Healer of Carthage

by Lynne Gentry

  “Were these assignments political in nature?”

  “Yes … and no. Acquiring governmental permission to excavate in some countries often requires more effort than raising money.”

  “So you understand politics? When to speak and when to keep silent?”

  “I’m not good at it.”

  “Obviously. Or you would have chosen to tell me about the feverish child stashed in my shed.”

  “Sorry about that. But I couldn’t leave her.” Lisbeth felt her cheeks heat under his scrutiny. “I don’t know how much leverage this information will give you in this little election you intend to win, but if drastic measures aren’t taken immediately, the sickness in the slum district will spread. Without proper vaccinations, many will die.”

  Cyprian’s eyes bored deeply into hers. “Who are you?”

  “Lisbeth … of Dallas.”

  “I know who you claim to be, but I want to know who you really are. Where did you come from? If you’re from around here, how did you and your mother become separated? Why were you not sold with Magdalena?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “These words you use. Digs. Excavate. Vaccinations.” Cyprian turned his face back to the sea, as if the answers he sought lurked beneath the glittering waves. “You speak of things that make no sense. As if you come from another world. Who are you?”

  “A doctor.” The word rolled off her tongue with surprising ease. “Like my mother.” Lisbeth gripped the railing, wanting to tell him everything. Spill the whole crazy story. But how could she explain the time-travel thing when she didn’t understand it completely herself? “So, what next?”

  The muscle in his jaw tensed. “We attend the arena games, announce our engagement, and pray Aspasius will not smell the stink on our story.”

  “I’ll tell you the rest of my story someday.”

  He held up his hands. “I know enough to know you cannot be trusted.” Cyprian started toward the house and stopped. “The child will be safe here.”

  The flicker of compassion in his eyes disarmed her. “Thank you.”

  “Rest,” he said. “The next few days will change our lives.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  AWAKENED WITH the rise of the sun, Lisbeth stood naked before the bathroom mirror. Ruth circled, eyeing her with the same triaging gaze Cyprian had used upon her in the moonlight.

  “Your first public appearance as Cyprian’s future wife must be believable.” She fingered the chunk of amethyst resting in the suprasternal notch of her neck. “No one can suspect that the most respected advocate in Carthage plans to marry a slave. Everything about you must change. Including the ring upon your finger.” Ruth held out her hand. She’d never asked about Craig’s engagement ring, and it was a good thing because Lisbeth didn’t know exactly what she would say. She slipped it off and dropped the diamond into Ruth’s palm.

  Lisbeth eyed the pile of beauty products, grooming tools, and clothing spread around the large bath. Hospital scrubs, no makeup, and hair pulled into a ponytail usually worked for her. That last round of playing dress-up with Ruth had been a nightmare experience. “Why can’t I just wear a veil over my whole face?”

  “I’ve thought about that, but obvious beauty should silence any inquiries into your pedigree.” Ruth clapped her hands, and within seconds, a team of servants closed in. “Dunk her.”

  Lisbeth gripped the tiled edge of the tub as Naomi dragged a strigil over the length of both arms, sanding away the top layer of her skin with each swipe. “I’ve seen surgical nurses who were not anywhere near this thorough in preparing patients for the OR.”

  “Whining does not become a lady.” Ruth herded her from the hot water, insisting she plunge into the frigid cooling tub. Even though the day was already warm, Lisbeth could only tolerate the icy water for a few minutes. She scrambled out, and Ruth pointed to the massage table. Shivering, Lisbeth watched Naomi pour a puddle of golden oil into her palm.

  “You must recline, my lady.”

  Lisbeth climbed aboard the marble slab. For the next thirty minutes, Naomi slathered floral-scented lotion neck to toe in vigorous, relaxing strokes. Slippery as a seal, it took all the concentration Lisbeth could muster to slither off the table somewhat gracefully and follow Ruth to the styling chair.

  After enduring several applications of some kind of plant-based hair dye that smelled of damp clay, Lisbeth bolted for the door. Ruth cut her off, sent her back to the styling chair, and continued the torture. A towering hair arrangement was held in place by ivory combs jammed into Lisbeth’s scalp. The tedious application of makeup required the use of stiff little brushes that felt more like acupuncture needles. But it was the long list of instructions Ruth shared during the pleating and repleating of the gossamer folds of her gown that nearly sent Lisbeth in search of Cyprian to renounce her foolish marriage offer.

  “This fabric must have cost as much as a night’s stay in a specialty hospital.” Lisbeth sagged under the weight.

  Ruth let the comment go and continued her lecture. “When Cyprian gives you the signal, you must put your hand in his to announce your engagement to everyone gathered in Aspasius’s box.”

  “Me? I don’t do well speaking to crowds.”

  She clicked the clasp on the brooch at Lisbeth’s shoulder. “You will today.”

  By the time the team stepped back to admire their work, the morning sun had slipped through the window blinds.

  “Perfect,” Ruth declared. “No one will think you anything less than royalty. Should Aspasius claim that Cyprian married a servant, his supporters will take one look at you and doubt his sanity.” Ruth smiled. “Go ahead. Turn around.”

  Lisbeth moved toward the mirror, her feet unsteady in the two-inch cork heels. “My hair is red.”

  “More of a russet really,” Ruth corrected. “More becoming than blond would have been with those stunning emerald eyes of yours, don’t you think?”

  “I liked my old hair.” Bracelets of pounded gold jangled as Lisbeth lifted her hand to touch the weighty dangles clipped to her ears. Heavy lines of kohl rimmed her eyelids, changing the shape of her eyes from round to more of an Asian almond shape. “I don’t even recognize me.” A smile slid across her deep red lips. She fastened a shimmery veil beneath her eyes. “Aspasius won’t know what hit him.”

  30

  THE LITTER TRANSPORTING LISBETH, Cyprian, and Pontius arrived at the large sports complex that claimed the western outskirts of the city. The scale and ingenuity of the newly constructed arena dwarfed Lisbeth’s memories of the deserted and crumbling ruins she and Papa had explored on every supply run. According to Papa’s history lessons, Rome built these colossal structures to intimidate their conquered provinces, to remind them of the obligations that accompany living in the shadow of greatness.

  Cyprian lifted Lisbeth from the perfectly arranged cushions. “Ruth did a remarkable job. If you could guard that tongue of yours, even I wouldn’t recognize you.”

  Lisbeth pondered his backhanded compliment and took it more as a warning than a rebuke as a uniformed escort whisked them and Cyprian’s sidekick, Pontius, past the long line that snaked the entire stone circumference.

  The escort cleared their passage through the vendors hawking everything from jugs of wine to a quick peek beneath the scanty tunics of women tethered to stakes in the ground. Lisbeth started for the hollow-eyed girls, intent to set them free, when Cyprian reeled her in. She held her tongue and followed him through a side door recessed beneath one of the many high, stone arches. They climbed the marble stairs reserved for dignitaries and walked through a system of cool hallways lit by torches stuck in metal claws. A heavy brocade curtain was parted, and blinding sunlight streamed through the giant keyhole archway.

  Shielding her eyes against the brightness, Lisbeth put her other hand through the crook of Cyprian’s arm, grateful for steady and firm muscle beneath her touch. “Ready?”

  “God be with us,” he whispered, th
en clasped his hand over hers, sending a jolt of electricity through Lisbeth’s body. “Pontius, guard our backs.”

  “Count on it, my lord,” the secretary confirmed with a nod.

  Arm in arm, Lisbeth and Cyprian emerged onto a balcony landing. From this premium vantage point, they had a full view of the arena’s multitiered interior. Lisbeth let her gaze roam over the mammoth venue. Excitement hung in the dusty air. All around the stone stadium, people haggled over seats, vying for the shade of the massive retractable roof awning sliding into place via a series of ropes and pulleys manned by sweating slaves. Unlike some of the professional sports arenas she’d visited in Dallas, there wasn’t a blind spot or bad seat in the house.

  The high-rent box seats rimmed the first level and were packed with men and women draped in expensive silks. Servants fanned rich patrons with large ostrich plumes or struggled under large golden trays heaped with refreshments. Even the cheap seats were fast filling up; soon it would be standing room only all around the nosebleed section.

  “There must be twenty thousand people here.” Heat radiated from the touch of Cyprian’s hand on the small of her back.

  “More like forty.” He gave their engraved leather tickets to the armored man guarding the entrance. “This is our box.”

  Lisbeth eyed the crowded booth. On a raised platform at the back of the box, Aspasius roosted on a golden, throne-like chair, a little king of his own making. To her great relief, Mama sat beside him. Her pale face was framed by a green veil draped over her hair. Her arm hung limp in a sling of a matching fabric. Lisbeth could tell from the way Mama blinked back tears that she’d immediately recognized her. So much for Ruth’s extreme makeover.

  Lisbeth stepped back, running into Cyprian’s unmovable form. “Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea,” she said between the gritted teeth of a fake smile.

  “Too late for second thoughts.” Cyprian nudged her forward. “Let the games begin.”

  If it weren’t for the possibility that contracting the measles would kill her brother and most likely Aspasius would eventually kill Mama, she wouldn’t have launched this charade, let alone ever put herself within easy reach of the man who’d raped her mother. The proconsul lifted his chin in greeting.

  “Let’s not keep the evil brute waiting,” Lisbeth said without moving her lips. She stepped into the box. Taking a moment to scan the area for three empty seats, she became fully aware of Cyprian’s breath upon her neck and the need to be as inconspicuous as possible. “Are those seats taken?” she asked a plump man spitting grape seeds into a golden chalice.

  The man aimed a seed at her feet and elbowed the knobby-kneed man lounging in the next seat. Ignoring her question, he said, “Who’s the beauty, Cyprian?”

  The thin man rose and gave a little bow in Lisbeth’s direction. “I believe Cyprian took my advice.”

  “That I did, dear Sergy,” Cyprian said, a smile making his patrician face even more handsome in the morning sun. “May I present my distant cousin, Lisbeth of Dallas.”

  “Dallas?” Sergy’s eyes narrowed. “A province I’m not familiar with.”

  “The desert hinterlands,” Cyprian explained with the ease of a seasoned politician.

  “If only I’d had such a cousin.” The bony man’s red-rimmed eyes slithered over Lisbeth’s body. “Perhaps I’ll stay for the wedding and help you carry your prize to the bridal chamber.”

  “I’ll not risk being thrown over for you.” Cyprian had easily smoothed her entry into the upper crust with a quick comeback that did not surprise her, but his hearty laugh was an ability he’d been keeping secret. “Come, my darling. Sergia was quite the ladies’ man before the lovely Bellona hung a noose about his scrawny neck. Nevertheless, I’m not certain his reformation is complete.” He urged her on. “Let me seat you a safe distance from my competition.”

  Aspasius waved them toward him, indicating they should join him and Mama on the raised seating. Standing behind the proconsul was a man with a wax tablet in hand and stylus poised, prepared for the careful keeping of kills in the arena, no doubt. Hopefully, she would not be added to his tally by day’s end.

  Feeling claustrophobic and desperate for air, Lisbeth inched past Cyprian’s friends. Sweat beaded on Sergia’s forehead, and a feverish blush pinked his cheeks. Although the day was exceptionally warm, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was ill. She gave him one last look. Probably just an overheated flush. She had to get a handle on her jumpy nerves.

  Lisbeth eyeballed the arena. Armored soldiers guarded each of the eighty exits. Fear of exposing her identity before she accomplished her mission was the only thing anchoring her to this dreadful spot. Lisbeth gathered her skirts and climbed the steps, averting her eyes from Mama in case the terror ripping through her entire body somehow escaped her kohl eyeliner. The cork heels and uneven stones made her ascent clumsy. Twice she nearly landed on her face. So much for trying to pass herself off as a lady. She was a sow’s ear in a silk purse, as Nigel used to say.

  Aspasius shielded his eyes. “Careful, my dear.” His unnerving gaze remained fixed upon her as he spoke to Cyprian. “Pray tell, wherever did you find the enchanting trinket dangling on your arm, old friend?”

  “She is the match my father made for me years ago, the daughter of my wealthy cousin who controls the desert passage through the Cave of the Swimmers.”

  Lisbeth’s legs buckled. Mama gasped.

  “Are you well, my love?” Cyprian’s arm quickly wrapped her waist. “Pontius, fetch a cup of wine.”

  What did Cyprian know about her cave? She waved off the refreshments. “It’s just the heat.”

  “A desert flower that wilts in the heat.” Aspasius resumed the same beady-eyed examination she’d suffered at the slave block. Something in his gaze seemed to border on recognition. “This one’s far too fragile for such a harsh life.”

  “Oh, but I’m not.” Lisbeth flinched at Cyprian’s tightened grip about her middle. “I mean, the desert has taught me to hold my own, sir.”

  “Fragile, yet hearty.” Aspasius held out his hand, and immediately a jeweled chalice was placed within his grasp. “You remind me of someone.” He glanced keenly from her to Mama. “Does she remind you of someone, Magdalena?”

  “Not anyone of recent memory, my lord.” Mama raised her fan to cover her trembling lips, but her eyes telegraphed a clear message of warning. “Are you looking forward to the games, my lady?”

  Screams of the big cats pacing the cages below the arena shredded the air. Papa’s history lessons had included tales of aristocrats who educated their children by dragging them to the games. Someone qualified to marry a man like Cyprian would no doubt have many arena experiences to her credit, even if she came from a less civilized region. She mustn’t fail in this answer. She must compose herself. Act natural … as any twenty-first-century woman would if she were caught in the third century.

  Lisbeth anchored her gaze in her mother’s and felt a surge of confidence. “I’m eager to experience all the wonders of Carthage, but even more excited to share our good news.”

  “News?” Mama’s voice carried the fear Lisbeth had seen on her face.

  Aspasius leaned forward. “What news?”

  Cyprian pulled her tight against him. “It can wait until the intermission, my love.”

  “But I’m just so anxious to share our plans.” She’d irritated him by forcing him to accept her offer of marriage, pushed him beyond what his high moral ground normally tolerated, but Cyprian wouldn’t expose her. Truth be told, he and his little band of followers needed this deception to work as badly as she did. She would express her appreciation by imitating his strange customs. She searched for Cyprian’s hand, then intertwined her fingers with his. “Please, my love. May I?”

  His palm was damp in hers, but he did not withdraw. “What makes you happy makes me happy.”

  Lisbeth summoned her best smile. Now that she had the floor, she had no choice but to claim it, to appear more comforta
ble than she felt with forty thousand pairs of eyes staring at her. She announced over the din, “I have agreed to become the bride of the honorable Cyprianus Thascius at the next full moon.”

  All ears within hearing turned toward her. The slaves paused midservice. Even the caged cats ceased their roaring.

  Mama lowered her fan. “That’s less than a week from today.”

  “Show us the ring,” Aspasius demanded.

  “My jeweler is designing something special. Something worthy of a woman so … beautiful.” Cyprian lifted their clasped hands to his lips. “Something that ensures Lisbeth of Dallas will always be mine.”

  Lisbeth pecked his cheek with a light kiss, grateful for Ruth’s foresight to confiscate Craig’s ring and spare their ruse another complication. “Oh, but I’ve been yours from the start.”

  IF MARRYING well equaled success in public life, Cyprian felt certain Lisbeth’s disastrous introduction into the patrician world had just sealed his doom. She’d blurted out information at inappropriate times, moved about as if she wore a bedsheet, and displayed a surprisingly faint constitution at the mention of some faraway cave. Courtship was a heartless business under the best of circumstances. This knot in the pit of his stomach testified to his failure to fully weigh the pros and cons of trying to pull off a politically advantageous marriage with someone ill prepared for the task. A mistake he must quickly rectify before she ruined them both.

  “Come, my love, we mustn’t keep the proconsul from his official duties,” Cyprian said, threading his arm around his intended’s thin waist to usher her from the royal dais, but she seemed to have grown roots. Planted and stubborn, with the same determined manner she’d exhibited while attending the sick boys.

  “Tell of when you first set eyes on this beauty.” A dubious smirk curled Aspasius’s lips. “I’ve time to hear of your first meeting before the start trumpets.”

  “Our meeting?” The stink of Felicissimus’s little slave cell rose in Cyprian’s memory, a stench he feared Aspasius’s overheightened senses might catch wind of should he be allowed to get too close to Lisbeth. “Well, I …”