Healer of Carthage (6 page)

Aspasius threw back the transport’s fringed curtains. “Someone will pay.”

Magdalena’s left eye had swollen completely shut on the ride home. “I believe
someone
already has.” She did her best to glare at him with her right eye.

Aspasius clasped her face and yanked her so close that his salty sardine breath mingled with hers. “Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

He shoved her away and leapt from the cushions. He stormed toward the fortified doors of his palace with the uneven stride of a small man in built-up shoes. Royal cobblers did their best to compensate for the damage caused by the poorly set bone of a childhood injury. Magdalena remembered that Aspasius’s first act as the newly appointed proconsul of Carthage had been to hunt down the physician to whom his mother had paid their last copper and to cast him adrift upon the sea. Aspasius consulted a bevy of seers and healers, yet no matter what magic potion he smeared across his shriveled flesh, his body continued to list to one side. The paucity of Aspasius’s physical prowess was never more apparent than when he stood toe-to-toe with the
levelheaded Cyprian. An inadequacy Aspasius hated almost as much as Magdalena despised him.

She slid her trembling fingers along the folds of her cloak. The souvenir she’d managed to snatch from the pocket of the feisty slave chained to the block was still safely tucked away. Why had she taken such a foolish risk? No matter. It was too late for regrets. What was done was done. She didn’t dare examine her booty here. Cyprian’s little show of defiance had already aroused Aspasius’s temper beyond what she considered safe.

Magdalena gathered her skirts and dragged her bruised body from the litter. She must act, and act quickly, to close the distance between them before Aspasius had her permanently removed.

Hurrying along the cobblestone walk of the vine-covered porticoes, she returned to the palace that had become her prison.

The atrium, a large, airy room lit by an opening in the roof, was furnished with several golden cages containing an impressive collection of exotic birds. Nightingales, Ringneck parrots, and swans for the massive fountain. How she longed to return them all to their native woods.

Aspasius opened a cage door and reached for his favorite bird. Magdalena felt her own heart flutter, aching to be free. Three slaves he’d collected since his appointment to the Senate flitted around him.

Kardide, a hook-nosed Turkish wench shipped to Carthage on a Roman freighter, removed the master’s heavy toga.

Iltani, a slender Christian woman, silently lifted the scandalous golden wreath Aspasius wore in public to cover his receding hairline. Fiery disapproval of her master’s determination to set himself up as a god leapt from her eyes. Iltani’s mouth would never utter the curses the proconsul deserved, since her failed attempt to return to lower Mesopotamia had cost her three fourths of her tongue. When the proconsul’s bounty hunters caught her near the
city gates, they had performed the bloody procedure then and there. No analgesics. No antiseptics. No mercy. A vivid and unforgettable message to the masses.

Saddest of all was Tabari. The small, dark-skinned waif crouched before the knots of the proconsul’s red sandals. The child had lost the pinkie on her right hand fighting off Roman soldiers as they plundered the indigenous tribes bordering the African desert. For two years, Magdalena did her best to keep Tabari from the clutches of Aspasius. In the end, he snuffed the light of innocence from the girl’s large black eyes in the same cruel manner he’d stolen her virtue. Failing to save this child from such irreparable harm felt like failing to save a child of her own . . . one of the many regrets stoking the revenge that burned in her belly.

A scowl drew the brows of Aspasius into a bushy awning that framed his seething eyes. “Hurry, fools.” He set the bird upon his shoulder, offering it a scrap of something he withdrew from his pocket.

Today, the master of the house was not content to accept his servants’ sham of welcome or the adoration of a bird. Today, he wanted respect. To be treated as if he deserved the appointment he’d weaseled from the emperor despite the Senate’s refusal to confer on him his desires. To exact a little revenge of his own. If she did not act with speed, she would not be the only one sporting a black eye. All of Carthage would pay.

Magdalena drew a fortifying breath and stepped inside the room adorned with wall paintings of bare-chested cupids playing hide-and-seek.

All servants’ eyes darted to her. They immediately took in her disheveled appearance. Except for Kardide, the others dared not stop their tasks or show concern that their friend had once again suffered at the hands of their master.

“The same will be your fate,” Aspasius snarled at Kardide. Throwing control around in his own house seemed to fade the bruise on his ego. A surge of power pumped an evil snarl to his lips. “I’ll scatter every one of you like the worthless chattel you are if you continue to dawdle.”

Except for the concern flitting from eye to eye and the anxious cock of the bird’s green head, no one moved, especially not Kardide.

Magdalena had long since passed the point of desiring pity. All she needed to complete her mission was a few more months of her fellow servants’ continued silence. Aspasius’s term as proconsul would be up sooner than he expected if her anonymous letters detailing the unrest brewing in the empire’s southern quadrant had reached the emperor. She’d bribed a personal postal carrier she’d met in the market to avoid trusting her secret to Aspasius’s faster government couriers.

Had the scrappy messenger made it to Rome? She prayed so. Despite the threat of another beating if Aspasius discovered her secret, hope of her master’s removal and ultimate disgrace gave her reason to live. Until she had definitive word, she must let nothing tip Aspasius to her plan, not even her fear.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a discreet nod. Kardide resumed her work. Tension in Magdalena’s neck and shoulders eased a bit, but she kept her guard drawn.

These servants were more than a seamless team. They were the family she’d pieced together in this hostile place. Without them, the years would have been unbearable. And she knew they felt the same love for her.

If Aspasius suspected
she
had become the true master of this house, the problems of this morning’s run-in with Cyprian had distracted him to the point of letting such an impropriety slide. This temporary reprieve did not mean she’d escaped the arena,
a fate she would have welcomed years ago were it not for her secret. No one who dared defy Aspasius escaped the arena’s caged cats. Aspasius counted on the hungry roar of wild beasts to keep his subjects in line. And so far, they had.

Magdalena’s stomach clenched at the tortures the proconsul of Carthage would use to shred her little family if he ever discovered the truth hidden beneath his palace floors.

“Away with you.” Aspasius rubbed his temples.

The servants disappeared into the various alcoves and side rooms yet most assuredly remained well within hearing distance, loyal and willing to come to her aid if needed.

Magdalena slipped off her sandals. “Let me fetch your headache powders, master.” She started down the great hall, grateful she’d conjured another excuse to delay closing the space between them.

“Bring that new scribe to my chambers, slut!” Aspasius shouted after her. “And plenty of parchment and ink. I intend to petition Rome.”

Magdalena froze. Did the proconsul know what she’d done? Had someone betrayed her? Or was Aspasius simply allowing Cyprian’s ballsy show of defiance to feed his fear of losing his position and power? Something was propelling her captor’s unsettling campaign to remove her from his bed. She’d prayed to be free of him. Imagined herself sprinting toward the arms of her husband from the very first night she’d suffered under this man’s sweaty body. Her mind spun through the different evacuation scenarios she’d constructed, emergency plans in case this very thing happened.

Magdalena captured her racing thoughts. Now was not the time to reveal her hand or to react without solid facts. She would skip the lavender petals in his wine and double the mugwort. Aspasius wouldn’t miss her until morning. With her tormentor
knocked unconscious, she could go to the home of Cyprian. After today, the secret she kept beneath the palace was not the only thing at stake.

She turned to face him with the practiced grace that had kept her alive beyond what even she dreamed possible. “As you wish, my love.”

7

O
PEN THE GATE.” DEEP,
rich commands beckoned Lisbeth from hazy dreams of terrifying water slide rides and horrible men.

Somewhere in her foggy subconscious, metal hinges creaked and dogs barked. An uncomfortable combination of intense pressure on her midsection and the sensation of forward motion sent bile spewing from her mouth.

Something rough and wet lapped her face. She opened her eyes and worked to focus. Black canine eyes, set in a big square head, stared back at her. The hulking beast sniffed her tingling hands; then his large, pink tongue swept her face again. Mosaic tiles swirled in the sound of blood rushing to her head and the distinct stink of horseflesh and vomit. Had she passed out again? She had absolutely no bearings or a better explanation for why her head felt lower than her feet.

“Fetch Ruth.” Feet scurried away as two large hands clamped around Lisbeth’s waist and gently lifted her to the ground. “Can you stand?”

Fighting dizziness, Lisbeth swiped at her mouth. Her eyes traveled slowly upward. Before her, a huge black horse snorted and pawed at two big dogs scrambling beneath his feet. No wonder the
person holding her steady smelled of musk and leather. She must have died and gone to a zoo.

“Feeling steadier?” Whose arms held her upright?

Lisbeth moved her eyes slowly for a sideways peek. The strong arm flanking her belonged to the same man she’d seen in her dreams, the one who had started a crazy bidding contest for her, the guy who’d given her his coat and dared her to make a break. That she found him even the tiniest bit charming while at the same time loathing his very existence meant she must still be dreaming.

She tried to speak, to articulate something intelligible. Clanking sounds of a gate closing behind her slammed the words against the roof of her parched mouth. If the bandits had taken her to some secret compound, how would Papa ever find her?

The handsome hunk wrapped his arm tighter around her waist. “Come. Let’s get you some help.” He practically carried her toward a palatial mansion surrounded by arched porticoes and lush greenery.

Suddenly, a door burst open. “Cyprian!” A woman flew out. “Another stray?” Topaz eyes, two sparkling jewels set in a perfect heart-shaped face, triaged Lisbeth in seconds. “She’s beaten half to death.” The woman raced to hold the door open.

Cyprian scooped Lisbeth into his arms and strode over the threshold. “Felicissimus had to allow her to be roughed up a bit, Ruth.” He bypassed intricately carved benches and strode down a long hall, the dogs loping behind.

“It’s only a matter of time before Aspasius discovers your arrangement with the slave trader.”

“Rescuing those the proconsul keeps in bondage is worth the risk. Besides, the information I glean is invaluable.” He halted for a second. “Aspasius plans to replace the healer.”

Ruth gasped. “What will become of her?”

“I’m not sure.” He turned to the woman with the milky white skin of a Celtic. “Don’t worry. We’ll do what we can.”

Lisbeth squirmed. “Look, I don’t know who you people are or what you’re talking about, but I’m not—”

“From the looks of this stray cat, she tried to claw someone’s eyes out.” Ruth trailed their progress along the ornate passage.

“She has fight.” Cyprian stopped, his attention fastened on the blur of voices floating from a room farther down the long hall. “The bishop has returned?”

“He has. The news from Numidia is not good.” Ruth grabbed his arm. “How much did this one cost you?”

“Is there a price too great?” Cyprian commanded the dogs to stay. They dropped with an obedient whine. He ducked into a nearby room lit by a single oil lamp. “Clean her up. Tend her wounds before you bring her before the bishop.” He gently placed Lisbeth on the bed. “It’s too risky to fetch the healer.”

“Wait!” Lisbeth jumped off the bed. Despite the dizziness, she ran after him. “I’m not staying.”

Two dogs immediately flanked Cyprian, low rumbles vibrating from their droopy muzzles. “You are.” He banged the door shut in her face and clicked the latch.

“I’m not.” Lisbeth kicked at the brass-studded oak. Pain shot through her toe. “And your dogs don’t scare me.”

“Best to save your strength for what is to come.”

Lisbeth wheeled and held up her hands. “Back off, lady. I don’t belong here.” Her eyes darted around the room, quickly taking in an ornate wooden bed, a matching nightstand, and a young girl hiding in the shadows. “Wherever
here
is. There’s been some huge mistake.” She rubbed her throbbing foot against the back of her other leg. “I was just talking to Papa when—” Lisbeth stopped, suddenly aware that the exquisite woman calmly studying her had only spoken Latin. She probably wasn’t catching a word of what
she was saying. Lisbeth drew a slow and measured breath, hoping that extra oxygen would blow away any language cobwebs and settle her stomach.

“Collecting yourself is wise,” Ruth said. “Cyprian’s generosity toward you has cost more than a few coins.” She snapped her fingers, and a mousy-haired girl not more than twelve and dressed in a brown woolen tunic slipped from her hiding place. Keeping her chin tucked close to her flat chest, she waited for instructions. “Naomi, we’ll need a hot bath prepared, some food, and fetch a bottle of raisin wine. Oh, and bring my herb box.” The girl scurried out a side door.

“What is this place? It reminds me of a page out of history.” Lisbeth’s rudimentary Latin glanced off the frescoed wall mural of muscular men clothed in golden wings. “Some kind of palace stuck in a time warp or something.”