by Lynne Gentry
Magdalena hadn’t been on her feet since these same two ruffians had hauled her in. Had the new proconsul arrived? Where was Cyprian? “What’s wrong?”
“Up!”
Her joints were stiff and uncooperative, with every muscle hurting after the beating she’d taken. “Give me a minute.” Magdalena did her best to manipulate the ankle chains to keep her feet from getting tangled. “How can I help you?”
“It’s been reported that you know the whereabouts of Cyprianus Thascius.”
Who could have alerted the authorities before the case came to trial? No one had been in or out of the prison since Cyprian was here and Magdalena was quite certain Cyprian had not given his name to Brutus, the guard who’d allowed him to access the new prisoners and now feared he’d be found out.
It had to be Pytros. The cunning little scribe of Aspasius had always hated her. Pytros had been present in their master’s sickroom when Aspasius revealed he already knew of Cyprian’s return. Pytros had also openly opposed the terms she’d imposed upon Aspasius before agreeing to provide him with medical care. She should have known Pytros would never allow her to get away with trumping him. Not only would he get even, he would do everything he could to have his master’s addendum nullified. Of course, whether Cyprian was now a free man was a moot point if Cyprian could not locate the sealed parchment Lisbeth was supposed to have delivered into his hands. Without the actual paper it was Magdalena’s word against that of Pytros. And Pytros wasn’t the one with bloodstains on his tunic.
The only way she would know whether Cyprian had managed to retrieve that invaluable scrap of paper would be if he showed up to defend her on the day of her trial.
Magdalena fought the leg tingles protesting her lack of exercise and gingerly distributed her weight to restore her balance. “Curubis, last I heard. Exiled by my master.”
“Liar!” A soldier’s hand smacked her cheek. “Where is he?”
“Leave her alone!” Kardide had managed to stand and was swinging her fists across the aisle, managing only an occasional dull thunk against the soldier’s armor. “She said she didn’t know.”
The soldier wrenched Kardide’s arm behind her back and forced her to her knees. Then in a flash he raised the hilt of his blade and brought it down with a sickening crack upon Kardide’s head. Tabari screamed as Kardide crumpled to the floor. A hush fell over the tunnel. Out of the corner of her eye, Magdalena could see Kardide pinned beneath the soldier’s boot.
Magdalena pulled against the chains, the iron cuffs cutting into her ankles. “Kardide!”
The soldier lifted his boot and backhanded Magdalena again, sending her sailing. She hit the wall with a breath-robbing thud. Her legs buckled. Rough stones sanded her back as she slowly slid into a useless heap.
16
LISBETH AND PAPA FOLLOWED Cyprian down the torch-lit path that led to the Hippodrome. Cyprian stopped and implored Lisbeth and her father to wait away from the prison’s sinister entrance. He reached up and dragged a finger through the soot of the torch holder. He smeared a little on Lisbeth’s face. “Can’t risk one of the prisoners recognizing you.”
“What about you?” she asked.
He added a bit of soot to his chin and lowered his hood to shade his eyes. “Let me do the talking.”
Lisbeth hesitated for only a moment. “Mama is not taking the fall for this. I was there. She did everything medically possible to save that monster, especially considering the circumstances.”
Cyprian drew her to him. The strength in his arms immediately reminded her of how difficult it would be to leave him again . . . and leaving him again was what she had to do because that’s how her visits into his world always ended. “No one can know Magdalena is your mother.”
“How can I allow Mama to die for a crime she did not commit?”
Papa came to Cyprian’s aid and pulled her aside. “Perhaps it’s best if you save your indignation for the judge.”
“Lisbeth cannot testify.” Cyprian had warned her and Papa of her mother’s dire situation and the danger they might face in coming here. But neither she nor Papa had heeded his warning or discussed their next course of action. They’d headed toward the Hippodrome before Cyprian had time to reconsider his offer to take them. “Please, keep your voices low.”
“What do you mean, I can’t testify?” Her indignation was clear.
“You’re taking our daughter and going home.”
“Not without my mother.”
“Shhhh,” Papa warned. They all froze, listening intently.
The slam of a metal door was followed closely by a growing commotion at the base of the stairs. Without a word, Cyprian quickly pressed Lisbeth and her father into a nearby thicket and signaled they say nothing. Then he placed his body as a shield between them and the knot of soldiers marching up the stairs, laughing and discussing how they’d roughed up the old woman who’d hacked up the proconsul of Carthage. “Taught her a thing or two,” bragged the redheaded soldier who’d left them in a dark alley not thirty minutes earlier.
Lisbeth struggled to stay put. The second the soldiers were out of earshot, Cyprian extracted another promise from her that she’d keep silent, then released her and hastily made his way to the pale-faced guard. Lisbeth and Papa hurried after him.
“Brutus, my good man.”
“It’s after curfew. You shouldn’t be here.”
“You seem upset. Are our prisoners well?” Cyprian approached cautiously.
The guard, a short, muscular fellow, reached for his weapon. “There wasn’t much I could do. I think one of them is hurt pretty bad.”
Cyprian didn’t back away. “Let me help.”
“Get us in there, boy,” Papa said.
Brutus eyed them warily. “Who are they?”
“I’m a healer,” Lisbeth said. “I can help.”
Brutus’s uncertain gaze shifted between Cyprian and Lisbeth. “You’ll tell the proconsul I did what I could, right?”
“You have my word, Brutus.” Cyprian turned and warned Lisbeth under his breath, “Remember what I told you.”
“Fine.” She hated tunnels. Not only did they rekindle the claustrophobia she’d fought so hard to overcome, she hated anything that reminded her of the proconsul’s palace and the underground labyrinth she’d been forced to navigate several times: Once to care for her mother. Another time to save her brother. And the last time to save herself. Lisbeth steeled for whatever waited in the darkness: Rats. Plague. Death.
Brutus stood there weighing his options so long Lisbeth wanted to scream, but instead she stuck to her promise and kept her mouth shut.
“Brutus, please. Let us help,” Cyprian said.
Finally, the guard fumbled with his keys. “Don’t let her die on my watch.” He heaved the door open. A putrid stench rushed at them.
“Smells like someone already did,” Lisbeth said.
Cyprian shot Lisbeth a warning look and grabbed a torch. “Stay close.”
Lisbeth reached to steady Papa, to protect him from whatever lay ahead. “It could be bad.”
“I’ve got to see her.” The color had drained from his face and his palms were sweaty, but he had a determined, hopeful look in his eyes.
In truth, it was she who needed bolstering. Whatever they found in this stink hole would only add to her guilt. She should never have left Mama in the third century. Nausea threatened to empty Lisbeth’s stomach of the stale bread she’d found hidden in a jar in Cyprian’s kitchen. She clamped her lips, held tightly to Papa’s hand, and ducked beneath the lintel. Unprepared for the drop in temperature, she shivered. How long could anyone survive in here?
Cyprian waved the torch in front of him. “She’s at the very end.” Flashes of light swept human shapes chained along sixty feet of stone wall. The prisoners were filthy and too emaciated for her to determine whether they were men or women. She placed each footstep carefully to avoid the bony legs and arms reaching for her.
“Over here.” Cyprian
waved her forward.
Lisbeth stumbled across what felt like a knobby stick, but it was a leg so thin she could see the outline of the femur. “Sorry.” Despite Cyprian’s concerns that she might be recognized, she stopped and felt the prisoner’s wrist for a pulse. Weak, but alive. “Watch your step, Papa. They don’t have the strength to move.” She spoke to the inmate. “I’ll be back.” She picked her way through the tangle of legs, forcing her mind to block out their cries for help.
“Lisbeth?”
The urgency of the woman’s voice drew Lisbeth’s attention to the cluster of bodies near where Cyprian waited. “Tabari?” Two of her mother’s friends huddled over a woman sprawled on the floor. Panic radiated from their upturned faces. Much as Lisbeth wanted to stop and help, she couldn’t because across the aisle Cyprian stared at a body rolled up like a carpet.
Bile seared Lisbeth’s throat. “Is it my—?”
“Yes.” Cyprian shoved the torch into a holder.
“Magdalena?” Papa raced around her and sank to his knees beside the body. “Magdalena?” His hands trembled over her hair-covered face.
“Let me have a look.” Lisbeth gently moved her father aside, pulled her bag off her shoulder, then squatted beside her mother. Lisbeth pressed her fingers to Mama’s carotid and prayed for a pulse. “She’s alive.” She stroked away ropes of matted hair. “I’m here now,” she told her mother. “You’re going to be fine.” The sight of her mother’s tunic stiff with blood nearly panicked her and forced the medical knowledge right out of her head. She nudged her mother’s shoulder. “Ma . . . Magdalena, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she said in a feeble whisper.
“Thank you, Lord,” Papa said.
Tears coursed down Lisbeth’s face in hot release. “Can you name your injuries?”
“My pride.” Mama rolled over. Her left eye was swollen shut and blood trickled from her split lip. “What are you doing here, Lisbeth?”
She hadn’t meant to gasp, but now Mama knew she knew how badly she was hurt. “Long story.”
Mama waved off Lisbeth’s rush to help her sit up and started to push herself upright. “I just got the wind knocked out of me. Check on Kardide. She’s taken a couple of hard blows to the head. The last one knocked her out for a minute or two.”
Lisbeth remembered the tough old bird who’d once helped her escape the proconsul’s palace. “Kardide,” she whispered.
The older woman roused and slowly turned her head toward the sound of her name. Except for the bandage, she appeared to be in better shape than Mama. “I may have a little headache.” Kardide made a fist and pumped it in the air. “But that soldier’s shins will sting with my wrath for quite some time.” Her fist fell to her chest as if someone had cut the string on a puppet. Then she rolled slightly in Lisbeth’s direction and vomited.
“Kardide!” Mama called.
“I’m fine.” Kardide wiped her lip. “Let Lisbeth help you first.”
“No.” Mama refused Lisbeth’s attempt to check the damage to her eye. “Head injuries can’t wait.” She grabbed Lisbeth by the shoulders. “She may sound lucid, but she’s lost strength in her right arm and now she’s vomiting.”
“But you’re flush with fever and—”
“You can’t let her die.”
“Magdalena Hastings.” Papa had been remarkably patient, but from his tone it was clear he was willing to wait no more for Mama to notice him. “You’re still the most obstinate woman I’ve ever met.”
“Lawrence?” Mama tilted her head. “I thought I was dreaming when I heard your voice, but it is you.” Squinting sideways she tried to focus with her good eye. Her hand flew protectively to her face. “I didn’t want you to see what I’ve become. Ever.”
Papa’s Adam’s apple went up and down as if snagged upon decades of sorrow. “Seeing you again is all I’ve thought about for over forty years.” Papa gently clasped Mama’s hand and lowered it to her lap. His eyes navigated the changed landscape of Mama’s face. A pained smile tugged at the regret and grief swimming in his eyes.
“I’m an old man now, my dear. But you, you are even more beautiful than I remember.” His shaky hands cupped her puffy cheeks. He leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips across each bruise and scar as if he were removing years of sediment from a newly discovered artifact. Saving the broken place on her bottom lip for last, his kiss was light as a butterfly’s wing. When he pulled away, he said with a satisfied air, “My treasure.”
Mama tilted her good eye at him and said softly, “You came for me.”
Tears glistened on Papa’s cheeks. “I’ve been trying to get here since the moment I found out where you were.”
Mama opened her arms and Papa fell into her embrace. They clung together as if they never intended to let go again. Lisbeth’s tears made it impossible to tell who was rescuing whom. Since she was five years old she’d wanted her family together. It was all she could do not to launch herself into the middle of the celebration. But this was her parents’ private moment.
Lisbeth sensed Cyprian coming up behind her. His arm slipped around her waist. She couldn’t help but lean into his strength. For a second she let her heart consider what it would be like to spend her life with the man she loved. Tempting as it was to fall back on the hope that they would be a family, she knew better. So far, history had refused to bend to her will. Either Cyprian would leave her through death or she would leave him through the portal.
“Please tell me Maggie is safe in Dallas,” Mama whispered.
Papa’s brows rose in the slow, easy way of a man who’d learned to conserve unnecessary efforts. “Well, Maggie’s a long story.”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“How did the child find her way back?”
Lisbeth waited for Papa to answer, but when it became obvious he didn’t want to add to Mama’s loss, she stepped in and answered for him. “Maggie’s no longer a child.”
“How many years have passed in your time?”
“Thirteen.”
“Oh.” Mama’s lips trembled and Lisbeth wished she could take back this entire conversation.
“Maggie’s a beautiful, artistic young woman and even more stubborn than her grandmother,” Papa added, trying to cheer her up.
“How is that possible?”
His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I do not know.”
“Magdalena!” Tabari’s voice interrupted. “Kardide will not wake up.”
Lisbeth snatched her bag and rushed across the aisle. She felt for a pulse. Next she lifted Kardide’s eyelids and flashed her penlight. “Unequal pupils.”
“I’m telling you it’s a classic epidural hematoma.” Mama’s teeth chattered.
Lisbeth wavered between getting to the root of her mother’s chills and treating Kardide’s possible brain bleed. “We don’t know that for certain.”
“Nausea is a sign of increased intracranial pressure and now she’s unconscious. What else could it be?”
“Dehydration.” Blood had seeped through the bandage wrapped around Kardide’s head. “Maybe even typhoid.”
“She took a pretty strong blow from a sword hilt. Her head hit the pavement in the fall.” Mama’s chills were making it difficult for her to speak. “And if we don’t relieve the swelling her brain could herniate.”
Of all the creative medical treatments her mother had asked her to give, this was well beyond the scope of reason. “Are you kidding?” Lisbeth said. “You want me to drill into her head?”
“I know it sounds frightening, but I’ll talk you through it.”
Maybe her mother was the one with the brain injury. “You’ve done craniotomies?”
“The gladiator docs do them all the time. I’ve assisted a very respectable Greek. Twice.”
“Well, that’s two more assists than I have, and I’ve been a surgeon for six years.”
“You did a surgical residency?” Mama’s pleasure slipp
ed through her rattling teeth.
“She did,” Papa said proudly, taking off his cloak and wrapping Mama tight. “Graduated top in her class.” He leaned in close to Mama and whispered, “She’s got your gifted hands.”
“How many of the Greek’s craniotomy patients lived?”
Mama lowered her good eye. “None. But the gladiators he operated on had suffered mortal injuries in the arena.” Mama tried to get to her feet, winced at the pain the effort cost her, and sat back down. “We’re wasting valuable time worrying about what might happen if we do surgery when we know for certain she’ll die if we don’t.”
“I’m not a neurosurgeon.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.”
“Not this time. A craniotomy would be risky in a perfectly sterile OR. Drilling into someone’s head by torchlight in a filthy tunnel is insanely irresponsible.”
“Standing by and watching a dear friend die is unforgivable.” Mama hardly let the impact of that zinger sink in before she continued making her case. “The longer we wait, the more likely she will not recover.” She spun her left index finger in a drilling motion over her clenched right fist. “You could save her just by making a small hole in the skull to relieve the pressure.”
Having only one good eye had clearly hindered Mama’s perspective. A top-flight surgical crew couldn’t guarantee Kardide’s recovery if she’d experienced a traumatic brain injury.
Judging stares came at Lisbeth from multiple pairs of eyes. No matter how many fellowships she completed or letters of distinction she added to the alphabet soup behind her name, she was not a savior. “I brought a few antibiotics, some oral typhoid vaccine, and the Kelly forceps you wanted. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to cram in a CT scanner or a high-speed air drill!”
“I’ve got the Greek’s drill.” Mama’s announcement was followed by a little cough. “Bought it off him after he retired from his gladiator work.”
“What?”
“It’s in my bag. Those overzealous soldiers took my kit from me and gave it to the guard to hold as evidence when they brought us in.” She cocked her head so that her good eye focused on Cyprian. “I’m sure you can sweet-talk Brutus into letting us have my tools for this small procedure.”
