Healer of Carthage (27 page)

Lisbeth contemplated how to proceed. “So tell me about Sergia.”

“Sergy? He’s a friend.”

“Your friend could have the fever.”

Cyprian sat up. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“What would you say if I told you the Cave of the Swimmers does exist?”

“I don’t understand how a baseless legend has anything to do with keeping the health of my friend from me.”

“What would you say if I told you that years from now a simple vaccination will eradicate this fever?”

In the flickering torchlight she could see his scowl. “I would add this unfounded claim to your ever-growing list.” He asked for no further explanations, and she was too upset about the day’s slaughter and his nonchalant dismissal of her character to offer answers he didn’t deserve.

She’d made the mistake of thinking a heat-filled kiss and a couple of tears in his eyes meant she could trust him with the truth. Cyprian was a third-century Roman. She was a twenty-first-century woman. She would not make the mistake of forgetting the vast difference between their worlds again.

Neither said another word on the ride home. When they arrived, Lisbeth retired to her quarters and shut the door with a resolved click. She lifted an exquisite urn and poured water into a bowl, determined to wash away the stench of innocent blood. But when she looked into the hammered brass mirror, shame flushed her cheeks.

She’d sat mute while lions ripped apart human beings. One more blemish on her record. She didn’t deserve to be clean. She’d seen doctors who’d worked among the ill so long they’d lost their empathy, their compassion, their ability to relate to pain or the tremendous fear that accompanied a patient’s not knowing. Just a few short months in the medical system, and the same had happened to her. She’d discounted the concerns of Abra’s mother, hadn’t taken the time to sympathize, and totally missed the proper diagnosis. A wrong she would never be able to right.

Was she traveling the same slippery slope of apathy again? Had she become as calloused as the Roman barbarian she’d agreed to marry?

She slid between the luxurious sheets and sank into a fitful slumber. Gory images of hungry lions carrying away mothers as their children cried were intertwined with snapshots of lacy fingers that beckoned her to the cave.

“Not fair!” Lisbeth bolted upright, soaked in sweat. It took a moment for reality to register. She wrapped her arms around herself, holding tight to her damp gown.

Moonlight streamed through the shutter slats. Life wasn’t fair on so many levels. She’d fought against the injustice since the day her mother disappeared, sought to make sense of a senseless world. Yet a hole too big to fill remained.

Maybe trying to fix everything was going at this problem all wrong. She’d treat one symptom at a time, and the first treatment could not wait for the dawn.

THE DISPERSING
crowd jostled Felicissimus as he watched Cyprian’s litter disappear into the night. How could one stand in the middle of a throng, yet feel so very much alone? His advice on whom Cyprian should marry had obviously been ignored, and now Cyprian placed his loyalties to a slave woman far above him. He’d patiently overlooked Cyprian’s obvious disdain for the way he earned a living and supported his family in the past, even as he risked his own livelihood in their plot to foil Aspasius. But nothing was ever going to change; he saw that clearly now. He’d been a fool to believe his simple baptismal dunking in a rich man’s fount had made them equals. Nothing bridged the gap between rich and poor, slave and free, not even the Messiah’s blood. Once Cyprian was elected to real power, how long before he forgot his partnership in their righteous crime? Or worse, somehow managed to lay all the blame on the slave trader who trolled the back alleys?

Felicissimus checked the money pouch on his belt. Empty as the mouths he had to feed. He hiked his tunic and set out to find some real friends.

32

W
ITH THE PATIENCE OF
one who’d spent his life waiting in the wings, Pytros settled into the darkened corner of the pub. The back-alley bar was crowded with quarry workers stumbling home from the games and determined to spend the last of their meager paychecks. Pytros nursed a mug of bitter ale and focused his attention on the ribald little man dressed in a urine-colored tunic. From the pout clouding the plebeian’s filthy face, his conversation with the lofty Cyprian had not gone well.

Pytros had hardly been able to contain his joy when he’d spotted his master’s most hated enemies visiting outside the arena. Golden opportunities to impress his owner seldom came the way of an overworked and underappreciated scribe. Keeping a sharp eye on the whereabouts of his target, Pytros had lagged behind the royal litter, ditched the proconsul’s entourage in the traffic crush, and then trailed Felicissimus to this dank plebeian water hole.

Aspasius rarely sent for him anymore. If his little mission proved fruitful, his master would not only cast Magdalena from his bed but also realize that his faithful scribe was as cunning as he was beautiful.

Felicissimus tossed back one drink after another, totally unaware Pytros waited, coiled like a snake. Each round loosened the slave trader’s jaw a bit more. When his legs became less and less
steady, Pytros knew the opportune time had come. He ordered a jug of the best wine delivered to the man who could help him rid Carthage of Cyprian and his little wench. Aspasius would be so grateful that he’d gladly shove Magdalena aside as his favored one.

“What’s this?” Felicissimus took the crock from the snaggletoothed barmaid whose tight girdle squeezed her only assets into plain view. She whispered something in the slave trader’s ear and pointed toward the corner.

Pytros raised his glass and offered the smile of one certain his risky investment was about to pay off.

33

I
SHOWED THE AMBASSADOR WHO
rules this province!” Aspasius bellowed as he paced his office. “Eliminating the rabble that thumb their noses at the gods of the empire is doing the emperor a great service. Left to their own devices”—he charged past Magdalena as if she didn’t exist, yet refused to explain why he’d yanked her from a sound sleep—“every law would be in jeopardy. Sergia has no idea what it takes to maintain peace on the frontier. I’ve half a mind to write Decius myself. Tell him there’s a traitor on his staff.”

“There’s still time to influence the ambassador’s report,” Magdalena said with a yawn. “I’m certain he’ll extend his stay long enough to include the wedding of his old school friend Cyprianus Thascius.”

“If I do not secure my tenure for another year, how will I turn things around?”

Always the consummate politician, even with her. Aspasius sounded as if he actually cared for the welfare of the poor in the tenements, the tiny businessmen trying to eke out enough to pay exorbitant tax bills and put bread on empty tables, and yet she knew his concern included only three things: Himself. His desire to impress the throne. His power.

“The bodies piled along the tenement avenues nearly did
Sergia in.” Aspasius unfastened his girdle and let the weight clatter to the floor.

Why had it taken him so long to come to bed? She’d counted herself blessed when Pytros first burst in and Aspasius had dismissed her, but that was hours ago. What had Pytros said to him?

“Obviously, the boy does not have the strong stomach required to reshape a neglected barbarian province.”

“Arranging burials outside the city walls would remove the stench and promote better health of—”

“Silence your prattling, woman,” he ordered. “The emperor has far more pressing problems than the disposal of a few dead quarry workers in Carthage.”

“I’m sure the emperor will enjoy the profit that comes from having his proconsuls declare citizens traitors in order to confiscate their property?”

“Betray the imperium and forfeit everything.” Aspasius wrapped his arm around her waist and slammed her against his belly, the force wrenching her arm from its sling. “It is the law.” Traces of the expensive Falerian served in his arena box still laced his breath. “The very same law that allows me to do as I please with you.”

“Why waste your effort?” Pain shot the length of her arm. “I’ve nothing of value.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” He leaned in close and nipped her earlobe with his razor-sharp teeth. “Those loyal to me were only too happy to divulge your secret.”

Her breath caught. Was everything finally on the table? Did Aspasius know the truth about Lisbeth? Had he learned of Laurentius? And even more importantly, had he discovered she’d been working behind his back since she arrived?

“Who said I have secrets?” She allowed her free hand to discreetly locate her pocket and the dagger she kept there.
Determined to drive the scalpel-sharp blade deep into his heart, she grabbed the knife hilt and moved in a flash.

But he caught her hand. “Where is it?” He twisted her arm until she released her weapon. “Tell me where you hide your secrets, and I may let you live.”

34

A
ND WHERE DO YOU
think you’re going?” Cyprian’s voice stopped Lisbeth with the knob of the atrium door within her reach.

“I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that.” She turned to see her soon-to-be husband standing in a puddle of silvery light, his arms folded while he waited for some type of believable explanation.
It takes a confident man to pull off wearing a dress with such masculine ease.
The liquid pool of his eyes drew her in, and for a foolish moment she wondered about the man beneath the toga. The feel of golden flesh beneath her touch. She rummaged through her sack and drew out an empty vial. “I’m headed to the market.” His brows raised but he did not move, so she rambled on like some sort of blabbering schoolgirl. “For more shampoo. Something to tame these curls for the wedding.”

“At this hour?” He took a step closer, the scent of him reaching her nostrils, something salty and windblown, as if he’d been on the beach. “Only the servants that empty the chamber pots upon the streets are up before the sun.”

“Okay. You caught me.” She wrapped both hands around the strap on her sack. “But even if you tie me to the bed, I’ll figure out a way to go.”

“Where?”

“To get my brother.”

He pondered her admission with an appraising look that made her feel as if she’d just taken the witness stand. “Isn’t getting Laurentius away from the proconsul the reason we’re in this marriage mess?”

“Did you see what that monster is capable of today? I’d snatch my mother away, too, if I could, but I know we can’t tip our hand to Aspasius just yet.” A surprising lump rose in her throat. “The proconsul doesn’t know about my brother. He can’t ever find out about Laurentius.”

Cyprian grabbed his cloak from the peg beside the door. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I don’t need
your
permission.”

Matching his pace step for step, she followed Cyprian through the dark and deserted streets, frustrated that he’d dismissed her as if she couldn’t handle things on her own. “I think you should go back,” she whispered. “What if we run into patrols?”

“Then my protection and my position might save your neck, since it is well past curfew.”

“What if someone catches you beneath the palace? No telling what Aspasius would do.”

He stopped and stared at her. “And what do you think the proconsul will do with the trespassing betrothed of his chief solicitor?” Cyprian raised her hood to cover the curls tumbling down her back. “Your hair will not stay red forever. If you get caught and are forced to stay at the palace for a prolonged period of time, Aspasius will figure out who you are soon enough, and when he does there’s a good chance your head and shoulders will part company.”

She raised her palms in a sign of surrender. “Okay, I get the beheading thing.”

“Are we done arguing about whether or not I’m coming along?”

“As you so eloquently pointed out,
you
don’t need
my
permission.”

They hurried past the abandoned aqueduct construction site near the tenements. According to Cyprian, the ring of chisels had not been heard on the soaring arches of the arcade bridges in over a year. She could tell from the bite in his comment that this injustice irritated him as much as it did her.

Several blocks later, they climbed the steep street leading to the palace, the tall patrol tower pinking in the glow of the Mediterranean sunrise. At the hill’s crest, she expected Cyprian to turn the lead over to her, but instead he stealthily skirted the gate and led them to the same hidden opening she and Tabari had used.

The rhythmic plink of metal studs on cobblestone marched toward them.

“Morning patrols,” Cyprian whispered. He parted the tangle of leaves, pushed her inside the perimeter, then quickly fell in behind her.

Before she could start for the steps, he clapped a firm hand over her mouth and pressed her back to the wall. Sandwiched between his taut body and the hard stone, Lisbeth prayed he couldn’t feel her heart beating against her chest. Heat leapt between them, igniting all sorts of feelings Lisbeth didn’t want to deal with at this very moment in time.

His eyes met hers, then swept over her face. Had her eyeliner smeared? Did the curls tumbling from the holder make her look the tomboy that she was? Her questions dissolved in the dizzying intensity of danger swirling in her belly. She was anything but safe. Not so much from the patrols, but from the powerful man whose arms squeezed away the last of her defenses.

Soldiers stopped on the opposite side of the wall.
They bragged about their brothel conquests, taking their time to complete their patrol as if they had all night. Despite the danger of making even the slightest of sounds and giving them both away, she couldn’t help but relax in Cyprian’s hold, her body willingly melding to the contours of his. Neither of them breathed as they listened to the soldiers name the best hookers and argue over where to find the cheapest rates. She longed to probe the depths of Cyprian’s alert eyes, to know how many conquests he could boast. From his quickened breathing, she wondered if he was thinking she’d soon become an additional notch on his belt.