by Lynne Gentry
Maggie held up her palms in surrender. “Okay. Mom and Dad said I can’t go to my Jaddah’s trial tomorrow and I was crying about it.” Her lifted chin dared him to keep on with this line of questioning.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Go ahead. Call me a baby.”
“I didn’t say you were a baby.”
“You’re treating me like one.”
“A mature person would probably understand your parents’ concern and agree there’s no point of putting you in danger.”
“I can keep her safe.” Eggie dropped his playfulness, and Barek could see he wasn’t going to be easily bullied.
“You know nothing of keeping her safe and even less about politics.” This fellow hadn’t been in Carthage a week and he was acting as if he was an expert on everything, including Maggie. “No one knows what to expect from the new proconsul.”
Eggie squared off nose to nose with Barek. “The man Valerian sends will be obligated to follow his orders and—”
Maggie stepped between him and Eggie. “I didn’t come all this way to nurse a bunch of sick people. I came here for my Jaddah and father. I’m going to that trial.” She wheeled and snatched Eggie’s hand. “And lucky for me, I have a real friend who’s not afraid to help me.”
Barek snagged her arm. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”
“What are you going to do, chain me in some dungeon and tell my mom?”
What was it about this girl that made his blood boil? “No. I’m taking you.”
28
I THOUGHT LISBETH WOULD BE here by now.” Lawrence smoked his pipe, pacing like the caged cats next door. “That Pontius fellow made it sound as if she’d come as soon as they had a plan.”
Magdalena drew in a deep breath of the fruity, soothing aroma of her husband’s Erinmore. “You made it clear that she was to go home.”
“She never listens to me.” He stopped and raised his brow. “Does she listen to you?”
“She’ll come when she can.” Magdalena coughed and pulled the blanket around her shoulders, knowing her inability to get warm meant she needed more Cipro to break her fever. She patted the stones upon which she sat. “You know how unpredictable medicine can be.” Their gaze met and for a moment she knew they were wishing the same thing . . . for a way to rewind the clock and reclaim all of those nights lost to her operating schedule and his excavation adventures in faraway places.
“You’re still coughing.” Lawrence quit his pacing and came to her side, concern knitting his white brows. Time had taken a toll on him as well. “Pontius said Lisbeth was bringing more meds.”
“And Maggie.” She coughed into the crook of her arm.
“I wish she wouldn’t risk my granddaughter.”
“She’s my granddaughter too, Lawrence.”
He dropped to his knees beside her. “I only meant—”
She put a finger to his lips. “I know what you meant. It’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t let Lisbeth raise our granddaughter alone. It’s why I sent her home to you.” She felt a cough coming and drew the crook of her arm to her mouth again. “I’m sorry you—”
“No regrets.” Lawrence kissed her forehead. The keys rattled in the lock. “I told you she’d come.”
Both of them turned hopefully toward the door. The sound of a shoulder pushing against the heavy metal was followed by a grunt, which was followed by the creak of the door and torch- light. Brutus tromped toward them with a large jug tucked under one arm and a flaming bundle of sticks in the other.
“Are you alone?” Lawrence asked.
Brutus waved the torch behind him. “You see anyone else?”
“We were expecting—” Magdalena coughed again. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Your fool coughing is wearing me out, woman.” Brutus set the jug at her feet, lifted the gourd hanging from a string around his neck, and plunged it into the water. “Had this brought up from the well.”
“You didn’t drink any, did you, Brutus?”
“ ’Course. A man can develop a powerful thirst standing about in the heat.”
“Oh, no.” Magdalena struggled to stand. “Lawrence, give him those tablets.”
“I took the pill your friend gave me,” Brutus said.
“Your vaccine hasn’t had enough time to become effective. The Cipro’s an added precaution.” Magdalena waved her hand. “The decision is made.”
“No. You need them,” Lawrence protested.
She laid a hand gently on his. “I’m not going to need them.”
Lawrence’s eyes darkened with worry and she knew he’d caught her meaning. If her trial went well, she would be free. Any Cipro Lisbeth had left she’d pump into her, no matter how many times she’d beg her to give it to someone in greater need. If her trial went badly, she would die in the arena that same day. In either case, whether she was cured of typhoid right this minute was a moot point.
Lawrence reluctantly pulled the brown plastic bottle from his pocket and handed it to Brutus. “Take one now and one with your lunch.”
Brutus’s eyes grew wide as he looked to Lawrence and then to her. She could see the color slipping from his cheeks. “Do I have what she has?”
If this stocky guard passed out again, she didn’t think she and Lawrence could handle his limp body on their own. “Some of the wells are contaminated.” Magdalena pointed at the jug. “No point in taking any chances.”
“How long before my insides turn wrong side out?” A loud gulp accompanied his attempt to swallow his fear.
“They won’t if you take these tablets.”
Brutus’s face bunched into a confused puzzle. “You’re giving me your medicine?”
“I think it will help you.”
“Why would you help me?”
“It’s what Christ would do.” Magdalena held out her empty hands, palms up. “Help is all I have to give.”
“I can’t pay.”
“You don’t have to. It’s free.”
“You’re some of the strangest people I’ve ever met.” Brutus fumbled with the childproof cap. “How do you get into this thing?”
Lawrence showed him how to press and turn at the same time. Brutus’s thick fingers didn’t cooperate, so Lawrence opened the bottle and emptied a tablet into the guard’s dirty palm. “One now. One later.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to trick ole Brutus, now would you?”
“Been giving the same thing to my wife.”
“Like I said.” Brutus tossed the pill back and swallowed it without water. “Strangest people I ever met.”
29
MAXIMUS STORMED INTO THE torch-lit palace aviary still huffing from the stiff, uphill walk from the theater. “Kaeso!”
His roar sent the caged field fares, ortolans, nightingales, and thrushes into a screeching flurry. Like ambitious senators determined to be heard over the other, the brightly colored birds he’d inherited from his predecessor fluttered to higher and higher perches.
Filthy birds and their messes were not all he’d inherited. Since his arrival, a small parade of senators had burdened him with multiple complaints. He was tempted to herd all those white togas into gilded cages and have them carted off to the tunnels beneath these marbled floors.
Maximus stuck his index finger through the gold bars and smiled at the parakeet pecking at his large ring. “Kaeso!”
His servant slipped from the shadows of the garden wearing a perturbed expression. “Bellowing does not become your station.”
Maximus shook the bird from his finger, slammed the cage door, and plopped down upon an upholstered sofa inlaid with tortoiseshell and gold. “How can I be expected to prepare for my role as judge when these unnecessary interruptions continue to cut my acting lessons short? Epolon says I have some work to do.”
“The freedman will have to wait. Titus has requested an audience.”
“Again? What could that infuriating baboon possibly want now?”
“Baboon?�
�� Titus strode into the atrium from the open door of the center courtyard where he’d obviously been waiting. The depth of his scowl indicated he’d been waiting long enough to hear himself referred to as a hairy primate.
Maximus offered Titus a seat next to him, but he remained standing. “A term of endearment where I come from.” His delivery of the quip failed to soften the frown drawing Titus’s brows. “A sense of humor would broaden your appeal greatly, Senator.”
“What I have to say does not require humor.” Titus’s chin jutted like a pointing finger at Maximus. “My lord, I’m asking you to seriously consider recusing yourself from presiding over the murder trial.”
“Absolutely not.”
“At the very least, you should reinstate a new praetor and follow the rule of law.”
“And why would I do that?”
“The trial of the healer of Carthage is a very delicate matter, my lord. One that perhaps is best understood by someone local.”
“A healer who is a murderer. Strange combination.”
“You’re presuming her guilty before you’ve even heard the case.” Titus paced with such an interesting gait. Maximus could not wait to apply this hip-forward lope to a characterization he’d been working on with the protégé of Terence. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were implying me inept, Senator.”
“I have only your best interest at heart.” Titus’s beady eyes glared at Maximus. “The people adore the healer. No sense starting your tenure on the wrong foot.”
“Your concern is gratifying, but I intend to have a very public presence during my stay in Carthage, and I think the trial of this murderer is a matter better understood by a ruler who would prefer not to have his leg sawed off in his royal bed.” Maximus held up his palm and silenced Titus’s argument, proving he was indeed a quick study of the art of ruling well. He couldn’t wait to get back to Rome and try his hand at shutting his mother-in-law’s mouth with a simple gesture. “I shall have my chariot deliver me to the trial of this impudent slave in the grandest of fashion. I assure you, Titus Cicero, my debut entrance as ruler of Carthage will be one this city will never forget.”
Titus turned his long face toward the door, but not before Maximus could see that his decision had not made the senator happy. He didn’t care. Far wealthier people than Titus Cicero had tried to tell him what to do. It felt good to get his own way for once, even if the idea of judging terrified him.
But, by the gods, he was an actor. He’d successfully pulled off the role of proconsul when he first landed, hadn’t he? Although Maximus had not finished his private lessons, he’d acquired enough skills to pretend he knew how to preside over a murder trial. He’d set to work immediately after his arrival. The theater was within walking distance of his palace. Kaeso worried the exercise was beneath the station of a proconsul, but Maximus found taking the stairs a perfect way to warm up his lungs for the breathing drills dear Epolon put him through.
The accomplished actor had sorted his skills in one session. Since then, they’d worked to capitalize on Maximus’s few strengths and eliminate his many weaknesses.
“Not to worry,” Epolon had said as he flittered around Maximus as he left the theater. “When you make your grand appearance upon the judge’s seat, no one will suspect you have just given the first public performance of your illustrious career.”
Maximus longed for the day when he possessed Epolon’s confidence. This year would fly by far too quickly.
30
MAXIMUS PULLED THE COVER over his head. “Please, Kaeso, let me sleep a few more minutes.”
“If you insist on missing your cue, I shall have no choice but to contact the senator and tell him you have changed your mind.”
Maximus growled and tugged the blanket tighter around his ears.
Kaeso threw open the shutters. “The sun is fast approaching its noonday height. You have less than an hour to make your first appearance as the new proconsul of Carthage. What shall it be?”
Maximus lowered the cover and studied the ceiling. What a pleasure it was not to have that shrewish goddess staring down at him. Kaeso was right, this was a new day and he was the author of this next act.
“I shall go.” He rolled out of bed, relieved himself of the jug of wine he’d downed after his all-night rehearsal with Epolon. He splashed his face with the warm water Kaeso had just emptied into a basin. Maximus leaned in close to the polished brass and poked at the dark circles beneath his eyes. “If you line my eyes with kohl, perhaps they will give me the fierce look Epolon said I would need in the Forum.”
“You don’t have to do this. That long-armed senator seemed more than happy to take your place as judge.” Kaeso layered heavy folds of purple-trimmed wool upon Maximus’s shoulder. “However, plum roles do not come along every day. And judging the murderer of your predecessor is plum.”
“You’re right. I shall not let some frontier senator upstage me.”
“Still, anyone as new as you could easily step into dung and not know of his misfortune until others smelled it upon his shoes.”
“You worry too much, my friend.” Maximus turned in front of the mirror and caught a glimpse of Kaeso’s concerned expression. “After you double-check my pleats, add a touch of color to my cheeks.” He patted his churning belly. “Do you have any more of that awful brew for stomach upsets?”
“The gods could be trying to tell you something.”
“It’s nothing but a small case of stage fright. Epolon said a nervous stomach can actually propel one’s performance if the force of the discomfort is harnessed.”
To regain control of errant thoughts, Epolon had also suggested mind games. One of Epolon’s favorites required Maximus to visualize his idea of a perfect day. So as Kaeso finished dressing him, Maximus launched into deep breathing exercises and forced his mind on an imaginary journey. He pictured himself going to the theater instead of the Forum, then taking the stage and delivering his lines flawlessly. He’d even conjured scenes of the entire audience leaping to its feet and applauding him as one greater than Terence.
But when Kaeso tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Master, your chariot is here,” Maximus knew neither his breathing nor imagining had worked. His stomach rolled the way it had aboard the moldy grain freighter, and his confidence was sinking beneath a wave of doubt.
Maximus reluctantly tossed his toga’s excess fabric over his arm and filled his lungs. “Let the show begin.”
In a swirl of white and purple, Maximus descended the palace stairs and waited as Kaeso raised the sunshade on the four-wheeled chariot Maximus had discovered hidden beneath a tattered sailcloth in the corner of his newly acquired stable. According to the head groom, Aspasius had been murdered just hours after the special-order chariot arrived from Bulgaria. Not knowing what else to do with the expensive vehicle, the servants disguised the lavish cart as best they could to keep looters from stripping parts.
Maximus gripped the fine leather dash and climbed aboard. Showing off the exquisite bronze carvings made by illiterate horse-breeders captured nearly two hundred years earlier would remind his subjects not only of their place in perpetuating the success of the empire, but also of his place as the new voice of justice in Carthage. Nothing screamed “cunning” and “just” like mythological panthers with the bodies of wildcats and tails of dolphins. According to Maximus’s new acting coach, proper props were as important as a grand entrance when it came to creating a believable character.
Maximus gathered his courage, summoned the lower register of his voice, and instructed his driver, “Proceed to the Forum via the main street.”
The slave looked to Kaeso, then back to Maximus. “Carthaginian tradition demands you ride past the prison so they know when to bring the accused forward.”
“What do I care of your barbaric traditions?”
Kaeso gently placed his hand on Maximus’s arm. “Today, you care.”
“But I’ll be late.”
“You’re
late because you would not get out of bed.”
“But a fashionably late entrance can also make for a very grand entrance. A little trick Hortensia taught me.” Maximus issued his next order as firmly as possible. “Drive me past this horrid prison, but then circle back and proceed as I instructed.”
Bodies were stacked along the paved corridor like rotting cordwood. “Will there even be anyone to watch my performance?” Maximus asked Kaeso as they bounced along.
Kaeso shrugged. “We shall see.”
The driver pulled to a stop near the stairs leading down to the prison’s metal door. “Do you wish to speak to the prisoner?”
“My words for that wench”—he smiled—“shall be delivered when a well-delivered line counts.”
31
BRUTUS HELD A TORCH over the place where Magdalena and Lawrence clung together like survivors on a leaky raft. “It’s time,” the guard said quietly.
Lawrence cinched Magdalena with his ropy arms. “Can we have a few more moments?” he begged the guard. “Our daughter will be here any minute—”
“The judge has already ridden past,” Brutus said glumly. “Your escorts will be here any second. No time for long farewells.” He reached beneath his breastplate and retrieved a freshly pressed tunic. “It’s not much, but at least it’s clean. Woke a washerwoman and paid her a silver piece to launder it proper.” He held out a brown woolen garment, scuffing his boots like a nervous child. “Told her the wearer would be as fine a lady as my momma. And my mother, may the gods . . . uh, the one God rest her soul, always insisted her dress hold a good crease.”
Magdalena peeled herself from Lawrence’s embrace and pressed the stiff wool of Brutus’s offered garment to her nose. Sunshine and sea breeze, a gentle reminder of God’s continual presence. “Thank you, Brutus.”
“I’ve heard your prayers and seen how those who profess the faith in your one God have risked their lives to care for you.” Brutus offered his hand and helped her to her feet. “It would have been an honor to be healed by your hands.”
