably warm. “This is a
Roman
bath?” Her brittle voice hung in the steamy air. Lisbeth plunged both hands beneath the sudsy water and felt the warm tiles. “The water pours in cold, but then it’s heated by underground steam piped through the floor, right?”

Ruth’s face contorted in confusion, the front of her gown wet from Lisbeth’s splashing about. “You need to settle down.”

“I’m not settling anywhere until somebody tells me what in the world is going on.” Lisbeth scrambled out of the pool and grabbed a towel. “I helped my father excavate a place like this in England. Even though we found the underground furnaces where slaves stoked the wood fires, we wondered if this plumbing actually worked, but . . . wait a minute. Am I . . . is this . . . some other time?”

“I’m not sure of the time.” Ruth shook her head. “The sundial is in the courtyard. But the light is fading. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”

Why hadn’t the possibility she’d traveled in time dawned on her before? She knew why. Because the idea was ludicrous! Falling down a hole in the Cave of the Swimmers could have broken her neck, but the crazy accident could not have dumped her into another time.

Time travel was just an unsubstantiated theory. Michael Crichton beach reads for the gullible. Santa Claus fantasies on par with the possibility of a supreme god. Science couldn’t support these flimsy theories, and neither could she. In all her years exploring ruins, not once had Papa found a place like this . . . an inhabitable domicile that was actually inhabited.

In an attempt to keep her heart from beating out of its cavity, Lisbeth wrapped the towel tight across her chest. “Ruth, is this . . . where am I?”

“Let me check your scalp again. Maybe I missed a serious bump that requires a physician’s attention.”

Stuffing the urge to scream that she
was
a doctor, Lisbeth dodged Ruth’s reach. “Where? Please tell me.”

“Carthage.”

“As in
Roman
Carthage?” Lisbeth sorted through mental snapshots of the crumbling stone pillars she and Nigel had buzzed what seemed only a few hours ago. She knew every inch of Carthage. Her eyes darted around the fully operational bathroom. Nothing this elaborate or complete remained of the strategic port ancient Romans had fought three wars to own. “How can that be?”

“Someone brought you here.”

She must have been out for days if someone had transported her all the way from her father’s cave. “Who?”

“I’m guessing it was one of Rome’s many conquering legions. Pagan barbarians who won’t rest until they own the entire world. One of those surly brutes probably sold you to Felicissimus.”

“I thought I was kidnapped from a cave in southern Egypt . . .”

“Possibly. War always plagues the border provinces.”

Lisbeth paced, her mind racing to pinpoint the century. “Who’s in power?”

Ruth scowled and lifted a comb from the dressing table. “Emperor Decius, of course.”

“Mid-third century?” Some parents drill their children on multiplication facts. Lisbeth’s father had quizzed her on Roman history.

Ruth came at her with the comb. “I don’t care what Cyprian says; as soon as possible we must let the healer have a look at your head.”

“And Saint
Cyprian
is bishop?” Lisbeth’s vocal pitch had ratcheted up several ugly notches.

“Saint?” Ruth shook her head. “Cyprian would never elevate himself to the level of our Lord. I told you my husband is the bishop, remember?”