by Lynne Gentry
She took up the mortar bowl and ground the seeds into a paste while she still had light.
Muffled voices and heavy footfalls sounded on the other side of the door. A loud crash sent the plank splintering from the bolt. A sliver of moonlight lasered a sharp line upon the stone floor.
“It is Mor.” Numidicus jumped to a defensive posture. “Death, if you must have someone, take me.”
Magdalena whirled from Junia’s bed, the mortar bowl clutched in her hands. “Unclean. We’re unclean. Go away.”
“Magdalena!” Aspasius stepped into the doorway, his white toga snug against the curve of his belly. On either side of him, two men sporting the moonlit glint of armor waited to do his bidding.
Every nerve in Magdalena’s body rushed to prod her next move, but she stood silent, unable to run.
“Take her.” Aspasius stepped back. Soldiers rushed in. “Kill the pleb.”
Numidicus lunged for Magdalena, but the patrols snatched her from his grasp. The bowl clattered to the floor, and black mustard paste splattered the walls.
“There’s fever in this house.” Magdalena tried to plant her feet as the soldiers dragged her toward Aspasius. “They’re dying.”
“Exactly what they deserve,” Aspasius said with a smug snarl. “I’ll teach my slave what it means to doctor those who refuse to bow to Rome.”
“Stay back, Numidicus.” Despite the terror pumping through her, Magdalena kept her voice low, praying Lisbeth would not hear the ruckus and come running. When they reached the door, Aspasius’s hand came down across her face. His ring tore flesh from her cheek.
“Filthy pig!” The young father’s protest bounced off the stone walls.
“Hush! Numidicus!” Her warning was lost in his furor.
He lowered his head and charged like one of those crazed bulls in the arena. The biggest soldier backhanded him. Numidicus crashed into Junia’s vaporizer. Sticks and heating pot splintered in every direction. The little girl startled awake and began to cry, which brought on another coughing spell and sent Numidicus scrambling to his feet.
The pointed pottery shard he brandished sliced the air. “Leave her alone!” Face grave, the desperate father stretched out his arm and rushed the soldiers again.
“No! Numidicus!” Magdalena screamed, but he kept coming.
A soldier’s blade slit him belly button to sternum. Disbelief on his face, Numidicus clutched his middle and slumped to the floor.
Aspasius spun Magdalena around. “No one will want you when I’m through.” He reared back his arm and slashed the whip across her face.
22
THREE DAYS HAD PASSED since Lisbeth disappeared in the marketplace, and though Cyprian had commissioned Felicissimus and Pontius to join his search of the city, no trace of her had been found.
He strode the crowded gravel paths of the bathhouse gardens, silently cursing his lack of foresight. Ruth would have been better suited to this task, especially if his missing slave hid herself among the women bathers. Men were limited to the sport courts, gymnasium, library, and massage tables. Ruth, on the other hand, would have left no pool or changing room unchecked, despite the posted warnings that prohibited bathers of the opposite sex from commingling anywhere but in the communal areas.
“Why have I invested so much effort in seeing to the return of this particularly vexing piece of property, Pontius?” Cyprian’s faithful secretary offered no answer. “What need do I have for a foreign slave girl with slender hips, a sharp tongue, and a perpetual frown?” A precious waste of time better spent procuring a proper wife and putting to bed the nasty rumor that he’d contracted a disease capable of disabling his manhood, and through rather unsavory means at that. Aspasius had done everything within his power to end Cyprian’s campaign before the entry deadline, and all over the fact that he’d bested him in a couple of slave-bidding wars. “What’s to be gained by getting the little chit back?”
Pontius eyed him carefully, weighing his words in the manner of one accustomed to balancing Cyprian’s heavy caseload against his stress level. “In spite of the woman’s unorthodox healing skills, Barek and Laurentius are on the mend, sir.”
“Yes, but is she going to be more trouble than she is worth?”
“Thankfully, Felicissimus returned the fortune you spent.”
“In truth, I’d pay double for the opportunity to irritate the proconsul.” Cyprian stopped his senseless pacing. “While we await the opening gong, I’d appreciate it if you checked the outer grounds one more time.”
“But I thought you’d decided to cut your losses—”
“Humor me, Pontius.”
His secretary left Cyprian to scrutinize the patrons strolling between the stone statues that populated the public places. A god on every corner rather than the one God he now carried in his heart. Had he done the right thing to realign his religious loyalties? To turn his back on the gods of his ancestors? He glanced around. Other than a few roosting matrons trading in local gossip, he was alone. He made his way to the deserted fountain in the far corner of the courtyard. “What say you, Juno? Why does this slave woman vex me so?”
The marble lady stood silent amid the patter of water in the basin, her blank-eyed stare declaring his questions foolishness. What man would dare claim to know the mind of the gods? Settling his own mind had proven to be difficult enough, a process he’d yet to complete. He was Roman. Born and bred. Adding slaves to his household staff was expected. Considering plebeians equal to the ruling patricians was one of those strange teachings of the bishop, an act of obedience his new faith required. But he found the concept difficult to embrace and harder still to put into practice.
Cyprian tossed a coin into the water. Watching it sink to the tiled mosaic of a woman’s face, he asked her help in locating Lisbeth. Caecilianus would think him foolish. He could hear the lecture now. Throwing money into the ocean would be more effective than making wishes in water fountains.
Some habits die hard.
The bell sounded, signaling the opening of the baths. A burly slave clad in the uniform colors of the ruling house entered the courtyard and began clearing loiterers from the path, shoving them aside with little regard to their station.
Cyprian tightened his belt and stepped from the fountain’s shadow, preparing for the puffed-up patron sure to follow in the slave’s wake. What ill luck. Or was another chance meeting with the proconsul Juno’s answer after all?
Aspasius strolled into the communal courtyard, accompanied by an entourage that included a tall, willowy man with the excess fabric of a dignitary’s toga draped across his bony arm. The visitor’s pointy nose sniffed the air as if the place still had the nasty reek of Phoenician plebs.
“As you can see, Sergia,” Aspasius addressed his guest, oblivious to the disdainful looks the displaced crowd silently hurled behind his back. “Aqueducts from the Zaghouan Mountains are now restored, making the Bordj Djedid cisterns fully operational once again. By improving the Carthaginians’ methods of water storage and distribution, I have once and for all conquered the arid region of Africa.”
The thin man studied the lush grounds. “Restoring a hygienic precedent to the citizens of Carthage is key to restoring the sparkle to one of Rome’s most prized jewels.”
“Well said, Ambassador.” Cyprian tossed another coin into the fountain. “I’m sure our esteemed proconsul would love to show off the natatio. He’s had the entire pool space opened up. The stunning view of the sea is a bathing experience unique to Carthage, one worthy of every denarius spent.”
“Cyprian?” The ambassador extended his hand and a warm smile. “Old friend.” He pumped Cyprian’s arm. “Still a fair-haired, bright-eyed feast for the gods.”
“You’ve not changed a bit, dear Sergy.” A lie if ever he’d told one, but it seemed a poor sport to point out his colleague’s thinned hair and wasted muscles. “Once a prankster, always a prankster. You must keep the emperor on his toes.”
“Sadly, it is he who
keeps me busier than a one-armed gladiator.” Sergia had a remarkably firm grasp for one so frail in appearance. “Maintaining order in the provinces is a never-ending task.”
“Exhausting, no doubt.” Cyprian cast a sly grin at Aspasius squirming in his red shoes. “A burden our esteemed proconsul can relate to well.”
Aspasius cleared his throat. “Ambassador, we must keep to our rather vigorous tour schedule.”
“Forgive me for going on and on, Aspasius.” Sergia’s halfhearted apology warmed Cyprian. The man had always valued loyalty, a trait that had endeared him to Cyprian from their first meeting. “The brilliant Cyprianus Thascius and I studied together at the feet of old Sextus in the godforsaken village of Pupput.” He turned his attention back to Cyprian. “Remember those long walks on treacherous paths to reach the sweet city of Hadrumetum? And all for a decent cup of ale.” They shared a laugh that excluded the fidgeting proconsul. “But I must say those harrowing excursions were worth every lash.”
“Had you not dallied with the barmaid we would not have missed curfew.” Cyprian and Sergia roared again, clapping each other on the back. “Did you tell your sweet Bellona of that African beauty?”
“Why crush my wife with the foolish exploits of youth?” Sergia’s face sobered. He leaned in close. “Obviously, you have never married, my friend. We must find you a wife.”
A wife. Could a man’s character and work not stand on his own merit? Must he manage a business, his house, and a wife for the Senate to consider him a success? “I’ve got my eye on the prospect of marriage.”
“How are those inquiries coming along?” Aspasius asked with a smirk.
“I’m being very selective.”
“Not one positive response, I’m guessing.”
“Really?” Sergia’s brow wrinkled. “I remember the village maidens thinking Cyprian quite the catch.” Sergia smiled. “But you were quite good at keeping your head in the books, my friend, and slipping the hook.”
“School chaps?” Heat flamed Aspasius’s cheeks. “How quaint.” He took Sergia’s elbow and led him toward the arched passageway of the men’s quarters. “Our game court has been reserved to take full advantage of the shade.”
“Perhaps you’d care to take in a bit of exercise with us, Cyprian?” Sergia said as he perused the mallets hanging on the wall. “I seem to recall you quite the competitor with a stick and a paganica ball.”
Aspasius ripped a heavy pole from the rack. “I’m sure the great solicitor of Carthage has little time for whacking the leathers.”
“On the contrary.” Cyprian chose a sleek rod of mulberry, carved to fit his hand. “What better enjoyment than trouncing a couple of old friends and all the while hearing the latest from Rome?” Throwing fuel on an enemy’s fire in hopes they’d burn themselves out was a business tactic he’d learned from his father. “Let me send a servant to locate my man, Pontius, and we’ll make it a foursome.”
Under the striped awning of the paved court, Aspasius wielded his club with a crippling force, claiming the licks he applied to Cyprian’s shins during the scuffle for possession of the feather-stuffed ball were the fault of defending his goal.
“I do hate to lose.” Sergia dabbed sweat from his face. “Aspasius, I believe regular bouts with my old colleague would improve your game and shrink your middle.”
Struggling to wrap the towel around his waist, Aspasius dismissed the slave offering to oil him down. “When my girth hinders my ability to manage this province, then Rome can replace me.” He snatched the strigil from the slave’s hand. “Good gods, man. Leave me a bit of flesh.”
Sergia allowed the slave to pass the strigil over his bare back, slinging sweat in every direction. “But have you the vigor to see to Carthage’s continued rise from the ashes?”
Aspasius soured at the implied insult. “If the emperor has a problem with the way I do my job, spit it out.”
“Word of sickness spreading through your tenements has reached Rome. If you cannot get things contained, then I must recommend your term as proconsul come to a premature end.”
Aspasius’s nostrils flared. “Why, you little—”
“I think we’re all a bit overheated.” Cyprian gathered his towel over his loins, anxious to divert Sergia lest Aspasius believe him responsible for this assault. “Shall we skip the caldarium in favor of a cold plunge in the piscina?”
“Excellent idea,” Sergia agreed, wrapping the towel twice around his twig-like middle. He took the cup of steaming mulled cider the court attendant offered. “I’d love to hear your legal opinion on the latest edict of Decius, Cyprian.”
“Edict?” Cyprian accepted a cup of the strong brew. “I wasn’t aware our emperor had issued a new edict.”
“The ink is barely dried on the parchment,” Sergia admitted with a sigh. “I fear the ramifications will not set well, especially in the provinces.”
Cyprian emptied his cup, hoping he appeared unshaken by the possibilities. “Pray tell.”
“Decius fears an invasion from the Goths. He has ordered that the entire kingdom bow before the gods of Rome.” Sergia sloshed the wine in his mouth, then spit into a nearby planter. “Including the captives on the various frontiers. In the past, the imperial position has been to allow conquered barbarians their worship freedoms. As long as barbarian tax dollars returned to the true throne of power, the emperor did not see the harm in humoring their little gods.”
Aspasius snapped his fingers, and an attendant presented his red bath slippers with built-in wooden heels. “How are the emperor’s decrees or how those decrees are carried out in my province of any concern to Cyprian?”
Sergia held up his skeletal fingers. “Years of political thinking may have clouded your objectivity, Consul. I think it my responsibility to judge the full impact of this decree on many levels, including those of upstanding citizens like the highly esteemed solicitor of Carthage. Our emperor deserves a full and complete report.”
Aspasius threw the excess length of his towel over his shoulder. “There is an order to things. An order ordained by the gods.” He stormed toward the changing-room door, the uneven click of his red shoes tapping out a warning. “Warm water after exercise is one of those indisputable orders. Seeing to the success of the dictates of my lord and emperor without questioning his imperial wisdom is another.” Three servants fell in behind the proconsul, including the burly bodyguard who managed to cast a warning glare over his shoulder.
“Oh, dear,” Sergia whispered to Cyprian once they were alone. “I’ve set him off. There’ll be no reasoning with him now. If you’ve not considered running for the Senate, I strongly suggest that you get yourself a well-connected wife and examine the possibility. Rome could use a few good men.” Sergia hustled after the proconsul, bypassing the colossal granite pillars supporting the barrel-vaulted ceiling of the frigidarium. “Aspasius, wait.”
Cyprian looked to Pontius for support. “Can you think of a single woman willing to become the wife of an idealistic dreamer determined to set Rome on its ear?”
Pontius shrugged. “Or one who is willing to risk creeping pox?”
23
WAITING FOR THE ELEVATOR was not an option. Lisbeth flew down two flights of stairs and raced into the ER. She burst into the organized chaos of medical personnel who’d descended upon exam room 1 like worker bees summoned to the throne.
Nelda’s head snapped up from the limp baby on the gurney. “I paged you … twice.” Her laser stare stripped Lisbeth bare of excuses, while her nimble fingers removed the child’s swaddling.
“Abra?” Lisbeth elbowed her way to the bed that had been rolled to the center of the room. “What happened?”
“She became lethargic and stopped breathing.” Nelda slapped an endotracheal tube into Lisbeth’s hand as two other nurses placed sticky cardiac pads on the small naked chest. “Dr. Redding isn’t here yet. You’ll have to intubate.”
No attending? Lisbeth had participated in several codes but never run one
. And she’d never seen a child in cardiac arrest. Her mind spun, frantic to find traction. Across the room, Abra’s mother stood mute, frozen to the periphery. Terror ricocheted through Lisbeth’s heart.
“Dr. Hastings, now!” Nelda’s order blasted Lisbeth into action.
Someone tossed Lisbeth gloves. She positioned herself at the head of the bed. The rhythm on the cardiac monitor told her the child’s heart rate was frighteningly slow and irregular. “Resume CPR!” She tilted Abra’s chin toward her and pried apart her thin blue lips.
“Pedi laryngoscope.” Lisbeth inserted the device over the smooth little tongue for a better view of the airway. Vomit clogged the narrow oropharynx. “Suction.” She exchanged the ET tube for a mini vacuum hose. “Stay with me, little girl.”
Once she had the airway cleared, Abra’s tiny vocal cords came into view. Lisbeth threaded the small plastic tube down the trachea on the first try.
“Give one milligram of epi.” Queenie’s confident voice came as a surprise.
Lisbeth had been so preoccupied with executing a successful intubation she’d failed to notice that her best friend had slipped in and taken over chest compressions.
Confidence bolstered, Lisbeth ordered, “Go ahead and give the atropine.”
Dr. Redding rushed into the room. Never had Lisbeth been so glad to see her no-nonsense attending. He surveyed the situation with seasoned skill. “We have an airway?” He assumed a position on Lisbeth’s left. “How about good IV access?”
“Yes, sir.” Lisbeth sounded as shaky as she felt. “She’s intubated and has two good peripheral IVs.”
