Healer of Carthage

by Lynne Gentry

  Lisbeth tried to extricate herself from Ruth’s grasp. “I really don’t have time to—”

  A blur of voices, the melancholy notes of a cane lute, and the clink of silver chalices floated through the open doors.

  “They’ve started.” Ruth placed Lisbeth against the wall. “Wait here.” She adjusted the pink folds of her gown. “Oh, my. You are striking.” Obviously pleased with her handiwork, she continued, “I know Cyprian. He’ll want to present you to the congregation properly. Let me go find him.”

  “Congregation?” Lisbeth grabbed Ruth’s arm, visions of the five-thousand-seat auditorium at Queenie’s church flashing before her eyes. “I’m not good in front of crowds. Can’t I just sit in the back row or listen from the doorway? I had no idea you people were some kind of cult. I would have said—”

  Fear flicked across Ruth’s eyes. “You’ll say nothing.” She laid her stick-straight forefinger on Lisbeth’s lips. “The proconsul does not know that Cyprian allows the believers to meet here. And he must never find out. Do you understand?”

  If these people were determined to charge toward danger, who was she to stop them? But she didn’t have to join them. First chance she got, she was out of here.

  Lisbeth let out a frustrated sigh. “Sure. Whatever.”

  Besides, if this whole time-travel thing was real, who would she tell? Papa was a thousand miles and eighteen hundred years away. Even if her cell phone hadn’t been smashed to bits, she doubted Queenie had enough faith to believe a text that said Help. I’m lost in 251 AD. Captured by some kind of secret cult. Dressed to kill and headed to church.

  Right now, satisfying Ruth’s good intentions was her only shot at a successful escape. She had no choice. Lisbeth sank against the wall.

  “Good girl.” Ruth scurried through the open doors.

  The moment she disappeared, Lisbeth shot from her hiding place and peeked around the doorframe.

  People of every age and, from the variety of dress, every life station were crammed into a torch-lit garden framed by two-story stone columns and balconies loaded with anxious-faced onlookers. The outdoor patio had a beautiful fountain and several stone tables laden with food and candlelight. The whole gig looked more like the casual barbecue the chief attending threw the first week of residency to welcome all the new residents. Not the state-of-the-art stadium of Queenie’s church, decked out with stage lighting and headset-wearing cameramen.

  In the center of this scaled-back spectacle was the one thing Queenie’s church and this simple gathering had in common: a preacher … a stooped man with a long, weathered face and two enormous dogs flopped at his feet. The rumpled old man in a dingy white toga and a lion’s mane of unruly hair resembled an unmade bed compared to Queenie’s slick, three-piece-suit pastor with his militant strut. But there was no mistaking who he was.

  The pontificating Santa stood atop a makeshift stage addressing the crowd and holding court with every little elf-eye glued on him. Lisbeth edged a bit closer. Surely this old man was not Caecilianus? If he was the bishop, he had to be at least thirty years older than his wife, Ruth.

  “Felicissimus …” the eloquent speaker waved his hand in the direction of a pudgy little man who sat upon a bench with his back to do the door, a name and a hunched back Lisbeth would never forget.

  Anger prickled the hairs on the back of Lisbeth’s neck. What was the slave trader doing here? How dare he sell her like a used car and strip away her precious stethoscope like it was a car radio? She started toward him, when the bishop continued.

  “We give you praise for the admirable work you continue to do on our Lord’s behalf. Ruth tells me that together, you and Cyprian have rescued another soul from the clutches of Aspasius.”

  Felicissimus beamed under the praise. Lisbeth gripped the doorframe. The idea of storming the party and beating that smirking little weasel senseless pounded in her ears. If these people thought kidnapping someone and selling them to the highest bidder was admirable work, she’d been wrong in her assessment of Ruth, and she’d certainly read more kindness in Cyprian’s actions than he deserved.

  Cheers spilled out through the open doors, drawing her in despite the warnings sounding in her head to run. Lisbeth inched around the door. This bishop fellow had sold these people on something. She wasn’t quite sure exactly what. If their enthusiasm had anything to do with her, the idea rankled every nerve in her body. Everyone was so excited, she half expected a robed choir to suddenly burst into a rousing gospel song like the two hundred voices that backed up Queenie’s pastor.

  “While we must do what we can to aid those held captive,” someone in the balcony yelled, “what about the rumors of sickness, Bishop? Who will be left alive to help us?”

  The crowd sobered. All heads turned to the man thrusting a clenched fist in the air.

  “You raise a good point, Numidicus,” the bishop said.

  “I’ve got children, Caecilianus.” The woman near the fountain clutched a baby. “They say the youngest are the first to die.”

  Concern rippled through the crowd.

  The old man raised his hands, and the people immediately silenced. “Doing what we can to stop the importation of sickness into Carthage must become our next priority.” The hypnotic cadence of the bishop’s words cast a calming spell over his listeners … all but the man on the balcony who had not lowered his fist.

  “But it doesn’t matter what we do.” The man on the balcony jumped over the railing and landed a staggered vault at the bishop’s feet. Both dogs jumped to attention. Forelegs set, teeth bared, they growled. The man took a step back.

  “Easy, girls.” Caecilianus rubbed their ears. “Let’s hear what Numidicus has to say.”

  With one eye on the dogs, the man continued, “Already believers are blamed for any misfortune that befalls Carthage. Persecution of the worst kind will come upon us if this sickness spreads. Aspasius will not rest until he sees us all fed to the lions. My daughter is but a child. I say we flee to the hills.”

  Murmurs brought some of the crowd to their feet.

  “True, my dear boy.” The bishop stayed his pets, then placed a gnarled hand on the man’s shoulder. “But we cannot allow the fear of what might happen to enter our ranks, now can we, Numidicus?”

  “We are dung on the bottom of Roman boots.” The man who’d tried to rally support with his acrobatics glanced around the crowd. Sober faces registered his angst, but no one took his side. “It’s not right.”

  Caecilianus smiled. “Like you, brave Numidicus, I chafe at the injustice. But I am not afraid to meet my maker.” The bishop lifted his arms to the array of stars that crowned the open courtyard. All chins lifted upward. “Because Christ suffered for me, I will do what I can for him.” The old bishop’s dramatic pause held his audience captive. Slowly he lowered his arms. His eyes scanned his followers. Gathering a deep breath, he plunged toward a resounding finish. “Brothers and sisters, stay the course. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, even to the point of death.”

  Flickering torchlight illuminated tears on every upturned cheek of this old preacher’s congregation. He had them. They’d bought every word and guzzled the bishop’s fatal Kool-Aid.

  Not her. And neither had history, if Lisbeth recalled Papa’s carefully planned lectures. Third-century Carthage suffered a major catastrophe. Rousing pep talks from a deranged rebel and peer pressure from his rabid followers would not stop the freight train barreling their way. If these people didn’t wise up and get off the tracks, they were going to die. Trancelike stares offered little hope that they were going anywhere.

  Lisbeth wanted no part of the slow, torturous suffering they’d chosen. Suffering they could’ve avoided by simply banding together and leaving, quarantining themselves safely out of harm’s way until the unnamed virus flamed out.

  Plague or no plague, the problems of these people were not her problems. Even if she could solve the mystery illness that would eventually kill thousands, the possibi
lity that her destiny had anything to do with changing history was preposterous. Nearly as crazy as the bishop’s claims that a few ill-equipped peasants could make a difference. She was getting out of here while she still could. She’d wait outside, and when the pious slave trader left church she’d confront him and demand the return of her mother’s stethoscope.

  Lisbeth eased into the empty hall. For the first time since this whole time-warp thing had happened, she was unattended. Free to search for the portal that had spewed her into this foreign world. No muscled hunk or his frilly little sidekick to stop her from going home.

  Keeping her eyes fixed on the peculiar pep rally happening in the garden, Lisbeth backed away on tiptoes. One step. Two. Three. A startling collision with something hard. Before she regained her balance, someone gripped her elbow.

  “Going somewhere?” Cyprian’s arm circled her waist and drew her close. Her back went rigid against his beating chest. A clean, soapy scent replaced the equine odor she remembered from being tossed across his shoulder. “And just when we were getting to know each other.” His breath brushed the top of her ear. Warmth flushed her cheeks.

  “For your information, I’m”—she wrenched free and whirled to face him—“waiting.”

  Apparently, Cyprian had spent some time in the bath as well. Cleaned up and dressed in a more formal toga, he was gorgeous. Wet, golden waves swept back from his handsome face emphasized his aristocratic forehead, intense royal blue eyes, and cleanly shaven jaw. The blinding white folds of his garment exposed one muscular shoulder.

  “Waiting for an opportunity to escape?” he goaded.

  Lisbeth tucked a stray hair into the prom updo Ruth had insisted accentuated her long neck. “I’m waiting to be formally introduced to the bishop.”

  “Then you shall wait no more.” He gently took Lisbeth’s elbow and led her into the garden.

  Everyone turned. Chatter ceased. Mouths hung agape. Any moment, she expected trumpets to announce the arrival of the prom king and queen. Despite the craziness, she didn’t want him to let go.

  “My dear friend!” The bishop opened his arms wide and beckoned them to him.

  Lisbeth spoke between clenched teeth. “You didn’t say you were a Christian.”

  Cyprian’s dazzling smile transformed his chiseled features. On the surface, he appeared to be a kinder man, one far different than the ruthless slave buyer who’d slung her over his shoulder. Yet, beneath his facade, Lisbeth detected a hint of unbending steel. A strength that both comforted and frightened her.

  “You never asked.” He pressed his hand against the small of her back.

  The forward thrust propelled Lisbeth through the crowd and doubled her heart rate. Why hadn’t she put two and two together? Of course he had to be one of them if he was willing to risk the wrath of Rome to allow their secret meeting in his home. Yet, he was obviously a wealthy Roman. A curious mix.

  They passed the gaunt-faced mother who’d voiced her concerns about the children to the bishop. Up close, Lisbeth could see that this mother and child suffered from malnutrition. If she had a stethoscope to put to the woman’s sunken chest, desperation would be the scant nourishment sustaining her heart.

  Lisbeth wrung her empty hands and scanned the crowd with a professional eye. Several toddlers had the bowed legs of rickets. Numerous adults exhibited the hair and teeth loss of scurvy. Nearly every child sported the protruding belly of chronic protein deficiency. Third-world ailments easily eradicated by a proper diet and good health care. She’d been so focused on the scrappy preacher that she’d failed to notice the abject poverty of Cyprian’s guests. Attired in the tattered rags of the homeless, they attacked the bread baskets as if another morsel might not come their way again.

  Déjà vu memories of navigating the county hospital’s overcrowded emergency room where rail-thin men in filthy army jackets tugged on her white coat overwhelmed her. Most of those patients suffered self-inflicted chemical addictions and poor lifestyle choices. Sixteen-hour days by overworked medical personnel didn’t make a dent in the problem. In her exhaustion, she’d often wondered about the futility of serving the poor. She’d never have the martyr’s heart of her mother.

  The summer before her family went to the cave for the first time, she and Mama had accompanied Papa to Tripoli for a week. He was excavating a stunning glass and stone mosaic of an exhausted gladiator from the floor of an ancient Roman farmhouse. Late one night, a woman with a dead child swaddled to her breast had wandered into camp asking for bread. The emaciated woman reeked of chronic diarrhea. While Mama hurried to lace a cup of tea with honey, the young mother fell to the ground and died.

  “Despite the oil riches of Libya, women and children starve.” Mama shook her finger at Papa. “It’s not right, Lawrence. I’ll not help you rob treasures that could put food in empty bellies.”

  The suffering before Lisbeth now reminded her of the glassy eyes of that hopeless young mother. One class of society denying another to the point of starving their children, proof that greed and selfishness incited a level of suffering that transcended time. The sins of the past molding an abysmal future. Lisbeth suddenly felt very overdressed, even more out of place, and mad as Mama had been when she cradled those depleted bodies.

  Cyprian ushered her toward the bishop, stopping to greet Felicissimus. “Good work, my friend.”

  “Thief!” Lisbeth lunged for the pudgy little man, swinging with the rage building inside her. “I want my stethoscope.” She heard dogs barking and felt Cyprian reel her in. “Let me go.” She hated the smug grin dimpling Felicissimus’s cheeks.

  “There will be plenty of time for grudges.” Cyprian clamped her elbow.

  “This isn’t over, fat boy,” Lisbeth said with a hiss as Cyprian dragged her away from the slave trader. “I’ll get my stethoscope one way or another.”

  By the time they arrived at the bishop’s small wooden dais, Ruth had joined her husband. She frowned at the displacement of Lisbeth’s curls.

  “My friend.” Caecilianus folded Cyprian into a bear hug. His rheumy eyes appraised her over her new master’s shoulder. Despite the film of cataracts, the bishop seemed to see deep into her soul, laying bare her anger, guilt, and self-doubt.

  She squirmed while the crowd closed in, pushing her dangerously close to the man who thought he owned her. She felt something wet on her hand and looked down to find both dogs stationed at her feet. Running her hand over the sleek coat of the apricot-colored hound, her gaze roamed the garden for an alternate exit, one that included landing a blow squarely in the gut of that sorry slave trader on her way out of this nightmare.

  “I see you have donned the white tunic of a politician, Cyprian.” Disapproval clouded the face of the old priest. “Does this mean you’ll run for office?”

  “The time has come.” Cyprian’s shoulders squared. “If the power of Aspasius is to be stopped, securing a seat in the Senate is a must.”

  A roar of approval rattled Lisbeth to the core. These peasants would not cheer the foolish decision to take on the proconsul if they’d witnessed what she’d seen today when the woman in green silk dared to speak against the ruler of Carthage. The impertinence had most likely cost that brave woman a black eye, maybe even a broken jaw.

  If Lisbeth remembered Papa’s history lessons correctly, Aspasius would have obtained his appointment as ruler of this province as a reward from the Senate. He would not give up his plum position without a fight. If there was one thing she had learned growing up in camps filled with men, it was the predictability of male stubbornness.

  Why did Cyprian think he could make a difference? No doubt the wealthy, well-spoken, and wildly attractive Cyprian could give the proconsul a run for his money, but Cyprian would need more than a pretty face to accomplish the nullification of the Senate’s volatile political decision.

  Cyprian cleared his throat. “Caecilianus, may I present the congregation with …” He leaned over and whispered, “You’re standing on my toga.”
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  “Oh, sorry.” Lisbeth hastily lifted her foot. The heel of her sandal caught in the hem of her skirt, upsetting her balance. Arms whirling, she teetered on the podium. Cyprian’s strong hand saved her from an embarrassing fall that would have surely sent her skirts sailing over her head.

  “… a woman certain to bless our efforts.” His eyes did not mean a word of what his lips were saying.

  “Bless what efforts?” Lisbeth shrugged free of Cyprian’s clasp. “Whatever secret plans you people are scheming here does not include me!”

  Suddenly a side door to the garden burst open.

  A panting woman grabbed the doorframe. Blood was splattered across her green silk tunic, brown woolen cloak, and the veil across her face. “Help.”

  10

  LISBETH SPRINTED TOWARD THE bloody woman, shouting orders. “Bring light. Bandages. Hot water.”

  Men leapt from their reclining couches. Mothers gathered their children close.

  Two barking hounds stayed hard on Lisbeth’s heels, arriving at the woman’s side right after her. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” The woman took Lisbeth’s hand. “Come.”

  “Let me check your injuries.”

  “I can wait.” She dragged Lisbeth into the hall and pointed at the two young men slumped together on one of the brocade couches. “They cannot.”

  The garden crowd quickly pressed in behind them, including Cyprian from the hot breath scorching Lisbeth’s neck.