by Lynne Gentry
“It’s not a small procedure.” Lisbeth let her exasperation show.
“The Greek could open and close in less than thirty minutes,” Mama said confidently.
Screams of the wildcats held in adjoining cells echoed in the dark tunnel. Lisbeth knew exactly how these helpless creatures felt. Trapped against their will, yet forced to perform as if they had options.
“Lord, help me not to regret this.” Lisbeth unclasped her cloak and spread it on the floor beside Kardide.
Papa and Cyprian helped her gently roll the patient into a supine position. After wadding Cyprian’s cloak to elevate Kardide’s head slightly, she sent him to fetch Mama’s medical bag.
Through the metal door, Lisbeth could hear Brutus voicing his reluctance to relinquish care of the prisoners or the evidence bag until Cyprian agreed to let him watch the procedure. Brutus lit another torch and joined the ranks of the curious prisoners.
Feeling as if the stone walls were closing in, Lisbeth dug through her mother’s tools: a couple of scalpels, a retractor, and a contraption that resembled a crude catheter. Just when she was about to call an end to Mama’s game of chicken for lack of a drill, Lisbeth’s hand came across a small wooden box buried beneath some fresh bandages. Inside, she found the infamous Greek drill wrapped in pristine white linen. The medieval-looking skull punch was no more than a polished metal shaft with a sharp, arrowhead-shaped tip and an attached horizontal crossbeam the size of a number two pencil.
Sheer panic shuddering through her, Lisbeth held it up. “Please tell me this isn’t it.”
“It’s a brilliant design, don’t you think?” Her mother motioned her closer, tilting her head so she could examine the tool with her good eye. She proceeded to tout the advantages of the lance’s rounded edges and demonstrate via air gestures how to twist the attached crossbeam like a wine corkscrew. “Do beware of the danger of penetrating the dura.”
“If by some miracle Kardide lives through this torture,” Lisbeth said, nearly choking on the fact that she was actually discussing opening a woman’s skull with a tent stake, “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how we so thoughtfully lessened her risk of contracting meningitis by protecting her dura.”
Mama waved off Lisbeth’s sarcasm. “In my bag, you’ll find the flask of the sterile wash we made for Aspasius. . . .” Sorrow trailed her unfinished statement. She turned to Papa. “I’m so sorry about everything, Lawrence.”
He gently brushed her lip with his finger. “None of that matters now.”
Lisbeth placed the drill back in the box and snapped it shut. “This is crazy.”
“If you can’t do it, perhaps Brutus would find it in his heart to free her long enough to set her up over here and I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have the strength to turn the twist tie on a bread wrapper, let alone drill through bone.” Lisbeth laid her palm on Magdalena’s forehead. “Besides, I think you have fever.”
Mama removed her hand. “Then we have reached a serious conundrum, haven’t we?” She let her head rest upon Papa’s shoulder. “Do nothing and let nature take its course. Or do what we can and let God steady our hands.” They both knew Mama was referring to the long night of useless surgery they’d performed on the proconsul. “This time I’ll concede. The final decision is yours, doctor.”
“In that case, I want to go on record as saying this is a bad idea.” Lisbeth looked around at all of the expectant eyes staring at her. Cyprian, Papa, Mama, even the other prisoners who’d stopped their crying out and put their own needs aside: all of them waited for her to pull some kind of a miracle out of a hat. Patients and their families did this to her all the time—expected her to fix broken bodies as easily as a mechanic repaired a car.
Which was more humane? Letting Kardide drift peacefully into the next life or doing a medieval procedure that would probably kill her? And if the surgery didn’t do in the old woman, convalescing in a filthy dungeon would. “You know she’ll never be able to drive after this, right?”
Mama laughed out loud. “It’s a chance I’m sure Kardide would be willing to take.”
The faces of Cyprian and Brutus scrunched in confusion.
She may not be the fearless surgeon her mother was, but neither could she stand by and do nothing. Lisbeth let out a long sigh. She stuffed her hand inside the bag in search of Mama’s homemade disinfectant and nicked her finger. “Ouch.”
“What is it?” Cyprian asked from his place at Kardide’s head.
Lisbeth drew her finger to her mouth and closed the little gash with pressure from her teeth while she peered into the bag. A stainless steel bone saw.
Oh, no.
Her gaze darted to Mama, who was casting a one-eyed plea for silence. But then they didn’t need to discuss how her mother came into possession of a twenty-first-century bone saw. They both knew exactly how this modern tool had gotten mixed in with her mother’s primitive instruments. It was the saw Lisbeth had loaned her mother to amputate the gangrenous leg of Aspasius Paternus. Even more damning, the serrated blade was smeared with dried blood.
“Nothing.” Lisbeth wheeled and spoke to the guard. “Brutus, we need every torch.”
The moment Brutus left to get more light, Lisbeth turned her back to everyone and slipped the damning piece of evidence into her bag. By the time the guard returned, Lisbeth had used a little bit of Mama’s sterile wash on her finger wound, applied a Band-Aid, and was rechecking Kardide’s pupils as she and Mama discussed the hematoma’s position. Without a CT scan she could never know with 100 percent certainty, but based on Kardide’s arm weakness on the right and her blown pupil on the left, the most likely spot would be under the left temporal bone in the region of the middle meningeal artery.
Lisbeth marked the target area with her index finger. “Okay, now what?”
“Once you remove the bandage, measure two finger widths anterior to the tragus of the ear and then three finger widths above the tragus of the ear and you will have located the perfect spot,” Mama instructed.
Lisbeth gloved up and offered Cyprian a pair. “Our patient’s unconscious for now, but God forbid she wakes up during the procedure. I’ll need you to hold her head very still.”
Cyprian nodded and Lisbeth could almost see him turning green at the possibility of seeing so much blood.
“Papa, bring that extra torch in closer.” Lisbeth unwrapped Kardide’s head. To the naked eye, the injury appeared to be little more than a glancing blow that had scuffed the surface of the scalp. She shaved away a strip of Kardide’s hair with a disposable razor she’d thrown in her bag at the last minute and took the makeshift measurements with her fingers.
Lisbeth retrieved a bottle of Betadine from her medical kit and a mask. “Cyprian, squirt this on the operative site and then douse the scalpel and drill.” Her fingers brushed his and she hoped he could tell how grateful she was to have his help. She stretched her fingers. “Lord, I ask that you guide my hands.”
“I’ve got a god right here.” Brutus pulled a small stone statue from his pocket. Sweat poured out from beneath his helmet and his cheeks were flush. “Want to pray to it too?”
“No need. Perhaps you should step out for air, Brutus.”
He shook his head. “Soldiers are used to blood.”
“Stand back then.” Lisbeth placed her right hand on Kardide’s head. Memories all too fresh of the last surgery she and Mama had performed together washed over her. Lord, help me. She tightened her grip on the scalpel and glanced over her mask at Cyprian, whose face was dangerously pale. “Ready?”
He gulped and nodded. “God, don’t let her wake up.”
“Amen,” Lisbeth muttered.
She sliced an incision along the curve of Kardide’s head.
“Holy mother of Juno.” Brutus’s sword clattered across the pavers, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled in a heap.
“Lawrence, will you remove the helmet from our brave soldier and elevate his feet so Lisbeth can keep going?”
Mama said, coughing.
Lisbeth didn’t like the dry, raspy sound of her mother’s cough, but there wasn’t much she could do while in the middle of punching a hole in someone’s skull. Hand shaking, she took up the drill.
“Whatever you do, once you start do not stop until you break through.” Mama had stretched her chain to its limit and then strained against the iron links until she was nearly in Lisbeth’s operating theater.
Sweat dripped from Lisbeth’s forehead and she remembered the exertion it had taken for her mother to saw through the bone of Aspasius’s leg with a first-class bone saw. How could she tap a skull with third-rate equipment?
Just when she thought her wrist would give out, Lisbeth felt the drill do its work, then disengage. An ominous gurgle was followed by the hiss of air bubbles as blood filled the hole, which was quickly followed by Lisbeth’s sigh of relief. “I can’t believe this worked.”
Using one of Mama’s blunt hooks she quickly removed a few bone fragments, then irrigated the burr hole with homemade disinfectant until the fluid ran clear. She inserted plastic tubing attached to a suction bulb drain she’d thrown in her backpack on a whim and stitched the scalp flap closed around the tube as quickly as possible.
“Drain needs to stay in place at least three days. I’ll leave a clean scarf to cover it up and some antibiotics for when she wakes and can swallow, but you’ll still have to watch for infection.” Lisbeth leaned back on her heels and admired the neat baseball-seam stitches of Kardide’s new scar. “Then we shall see if the results justify the treatment.”
“Thanks to you, she’ll only have a headache when she wakes up,” Mama said proudly.
“If she regains consciousness. The next two hours are critical.” Lisbeth rose, bent over, placed her hands on her knees, and let the rush of blood to her head sweep away the terror of the past thirty minutes.
Cyprian snapped off his gloves and came around and rubbed her back. “You did the best you could. The rest is up to God.”
Tempting as it was to hang her head until she passed out, she had other patients. From the corner of her eye she caught a glance of Papa dragging Brutus upright. “How’s your patient?”
“Still a little woozy, but not so green.”
The guard’s hair was plastered to his head, and his eyes were wild. “My keys.” Brutus searched the dirty floor with his hands. “Where are my keys?”
“On your belt, man,” Cyprian said.
Brutus’s hand flew to his waist. When he discovered his keys had not been touched, Lisbeth’s first thought was how Maggie would have enjoyed capturing the surprise on his face with her camera.
“You did not escape?”
“We are all still here,” Papa assured him.
Brutus peered tentatively around Papa’s shoulder. “And the woman?”
“She’s going to live,” Mama said, then promptly threw up on the soldier’s boots.
17
MAGDALENA?” PAPA LEFT BRUTUS swaying over his soiled shoes and rushed to Mama’s side. “Lisbeth, do something. She’s not well.”
“I’m fine, Lawrence.” Mama wiped her mouth. “It’s just the flu.”
Papa drew her tight. “You’re shaking.”
Lisbeth vaulted across the aisle. “Cyprian, take Brutus out of here.” She tossed him a cylinder of foaming hand disinfectant she’d pulled from her bag. “Clean his shoes carefully, then rub this all over your hands.” She helped Papa lean her mother against the wall. After conducting a thorough examination, Lisbeth sat back on her heels. Her mother’s eyes begged her not to say what they both knew to be true. “You know it’s typhoid, right?” She hated blowing Mama’s valiant attempt to handle this herself, but there was no improvising on this one.
“You don’t know that.” A dry cough launched her mother’s body into a convulsion that sounded as if her insides were being ripped out.
Lisbeth ticked off the symptoms: “Horrible cough. Temperature. Chills. A smattering of red spots on your chest. No booster since you arrived in Carthage, and more important, the surgery you performed a few days ago on Diona Cicero’s perforated bowels exposed you to her bacteria. Even without the blood work, I can say ‘typhoid’ with more confidence than you said ‘epidural hematoma’ for Kardide.” Lisbeth bent close to place a white tablet on her mother’s tongue, the yeasty smell rising from her mother’s skin eliminating any doubt. “I brought some Cipro.”
Mama waved her away. “Save it for the others.”
“Papa’s right. Maggie inherited her stubborn streak from you.”
“Leave me,” Mama said, coughing. “Find your girl and go home.”
Papa pressed his lips to Mama’s forehead. “We’re not going anywhere without you.”
“He’s right,” Lisbeth said.
“You’ll have no choice.” Magdalena turned to Cyprian, who’d just returned from escorting Brutus out into the fresh air. “Tell them what happens to one accused of murdering the proconsul.”
Cyprian knelt between them. “Her case will be brought before the local praetor. The prosecutor and I will be given the opportunity to frame the issues.”
“You?” Lisbeth lowered her voice. “You can’t go before the authorities. You’re a wanted man.”
“Not anymore,” he whispered back. “Thanks to Maggie, I found the note your mother sent with you the night of your escape. This codicil to Aspasius’s will grants me amnesty.”
“I know what it says, but the wanted posters went up after the proconsul signed Mama’s ultimatum. Aspasius’s deathbed decree isn’t worth the paper it was written on.”
“A debatable technicality . . . a debate I intend to win, mind you,” Cyprian said. “Don’t look doubtful, you know I can be very persuasive when I want.” He leaned over and kissed Lisbeth. “I cannot let this innocent woman go without representation.”
The warmth of his lips upon hers cooled quickly. Winning as he could be, Lisbeth knew where this decision would lead. “When are you doing this fool thing?”
He signaled to be careful they were not being overheard. “God willing, I plan to speak to the praetor tomorrow.”
“And ask him what?”
“To reinstate my law privileges.”
“Can he do that?”
“He has to go before the Senate with my request.”
Cyprian’s previous failure to change the minds of the authorities was a fact Lisbeth could not alter. Those same men who’d voted to exile her husband would not raise a finger to help him now. She’d come to terms with his destiny years ago. Arguing with him was pointless.
“I will not let Maggie watch you do something stupid. Those men will not embrace you.”
“Lisbeth, please.”
She held up her palms. “Since evacuating the prisoners is out of the question, the best I can do for now is distribute typhoid vaccine to the other inmates. Here, take one for yourself.” She pushed the box of blister packs into Cyprian’s hands. To her mother she said, “I’ll leave enough Cipro to last a couple of days. The moment I find Maggie, I’m coming back for you.”
“No, you won’t.” Mama held out her arms. “Look at my hands, Lisbeth. They’ve shriveled into chicken claws. I’m old and tired.”
Lisbeth took her mother’s hands in her own. They were clammy, hot, and fragile as an autumn leaf in her palms. Blue-ridged veins crisscrossed her mother’s knuckles like lines on a faded road map. Each track was a tributary of connected memories: These hands deftly spreading peanut butter on crusty bread without letting a grain of sand get stuck in the mix. These hands massaging shampoo through her tangled curls. And most cherished of her memories . . . these hands gently examining a patient or wielding a scalpel.
“These are not chicken claws. These are the worn hands of Christ.”
Mama pulled free and Lisbeth felt the same rumbling beneath her feet that accompanied the opening of the time portal. “And now it is time for me to go to him.”
Lisbeth could almost taste the iron running
through her mother’s blood, that determined mettle to die by the same selfless standards by which she had lived. “No. Tell her, Papa.”
Her father silently stroked his chin, dragging his finger across the stubble in an irritating back-and-forth rhythm.
“Papa, tell her!”
Her father lifted his chin. “If she can’t go”—he reached inside the collar of his tunic and fished out the leather cord he wore around his neck—“then neither can I.” He removed the ring from the cord and gently slid it onto Mama’s finger. “Your mother and I are staying.” He lifted Mama’s hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. “You go on, Lisbeth. Do what you have to do to keep our little girl safe.”
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.”
“Cyprian,” Papa said. “I’m counting on you to keep my daughter from jeopardizing everyone’s lives.”
18
AT LONG LAST, STREAKS of light peeked through the slats in the bolted shutters. Maggie blew out the oil lamp and dragged the back of her hand across her forehead. On the opposite side of the room, Barek sat on the floor beside Eggie’s bed. Maggie let out an exhausted sigh, picked up the breakfast tray Naomi had delivered without a word, and joined Barek on the floor.
She passed him the cup of warm wine. “Does he sound worse to you?”
Barek shrugged and took the cup. “Maybe a little.” He’d refused to leave her, working as hard as she through the night to keep the vaporizer pot hot.
At first, Maggie hoped Barek’s need to be near her was rooted in something deeper, something closer to the glimmer of interest he’d shown when they were laughing together. But as the hours wore on, and he acted more and more like the churlish guy she remembered, the real reason he refused to go to bed became evident. Her father had put him up to babysitting.
Her disappointment surprised her.
Maggie drew her knees to her chest and silently studied Eggie’s body. With an odd-shaped tepee obscuring him from the waist up, the guy Barek had fished out of the harbor looked like some kind of mythical sea character with human legs. Her hands were itching for her camera. Even if she had it, nothing about a camera would be easy to explain—the flash would freak Barek out and spoil the shaky truce they’d forged.