Healer of Carthage

by Lynne Gentry

  The shaft? Approximately five millimeters in diameter. Kind of big, but the jagged end was narrow and, most importantly, hollow. It might work. Not the perfect solution, but the boy’s distended neck veins and her mother’s preoccupation didn’t leave her a whole lot of choice. She did not want this kid to die.

  “Give me that shaft, Cyprian,” Lisbeth ordered. “Now!”

  “This?” He presented her with the longer portion of the straight reed. “It’s filthy.”

  “Break off the feathers.” She pointed at the healer. “Then rinse the whole thing with whatever she has in that flask.”

  Doubt creased Cyprian’s face. “How will that help?”

  The healer tossed him the flask. “Do what she says!”

  Cyprian doused the serrated end of the hollow reed with a red liquid. “He’s dead.”

  In the space of a few seconds, Lisbeth’s own heart rate had doubled. “He will be if we don’t do something.” Surging adrenaline increased the volume of her self-chatter. “Feel for the clavicle on the affected side.” She located the bony ridge running along the top of the boy’s shoulder. Then she ran her finger along the clavicle until she located the middle between the sterna notch and the bone’s insertion into the shoulder.

  Satisfied she’d located the midclavicular line, Lisbeth proceeded, talking herself through the process. “Run your finger down the midclavicular line, pressing firmly until you locate the second and third rib.” She felt the rigidity of ribs, but just to be doubly sure, she started the whole process again, dragging her fingers slowly and counting out loud like a kindergartner. “Got it.”

  “Good!” Mama shouted over her shoulder. “Now locate the hollow between the second and third rib.”

  Satisfied the indention she’d found was the second intercostal space in the midclavicular line, Lisbeth marked the spot with her left finger. “Without an X-ray, there’s no way to know if he has an injury to his major airway. If it’s worse than we think, this kid will need more than just needle decompression to fix the air leak.”

  “Do it!” Mama ordered.

  Lisbeth held out her right hand. “Give me that shaft.”

  “It’s no use.” Cyprian placed the broken arrow stem in her hand. “Laurentius is with God.”

  “He will be if you don’t get out of my way.” Lisbeth clutched the shaft. Keeping her eyes on the location she’d chosen, Lisbeth placed her thumb over one end of the hollow reed. “Now what?”

  Mama glanced over her shoulder. “Insert the reed at a ninety-degree angle just over the third rib. Aim for bone.”

  “I’m glad he’s unconscious, because this is going to hurt.” Lisbeth took a deep breath and jabbed the sharper end of the shaft through the tight skin on Laurentius’s chest. He didn’t even flinch. “I’ve got bone.”

  “Good. Now walk the shaft over the rib to avoid the artery and nerves that run inferior to each rib.”

  Satisfied she’d cleared the rib, Lisbeth slowly advanced the reed deeper into his flesh, listening for penetration of the pleural.

  Pop.

  “Got it.” She released the seal her thumb had formed over the exposed tip of the shaft. Immediately, air swished out through the reed.

  Laurentius took a deep breath. His eyes fluttered open, muddy green irises with the telltale white Brushfield spots of his syndrome. Lisbeth filled her own lungs in relief.

  “He lives?” Cyprian directed his confusion at Lisbeth. “He lives.” The crowd gasped, then pressed in close.

  “That he does!” Lisbeth whispered into Laurentius’s ear. “Just breathe, buddy.”

  With each completed breath cycle, the left side of Laurentius’s chest slowly expanded, gaining symmetry with the right side.

  Lisbeth rocked back on her heels. Manually manipulating the occlusion, she watched a pinkish glow drive the gray from the boy’s puffy cheeks. “Feel better, buddy?”

  Laurentius put his hand around hers, the one she was using to steady the shaft in his heaving chest. A guttural sound croaked from his small mouth. She made out a “thank you” from his breathy Latin.

  Lisbeth wiped at unexpected tears. “Easy as poking a straw through a plastic lid.” Pleased at how quickly his breathing seemed to be leveling out, she looked to her mother for further instructions. Cyprian, Ruth, and Mama towered over her, their eyes glistening.

  “He lives!” Cyprian knelt beside Laurentius and took his hand. “Good to have you with us again, little man.”

  “Good work, Lisbeth.” Mama’s praise felt like a 14G needle releasing the pent-up anger in Lisbeth’s chest.

  Laurentius struggled to sit up.

  Mama knelt beside him, her hands covered in Barek’s blood. “Stay still, Laurentius.” She addressed the crowd. “Step back, and let her patient get some air.” She found a bone needle in her basket and quickly threaded a coarse string through the tiny hole. She was left-handed, Lisbeth noticed. Like her. “You must lie very still, Laurentius. I’m afraid this will hurt.” She slid the bone needle into the raw flesh and the boy yelped. With a few quick flicks of her wrist she secured the chest tube with a perfect purse-string suture. Mama glanced at Lisbeth. “We make a good team.”

  Before Lisbeth could refute the assumption that they were a team, Cyprian demanded, “Who are you?”

  She had no intention of telling this clod anything. “I guess I’m your whore. You paid for me, remember?”

  Cyprian turned to Magdalena. “She brought someone back from the dead. How can this be?”

  Fear rumbled in the mob, and voices called out, “What is she?”

  Mama smiled. “She is the answer to our prayers.”

  11

  THE PUNGENT ODOR OF cauterized flesh lingered in the atrium long after Barek’s screams dissipated.

  Questions from the crowd poked Caecilianus from the shock of Mama’s claim. He rose from his prayers and, with a pronounced air of authority, repeated Mama’s crazy idea that God had sent another healer. A better healer with new and better ways.

  Lisbeth felt the satisfaction of delivering successful care evaporate as the people pushed in to touch her. She was not their healer. If Mama wanted people to think she was magic, that was her business. Dispensing a few medical tricks here and there had probably kept the woman alive through the years. Although a part of her was grateful to learn her mother was alive, Lisbeth had no intention of mastering two-bit sleights of hand. Mama could stay here and slap Band-Aids on wounds that would never heal, but she was leaving Carthage.

  Getting back in the saddle had not removed her regret, but it had surprised her to learn how much she actually wanted to be a doctor. Not for Mama. Not for Papa. But for herself. Going home to face her mistakes and take care of Papa were the right things to do.

  Cyprian mingled among the excited believers, herding them toward the door. “There’s nothing more any of you can do here tonight. Return to your homes in the cover of darkness. Pray and fast until you receive further word.” He asked Caecilianus to speak a blessing over the agitated group and instructed Naomi to bag the leftover bread for distribution.

  Parents reluctantly gathered their children and circled around the old bishop. After the preacher’s lengthy prayer, families filed through the garden. Naomi doled out bundled scraps as families ducked out the back gate.

  Once the great hall was cleared, only Cyprian, Ruth, Caecilianus, Mama, and the wounded boys remained.

  “Give me your hand, buddy.” Lisbeth wrapped Laurentius’s chubby fingers around the wooden tube. “You must hold this steady. Can you do that for me?”

  Laurentius gave a pained nod, his eyes becoming more aware and following her every move with an unsettling curiosity.

  “Sorry to do this to you, little buddy, but I need to get you upright somehow so that tube can drain.” Lisbeth wrestled Laurentius against the bench, doing her best to achieve a forty-five-degree angle of his torso without dislodging the arrow shaft. “You’re a brave guy.”

  His smile, despite t
he discomfort from moving him, gave her the impression he’d fly to the moon if she issued the order.

  “Wish I had some antibiotics for you, or at least something to take the edge off your pain.” The adrenaline that had powered a jagged reed into this boy’s chest ebbed from Lisbeth’s extremities. Exhaustion, compounded by the fact that so much had happened in such a short amount of time, would soon have its victory. She needed sleep, or a stiff shot of caffeine, to keep up with her mother.

  Hands trembling, Lisbeth fumbled with the excess bandages scattered about the floor. Slipping through the time portal had fried every logical synapse in her body and made her clumsy. She should give herself a break, but if she sat still for even a moment she’d need a crane to get her back on her feet. After all, in the last twenty-four hours she’d been dropped through a time warp, sold as a slave, dressed up and paraded around like a prom Barbie, forced to perform a delicate medical procedure in primitive third-world conditions, and, toughest of all, discovered her long-lost mother was alive. Those thirty-hour ER shifts were cakewalks compared to what she’d been through in Carthage.

  Despite the mental pep talk, her legs had turned to jelly. If Abra’s death had taught her anything it was that exhaustion leads to mistakes. Catching her breath was the right thing to do. She sank beside Laurentius. The steady rise and fall of his chest was thin comfort. He surely had so many other medical issues that things could have just as easily gone the other way—still could at this point. Who was this boy? According to Papa’s history lessons, the Romans abandoned their imperfect children on the bluffs. Yet, here she sat, tending a Down syndrome child who’d survived past infancy. How had he defied history? Who had taken such good care of him? Had her mother’s medical skills kept this boy alive? These questions stirred others.

  Why had Mama been dodging Roman soldiers with two teenage boys? Did she seek help at Cyprian’s mansion, or had she realized these people held her daughter hostage? If so, why did Mama help them instead of trying to save her?

  Finally, and most importantly, had Mama even tried to find a way back, or had she consciously chosen to stay here?

  Lisbeth pried Laurentius’s fingers from the reed. “I’ll spell you, buddy.”

  Somehow she had to maneuver Mama out of earshot of these people so they could talk. Lisbeth finished bandaging the tube in place. Pleased with the rosy bloom in her patient’s cheeks, she let her eyes wander the hall, searching for an exit far from the watchful eyes of servants guarding the front door.

  Cyprian turned to Mama. “You and Laurentius must go as well, Magdalena. We cannot risk Aspasius’s discovery.”

  “Go where?” Indignation sharpened Lisbeth’s voice. “This boy can’t travel.”

  “She’s right. Laurentius can’t jostle that reed.” Mama doused the raw place on Barek’s operative site with a golden liquid that perfumed the damp air with evergreen. “Lisbeth is a … healer. I’m confident she can care for both boys.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lisbeth protested. “Who said I wanted to be in charge of your patients?”

  “The care you offered bears witness to your heart.” Mama’s assumption that a few hours in the same emergency room had made them some sort of medical team did not remove Lisbeth’s angst. Or cancel the doubt taking up residence in Cyprian’s eyes.

  From the way this handsome lawyer so expertly colluded with Felicissimus, Cyprian was a man well trained in the different shades of truth. How long before her bright-eyed captor put two and two together and figured out the true relationship between the healer and his newly purchased slave? Anybody with half a brain could spot the resemblance. Ebony hair. Sea-green eyes. Long, agile fingers. And the same sharp, outspoken mouths.

  “You’re right, Magdalena.” Cyprian turned to Ruth. “Fetch my cloak. I’ll take the healer back to Aspasius myself.”

  “Hold on.” Lisbeth scrambled to her feet and grabbed her mother’s arm. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re willingly going back to that jerk?”

  “I have no choice.” The flicker of indecision was brief, but Lisbeth hadn’t missed it. “You’re more than competent to handle their recovery.”

  “Assuming I have the medical training to handle third-world medicine is not right. In fact, it’s a pitiful excuse for leaving me on call with no attending, no antibiotics, no oxygen, no nurse, and no idea of what to do next!”

  “You need to rig up some sort of suction for that chest tube.”

  “With what?”

  “Be creative.” Mama handed her the flask. “Dribble a few drops over Barek’s shoulder again in four hours.”

  Lisbeth held the vial up to the light from the torch on the wall. “What is this foul stuff?”

  “Oil of cedar.”

  “That’s it?” Anger shredded Lisbeth’s vocal cords. “A bottle of Christmas perfume is the best you’ve got?”

  “It disinfects and promotes healing. You’ll be amazed.” Mama raised the hood of her cloak. “Without removing the shaft, irrigate Laurentius’s sutures.”

  Before Lisbeth could protest, Mama directed her next instruction at Ruth. “Mix a pinch of crushed yarrow leaves into a cup of warm sow’s milk.” As if she intended to cover all her bases before she left, Mama turned and pointed at the stethoscope wrapped around Lisbeth’s neck. “May I?”

  Lisbeth ripped it free. “I want it back.”

  Mama fingered the instrument. “Such a luxury.” She dragged the bell across Barek’s chest, stopping to listen intently to his heart and then his lungs. “Good. Everything sounds good.” She turned and knelt beside Laurentius. “No worries. This won’t hurt, boy.” She completed her exam and stood, a smile spreading across her face. “Excellent work.”

  Lisbeth thrust out her hand. “My stethoscope.”

  Mama dropped the instrument into Lisbeth’s palm. “Your father must be very proud.”

  Lisbeth flipped the rubber tube around her neck. “Papa sacrificed a great deal for me.”

  Pain skittered across Mama’s eyes. “I knew he would.”

  Ruth’s return with a steaming ceramic mug interrupted Lisbeth’s desire to heap a few more coals upon her mother’s head.

  “This is a mild coagulant.” Mama directed the medicinal cocktail to Lisbeth. “See that Barek takes generous sips throughout the night.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait.” Lisbeth ran after her, frothy milk sloshing over the sides and scalding her hand. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “The best you can.” Mama caressed her cheek. “That’s all any of us can ever do.” She glanced at Laurentius. “Don’t delay on that suction rig.”

  “Go ahead. Walk out!” Lisbeth shouted. “It’s what you do best.”

  12

  MAGDALENA SLOSHED THROUGH THE tunnel passages under the proconsul’s palace. She’d been so caught up in the joy of finding her daughter she’d forgotten about the unpredictability of mugwort. If Aspasius awoke in an empty bed, she might never see Lisbeth again.

  Once she reached the secret panel at the office entry, Magdalena took a deep breath and placed her ear upon the chink in the mortar.

  Quiet.

  She snuffed her light and returned the clay bowl to the ledge. A quick tug on the metal lever activated the stones. Through the jagged opening, Magdalena slipped into the space she would never call home.

  Someone grabbed her shoulders from behind. “Where have you been?”

  “Kardide?” Magdalena said with a start. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

  “Coming for you. We feared you’d been killed. Moments ago, soldiers reported to Aspasius that there had been trouble last night. Curfew offenders shot.”

  “But not apprehended.” With a pleased smile, Magdalena took a small bow, then kissed her friend’s cheek. “So the bear’s awake?”

  “Roaring like a caged animal,” Kardide snatched her hand. “And demanding your presence.”

  Their rush through the atrium aroused the birds and sent them
fluttering against their cages. Fooling Aspasius into thinking she’d merely slipped out to use the chamber pot in her room would be tricky, since his pets had sounded the alarm.

  When Magdalena reached her room, she stopped. “I need to change. Fetch a breakfast tray with all of the master’s favorites.”

  Fear crossed her friend’s face. “There’s no time.”

  “I’ll be quick. Trust me.” Magdalena raced inside and shut the door. She ripped off her soiled tunic, then donned the gauziest dress she could find. A couple of brushstrokes removed the cobwebs from her hair. A splash of water rinsed the blood traces of the night’s trauma from her face. She gazed in the polished brass mirror. Presentable, except for the black-and-blue ring impression below her eye. No need to cover that little souvenir. Aspasius loved admiring his handiwork.

  She lifted the leather cord from around her neck and kissed the gold ring. How proud Lawrence had been of his discovery when he gave it to her. She opened the nightstand drawer and buried it beneath the scarves and trinkets Aspasius insisted she wear when accompanying him in public. Her trembling fingers encountered the tiny silver box kept well hidden.

  When she lifted the lid, a mixture of earthy pine bark and tannin sumac stung her nostrils. She plucked out a generous pinch of the fine wood shavings, sprinkled the flakes into a mortar bowl, then added a tablespoon of clean olive oil. With a pestle, she pulverized the ingredients into a muddy paste. She dragged a cotton ball–size piece of wool back and forth through the mixture until every last drop of liquid had been absorbed. Sitting upon the bed, she lifted her leg. She inhaled and stuffed the saturated plug deep into the scarred crevice of her body.

  Whether or not her prime had safely withered was a risk she wouldn’t take. Never again would she carry his child. Ignoring the sting between her legs, she tucked one of the small bags of mugwort between her breasts, an added safety precaution should his mood prove too foul.

  When Magdalena exited her bedroom, Kardide stood ready with the tray. “What if he finds out where you’ve been?”