by Lynne Gentry
G-Pa. Only one person used that term. But how could Maggie possibly be here now? And perfectly healthy. In the time it had taken him to run from the well to his villa, send the rest of his family to safety, and then visit Magdalena in prison, his little daughter had recovered from typhoid and matured into a beautiful young woman. This was a miracle he would never have believed if Maggie and her mother hadn’t reappeared out of thin air just weeks ago.
Wild heartbeats thrashed Cyprian’s ears. Maggie’s return meant Lisbeth wouldn’t be far behind. He couldn’t contain his smile. “Where’s your mother?” His gaze searched the empty street behind Maggie.
Maggie shook her head. “She’s not coming.”
“She let you travel the portal without her?” His raised voice roused the neighbor’s dog. “Why would she allow you to face such danger alone?”
A flame flickered to life in the house across the street. Cyprian took Maggie by the elbow. “We can’t stay out here.” He led her inside and bolted the door. “Don’t move.” When he returned with a lit lamp she was holding a small pink box in front of her face. Light flashed, and for a second he couldn’t see anything. “What is that?”
“Camera phone.” She clicked a button, and the light flashed again. She held out the box. “See? It’s a picture. Of you.” Her finger traced his captured image. “It was getting harder to remember what you looked like.” She slid the box into her bag. “Need to save the battery.”
Cyprian’s eyes and ears told him what his heart already knew. This woman was Maggie. Even more disconcerting: she’d somehow managed to find her way to his door. If she could locate him so easily, so could anyone else who’d seen him at the prison or happened to gaze upon those blasted posters.
“Maggie.” Hands trembling, Cyprian reached for a rogue curl that had fallen across her face. “What were you thinking, coming here again?”
Her round eyes filled with hope. “That my father needed me.”
It was his need to save his child that had sent him rushing to the portal with her feverish body less than twenty-four hours ago. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that a glimpse of his grown daughter would increase his protective desires tenfold. “You can’t stay here.”
“Who’s going to help you clean this up? Barek?” She looked around the room. “Where is he?”
“Safe for now.”
“What about Uncle Larry, and Junia, and—”
“All are safe.”
She released a jagged sigh. “Good. I was afraid . . . well, the door was open, so I came in earlier. No one was here, but I could see something awful had happened while I was away.” Tears rimmed her lashes. “It scared me. I thought I was too late and that everybody I loved had, you know . . . died.”
Cyprian clasped her shoulders. “Listen to me. It’s very dangerous here, Maggie. You can’t stay.”
“I may have been just a kid, but I remember a lot.” She wiped the wet trails from her cheeks. “I Googled third-century Carthage. Things are going to get worse. That’s why I came for you, Daddy.”
For a moment, Cyprian let himself feel a rush of fatherly pride. Maggie had grown into a young woman every bit as stubborn and courageous as her mother. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “In a perfect world, we could all be together, but I’m going to have to send you back to your mother.”
She jerked her hand free. “There’s only one way to keep Mom from killing me when I get home, and that’s to have you with me.”
Cyprian’s blood ran through the veins of this exquisite creature, and yet he’d missed so much of her life. How could he bear to miss a minute more? “That can’t happen, Maggie.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because God has called me to this place and this time.”
“I swear, you sound just like Mom.”
“Your mother’s a wise woman.”
“If she’s so smart, why didn’t she make you come with us? She knew what was going to happen.”
“I chose to stay.” He could see his admission was a verbal slap to her face, for she took a step back.
“Why would you do that?”
“God has called me to do what I can for the people of Carthage. Your mother didn’t like it, but she understood.” He couldn’t bear the disappointment swimming in his daughter’s eyes. “As soon as I find what I came for tonight, I’m marching you right back to that well.”
“If you’ve got everyone else stashed someplace safe, then why can’t I stay with them? Please.”
“Your grandmother doesn’t have time for me to stand here and argue with you.”
“What’s happened to Jaddah?”
Cyprian instantly regretted his slip. “Right after I sent you and your mother home, I found out Aspasius was dead.”
“Aspasius?” She wrinkled her nose. “The guy who sent you away and carved up my Jaddah’s face?”
“Yes.”
“If he’s dead, doesn’t that mean you’re safe now?”
Cyprian scowled. “No.” He hesitated, not sure how much to tell her. “Your grandmother has been accused of his murder. I am going to defend her.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open. “My Jaddah saves lives. She wouldn’t know how to take one.” She hoisted the strap of her bag to her shoulder. “Where is she?”
“Prison.”
“Then we’ll have to bust her out and then—”
“Not we,” Cyprian said. “Defending Magdalena will require me to present myself before any enemies I still have in Carthage. I can’t do my best job for your grandmother if I’m worrying about you.”
“I can help.”
He shook his head.
Maggie crossed her arms. “Well, I’m not letting you do this alone. You can push me down that hole, but I’ll just come right back.” Her lips were pursed, and she lifted her chin in defiance.
“You are your mother’s daughter.”
“Funny, whenever I stand up for myself she says I’m just like you,” she countered.
“My house is not safe.”
“You’re here.”
“I only risked coming back to get a piece of paper that will prove your grandmother’s innocence.”
“You’re going to need help to find it in this mess.” Maggie lowered her bag.
“Maggie—”
“Light another lamp. I’ll search the hall where Mom kept the typhoid patients.” She shrugged off his protest. “The doctor promised my shots would be a lot more effective this time.”
Before Cyprian could stop her, she disappeared down the hall. Maggie returned a few moments later, paper in hand and a big smile on her face. “See. You need me.” She held the paper to the light. “You won’t believe what my Jaddah got Aspasius to agree to.”
“You can read Latin?”
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously you’ve never met my grandfather.”
Cyprian held out his hand. “Give me the note.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” Maggie whipped her hand behind her back. “I’ll give you the note, we save my grandmother, and then you come home with us.”
“Absolutely not.” He didn’t have time for a standoff and from the set of her shoulders she was prepared to dig in. He let out an exhausted sigh. “I’ll let you say good-bye to everyone.”
“It’s better than nothing.” She slowly held out the note.
He’d won. Why didn’t he feel relieved? Because this was the same girl who’d agreed to let him work out the logistics of retrieving a doll from the slums, then took matters into her own hands. If the stubborn child he’d known a few hours ago had simply grown taller and even more beautiful, this wasn’t over. He tucked the note into his pocket. Voices outside snapped their heads toward the door. “Quick. The lamp.” He clamped her arm.
“My bag.”
“Hush.” He dragged her out the back door.
7
CLOAKED IN THE SAFETY of a predawn fog, Barek padded barefoot along the private fishing pier of
Titus Cicero. The salty air weighed as heavily as his new responsibilities. If Cyprian’s visit to Magdalena’s prison resulted in Cyprian’s arrest, the care and protection of Laurentius, Junia, and Naomi would fall to him. He would labor to keep them housed and fed. If it took the rest of his life, he would work to earn their trust.
Barek hoisted the heavy net that he’d found in one of Titus’s many stables. He’d hastily repaired the frayed hemp by tying the knots he and his friend Natalis had learned from prowling the docks. Would guilty bile always accompany his memories of his friend?
Barek stood on the dock and searched for the small skiff Titus Cicero’s stable boys had said he could borrow. The boat was an odd assembly of rough planks scavenged from the aqueduct building projects and lashed together with strips of cured animal hides. A seal of sticky black pitch kept the crude vessel afloat. Pushing aside his worries that a boat constructed by stable boys might not be seaworthy, Barek tossed the net into the bobbing boat.
Launching the skiff in darkness would make it easier to avoid the 25 percent tetarte Rome levied upon fish poached from its waters. As an added precaution, come daylight he’d check his catch and discard any shellfish or eel. Those delicacies would fetch an exorbitant price at the kitchen doors of the wealthy, but they would also draw attention he couldn’t afford.
Barek freed the rope from the concrete post and shoved off from the pier. When he and Natalis used to fish these waters, they usually stayed close to the shore, but the sailing season was nearing its close. Once the harbor gates were officially closed for the winter, no one would have access to the open waters. He needed to cram in as many nights of serious fishing as possible.
Across the water, he could hear the rattle of heavy chains. Seamen were preparing the military triremes to lift anchor. Lisbeth had wanted the port closed until the plague burned out, but she had been forced to leave before Cyprian could anger the senators by insisting they pursue such a financially disastrous course of action. At sunup, the narrow channel would be clogged with the comings and goings of vessels in the emperor’s charge. Barek clamped his hands upon the oars and rowed faster.
The slap of his oars churned the glassy surface. His shoulder muscles began to burn, and cramps tugged at his curled hands. He maneuvered the skiff past the massive stone pillars holding a portion of the Mediterranean waters captive and pressed on through the chilly mist, determined to steer clear of the harbor by sunrise. What was left of the wind would rise with the sun. Once he had enough breeze, he would hoist the tattered sail made of spun flax and let the forces of nature carry him far from his troubles.
His little boat began to rock, gentle as a baby’s cradle. He felt his body relax for the first time in days. He needed sleep. What would it hurt to close his eyes for a few moments? Just as his head lolled to his chest, the skiff shuddered beneath him, jerking him instantly alert. Had he hit something? He scrambled to correct his course . . . but which way? Squinting into the drizzle for clues was pointless. The sky and sea had melded together and swirled him in a bowl of black soup. He couldn’t tell where heaven left off and earth began.
Barek plunged the right oar into the water. Before he could add the left oar, an enormous swell lifted his boat high above the surface, held him suspended for a second, then cast him down hard between two walls of water that immediately tumbled in upon him. He clawed frantically against the skiff’s slick animal skin sides that rolled seaward. The boat took on water at a rapid pace, swamping his feet and then his ankles. The blasted scrap heap was sinking beneath him.
Hands cupped, Barek began to bail. Had he been caught in one of those unexpected early fall squalls that made sea travel so dangerous during the winter months? Or had he crossed paths with the Illyrian pirates who prowled the coast? At any rate, he’d once again proven himself a fool by venturing into deep waters with an untested vessel. It would serve him right to die in a watery grave.
A large swell hit him from behind and flung him across the skiff like the rag doll Maggie had insisted they retrieve from the slums, the rag doll that had gotten his mother killed. His ribs smacked into the protruding oar handle, and he felt as if he’d been stabbed. Air whooshed from his lungs. Gasping for breath, he worked to drag his battered body to the plank bench.
Shouts sounded above him. Threats and protests. A struggle of some sort. The rhythmic slap of hundreds of oars hitting the water in perfect unison told him he was trapped in the passing wake of one of the empire’s larger vessels. He stood and scrambled for his oars. Something solid whizzed past his ear. Before he could duck, a giant oar caught him hard in the chest and sent him flying overboard.
Foamy turbulence sucked him under. His mouth filled with water. Barek kicked and clawed against the pull of the deep. Just as he broke through the surface a large object sailed through the air and hit the water only three strokes to his left. He strained to make out what had been tossed overboard, but whatever the sailors had discarded had quickly disappeared in the ship’s wake. Ten good strokes to his right he spotted the skiff. Comfortingly, it had remained afloat. Treading water, Barek tried to gauge his ability to make it back to his boat before he was spotted by one of the imperial henchmen who lent their swords to the protection of Rome’s commerce.
He searched the settling waves. Something bobbed to the surface. An empty grain barrel? A broken shield? Or was it just a rusty shinguard? Perhaps it was something that would fetch a good price in the market and make up for his lack of fishing success. Barek swam toward the lump.
“Help! I can’t swim!” A hand reached for him.
Barek stopped in midstroke.
“Please . . .” The young man slipped beneath the surface.
Barek dove after him. He snagged a hand, then kicked hard for the surface. Gasping for breath, Barek hooked an arm under the man’s chin and hauled him to the skiff. By the time Barek had both of them safely aboard, the sky had turned pink. They were surrounded by two hundred imperial vessels.
Barek propped the slumped fellow against the stern. Streaks of dawn peeked through the fog and struck his passenger’s face. Red splotches like the ones he’d had when he and his mother suffered from measles. No wonder this fellow had been thrown overboard. What should he do? If he took a contagious man to the home of Titus, the sickness could be passed on to the land merchant’s family. And Barek couldn’t take him to Cyprian’s, because the hospital his mother and Lisbeth had set up in those wide halls had been destroyed. No matter where he took him, there wasn’t really anyone left to care for him. Magdalena was in prison. And Lisbeth was . . . wherever it was she went when she disappeared. Whatever he decided would have to wait until he got to shore because he couldn’t stay here.
The young man lurched forward and began to cough up water. When he finally caught a good breath, he said, “Thank you.”
Barek dropped onto the plank seat and began to row. “Stay quiet and keep your head down.” The man fell back, too exhausted to argue.
Barek took the long way back to the quay berth where the skiff had been moored. Across the harbor he could see deckhands lowering the anchor of the Syracousia. It was rumored the enormous fishing vessel was equipped with a lead-lined saltwater tank that made it possible for the ship to harvest live parrotfish from the Black Sea and deliver the delicacy fresh to the bellies of the rich in ports as far away as the Neapolitan coast.
Barek surveyed his passenger as he rowed them past the last of the imperial freighters. About his age. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Broad forehead. Patches of pale skin beneath the inflamed pustules. Fire-colored hair the breeze was whipping into a blaze. Sitting square in the center of the man’s swollen face was the classical nose of someone with a northern heritage.
When they were out of earshot, Barek whispered, “What’s your name?”
“Eg . . . Eggie.”
“Well, Eggie, what were you doing aboard the Syracousia?”
Eyes gray as a summer storm drilled Barek without wavering. “Deckhand.”
“You calling me a liar, sir?”
“I’m saying those hands lack the rope burns of someone who’s swabbed decks and wrestled sail riggings across the Mediterranean.”
Eggie crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands into his armpits. “Maybe I fed the fish in the large onboard tanks. Sea bass can be very demanding, you know.” He started coughing and struggled for breath.
Barek glanced around to make sure the racket hadn’t given them away. “Looked more like the Syracousia’s crew intended to feed you to the fish.”
Eggie shrugged and held up his hands in surrender. “I am a stowaway with plague. Going to turn me in?”
Barek eased the skiff along the dock. “First I’m going to try to keep you alive.”
8
Cave of the Swimmers
LISBETH POKED THE CAMPFIRE she and Aisa had built from brittle tinder scavenged in a dry wadi not far from the Cave of the Swimmers. Sparks popped into the chilly night air. Lisbeth’s gaze followed the fiery bits of ash until they disappeared into the vast emptiness like taillights on a getaway car. On the surface, the arid expanse looked lifeless. No shade. No water. Scorching days. Freezing nights. Yet, beneath the windswept sand lay a secret treasure trove, a labyrinth of underground waterways. Dark. Full of life. Her only connection to the past.
And somewhere in that dark, infinite continuum of time her daughter was all alone.
