by Lynne Gentry
“What about Acquilina?” Pontius placed his finger on the scroll and looked up. “Her father is Blasius, the well-respected wine merchant.”
“Good gods, man,” Felicissimus hissed. “Have you seen her?”
“Only from a distance,” Pontius confessed.
“Last year Blasius brought Acquilina to my shop when she was in need of a new handmaiden.”
“And?” Cyprian hated sounding anxious, but marriage discussions reminded him of how far apart he and his father had been in their views of life and family.
“Beady eyes of a hawk. Eagle’s beak for a nose.” Felicissimus shook his head. “She could peck away at a man’s soul with the mere flick of her head.”
“Perhaps we should keep looking?” Pontius and Felicissimus returned to the list.
“What about Camilla Flaccus?” Felicissimus said proudly. “Her second husband left her extremely well placed.”
“Second husband?” Cyprian wasn’t keen on taking on the problems inherent with another man’s castoff. “What happened to her first husband?”
Felicissimus shrugged, “I assume the same thing that happened to her second?”
“And what was that?” Pontius demanded.
“Died in her bed.” A twinkle lit Felicissimus’s eye. “Apparently, Camilla needs a man of sturdy constitution. Which you most assuredly are, my patronus.”
“Keep looking,” Cyprian ordered. “You’d think in a city of this size there would be one marriageable female.”
“What of the lovely Diona Cicero?” Pontius said.
“Now there’s an idea,” Felicissimus eagerly concurred. “A real goddess if ever there was one.”
“She’s only fourteen,” Cyprian protested.
“But her father’s quite the forward thinker. According to bathhouse rumors, Titus has granted Diona full charge of her marriage choice.” Felicissimus rubbed his hands together. “And that’s not the best part. Titus owns most of the fields between here and Curubis, as well as every single granary. Think of the power your combined fortunes could wield. An alliance this powerful would hold Rome by the throat.”
“And if you hold Rome by the throat,” Pontius added, “you will have Aspasius by the—”
“But is she a religious woman?” Cyprian had just turned thirty-four. Not only was he imagining himself as an old man tottering after a woman half his age, he was also wondering how they could possibly ever find anything in common. Especially if Diona’s heart belonged to Roman gods. Perhaps Caecilianus was right. No wife was better than acquiring the wrong wife. “Why would she want to marry an old goat like me? Especially once she learns of my conversion.”
“Power grows more attractive with the years. Besides, when you clean up, you’re not painful to look at.” Felicissimus closed the tax record. “Let’s go.”
Cyprian stopped Felicissimus. “You aren’t going anywhere. Too risky. Return the tax records before we’re found out.”
“Yes, my patronus,” Felicissimus said, sulking.
Two hours later, Cyprian stood on the marbled stoop of Titus Cicero. Fresh from the baths and wearing his whitest toga, he tugged at his belt. “You’re certain Diona will be home?”
Pontius stood beside him with a small wooden chest tucked beneath his arm. “Her father assured me.”
The door swung open. A slave girl showed them into a lush garden, a testament to Titus’s green thumb.
“Solicitor.” Titus swept into the room, a tall man with sprigs of gray at his temples. “May I present my daughter, Diona.”
A girl with white-blond curls, pink lips, and only a year into the bloom of womanhood slipped out from behind Titus. Felicissimus was right: her perfect features rivaled the chiseled gods gracing Titus’s beautiful home.
She lowered her chin. “How kind of you to come,” whispered from her lips.
“Diona is … shy.” Titus waved them toward the couches. “Please sit.” He clapped, and a servant appeared with a tray of refreshments. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? Diona has final say in her betrothal, but, so that there are no misunderstandings, let me lay out the terms.”
“Of course.” Cyprian could not help but think about how Diona had not made eye contact with him once while that snit of a slave girl he’d rescued could readily bore holes through him with her sea-green stare.
“Diona comes with a substantial dowry of jewelry, slaves, and eventually my vast land and grain holdings.”
Suddenly a woman who appeared to be an older version of Diona rushed in, all aflutter in her peacock blue silk. “A word, husband.”
“In a moment, my dear.”
“Now, Titus.”
As Titus scurried after his wife, Cyprian wondered if beneath Diona’s quiet exterior her mother’s temperament simmered.
Diona peered over her fan. Her eyes were two black doors closed to deeper investigation. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and that made him even more nervous.
Titus appeared in the doorway and took a deep breath. “Cyprian, I must thank you for your offer, but I’m not quite ready to part with my little girl.”
“Pontius, show him the chest.” Cyprian’s friend came forward and placed a large wooden box upon a stone table. “Open it.”
Diona’s breath caught at the sparkle of gold and rare jewels. “I choose him, Father.”
“I know I gave you free rein on the selection of your husband, but you’ll have to trust me on this when I say no.”
“No?” Cyprian knew a fleecing when he saw one, but his list of marriage prospects was growing short. He plowed his hand into the treasure. “There’s more where this came from.” Coins slipped through his outstretched fingers.
“And the biggest villa on the sea. Right, solicitor?” Diona asked with a smile.
“Yes. I, too, have many holdings.”
“I want him, Father.”
“Diona, he has the creeping pox. We are lucky that your mother heard the news in time.”
“I what?!” Cyprian shouted.
“I know I’ve spoiled my daughter and given her too much freedom in this matter, but she cannot marry anyone without my permission and I will not grant it in this case. And that is final.”
“This is outrageous! I could very well argue the fallacy of this ridiculous rumor, but I suppose in the end only time will support my claims of perfect health.” Cyprian closed the wooden box. “I thank you for your time, Titus.”
“Good luck on the elections, solicitor.”
18
TWO MASSIVE DOGS TRAMPLED Lisbeth’s feet as she helped Ruth drag the heavy laundry cart through the villa gate. “Doesn’t Cyprian have slaves to do his wash?”
“What Cyprian does with his slaves is not your concern.” Ruth wrestled the worn cart handle out of Lisbeth’s hand. “Besides, political togas require professional care to retain their elegant draping.” She flipped the hood of her cloak over the blond coils wrapping her head and was immediately transformed from aristocrat to peasant. She lifted her chin in a quick little motion that indicated Lisbeth should do the same.
“You’re sure Naomi can handle that son of yours?” Lisbeth steadied the mound of clothes the bishop’s pouncing dogs seemed determined to upset. “What if his bandages need changing before we get back?” She hoped appealing to the frazzled mother’s sense of guilt for leaving her injured son would entice Ruth to reinstate Naomi as her guide on the errand run. The young slave girl would be much easier to ditch.
“Say no more,” Ruth said with a hiss, hammering home the fact that making friends and influencing people weren’t part of Lisbeth’s skill set. “Your accent will draw unwanted attention.” She shooed the dogs inside the gate and set off down the street, the cart rumbling behind her.
Lisbeth knew Ruth couldn’t go two minutes without talking; all Lisbeth had to do was wait the woman out. When Ruth finally cracked, she’d gather the data she needed and be on her way. Leaving the eventual removal of Laurentius’s tube for Ruth’s untrai
ned hands caused a few ripples of guilt, but not enough to change her plans. An opportunity to search for the passageway connecting the centuries might not come again. Surely the tunnel between yesterday and today went both ways. Exactly how she’d find the time portal wasn’t settled in her mind. The faint memory of nearly drowning was her only clue.
She’d caught a glimpse of the harbor from Cyprian’s balcony. How strange to see the stone donut fully restored and two hundred ported Roman warships. Finding her entry point into this century could be a challenge.
Stepping up her pace, Lisbeth rounded the corner and scurried after Ruth, her hood sliding off her hair. “So if you had to fetch water, where would you go?” Women toting baskets on their heads and a child on each hip cast disapproving glances at Lisbeth’s tumbled mass of curls.
“Raise your hood,” Ruth warned.
“So where’s the closest well?” Lisbeth tugged the hemp-colored hood over her hair. “Look, I know you’re probably worried about leaving Barek, but he’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know that,” Ruth snapped, “and neither do you.”
“We’re out now and can’t do anything about our patients at the moment. So why don’t you tell me a little about Carthage? If I’m going to be living here and helping to run errands, it would be wise for me to get to know the city.”
Ruth marched on, silent, unimpressed with Lisbeth’s reasoning. They merged with the increasing foot traffic heading toward the smell of seawater and decaying fish, the same market odor she’d dreaded whenever she and Papa had traveled to Tunis for supplies.
Lisbeth hurried to keep up, determined not to lose Ruth in the crowd until she had some answers. “Is there a cistern near Felicissimus’s auction block?” A woman with a large basket on her head jostled Lisbeth into an elderly peddler hawking wooden utensils. Carved spoons hit the busy street. “Sorry, sir.” She bent to retrieve his wares from the filthy gutter.
“Thief!” The peddler, a lean, haggard creature with a surprisingly vigorous yell, whipped bony hands through the salty air. “I’m being robbed!”
“No.” Lisbeth gathered a fistful of spoons. “I just didn’t see you.”
“Drop it, slave.” A heavy boot came down hard, pinning her hand to the street.
Lisbeth’s eyes traveled the hairy leg of a linebacker-size man. Decked out in shin greaves, a red cloak, and a crested helmet, he looked like one of those Roman soldiers immortalized on the pages of Papa’s history books.
He lifted his foot and yanked her upright. Three other troopers backed him, standing ready with their boots planted on the pavement and their hands poised over gleaming swords peeking from leather scabbards. “Who is your master?” His breastplate glistened in the morning sun. “Speak or die, pleb.” He squeezed her wrist, making the painful imprint of his boot on her hand inconsequential.
Fighting tears, Lisbeth searched the sea of harried shoppers, their rubbernecking slowing the flow of traffic headed toward the market booths. “Ruth!” She twisted but couldn’t break free, even with the extra adrenaline pumping through her body.
“What’s your hurry, girl? You have more pockets to pick?” The soldier pulled the hood from Lisbeth’s head and pushed her into his uniformed pals. “Let’s have some fun with this beauty.”
Suddenly a blue cloak barreled into the jeering circle of testosterone. “Unhand the property of Cyprianus Thascius”—Ruth stepped between Lisbeth and the soldier—“the chief solicitor of Carthage.” Ruth grabbed Lisbeth’s hand, sending the wooden spoon she clutched clattering to the cobblestones. “Unless you wish to explain why you’ve kept the solicitor’s favorite from her chores, you’ll let us pass.”
Lisbeth watched over her shoulder as Ruth dragged her away from the openmouthed soldiers and deeper into the maze of market stalls.
They darted into and out of the vendor booths, hurrying past the putrid scents of the carcass hanging in the butcher’s stall and the toothless woman hawking bowls of soured milk curds. At the nearest alley, Ruth pulled Lisbeth into the shadows where she’d left the cart.
“Favorite?” Lisbeth asked with a huff, hands on her knees, heart pumping faster than it had when she and Queenie had tackled a marathon race in the grueling Dallas heat. “When did I become that man’s favorite?”
“Shush.” Ruth’s normal rosy blush was missing from her face. She gathered Lisbeth’s hood and returned it to her head. “Not another word from you.”
“Not even thanks?”
Ruth slapped three stiff fingers to Lisbeth’s lips. “Nothing.” She snatched the cart handle.
Still winded, Lisbeth followed her bossy little keeper through the alley, admiring Ruth’s willingness to jump in to right a wrong. Mulling over her encounter with the third century’s version of real, live killing machines, she wondered if she would have had the guts to do the same. The damage Roman soldiers had inflicted upon Barek and Laurentius had surely frightened Ruth as much as they’d terrified her, yet this slip of a woman had charged in without regard to her own life. First Cyprian and now Ruth. These people succeeded where she failed. If it hadn’t been for Ruth, she would have more than likely suffered far worse than a few inappropriate touches. Running out now seemed as cheap as ducking out on a restaurant tab, but what choice did she have?
They emerged in a different section of the forum, an upscale shopping mall for the rich. Booths displayed exquisite works of glass, alabaster, and ivory. Gorgeous lengths of linen and brightly colored silks swayed from long wooden poles. Tavern workers served pickled ostrich eggs and warm drinks that smelled of cinnamon to men dressed in white. Perfectly coiffed women dragged silent slaves from stall to stall, loading stacks of parcels upon their brawny arms.
Lisbeth kept her eyes peeled for the time portal. She wasn’t expecting a neon sign, but maybe something familiar would jog her memory. Papa had taken her to Carthage dozens of times as a child. Together, they’d visited the local bazaars and poked through every inch of the Roman ruins. She scanned the buzzing market. Strange to see the city she knew as ruins somehow magically restored. More magnificent than the artist reconstructions in Papa’s books, yet totally disorienting. Her father would jump at the opportunity to experience this post–Punic Wars rebuilding phase. She, on the other hand, just wanted out.
“You’ll find what you need here.” Ruth pointed out the wooden sign swinging over the door of a tiny shop. Someone had carved a snake wrapped around a staff into the weathered plank. “Don’t be long.”
Continuing the ruse seemed the best option, considering she hadn’t seen the first thing that looked like a time portal. She left Ruth guarding the laundry and ventured into the dark, scented coolness of the third century’s version of a pharmacy. Clusters of dried flowers hung from low ceiling beams. “Wish Aisa was here,” Lisbeth muttered as she drew a bundle to her nose.
Papa’s cook had acted as the camp doctor after Mama left. His box of brittle weeds and smelly salves comprised the sole extent of Lisbeth’s knowledge of homeopathic medicine, a fact she didn’t dare disclose to Ruth while making the case for doing her own herb shopping.
Lisbeth moved quickly, untying the plants she identified as a few of the remedies Aisa kept in his box. Mint for calming upset stomachs. Garlic for disinfecting wounds. And borage, a fuzzy leaf that tasted of cucumber no matter how much sugar Aisa added to the strong tea he used to treat her bouts of asthma. Upon the recommendation of the wrinkled woman trying to make a buck off a sneezing foreigner, Lisbeth purchased every dried plant that looked familiar and a few she didn’t recognize. She tucked under her arm the bundle of aromatic treasures she had no intention of using and joined Ruth.
They left the main street and turned down another alley, coming face-to-face with the behind-the-scenes labor required to keep the rich looking their best. Steamy air scented with sweat, lye, and urine billowed from the open door of the fuller’s shop.
Lisbeth recalled the summer she and Papa had visited the ruins of Pompeii at the base of Mount
Vesuvius. Beneath excavated mounds of ash and pumice had sat a fully equipped fuller’s shop. How strange now to cross the threshold here in Carthage and see real men clad only in loincloths trampling garments in the pressing bowls, their raw hands clamped on to the half walls separating each worker’s water basin.
Behind the counter, a red-cheeked shopkeeper, her hair kinked by the steam of the wash pots, sorted through piles of laundry. Business was good at the cleaners. Ruth removed a numbered stone from the bowl on the counter. They assumed their place at the end of the line.
Ahead of them, a thin black girl shouldered a large bundle. When the laundress barked out a number, the girl checked her stone, then lugged her load to the counter. The shopkeeper untied the knots and pawed through the clothes, scratching down an accounting after each piece.
“This one is covered in blood.” The laundress held up a stained wad of gauzy green and eyed the girl. “The proconsul’s woman have a problem the patrols need to know about?”
Lisbeth craned her neck. Icy fingers crawled up her spine. “That’s Ma … Magdalena’s dress.” She started toward the counter.
Ruth grabbed her arm. “Say nothing.”
What had happened after Mama left Cyprian’s? Did Aspasius kill her upon her return to the palace? Or was her mother caught out after curfew again by those nasty soldiers? Lisbeth strained against Ruth’s hold, intent to learn more.
“My mistress had trouble with her monthly,” the slave girl mumbled.
“I don’t care what the proconsul claims; that woman he drags around town is no mistress.” The laundress raised a skeptical brow. “I can see you didn’t soak this in cold water, Tabari. These stains are never coming out.”
“No worry.” Tabari lifted her chin and looked the women in the eye. “My lady has garments to spare.”
“And extra blood, I pray.” The laundry woman tossed the gown into a woven basket. “Next.”
The dark slave girl gathered the empty cloth wrapper. “You know where to send the bill.”
If this girl was the same Tabari, the one Cyprian said accompanied Mama on her missions of mercy, her retort indicated Mama was alive. Or maybe that’s what Lisbeth was choosing to tell herself? The alternative sucked the air from her chest. She wanted to snatch the spindly slave girl and shake her until she spilled every detail of Mama’s return to that awful man.