Authors: Lynne Gentry
Ruth hurried in, buttoning her clasp as she ran. “I’m ready.”
“May the hand of God hide our babies from harm.” Mama saw them to the door and collared the dogs. “I’ll pray and keep a lamp burning.”
28
“I
’VE OFFERED THE SACRIFICES
Scipios required.” Aspasius sat on the edge of his bed, cursing the priest who’d attended him earlier. Why did his foot continue to rot? Because as long as Cyprianus Thascius was still alive, so was the threat to his gods.
Pinching the frayed tip of his leg bindings between his thumb and index finger, Aspasius slowly unwound the strips of cloth supporting his swollen ankle.
He never tended his own feet. The ugly ministrations were more suited to his mute slave, Iltani. Her lack of a tongue kept his secret safe. But tonight he needed privacy. He feared something sinister lurked beneath the green and yellow stains of his bandages. Until he knew exactly what he was dealing with, he could not risk the small chance that Iltani would grow a tongue and ruin him.
If Pytros managed to secure a competent physician tonight, Aspasius would be fit as a legionnaire for the day of Cyprian’s execution.
Aspasius tugged on his bindings, glancing at the hourglass. Pytros had been gone for hours. Doctors were becoming harder and harder to find. As Carthage citizens continued to succumb in greater and greater numbers, most of the itinerant medical craftsmen had gathered their rusty tools and their little bags of herbs and set out for parts unknown. He’d done everything he could
think of to keep as many doctors in town as possible, even reducing their tax liabilities to nearly nothing.
And yet, when he needed medical care, could a qualified man be found? He’d specifically instructed his scribe not to return with one of those quacks trained in Greece and seeking asylum in the provinces because of some unfortunate death they’d caused a nobleman’s family.
He wanted a real healer. Someone like . . . no. He dare not say
her
name, for it would only serve to rub salt into his already festering wound. If Magdalena was indeed the healer the plebs sought in Cyprian’s home, taking her now would tip Cyprian to his plan before he had everything in place.
Chills rattled his teeth. Aspasius peeled the final cloth strip stuck to the oozing sore on the ball of his foot. A foul smell, hot and sweet like fermenting fruit, stung his nostrils. He lifted his foot for a better look, wincing as he crossed his ankle over his knee. His toes were blood red and hot to the touch, and no wonder. The raw place had grown in size and more fiery in disposition. Oh, for the love of Juno, why had he allowed Magdalena to escape?
Aspasius cursed and threw the soiled bindings at the row of useless idols that lined his window ledge. Mercury. Juno. Jupiter. He snatched the flickering oil lamp and would have foolishly thrown it, too, had he not recognized Pytros’s knock at his door. “What took you so long?” Aspasius growled as his scribe hurried in.
“Why is your foot not elevated?” Pytros closed the door behind him.
“You left me so long, I had to take things into my own hands.”
“Finding a man who claims to be a doctor is not easy.”
“But you found one?”
“Well, sort of.” Pytros pushed a footrest within easy reach of Aspasius. “This man received his training in the service of the emperor.”
Aspasius carefully lowered his foot upon the cushioned stool. “Serving him how?”
Pytros diverted his eyes and mumbled, “Keeping the army’s mounts healthy.”
“A horse doctor?”
“After he was dismissed from imperial service, he did find employment among the patricians.”
Aspasius caught Pytros staring at his swollen foot. He tossed the edge of his robe across the grotesque appendage. “Has the situation really come to this? The wealthy treated no better than a soldier’s mount? I blame the Christians for this indignity.” He pinched the throb between his eyes. “Don’t just stand there. Bring him in.”
Pytros opened the bedroom door and motioned someone in. “This is Galen.”
A serious man with haggard eyes and a blood-splattered cloak stepped cautiously into the room. He sniffed the air. “Infection.” He wrinkled his nose. “Open the shutters.”
“Good gods, man. Can’t you see I have the chills?” The pungent odor of horse manure clung to the man’s boots. Aspasius knew his fine carpets would be worthless if he allowed this man entrance. On the other hand, turning away the only available help would ensure his leg would suffer a worse fate. “Shouldn’t you at least examine my wound before making pronouncements?”
Galen shifted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “First, we shall discuss my price.”
Aspasius raised his brows. “A horse doctor making demands. What next? Christians burning the temples of my gods?”
“Heal yourself then, consul.” Galen wheeled and reached for the door.
“Name your price, pleb.”
Galen peered over his shoulder, his expression wary. “I have a few outstanding gambling debts.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Aspasius raised his hands in surrender when Galen once again started for the door. “Consider them paid.”
“And . . .” Galen paused as if what he had to say next deserved Aspasius’s full attention.
“And?”
“I no longer wish to peddle my services at the stables of the rich. I want a permanent place in your employ. A warm bed to call my own. Hot soup in my belly every night. And to never see the back end of a horse again.”
“You want the respect the medical profession does not deserve.”
“Very well. Heal your own foot.”
Aspasius did not appreciate being robbed in his own home, but obviously it had come down to the fact that he had little choice. “Whom did you last serve? Anyone who can give you references?”
“The daughter of Titus Cicero. I was tending Titus’s stable, but after the scum’s personal physician fled, he had no one to bleed Diona’s sickness from her veins.”
“Cicero, you say?” Aspasius apprised the man anew. Perhaps he’d been a bit hasty in his judgment. “Titus owns most of the fields and granaries from here to Curubis.”
“Yes,” Galen agreed. “And the blackguard holds his silver tight as a green head of wheat.”
Aspasius lightly drummed his fingers on his leg. “Did you say
bleed
Diona?”
“Weren’t you listening, or do I need to mix a tonic to unstop your ears as well?” Galen dug through his bag. “Restoring your hearing will cost extra. I’ll have to grind some earthworms—”
“My ears are fine.” Aspasius worked to keep Galen on task. “Tell me what ailed the lovely girl.”
“She has the slum sickness.”
Aspasius’s breath caught. When had the sickness made its way into the upper classes? “And you healed her, right?”
Galen gave a shrug. “I do not know.”
“How can you not know, man? Either she’s alive or she’s dead.”
“Titus and Vivia disappeared in the night, taking Diona with them, as well as my payment.”
“How am I to keep this city afloat when patricians run like frightened rabbits to their mountain estates?”
“How am I to eat when the rich do not pay for services rendered?” Galen retorted with no thought to how easily Aspasius could order his head removed. “Titus did not go to the mountains.”
“No?” Aspasius motioned him closer, suddenly very interested in this horse doctor. “Where, then?”
Galen shrugged again. “His servants say Titus sought your healer.”
So it was true. Magdalena was hiding under his nose. “My healer? Where?”
“At the house of Thascius.” Galen removed a long blade from his bag. “Why would your healer be at his house when you are obviously so ill?” He swiped the bloody tool on his tunic, then pointed the tip at Aspasius’s foot. “I can bleed that out for you.”
“No knives!” Aspasius yelled. “Tell me what you know of Cyprian!”
Galen held the blade over the lamp’s flame. “You stand to lose your leg.”
“If you wish to leave here without that knife brought across your tongue, you will answer me.”
“Honest work deserves honest pay.”
“I’ll pay you for your information.”
Galen considered the offer. “I went to the nobleman’s back
gate hoping to sneak up on Titus. Not to hurt him. Just to scare him into giving me what he owed me. As I shimmied over the fence, I saw a man who resembled the one who boarded that exile ship more than a year ago. He’s thinner, but I don’t forget a face.”
“What of him? Tell me everything.”
“He had what looked to be a small army with him.”
“Army? Were they armed?”
“Buckets, spades, brooms.” Galen held out the heated blade. “I’ll be quick. Won’t even charge you extra.”
“No one cuts me. Out!”
“What about my money?”
“Out!” The lamp flickered with the slamming of the door.
Pytros looked to Aspasius and shrugged. “He was all I could find. Do you want me to seek another?”
“No, fool.” Aspasius threw a pillow squarely at Pytros’s head. “I want you to round up a few soldiers and drag
my
healer and that underhanded coward Cyprian back to me!”
“You can’t kill the man to whom the emperor has granted a reprieve. You’d risk immediate removal from office.” Pytros rubbed his head. “Kill the woman who can heal you, and you risk your life.”
“Continue to do nothing, and I’m a dead man either way.”
“You’ve managed thus far without Magdalena. You still do not have the favor of the gods. What’s a couple more days of letting her and Cyprian think they are safe?”
Aspasius glanced at his foot. “Tomorrow I’ll visit the steam baths and boil the pus from my body.” He carefully slid his feet into his fleecy slippers. “You will bring Felicissimus to my private chamber there.”
29
“Y
OU SAID IT WASN’T
far to your old house.” Maggie pinched her nose as she hurried to keep up with Junia. The big orange moon disappeared behind the tall buildings when they turned down the alley where Junia used to live. “It’s too dark.” Maggie tried to calm her breathing and flicked on the flashlight she’d taken from her mother’s backpack. She aimed the beam at Junia’s head and giggled. “Your eyes are huge.”
“What is that?”
“Flashlight. It’s for seeing in the dark.” Maggie waved the white light over stacks of bodies like the ones her mother wouldn’t let her look at when Barek hauled them out of the well. “Why do dead people smell bad?”
Junia took the light from her. “Don’t be a baby, Maggie.”
“I’m not a baby.” Her bare feet were cold. The sheet Junia had tied around her shoulders like a princess cape wasn’t nearly as warm as the Little Mermaid hoodie Queenie had given her for her birthday. She’d left that jacket with her g-pa back at the desert camp. But she wasn’t going to cry like a baby. “It stinks here.”
“I wasn’t the one who had to have the doll tonight.” Junia turned around and around in the street like she wasn’t sure which way to go. She shined the light up and down the tall buildings. “We should have waited on your father.”
Maggie didn’t appreciate being scolded. She was getting to know her daddy and she liked him well enough, but she didn’t completely trust him to deliver on his promises. “Are you lost?”
“No,” Junia said. “It’s been a long time since I was here, that’s all.” But she looked lost to Maggie. “We should have asked Barek to bring us.”
“He’s too cranky.”
“I know. I know.” Junia sighed. “He needs a nap.” She held out her arm. “Shhh. Do you hear that?”
“What is it?” Maggie’s teeth chattered.
“Somebody’s following us,” Junia whispered, and clicked off the light.
Steps came closer. Maggie could hear men mumbling. She slipped her hand inside Junia’s and peeked over her shoulder. Two dark forms hurried toward them.
Maggie cupped her mouth and whispered, “What should we do?”
Junia pulled her close. “When I say run, you run.”
“Which way?”
“Follow me.” Junia dropped the flashlight. “Run!”
They took off down the alley, their bare feet pounding the stones. Suddenly two other men jumped out in front of them.
Maggie screamed.
“This way.” Junia jerked her around. They headed back in the direction they’d come from. The two men who were behind them earlier now blocked the alley. Maggie and Junia froze.
In the shaft of moonlight that sneaked between the buildings, Maggie could see the men better. They had hoods over their heads. Big white eyes shone from their sooty faces. They laughed—deep, growling laughs—and raised their hands.
Maggie whipped around. The other two men were doing the same thing. She inched her back against Junia’s.
One of the men moved in. He circled them slowly. His smile was missing more teeth than G-Pa’s cook. “Too young to sell.” His breath smelled like the nasty fish sticks G-Pa cooked on nights Mommy stayed late at the hospital.
Another man stepped in close. “We could rent them out.” He reached for Junia.
She slapped at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”
The man grabbed Maggie’s wrist. He spun her around and pinned her arms to her side. “Or we could just eat you both.”
“Stranger!” Maggie screamed at the top of her lungs. “Stranger danger!”
30
T
HE NIGHT AIR PRESSED
against the urgency driving Lisbeth toward the tenements. The city was quiet except for the distant rumble of supply carts and the buzz of flies circling decomposing corpses. Rancid bran dumped in the streets for the roaming pigs and the tang of
garum
—the fermented fish sauce favored by the plebs who frequented the taverns and cheaper eating houses—added to the nauseating smells. But the dominating odor: urine.
Lisbeth tied a cloth across her nose. If they didn’t get the sewage problem cleaned up and fast, typhoid would make the measles plague look like a bad cold.
“Stay close.” Cyprian led the way.
He’d insisted on going without a torch to keep from attracting unwanted attention. Lisbeth followed Pontius. Ruth followed her. Barek brought up the rear, his hand on the hilt of a concealed dagger.
Once they passed the market, the broad avenues of the patrician neighborhoods narrowed into the slum district where meeting an oxcart would force a person to squeeze into the nearest doorway until the vehicle passed. Simmering onions, most likely scavenged outside the city walls to flavor watery broths, scented the darkened streets with a bitter hopelessness. Few could afford a carrot for their soup let alone meat, or oil for their lamps. The ten
ement buildings were black as the hole in the Cave of the Swimmers. Lisbeth wished she’d thought to bring the flashlight tucked in her backpack. If it weren’t for the pale moon, they wouldn’t be able to see their hands in front of their eyes.