by Lynne Gentry
She pushed Mutfi’s serious face from her mind.
Lawrence shifted as if to escape the twenty-seven stitches in his posterior. He fished the baggie with the shard from his shirt pocket. “Along with this, I found some small terra-cotta baby-bottle-like vessels and several human skulls that measured only thirty-six centimeters or less. . . .” His voice cracked. “So many children.” Once again, reverence circled her like one of his slow-drifting smoke rings.
“I don’t believe my ancestors were all barbarians.”
“It’s not your fault.” He puffed the pipe thoughtfully. “Infanticide was the norm in ancient cultures. Fifty percent of all children were intentionally killed by their parents. In fact, Roman law demanded a father put a deformed child to death or leave an unwanted daughter to die of exposure. Only the Jews and Christians raised all of their children. Their strange practice was so unheard of that not only did it increase their religious persecution, but several of the ancient writers recorded their behavior as deviant.” He let his gaze drift to the waves. “But why fire in this case? They could have left these children on the bluffs or drowned them in the sea, as some were recorded to have done.”
“Romans believed fire transported the bodies to the gods, but . . .” Exciting possibilities suddenly pinged in her head. “What if the deaths could be attributed to something else, something far less sinister than sacrificial fires, but just as deadly?”
“Like?”
“Plague.” Why hadn’t anyone thought of this before? “Fire also destroys pathogens.”
He took a long drag on the pipe, then slowly released another smoke ring. “Do you always think this hard?”
“Unfortunately.” She couldn’t contain her excitement. “Think about it. Children are usually hardest hit in an epidemic.” She took the potsherd from his hand. The brush of his fingertips heated her whole body. She held the potsherd to the light, golden rays outlining the carefree strokes of the little swimmer. “What if one mass grave was the best a dying people could give their beloved children? Their gift of a blissful afterlife that also happened to purge the deadly germs?”
“Hmmm.” He puffed on the pipe, contemplating the validity of her argument. “Then there’s another question. All of the other urns in the grave were plain and mass-produced in a hurry. Someone took the time to paint this lone swimmer. It does cause one to ask why.” He took the shard from her. “Do you think the two could be related?”
His genuine interest in her opinion felt far more unsettling than the random flirting of their first meeting. “Tunisians are a maritime people. That image could have come from any number of sailing ships that traded in our port. It may not have a thing to do with a virus that took out so many children.”
“Or it could be a clue to the origin.” He looked at the shard with intense interest, turning the plastic bag over and over. “I’ll admit the medical implications of your theory are fascinating.” His gaze returned to hers, full of appreciation for whatever had befallen these people in the past. She wondered if he could care equally as strongly about someone’s future. “Where should we start?”
“We?”
“Hey, this is your idea.” His eyes twinkled. “And I think it’s brilliant.”
5
LAWRENCE LIMPED AFTER MAGDALENA, impressed by the way she tackled a lead head-on. He snagged her hand. “Hey, we’re not going to a fire.” His fingers interlaced with hers, anchoring him. “My boss called the curator. He knows we’re coming.”
She slid free. “I don’t have all day to do this, no matter how fascinating. I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”
They hurried along the portico that ran the length of the museum overlooking the harbor. Once they tracked down the swimmer’s origin, maybe they could research the plagues that hit Carthage and get to the bottom of what had really happened to all of those babies.
Lawrence paid the uniformed man their entry fee and followed Magdalena into a room filled with magnificent Roman statues. He’d have loved to spend days soaking in the details and sharing tidbits of history with someone as appreciative as Magdalena. Truth was, she was the first woman he’d wanted to share more with than a casual drink.
“Dr. Hastings?” A short, squatty man with a hooked nose greeted him. “I am Taher.”
“Thanks for helping on such short notice, Taher.”
“When HAT calls, we answer.” Irritation at the expedited meeting sizzled in the curator’s black eyes. “After all, we are here to assist in the preservation of our ancient treasures in any way we can.”
“This is my partner, Dr. Kader.” Lawrence removed the potsherd from his pocket and held out the baggie. Magdalena’s cheeks bloomed with color. Had he said something wrong? “Ever seen anything like this, Taher?”
He backed away. “No.”
Lawrence waved the shard in the direction of the display cases. “No vases or mosaics with swimmers?”
“I’m afraid not.” Taher wrung his hands. “Perhaps there are maker’s marks on the back of the piece?”
Lawrence turned the potsherd. “Don’t see anything.”
“Then you will have your work cut out for you, Dr. Hastings.”
“I’m thinking you know a little more about third-century Roman pottery than you’re saying, Taher.” Magdalena put into words exactly what Lawrence had been thinking.
“You’re welcome to visit our Room of the Amphoras. It houses containers of all shapes and sizes used in the business of sea transport. This water image could have come from any number of the ports that ring the Mediterranean.”
“But it didn’t, did it?” Magdalena said insistently.
The curator ignored her and spoke directly to him. “Dr. Hastings, my duties are many today. You must excuse—”
“Taher, please, just point us in the right direction.” Lawrence returned the shard to his pocket.
“We’ll do the rest,” Magdalena added.
The nervous curator glanced about as if he feared someone might overhear their conversation. “Come.”
He led them past several glass cases filled with pottery, weapons, and jewelry, some of it dating back to the Punic Wars. Along the museum’s white walls were intricate tile mosaics depicting the city’s bloody history from the Roman period all the way to the emergence of Christianity.
Once they reached the curator’s office, the stout little man paused outside the door. “I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you.” Taher led them inside, closed the door, then indicated they should have a seat. “I have seen this image only one other time.”
“Where?”
“In a book.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?” Magdalena asked.
Taher shifted as if the beautiful doctor was triaging him on the spot. He cleared his throat. “In the southern Berber regions, a place where hot winds swirl the desert sands into mountains ten stories high, only the nomads survive. They are a sun-leathered people who keep to themselves. But every so often, one of their legends escapes by way of a brief encounter with an unexpected traveler. I thought the story in the book to be one of their legends. Nothing more.”
“Taher, we’re kinda pressed for time.” Lawrence pulled the shard out of his pocket again. “Do you know this little guy or not?”
He gave a slight nod. “He is from the Cave of the Swimmers.”
“Almásy’s cave?” Magdalena asked.
Lawrence looked at her, surprised. “You know of the Hungarian and his book?”
“Yes,” she said. “The Unknown Sahara. I haven’t read it, but I know Almásy was an explorer who went in search of a lost oasis and found some Neolithic rock art instead.” She pointed at the shard. “So this is one of Almásy’s mythical swimmers?”
Lawrence wondered what other random bits of information were tucked beneath that glorious head of hair. “Your brain mus
t never stop.”
Taher interrupted. “You must not keep the swimmer, Dr. Hastings.”
Lawrence remembered the insistent expression on Magdalena’s face when she’d returned the shard to him at the hospital. “So I’ve been told.” He’d thought she was just being protective of Carthaginian artifacts. Maybe she’d been afraid. He reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers. This time she did not pull away.
Taher pushed back in his chair. “Few men have laid eyes on the cave paintings and lived to tell of it. Once there was a Bedouin camel driver who lost his herd in a sandstorm. He tracked his animals to the Cave of the Swimmers. He went in . . . and he never came out. Death resides at that place.”
“Well, obviously not everyone dies at the cave. Almásy came home,” Lawrence argued.
“He did not go inside,” Taher countered.
“Then how did he write a book that describes the cave’s interior?” Magdalena asked.
“His exploration partner went in.” Taher leaned in close. “And he died.”
“Clayton died of polio two months after they got home,” Lawrence declared. Rumors and legends were the kind of things that made finding definitive proof so important. “Not in the cave.”
“Either way, a bad omen.” Taher slid the baggie back to Lawrence. “I cannot help you.”
“Then how are we going to find out how this ten-thousand-year-old image magically appeared on a third-century funerary urn when everyone who has supposedly seen it firsthand has died?”
“Maybe it is best not to know.”
“If you won’t help us, then I guess we’ll have to go to the Cave of the Swimmers ourselves.” Magdalena stood. “Just one more thing, Taher.”
“Yes?”
“Where exactly is this haunted cave?”
“In the pit of hell.”
6
MAGDALENA PUSHED THROUGH THE glass doors of the hospital. The confined stench of antiseptic hung in the corridors, stale and stifling compared to the fresh air she’d enjoyed at the harbor. Maybe her sudden attraction to fresh air and freedom had nothing to do with the demands of the hospital. Maybe it sprang from the raw vigor of the man who’d opened a window and shoved her toward a world of dangerous yet exciting possibilities.
“We are going to the Cave of the Swimmers?” Lawrence huffed, trailing behind her with as much speed as he could muster. “I thought you had work to do.”
Her proper pedigree had paved the way for acquiring the proper credentials to ensure a proper, well-ordered, and safe life. And where had that gotten her? Engaged to a proctologist, that’s where. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a break from her exhausting responsibilities, let alone indulged in a little adventure. Father would be furious if he found out about today’s unexplained absence. He’d have a heart attack if he knew her time away from her duties had been spent chasing after the origin of a possible pathogen in a mythical cave with an itinerant American archaeologist. She would tell her father the truth once she shucked the attraction to this world traveler and slid safely back into her preordered routine.
“I haven’t necessarily committed to hopping a camel and trudging through the desert, but exploring the cave would be the most efficient way to trace the origin of the disease.”
“We haven’t even proven those kids died of disease.”
“Not yet.” She slipped into her white coat and set a brisk pace for the medical library.
“Dr. Kader?” Kaifah blocked her path. “Your father is looking for you.”
“Could you please tell him I need to do some research?”
The nurse’s suspicious eyes darted from Lawrence to Magdalena. “He’ll ask what you’re working on.”
“Uh . . . a case.” Which wasn’t a lie. So far, all she had to back her theory of some unknown virus was a strong hunch. If she could somehow tie a pathogen to the mysterious deaths at the legendary desert cave, they would be one step closer to understanding what had happened at the Tophet. “Excuse us, Kaifah, we’ve work to do.”
Gray light filtered through the windows of the quiet library. Magdalena scanned the stacks and discovered the research assistant face-planted in an open book and snoring loudly. “This way,” she whispered. “We must be fast. Kaifah won’t keep our secret long.”
She skipped the reference books and went straight to the medical history section. High on a shelf, she spotted a dusty tome: Plague and Pestilence in the Roman Empire.
Lawrence dragged over a chair.
“Let me. I don’t want you to ruin those perfect stitches.” Despite his protests, she climbed aboard the chair and tugged the heavy volume from obscurity.
She blew away a layer of dust and hauled the book to a table tucked into a corner. Lawrence crowded in close. His arm brushed hers, but neither of them moved away. Quickly skimming anything before the mid-third century, she stopped when she came to a bold, black heading.
“‘Plague of Cyprian,’” she read aloud.
The cries of a thousand voices, pained and hopeless, swooshed through her head.
She slammed the book shut.
Her head throbbed. Sweat trickled down her neck. Her heart bucked against her chest. She thought of the heat that had seared her hand. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d had two of these freakishly terrifying moments. She dragged her clammy hands across her face, wiping away rivulets of moisture.
“Mags, are you okay?” Lawrence’s arms steadied her.
She could feel the racing beat of her own heart. Mags. Mags. Mags.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“No.” She sucked in the stagnant air of the library. “Let’s finish this.” She slowly opened the brittle pages and found the entry again. She dragged her finger along the blistering words:
AD 250 . . . plague thought to have originated in Egypt . . . spread through desert to North Africa . . . brief remissions . . . number of dead outnumbered survivors in Carthage . . . temples full of stacked bodies . . . fiery pustules that spread over the body . . . chief target of attack . . . children.
“So?” Lawrence encouraged her response. “What do you think it was? Yellow fever? Typhoid? Carthage was in a rebuilding phase in the third century. A major push to restore the aqueducts and bring running water to the tenement dwellers wasn’t immediately successful.”
“From the stacked bodies, it’s tempting to blame poor sanitation.”
He tapped her forehead. “But I can see those wheels turning. You don’t think it was typhoid, do you?”
“There’s no mention of vomiting or diarrhea.” She read the entry again. “From the rash description, I’m thinking measles or possibly smallpox.” She closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she’d ever read about contagious diseases that had practically been eradicated in her lifetime. “Both are easily transmitted by a simple cough. They have fairly long incubation periods, which would allow them to infect a healthy traveler, who could then hitchhike their way across the desert.” She opened her eyes. Lawrence was staring at her, hanging on her every word. “And either virus would be deadly to a population who’d never been exposed.”
“You’re amazing.” He picked her up and spun her around.
Worries of fiery pox and pandemic transmissions swirled away. Magdalena was aware of nothing except the pressure of his hands upon her waist and the unexplainable need to kiss him. But she knew once she tasted adventure, there would be no going back. No Mutfi Zaman in her future. No pleasing Father.
Her gaze moved along the angled planes of Lawrence’s tanned face, taking in the lock of chestnut hair that had slipped over his brow. “I think anyone could have—”
Lawrence returned her feet to the floor. “For once, don’t think so much.” He leaned in and kissed her. His mouth pressed directly against hers, not awkward and unfocused but with purpose, exploring and searching
the depths of her with a determined intent to know everything about her, the girl who so desperately wanted to step outside of her structured and planned-out life to make a real difference—and he wasn’t afraid. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her spirit drink in the nourishment for her soul.
• • •
“MAGDALENA?”
“Father?” Magdalena untangled her arms from Lawrence’s neck, the sweet taste of his kiss still on her lips. “What are you doing in the library?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He stood frozen beside the open volume of Plague and Pestilence. His surgical mask dangled beneath his chin, and blood was splattered on his paper gown. Kaifah must have interrupted his surgery to tattle on her.
Lawrence stepped around her. “Dr. Kader, I don’t think we were formally intro—”
“Leave us.”
“But, sir—”
“Now.”
Lawrence gave her a confused look, and she shook her head. “Please go, Dr. Hastings.”
“All right. But I’ll call you.” He kissed her cheek. “We’ll get this figured out.” He limped to the end of the stack, turned and winked at her, then disappeared.
The silence that hung between Magdalena and her father was not like the comfortable stretches of quiet they’d shared in the evenings when they both had their heads in medical books. This silence crackled with the tension of a distant storm. Lightning splitting the clouds long before the rumble of thunder. Magdalena didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bear the disappointment in her father’s eyes. “Father—”
“Explain to me again why you agreed to traipse after the American.”
“Because he valued my help.”
“Since when is it acceptable for the daughter of the chief of surgery to abandon her hospital duties?” He ripped his surgical gown from his massive frame. “Not to mention that you willingly did the bidding of a strange man. Have you no shame, Magdalena?”
“He’s not a stranger. He was my patient.”
“Even worse.”
