Healer of Carthage

by Lynne Gentry

  Had the scrappy messenger made it to Rome? She prayed so. Despite the threat of another beating if Aspasius discovered her secret, hope of her master’s removal and ultimate disgrace gave her reason to live. Until she had definitive word, she must let nothing tip Aspasius to her plan, not even her fear.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a discreet nod. Kardide resumed her work. Tension in Magdalena’s neck and shoulders eased a bit, but she kept her guard drawn.

  These servants were more than a seamless team. They were the family she’d pieced together in this hostile place. Without them, the years would have been unbearable. And she knew they felt the same love for her.

  If Aspasius suspected she had become the true master of this house, the problems of this morning’s run-in with Cyprian had distracted him to the point of letting such an impropriety slide. This temporary reprieve did not mean she’d escaped the arena, a fate she would have welcomed years ago were it not for her secret. No one who dared defy Aspasius escaped the arena’s caged cats. Aspasius counted on the hungry roar of wild beasts to keep his subjects in line. And so far, they had.

  Magdalena’s stomach clenched at the tortures the proconsul of Carthage would use to shred her little family if he ever discovered the truth hidden beneath his palace floors.

  “Away with you.” Aspasius rubbed his temples.

  The servants disappeared into the various alcoves and side rooms yet most assuredly remained well within hearing distance, loyal and willing to come to her aid if needed.

  Magdalena slipped off her sandals. “Let me fetch your headache powders, master.” She started down the great hall, grateful she’d conjured another excuse to delay closing the space between them.

  “Bring that new scribe to my chambers, slut!” Aspasius shouted after her. “And plenty of parchment and ink. I intend to petition Rome.”

  Magdalena froze. Did the proconsul know what she’d done? Had someone betrayed her? Or was Aspasius simply allowing Cyprian’s ballsy show of defiance to feed his fear of losing his position and power? Something was propelling her captor’s unsettling campaign to remove her from his bed. She’d prayed to be free of him. Imagined herself sprinting toward the arms of her husband from the very first night she’d suffered under this man’s sweaty body. Her mind spun through the different evacuation scenarios she’d constructed, emergency plans in case this very thing happened.

  Magdalena captured her racing thoughts. Now was not the time to reveal her hand or to react without solid facts. She would skip the lavender petals in his wine and double the mugwort. Aspasius wouldn’t miss her until morning. With her tormentor knocked unconscious, she could go to the home of Cyprian. After today, the secret she kept beneath the palace was not the only thing at stake.

  She turned to face him with the practiced grace that had kept her alive beyond what even she dreamed possible. “As you wish, my love.”

  7

  OPEN THE GATE.” DEEP, rich commands beckoned Lisbeth from hazy dreams of terrifying water slide rides and horrible men.

  Somewhere in her foggy subconscious, metal hinges creaked and dogs barked. An uncomfortable combination of intense pressure on her midsection and the sensation of forward motion sent bile spewing from her mouth.

  Something rough and wet lapped her face. She opened her eyes and worked to focus. Black canine eyes, set in a big square head, stared back at her. The hulking beast sniffed her tingling hands; then his large, pink tongue swept her face again. Mosaic tiles swirled in the sound of blood rushing to her head and the distinct stink of horseflesh and vomit. Had she passed out again? She had absolutely no bearings or a better explanation for why her head felt lower than her feet.

  “Fetch Ruth.” Feet scurried away as two large hands clamped around Lisbeth’s waist and gently lifted her to the ground. “Can you stand?”

  Fighting dizziness, Lisbeth swiped at her mouth. Her eyes traveled slowly upward. Before her, a huge black horse snorted and pawed at two big dogs scrambling beneath his feet. No wonder the person holding her steady smelled of musk and leather. She must have died and gone to a zoo.

  “Feeling steadier?” Whose arms held her upright?

  Lisbeth moved her eyes slowly for a sideways peek. The strong arm flanking her belonged to the same man she’d seen in her dreams, the one who had started a crazy bidding contest for her, the guy who’d given her his coat and dared her to make a break. That she found him even the tiniest bit charming while at the same time loathing his very existence meant she must still be dreaming.

  She tried to speak, to articulate something intelligible. Clanking sounds of a gate closing behind her slammed the words against the roof of her parched mouth. If the bandits had taken her to some secret compound, how would Papa ever find her?

  The handsome hunk wrapped his arm tighter around her waist. “Come. Let’s get you some help.” He practically carried her toward a palatial mansion surrounded by arched porticoes and lush greenery.

  Suddenly, a door burst open. “Cyprian!” A woman flew out. “Another stray?” Topaz eyes, two sparkling jewels set in a perfect heart-shaped face, triaged Lisbeth in seconds. “She’s beaten half to death.” The woman raced to hold the door open.

  Cyprian scooped Lisbeth into his arms and strode over the threshold. “Felicissimus had to allow her to be roughed up a bit, Ruth.” He bypassed intricately carved benches and strode down a long hall, the dogs loping behind.

  “It’s only a matter of time before Aspasius discovers your arrangement with the slave trader.”

  “Rescuing those the proconsul keeps in bondage is worth the risk. Besides, the information I glean is invaluable.” He halted for a second. “Aspasius plans to replace the healer.”

  Ruth gasped. “What will become of her?”

  “I’m not sure.” He turned to the woman with the milky white skin of a Celtic. “Don’t worry. We’ll do what we can.”

  Lisbeth squirmed. “Look, I don’t know who you people are or what you’re talking about, but I’m not—”

  “From the looks of this stray cat, she tried to claw someone’s eyes out.” Ruth trailed their progress along the ornate passage.

  “She has fight.” Cyprian stopped, his attention fastened on the blur of voices floating from a room farther down the long hall. “The bishop has returned?”

  “He has. The news from Numidia is not good.” Ruth grabbed his arm. “How much did this one cost you?”

  “Is there a price too great?” Cyprian commanded the dogs to stay. They dropped with an obedient whine. He ducked into a nearby room lit by a single oil lamp. “Clean her up. Tend her wounds before you bring her before the bishop.” He gently placed Lisbeth on the bed. “It’s too risky to fetch the healer.”

  “Wait!” Lisbeth jumped off the bed. Despite the dizziness, she ran after him. “I’m not staying.”

  Two dogs immediately flanked Cyprian, low rumbles vibrating from their droopy muzzles. “You are.” He banged the door shut in her face and clicked the latch.

  “I’m not.” Lisbeth kicked at the brass-studded oak. Pain shot through her toe. “And your dogs don’t scare me.”

  “Best to save your strength for what is to come.”

  Lisbeth wheeled and held up her hands. “Back off, lady. I don’t belong here.” Her eyes darted around the room, quickly taking in an ornate wooden bed, a matching nightstand, and a young girl hiding in the shadows. “Wherever here is. There’s been some huge mistake.” She rubbed her throbbing foot against the back of her other leg. “I was just talking to Papa when—” Lisbeth stopped, suddenly aware that the exquisite woman calmly studying her had only spoken Latin. She probably wasn’t catching a word of what she was saying. Lisbeth drew a slow and measured breath, hoping that extra oxygen would blow away any language cobwebs and settle her stomach.

  “Collecting yourself is wise,” Ruth said. “Cyprian’s generosity toward you has cost more than a few coins.” She snapped her fingers, and a mousy-haired girl not more th
an twelve and dressed in a brown woolen tunic slipped from her hiding place. Keeping her chin tucked close to her flat chest, she waited for instructions. “Naomi, we’ll need a hot bath prepared, some food, and fetch a bottle of raisin wine. Oh, and bring my herb box.” The girl scurried out a side door.

  “What is this place? It reminds me of a page out of history.” Lisbeth’s rudimentary Latin glanced off the frescoed wall mural of muscular men clothed in golden wings. “Some kind of palace stuck in a time warp or something.”

  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. Fro
m 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.”