by Lynne Gentry
Mama rewarded Titus’s confession with a smile of her own, then answered the prosecutor, “Titus is correct. Bloodletting and repairing a perforated colon are two very different things.”
“And amputation?”
“A proven treatment for gangrene used from the days of ancient Egypt.”
“Isn’t it true that you administered a large dose of madder root to the proconsul?”
“Everyone knows madder root relieves pain.”
“So you confess you drugged the proconsul and then coerced him into granting you permission to mutilate his body?” Before Mama could refute his implications, the prosecutor held up his palm. “That with the proconsul’s death, you hoped to escape once again and achieve your freedom?”
“Objection!” Cyprian shouted. “The prosecutor has presented no evidence to support these allegations.”
“It all sounds very convincing to me,” Maximus said. “Unless you can produce evidence to the contrary, I will have to rule in the state’s favor.”
Cyprian reached inside his toga and retrieved a wrinkled parchment.
“Yes!” Lisbeth shouted.
Cyprian continued, “I have the signed addendum to the proconsul’s will, the codicil that changes everything.” The crowd gasped. Cyprian brought the paper to Maximus. “As you can see, his signature is clearly legible, proof Aspasius was of sound mind when he consented to these changes.”
“He was in so much pain he would have agreed to anything!” Pytros shouted, waving his hanky at Mama. “She said she wouldn’t help him if he didn’t agree to her terms!”
No one moved. No one breathed.
Cyprian turned slowly and faced the wide-eyed scribe. “So you are changing your testimony, Pytros?” Cyprian ignored the rapid shaking of the scribe’s head and moved in. “Are you saying the healer helped rather than harmed the proconsul?” Cyprian had trapped the scribe with such finesse Lisbeth would have applauded his strategy were her arms free. “Which is it?”
“How does the court know this piece of paper is not a forgery?” the prosecutor argued to Maximus. “The accused could have mastered his signature . . . and . . . and this scrap of paper lacks the proconsul’s official seal.” He stormed to his bench and produced a thick scroll from a bag. “This is the proconsul’s sealed will.”
Maximus’s gaze ping-ponged between the scroll in the prosecutor’s hand and the crumpled piece of paper Cyprian had given him. From the confusion knitting his brows, Lisbeth could see the new proconsul of Carthage wasn’t sure what to do next.
Titus stepped out from the senators’ huddle. “You must compare the will against the document in question, my lord.”
“I was just about to suggest the same, Senator.” Maximus ran his finger along the edge of the scroll and broke through the blood-red wax. He unrolled the scroll and scanned to the signature, then back to the note. “The signatures appear to match.”
“Then let us hear the terms of this will,” Cyprian demanded.
Maximus handed the note back to Cyprian, then stood with the parchment held to his chest until complete silence descended upon the Forum. Satisfied he had everyone’s attention, Maximus cleared his throat and began to read in a loud voice, “I, Aspasius Paternus, bequeath my personal effects, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera . . .” as he scanned the document. “Oh, here we are. My slaves are to become the property of the succeeding proconsul.”
Maximus lifted his eyes and smiled in a way that suggested he expected these starving people to salute his good fortune. When they did not, he dropped his eyes and continued reading, “Including footmen, litter-bearers, overseers of the furniture, overseers of the lighting of the palace, valets, tailors, wine stewards, chamberlains, cooks, bakers, fullers, bath-keepers. . . .” He skipped down the list. “Ah, yes, here it is, and my personal physician, Magdalena.” Maximus made a great show of rolling the scroll as if it were sacred. “According to this, I am a very rich man and the healer is my property to use as I see fit.”
“She is forever bound to you,” the prosecutor confirmed, “in death or in life.”
“Unless this codicil states otherwise, correct?” Cyprian said. “The codicil Pytros has already confirmed that the proconsul signed.”
The prosecutor gave a reluctant half nod.
“Cyprian, the addendum.” Maximus held out his hand and Cyprian relinquished the flimsy piece of paper upon which his whole case rested. “I see that it is dated the day of the proconsul’s unfortunate death,” Maximus said. “It reads, ‘I, Aspasius Paternus, do hereby agree to restore running water to the tenements, clear the streets of dead bodies, close the harbors and highways until the sickness passes, forgive the complicity of the worthless slaves Kardide, Tabari, and Iltani, and grant the immediate pardon of Cyprianus Thascius. The solicitor is hereby empowered to facilitate the restoration of Carthage.’ ” Maximus raised his eyes. “A pardon? Why would a solicitor of Carthage need a pardon, Cyprian?”
“Now that I am a free man, the injustice of my exile no longer matters.”
The crowd broke into cheers. One of the beefy cheese merchants scooped Lisbeth off her feet and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She pounded on his chest until he released her. He licked his lips and wedged her back into the space that had grown even smaller between the two freedmen.
Cyprian raised his palms to silence the celebration. “My lord, you will note the codicil contains no mention of my client’s desire for or attempt to seek her own manumission. May I ask her why?”
“That is a curiosity to me as well,” Maximus agreed. “Ask her.”
“Magdalena, why didn’t you ask for your own freedom?”
“I asked for what was important.”
Cyprian flashed a grin at the red-faced prosecutor. “Magdalena thought nothing of her own welfare, as has been her practice throughout her years in Carthage. Instead, she sought only the good of the empire.” Again everyone shouted approval. “I ask you, my lord, would someone who possessed such a selfless nature kill the man who’d just granted her everything she wanted?”
“If she had no further need of him, yes, I believe she would,” the prosecutor said.
“Then produce her weapon and prove it,” Cyprian replied.
Lisbeth blew Cyprian a kiss and kicked the shin of the cheese merchant who’d tried to kiss her. When he grabbed at his injury, a hole opened up and she dashed toward the defendant’s bench.
34
SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN MAXIMUS’S back in great rivulets.
The eyes of Carthage were upon him. Not in the condemning manner of his mother-in-law, but with the same high expectations. From the way the plebs rallied at the news of Cyprian’s pardon, Maximus could only guess how thrilled the poor would be if he released their healer. The happiness of the patricians would be an altogether different matter. These men of rank obviously were the ones who’d voted Cyprian into exile. Would it be too much to expect them to tolerate the solicitor’s pardon? The very real possibility existed that freeing a slave who’d killed her master would, in fact, incite other slaves to attempt the same thing. If so, no one of rank and means was safe.
Maximus surveyed those gathered. Low-voiced opinions buzzed around him like a swarm of bees. How he wished someone had written his final line so that all he had to do now was take a deep breath, deliver it, and take his bow. But alas, that was not the case. The time had come for him to pronounce the verdict of his choosing. Courage, he told himself, and set to work weighing his options.
Maximus studied the pitiful woman who stood before him. Though obviously frail and possibly ill, power radiated from the knife lines drawn across her face like rays of sunshine. Not the power of flesh and blood, but the confidence of one who knew the outcome and was not afraid. If the healer were a patrician, Carthage would probably celebrate her as one who’d accomplished what no one had managed to do: ousted Aspasius Paternus from office. The hairs on Maximus’s arms rose.
Whether her deed was accidental or intentional
mattered little. What mattered was that if a woman could so easily accomplish the death of a man greater than he, where did that leave him? With his very life in jeopardy.
Fear began to coil inside him. Maximus, like all the other patricians staring at him, did not want to spend the rest of his tenure sleeping with a dagger beneath his pillow. And that’s exactly what he would have to do if he claimed his inheritance from Aspasius and took his predecessor’s healer into his house. If she didn’t kill him, her supporters would. This slave possessed powers far too great for her to be allowed to live.
Maximus stood, held up his hands. When the silence he desired had been achieved, he spoke with feigned confidence: “Guilty!”
Silence hung in the Forum for but a brief instant.
“No!” The protest came from a single female voice on the opposite side of the Forum. Before Maximus could locate the dissenter, a woman leaped over the defendant’s bench and was making her way straight toward him. “This isn’t right!” she squawked like a mad banshee hen. “Magdalena did everything she could for that monster, but his insides were rotted beyond repair.” The angry woman waved a shiny blade of some sort. “I was there!”
“Lisbeth, go back!” the accused screamed.
“She didn’t kill him!” The woman came at his neck with the jagged saw blade. “She tried to save him!”
“Lisbeth, no!” Cyprian lunged for her, knocking her to the ground seconds before her saw would have found Maximus’s throat.
The crazy woman would not be kept down. She squirmed from the defender’s hold and leaped to her feet. “She’s innocent!” she shouted, saw still in hand. “You’re killing the only hope of Carthage!”
Somewhere in the Forum the sound of breaking glass ignited the murmurs into heated shouts. Broken broom handles and clubs made from sticks and steel rods were pulled from beneath cloaks. Anger exploded in the Forum as the crowd members rolled forward, waving their weapons like a great tide intent on sweeping the footprints of oppression and desperation from the sand. Sounds of steel blades being withdrawn from military scabbards accompanied the quick movement of soldiers double-timing into place around the judge’s platform.
Safe behind the perimeter of crossed swords, Maximus issued his final line of the show: “Crucify this murderer and her accomplices immediately! Cast their bodies outside my city!”
35
MAGGIE STOOD FROZEN, WATCHING the chaotic scene record on her phone screen. People were shouting, pressing toward the stage, and throwing stones. Soldiers charged in and formed a perimeter of shields and spears. Jaddah had dropped out of the screen. Fear skittered over Maggie’s skin. She panned her phone camera, zooming in on individuals and the anger on their faces.
Suddenly her mother’s face filled the screen with a mixture of fury and terror. “She’s innocent! If anyone is to blame, blame me!”
Maggie pulled down the phone. “Mom!”
Her mother snapped into action, jerked free of Maggie’s father, then charged in to fight against the soldiers surrounding Jaddah.
“Mom!” Maggie shrieked, but her voice was lost in the surge of the inflamed mob.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Eggie grabbed her elbow.
“No!” Maggie lunged toward the podium, but Barek held her back. “Let me go!”
His hand cuffed her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to help my mom!”
“No you’re not!”
“You can’t expect me to stand here and do nothing!” Maggie yelled above the noise. “Please, Barek.”
A big man brandishing a broken broom handle knocked them aside. Barek pulled her to him. “I know you want to help her. But look around!” he shouted. “Have you counted the troops Maximus had brought in? We’ve got to think of another way.”
Maggie watched helplessly as across the teeming mass of people a soldier lifted his sword over her mother’s head. “Mom! Run!”
Her mother turned toward Maggie’s voice just as the soldier brought the hilt down hard upon her head. Maggie watched helplessly as her mother, a tower of strength and determination, crumbled. “Mom!” Maggie felt Barek’s arm hook her waist. She kicked at his shins but couldn’t break free.
“Let’s get her out of this crowd.” Eggie nodded in the direction opposite the mob storming the podium.
Maggie’s feet left the pavement. Before she could protest, she was hanging upside down over Barek’s shoulder. “Put me down!” Blood rushing to her head, she pounded Barek’s back. “Now!”
His grip tightened. His speed increased, jostling her like a rag doll. She felt him veer out of the crowd and duck down an alley. He stopped in a quiet, shaded nook of a large building.
“Where will they take Maggie’s grandmother?” Eggie asked Barek, his breath coming in short huffs.
“To the arena,” Barek spat out between his own labored breaths.
“They can’t crucify someone they don’t have,” Eggie said.
Maggie raised her head. “Let me go!”
Barek squeezed Maggie’s legs even tighter. “What are you saying, man?”
Eggie looked around as if worried they’d been followed. “You know the route they’ll take to the arena, right?”
“The longest. To give the news time to spread and draw the biggest crowd,” Barek said.
“Which way?”
“Past the theater, probably.”
“Perfect. Find a place between here and there where you can hide.”
“Then what?”
“Then jump out and grab the old lady when they come by.”
“And what shall we use as weapons to fight off the soldier escort? Your charm?”
“Put me down!” Maggie demanded. “I’ve got to get to my mother.”
Finally Barek acknowledged her. “I’ll put you down, but if you try to run I’ll beat your backside.” He hauled her off his shoulder and dropped her with a thump.
She scrambled to her feet. “I have a knife.” Maggie pulled the blade she’d bought from the airport vendor from her sash.
“Whoa!” Barek ripped it out of her hand. “Give me that before you hurt yourself.”
“There, now you’re armed, Barek. Feel better?” Eggie smirked. “The awkward way you’re handling the weapon, hopefully you won’t need it.”
Barek slammed his forearm into Eggie’s throat and pinned him against the wall. He brought the knife against Eggie’s cheek with his other hand. “So you think the soldiers are just going to hand Magdalena over if I show them a weapon?”
“Barek! Stop it!” Maggie tugged on his sleeve but he wouldn’t budge from his stance.
“I’ll create a diversion,” Eggie croaked.
“What kind of diversion?” Maggie asked.
“I’ll think of something that will get everyone’s attention.”
“Then what?” she demanded.
“Then you and Barek grab your grandmother and run like gazelles. I’ll circle back for your mother.”
“We can’t do this.” Barek had dug in the way he did the night she’d wanted to go with him to bury his mother. She’d won then and she’d win now.
“Why not?” Maggie hoped neither guy could see the terror clawing her insides.
“I promised your father I’d keep you safe.”
“And he promised my mother he’d save my grandmother,” she argued. “Some promises get broken.”
Barek looked between her and Eggie. He slowly lowered the knife, released Eggie’s throat, and stepped back. “We can’t take her back to Titus. They’ll kill him for harboring a criminal.”
Eggie rubbed his throat. “Got any better ideas?”
Maggie didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified that she’d gotten her way so easily. “You’ll do it, Barek?”
“If I don’t, you’ll go anyway.”
“Barek—”
His scowl silenced her explanation. “I know how you are! Once your mind is set, there’s no changing yo
ur course. Don’t try to deny it. I know you better than you think.”
“Hate to interrupt your admiration for each other”—Eggie grabbed an unlit torch from a nearby streetlamp—“but if we do this, we’ll need someplace to hole up until everything settles down.”
Barek didn’t hesitate a moment. “My parents’ dye shop is vacant.”
“Wait for the diversion, then grab her grandmother and go there.” Eggie waved the bundle of sticks in a little farewell salute. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Maggie ran after him. “Wait! How will you find us?”
“Smart as you are beautiful.” Eggie clasped her face, pulled her to him, and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Tastes even sweeter.” His release left her speechless. He shot a pleased smile to Barek. “Now, where is this dye shop?”
Barek threaded his fingers through Maggie’s as if reclaiming what Eggie had so brazenly taken. “Southernmost fringe of the city.” His eyes narrowed. “Follow the foul smell to a wooden tooth, then turn left.”
36
AT THE SOUND OF Maggie’s cries for help, a switch snapped in Lisbeth’s head. She staggered to her feet. Righteous indignation at the proconsul’s verdict had quickly morphed into something far more deadly than the headache she had from the blow to the head. She was a desperate mother determined to protect her child. Lisbeth fought wildly to free herself from the soldier dragging her away from the podium. He pinned her arms by wrapping them across her chest. She sank her teeth into his exposed flesh and didn’t let up until she tasted blood.
“Ahhh! You little witch!”
While he writhed in pain, Lisbeth seized her chance. She broke loose and ran toward where she’d heard someone screaming for her in English.
“Maggie!” Her eyes frantically scanned the sea of angry protestors. Far beyond her reach, she caught a glimpse of blond curls. “Maggie!” She shifted her eyes over the crowd but her daughter was gone—swallowed by the surge of people like a footprint in sand. She began to spin, calling and searching with each rotation.
