The Dark

CHAPTER Sixteen



Isabel


Rome is incredible. People are everywhere – hundreds of them, going about their business all in a rush. There’s an open market, steaming with hot spicy food. The streets are cobbled and straight, the buildings two and three storeys high.

‘Stop gawking,’ Rochelle hisses at me. ‘You’re going to stand out. And ultimately that puts us all at risk.’

My gaze slides sideways. I wonder what’s eating her? But when I think about it, I guess she’s right. I probably am coming across as a typical tourist. Ethan gives a laugh under his breath. I stick him in the ribs with my elbow.

‘Doesn’t this just sweep you away?’ I open my palms to indicate the multitude of people around us. To me, it’s the men that stand out, in their white tunics or togas, slaves trailing behind like bodyguards to the rich and famous. ‘It’s just so alive!’

Rochelle turns sideways, making sure she doesn’t brush up against a man pushing a cart of vegetables. ‘You’re such a romantic. One day your bubble’s going to burst and you’re going to end up with mud on your face. Life isn’t sweet. It stinks. Just smell it.’ Her nose wrinkles up and I have to wonder where all this negativity is coming from. OK, she’s been through some dramatic changes in the last twelve months, but this bitterness sounds as if it’s specifically aimed – at me, or Ethan. She’s probably just frustrated, unsure of Ethan’s feelings.

‘Can you believe that stench?’

Up until now I hadn’t noticed, too caught up in the excitement of simply being here. But now that she mentions it …‘Phew. What is that?’

‘Garbage,’ Ethan says. ‘Sewage too.’

‘And something burning, like a building that’s been smouldering for days,’ Rochelle adds.

We keep walking, a kilometre at least. ‘Does anyone know where we’re going?’

Ethan points up ahead to a white building of many columns. ‘There, to the left of that temple. Octavius should be staying in a villa that’s just a walk down that road.’

It ends up a long walk, but no one complains. And I’m not game to ask Rochelle what she thinks again.

At last we arrive at the front door of a villa Ethan thinks is the one. In a street of large houses, this one is by far the largest of all. At Ethan’s knock the door is opened by a huge man, a slave apparently, wearing a white robe, a stark contrast to his dark African skin.

Ethan introduces himself.

‘The doctor has arrived,’ the slave announces in a strong voice with a bored tone to it. He ushers us into a cool atrium where the floor and sparse furnishings are made almost entirely of marble. As we wait, the slave examines us, a frown forming on his deep set brow. He notices the tools in my hands but doesn’t say anything. After a minute he calls out again, ‘It appears he has brought his entire entourage. Three in all.’

While the slave’s tone is anything but warm, it’s good to know that we’re expected. At least Ethan is. Finally we’re greeted by a woman who turns out to be Lady Livia herself – Octavius’s wife. An attractive woman, she looks slender in a long dark gown with a sheer red wrap around her shoulders. She welcomes us warmly. Apparently their other doctor recently retired, and her eldest son, Tiberius, a ten-year-old who has lately come to live with them after the death of his father, has come down with some unexplained ailment.

My spine prickles, and I have to wonder if it’s my sixth sense hinting foul play might be at work, or simply my healing instincts kicking into action. ‘Can we see the boy?’ She looks at me as if I’ve spoken out of turn. ‘It wouldn’t be good to delay, should he be afflicted with something serious, my lady,’ I explain, my face heating up under her glare.

Livia’s eyes slide down to the implements wrapped in cloth in my hands, then at Rochelle’s empty ones. She’s obviously got something on her mind, something bothering her. ‘These women,’ she says to Ethan, ‘are they both your assistants?’

‘This is Claudia,’ he replies, pointing in my direction. He indicates Rochelle next, but before he has a chance to introduce her, the African slave moves in front of us.

‘We were expecting two.’ He crosses his muscular arms over his equally muscular chest. ‘The doctor and his assistant only.’

It appears Mr Carter got it slightly wrong, putting our credibility at risk. To my right Ethan’s hand starts to curl into a fist. He has to come up with a plausible explanation for Rochelle’s presence. It thankfully doesn’t take him long, though I’m not sure Rochelle will be impressed with his brainwave. ‘This is Sempronia. She is … my slave. She’s very talented with her … with her hands.’ He freezes. All three of us do. Other than truth-seeing, Rochelle’s skill is her gift of touch. Her hands are capable of identifying just about everything, especially substances like herbs, powders and chemicals. She doesn’t need light or smell or any other sense to know exactly what’s in her hands. Preparing poison is her speciality. Well, it used to be when she worked for Marduke.

A silence follows where all I can hear is Rochelle’s breathing, which has suddenly grown noisy.

Livia speaks first. ‘Very well, she’ll sleep in the slave’s quarters. Wanjala can set a bed up for her.’

Oh great. How do we get out of this? Isolating Rochelle from us would put her in a vulnerable position. If her identity were to be discovered, there’s no doubt the Order would want her captured or destroyed.

Ethan’s eyes spin to Rochelle’s. Just identifying her as a slave has left her seriously powerless, let alone singling out her hands as ‘special’. She has to keep a low profile now, that’s for sure. She especially can’t go reacting indignantly. Keeping her eyes low and buried, they skitter across the floor from one end of the room to the other, while she waits for her awkward situation to be resolved.

Ethan’s shoulders lift, and to Livia he says, ‘If it pleases, my lady, I would like Sempronia to remain by my side. She is already trained in preparing medicinal formulations, and I have many uses for her.’

Livia glances from Ethan to Rochelle. Patting his arm, she looks at him with amusement. ‘I’m sure you have, Petronius. It will be as you wish. The three of you shall lodge in the guest quarters.’ And to her slave she says, ‘See to it, Wanjala.’

The matter thankfully closed, Livia speaks to one of the female slaves that have gathered in the atrium, asking where her son can be found.

Cornelia, a small young woman, explains, ‘Wanjala carried him to a bed in the courtyard, my lady, to give Julia some time to go to the market.’

The courtyard is located in the centre of the house. As we walk there Livia explains that Julia is the boy’s nanny.

We find Tiberius sleeping in a shady corner, while his younger brother, Drusus, plays quietly around his couch. Without even feeling the boy, it’s clear from his brightly flushed cheeks that he’s running a temperature. But I have to be careful to maintain my disguise as Ethan’s assistant. I’ve already spoken out of turn once. So I wait for Ethan to examine the boy first. His training helps him bluff his way through the examination. At last he calls me to assist, explaining how the boy’s chest is internally inflamed and must be kept warm while he listens for the presence of damaging fluid. ‘Lay your hands here,’ he says to me, placing them directly over the boy’s lungs.

Within seconds I have a clear picture in my head. The boy has pneumonia, his lungs struggling to inflate. One in particular is on the verge of collapsing. ‘It might be easier on the boy if he were to sit up,’ I suggest.

Ethan understands that I want to get my hands on the boy’s back. As we move the child into position, and I begin working on healing the severe chest infection, Ethan tries to distract the household. ‘We will need several medicinal herbs to prepare the boy’s medication.’

Livia quickly comes to our aid. ‘The household is well stocked, but if there’s anything in particular you desire, I will send for it immediately.’

Ethan sends Rochelle to check the stores, giving her an opportunity to look for suspicious items. He then hands me a small vial of coloured liquid he has in his tunic. ‘In the meantime this medicine will start the recovery process.’

As the slave, Cornelia, shows Rochelle where to go, I give the boy the coloured liquid to drink. It’s a good idea, even though the ‘medicine’ is probably only water or syrup. Ethan knows it won’t take me long to heal the child. All the same, it mustn’t look as if he was healed by magic. And to heal him completely would be a mistake, as we’re supposed to be doctors, not miracle workers. A real herbal mixture should be enough to return him to full health in a few days.

His temperature reduced, Tiberius feels better and grows restless. He wants to play with his brother, but Livia orders him to keep resting. While she is distracted by her suddenly energetic son, Ethan leans down to whisper in my ear, ‘Was it poison?’

As soon as he asks a sinking feeling hits me deep in my stomach. Tiberius’s illness wasn’t foul play, but simply a chest infection. Glancing at the boy, I try to shrug off an eerie feeling I’ve done the wrong thing. How could healing a child of something he would eventually overcome anyway be wrong? Would my action be considered as tampering with the past? Suddenly I’m confused. I try to recall what Mr Carter’s instructions were.

Soon a bustling sound from inside the house gets my attention. Slaves are running all over the place. Livia, in a wonderful mood now that her son is looking better, doesn’t even realise it’s her husband, Octavius, who has arrived home.

He walks into the courtyard. She sees him at last, and announces his presence using his full title of Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius. He stands still, strong eyebrows lifting. My eyes are drawn to him. His presence is very magnetic, standing there, not particularly tall, but seeming so in his white tunic and toga, his manner calm but purposeful, his hair fairer than I imagined. And there’s something about his eyes that seem almost … divine, in the literal sense of the word, strange as that may sound.

Rochelle comes back holding a selection of herbs. She sees Octavius and gasps softly. He simply smiles, apparently used to this sort of reaction. Livia takes him by the arm, and brings him over to meet us. Introducing Ethan and me, she goes on to explain how much better Tiberius is feeling since Petronius’s consultation.

From the corner of my eye I see Rochelle stare at the small boy jumping up and down on his bed.

Octavius claps his hands three times. ‘Wonderful,’ he says. ‘For your excellent work, the two of you must join us this evening for a sumptuous meal.’

Rochelle is not invited, but as a slave, she wouldn’t be, and there’s not much Ethan can do about that. A quiet moment later I find myself alone with her in our room.

‘So what was wrong with Tiberius?’ Rochelle asks, unfolding a blanket.

‘What do you mean?’

She smirks. ‘You healed him, didn’t you?’

Her tone is full of accusation. ‘He had an infection. I helped clear it up. It won’t make any difference, OK?’

The blanket in her hand drops to the bed. ‘Yeah, right.’

Her attitude irritates. ‘It just happened. Healing has become such a natural act lately.’

She picks up the blanket and spreads it over the bed. ‘You’d best learn how to control your instincts. Sometimes the smallest mistakes have the largest impact.’

‘Well thanks. I feel so much better now.’

She snorts and finishes making up the bed in silence. And I can’t help thinking if Arkarian had co-ordinated this mission, I wouldn’t have made that mistake with Tiberius, no matter how large or small it could prove to be. His instructions were always so clear. But I really haven’t the right to blame Mr Carter either. I simply should have known. I just hope nothing will come of it, and that I’m worrying myself stupid for no reason.

I try to take my mind off Tiberius’s sudden good health by asking Rochelle if she minds being on her own tonight, while Ethan and I attend the dinner with Octavius and his family.

She’s quick to answer, snapping at me, ‘I can handle myself.’

‘I know that,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just, I don’t like any of us being separated. I’ve got this weird feeling we’re being watched all the time.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

‘Do you recognise anyone?’ I ask this doubtfully. To recognise someone who doesn’t belong in the past, she would have to look deeply into their eyes, which might put her own identity at risk.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m not going to stare into anyone’s face for more than a brief second.’

‘Just be careful,’ I warn her. ‘My sixth sense has shot into overdrive at the moment. I’m getting one eerie vibe after another.’

The boy, Tiberius, suddenly runs into our room at full pelt, swinging around the two of us and dragging on our tunics. His cheeks are flushed again, but I get the feeling it’s more from play than any lingering chest infection.

I pull him round to face me. ‘What’s going on? Didn’t your mother tell you not to leave your bed?’

He looks to the door, his eyes laughing, his mouth an impish grin. ‘But I’m feeling much better!’

Rochelle figures out his game. ‘I bet your mother doesn’t know where you are.’

‘She sent Drusus and that demon woman to look for me.’

‘What “demon” woman?’ Rochelle asks.

He giggles as his younger brother shoots across the open doorway. ‘I can’t see him anywhere, Julia,’ Drusus calls out to his nanny, who runs past in hot pursuit, looking very flustered.

Tiberius, spotting his nanny, quickly searches the room with his eyes. ‘Hide me, please. That woman is a witch.’

Rochelle exchanges a look with me, then says, ‘We’ll hide you from your nanny, but only if you promise to go straight back to bed.’

He agrees and I point to a wicker basket meant to hold our clothes. ‘Here. Jump in.’

I lower the lid over him just as Drusus charges in, with Julia heaving behind him. ‘Have you seen my charge?’ she asks in a cold commanding voice. ‘He’s supposed to be taking a nap! If he’s well enough to run around he should be doing chores, or working on his lessons.’

Rochelle and I exchange a secretive look. Drusus runs around the room looking beneath our beds and under clothes lying around. As he goes to lift the lid of the wicker basket, I grab the back of his tunic, stopping him just in time. ‘You won’t find your brother in this room.’ I send him back to the heaving chest of his nanny.

She grabs the boy’s arm in a firm grip, leading him to the door. ‘If you see the little rascal, tell him if he doesn’t get back to bed, his next lessons will be double in length.’

‘Of course. I’ll make sure he hears every word.’

She gives me a lingering look before taking off with her smallest charge. Tiberius peaks out from beneath the lid of the basket. ‘Is it safe? Is the witch gone?’

I lift the lid. ‘All’s clear.’

He climbs out of the basket, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. ‘Oh thank you,’ he says with great relief. ‘If there is anything I can do for you in return …’

Rochelle motions for him to come closer. ‘You can start repaying us right now by telling us why you think your nanny is a witch.’

His small body vibrates with a shiver that starts at his head and descends all the way to his bare toes. ‘She makes things with herbs and other powders.’

He has our attention immediately. ‘Sempronia makes things with herbs too, but they’re good medicines. Why do you think Julia makes bad things?’

‘Because she makes them in the middle of the night, with him, the big man.’

Rochelle and I exchange worried frowns over the top of Tiberius’s head. ‘Do you mean Wanjala?’ Rochelle asks.

Tiberius’s eyes grow wide. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Have you spoken with your mother about them? Maybe you could ask her to have them dismissed.’

If these two are working for the Order, dismissing them could be one solution – a means to getting them out of the house until the portal to this time period closes.

‘She thinks I don’t like Julia because she’s strict. I’ve had a lot of nannies.’

‘Really?’ I ask. ‘So Julia hasn’t been with the household for long?’

‘She came only last week, the same day as Wanjala.’

Rochelle frowns. ‘He has such an authoritative manner, I thought he must have been here for a long time.’

Tiberius looks back at us blankly. I pat his chest. ‘Well, you’d better go now – straight back to bed. You don’t want that fever coming back, do you?’

‘Yes, my lady. I mean, no, my lady,’ he says as he backs towards the door. ‘And thank you again.’ He bows dramatically, and when he lifts his head his eyes are sparkling, his grin huge.

I can’t help smile at the boy as he runs from the room.

Rochelle, it seems, has the same feelings about him. ‘The little charmer.’

Ethan walks in and we explain what we just learned about Wanjala and Julia.

‘I wonder what they’re brewing together,’ he says.

‘Well, whatever it is, we’ll have to work fast at finding out, if we’re going to have any chance of stopping them.’

‘If they suspect us,’ Rochelle says. ‘And no doubt they do by now, they’re going to speed up their plans. They’re going to make sure they finish their job before we even work out what they’re up to.’ She looks at Ethan. ‘Where have you been? Did you find out anything useful?’

His shoulders lift. ‘I’ve been with Caesar, discussing his latest problems with Mark Antony. There was so much I could have told him, not least how successful he will ultimately be with this man.’

‘That’s not up to us,’ Rochelle reminds him – unnecessarily. While it would be tempting, and so easy, to say or do something that could reassure Octavius about his future successes, an inappropriate word or action could have the effect of changing history, and ultimately the future. But Ethan, of all people, knows this.

‘Remember we took an oath,’ Rochelle says, adding to her insult.

He snaps. ‘What do you think I am? An idiot? I’m not going to do anything that could jeopardise the future. I learned that lesson from my father’s problems with Marduke.’ Looking straight into Rochelle’s eyes he adds, ‘I don’t cave in to temptation.’

I cough to clear the air, but it doesn’t work. They keep staring at each other with daggers for eyes. ‘Look you two, fighting is not going to get us anywhere.’

‘Tell her,’ Ethan says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rochelle goes to the door, exhaling a long breath that sounds more like a mournful sigh. ‘Why don’t we split up?’

Ethan slips past her, and without looking at either of us, walks straight out the door, mumbling, ‘Great idea.’

The afternoon passes quickly. Rochelle disappears to the kitchen, looking for evidence. Ethan sticks with Octavius, closer than a bodyguard, while I try to keep a general eye out for anything suspicious. But nothing unusual or extraordinary happens. Drusus gets some free time and chats with me in the courtyard while his brother looks on with amusement from his bed. It eventually grows dark, and the slaves of the house rush around preparing the sumptuous meal Octavius promised. Finally we go inside.

The children lead me to a large room, where three long couches on high legs, and a long table, sit in the form of a square. The couches are covered in cushions. Ethan and I are shown to a couch opposite Tiberius and his step-father, Octavius. Livia and her younger son, Drusus, share the other. Slaves soon bustle about bringing food to the table, some carry platters, which they offer to each of us.

It feels strange eating food in this manner – lying on a couch! But I try to look comfortable, as if I’ve done this all my life. Rochelle, in her role as slave, has offered to help with the food.

As I sit and listen to the conversation passing from Livia to her husband, and Ethan by my side, my thoughts turn to the brew Tiberius has seen Wanjala and Julia mixing. It has me wondering what on earth they could be making. Mr Carter’s words come back to haunt me as I recall him saying it will be something big.

Rochelle leans over my shoulder with a tray of bread, olives and fish and whispers, ‘He’s been working like crazy on an unusual centrepiece – a pig’s head. It’s stuffed with a strange-smelling mixture that’s supposed to be herb bread and mixed grains. He’s going to present it to Caesar. My first thought was poison.’ She screws up her nose. ‘But it doesn’t have the right smell. I wish I could get my hands on it without either of them seeing me.’

‘That would be too risky,’ I mutter. ‘You’d give yourself away.’

She nods. ‘Whatever it is, don’t let Caesar, or anyone for that matter, eat the pig.’

Her words have the same effect as ice water poured down my spine. Poison is Rochelle’s speciality. If the Order suspect she may be here, they could have devised a way to disguise the smell. Passing this information quickly to Ethan, I warn him about the pig’s head.

I hardly get a second to think when Wanjala makes a grand entrance with a silver tray in his hand, a silver dome lid over the top. ‘For our master, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius,’ he announces flamboyantly. ‘And his special guests.’

Laying the platter down on the table, Wanjala steps back to the wall. It occurs to me that this action is quite strange. One would think a man of such pride as Wanjala would be only too keen to display his handiwork himself. Mr Carter’s words, ‘It will be big’, come back and taunt me.

Tiberius jumps up, just as Octavius reaches across to the domed lid. ‘Let me do it,’ the boy asks in his familiar, charming voice.

Octavius smiles down at him, then says, ‘Your arm must grow another whole length before it will reach the table.’

‘Watch me,’ Tiberius says, stretching as hard as he can for the lid. ‘I can do it.’

At the very moment both Octavius and Tiberius reach for the domed lid, it hits me. It’s not a poisoned pig’s head under that lid. But something much more deadly.

Their fingers grip the handle just as I scream out, ‘No! Don’t lift it!’

But they do. And as the lid lifts Octavius looks at me with an amused frown. For a second it appears as if he’s about to ask me something, but he doesn’t get his words out before the tray, with everything on it, explodes.

The force of the erupting bomb catapults Octavius and Tiberius into the air. The table bursts into shards of splinters and food flies everywhere. Livia screams and runs to her husband and child, both unconscious and sprawled against the wall.

Amid a scurry of slaves running everywhere, Ethan and I scramble off the upturned couch. Out of the corner of my eye I see Wanjala and Julia take a look, and seeing the destruction and gathering pool of blood beneath the soon-to-be Emperor, start to back away.

‘It’s done,’ Wanjala says in a voice devoid of all his earlier bravado. ‘He’ll be dead in a few minutes. Let’s get out of here.’

‘No wait,’ Julia replies. ‘Let’s make sure.’

Rochelle hears the woman and sees red. She grabs a splintered piece of timber from the floor and goes to stab her. But Wanjala intercepts her. Pulling a dagger from his tunic, he holds it beneath Rochelle’s ribs. ‘Don’t try it. I won’t hesitate to kill you.’

Ethan takes one look at Rochelle in trouble and uses his skill to animate objects. Cushions, broken bits of furniture, platters, and even food, start whirling towards Wanjala’s head. Using this distraction, Ethan pushes Julia roughly out of the way, then drags Rochelle out from Wanjala’s grasp. ‘You’re not going to die here in the past! Do you understand?’

As the debris starts to settle, and slaves stop screaming, I finish assessing Octavius and Tiberius’s wounds. Both of them are critically ill, having received massive injuries. Suddenly Wanjala towers over the back of me. I look up, expecting to see him wearing a look of smug satisfaction. But he’s not. He stares at the man and child sprawled below him, his mouth drifting open as his eyes rest on the boy. He sees me looking at him and pulls away. Without saying a word, he takes Julia’s hand, and the Order’s two soldiers run from the room.

Rochelle, still caught tight in Ethan’s hold, snarls and hisses in frustration. ‘Let me go!’

‘No. You’re needed here. Help stem this blood flow.’

Livia looks from her husband to her son and moans hysterically. She must think she’s about to lose them both.

But the decision of who lives and who dies right now is unbelievably up to me. I have the power to heal, but only one at a time. And looking at Tiberius my heart skitters uncontrollably. The only reason this child is lying here on the verge of death is because of me. If I hadn’t healed him of his chest infection this morning, he would still have been in bed. He wouldn’t have opened the lid not meant to be touched by his hand. With these thoughts thundering through my brain, I bend over him, running my fingers over his blood-stained head, searching for internal injuries, and looking for a point to begin healing.

But Ethan grabs my arm and drags me backwards. ‘No!’

I look up, hardly seeing him through my rapidly blurring vision. I know what he’s saying, but I can’t accept it. ‘I have to heal the boy! He’s dying,’ I whisper.

He swallows deeply. ‘You have to save Caesar first. He’s dying too. That’s what we came for.’

‘But the boy,’ I try to tell him, even though I know he knows. ‘He will be an Emperor too.’

‘Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius will be the first, the famous Augustus Caesar and his changes will be the ones that will shape our modern world. You have to heal him first. And you have to hurry. He’s losing a lot of blood.’

Livia wails, pulling her son into her arms. Meanwhile Rochelle tries to stop the blood flowing from a deep wound to the base of Octavius’s skull. ‘Hurry!’ she calls.

I move to Octavius. He’s in a bad way. Other than the head wound, he has severe internal injuries and a badly damaged arm. I work at stopping the rapid blood loss, repairing burst blood vessels and scarred and damaged organs. Then I work on repairing torn ligaments, muscles and bone.

I’m hardly finished when Livia screams a woeful sound, a sound that lets us know we have lost the child. My heart clenches, my breathing tightening unbearably. What have I done?

I force myself not to look, to keep working on Octavius, but can’t help one brief glance. What I see will remain with me for the rest of my life – a grieving mother rocking her lifeless son in her arms.

Once healed, Octavius sits up, stunned at the massive destruction around him. ‘What happened here?’ He crawls over to where his wife grieves, the dead child in her arms.

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Rochelle asks softly.

‘I can’t bring back the dead. His injuries were too severe. He wouldn’t have recovered without immediate healing.’

Ethan grabs our arms, yanking us both up. ‘We have to get out of here. Caesar is going to want answers. And we can’t give them to him.’

Understanding this, the three of us back out of the room. Finding an isolated corner, Ethan calls Mr Carter’s name. In seconds I feel the imminent pull of transportation taking hold. I can’t stop thinking how miserably we failed. How miserably I failed. Then an image comes to me. The image of Wanjala’s face as he stared at the destruction of human life before him. A flash of recognition hits my senses, and I wonder, what’s a dark-skinned African doing with such deep green eyes?