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Authors: Lynne Gentry
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a generous stream of golden liquid into her palm. Hands lathered, she waited on Lisbeth’s return to a reclining position. “Whether or not this is pleasant is up to you.”
Offering reluctant cooperation, Lisbeth slid deeper into the water and rested her neck on the tiled edge. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slowed down long enough for a salon shampoo and haircut, let alone spa-like pampering.
Ruth’s fingertips burrowed through the knots in Lisbeth’s thick hair and found her scalp. Eyes closed, Lisbeth allowed the aromatic smells, coupled with the circular motions of Ruth’s nimble fingers, to carry her back twenty-three years, to a time when her mother used what precious little water they’d hauled into the desert to wash her hair over a basin outside their tent.How could she miss something she barely remembered? Something lost so long ago?
Ruth filled a ceramic jug and rinsed the suds. “I’d like to know how Felicissimus acquired you.”
“Me, too.” Tension eased under Ruth’s very capable hands. “Unfortunately, I was unconscious, so I don’t remember.” Lisbeth gave a dreamy shrug. “All I know is, one minute my life was headed one direction, the next I’m lost in some ancient nightmare.” Lisbeth shot upright, nearly pulling Ruth into the tub with her. “ Ancient? Wait a minute.” Water trickled down her face. She stuck a hand under the waterfall filling the tub. Cool. But the tub water was comfortably warm. “This is a Roman bath?” Her brittle voice hung in the steamy air. Lisbeth plunged both hands beneath the sudsy water and felt the warm tiles. “The water pours in cold, but then it’s heated by underground steam piped through the floor, right?”
Ruth’s face contorted in confusion, the front of her gown wet from Lisbeth’s splashing about. “You need to settle down.”
“I’m not settling anywhere until somebody tells me what in the world is going on.” Lisbeth scrambled out of the pool and grabbed a towel. “I helped my father excavate a place like this in England. Even though we found the underground furnaces where slaves stoked the wood fires, we wondered if this plumbing actually worked, but . . . wait a minute. Am I . . . is this . . . some other time?”
“I’m not sure of the time.” Ruth shook her head. “The sundial is in the courtyard. But the light is fading. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”
Why hadn’t the possibility she’d traveled in time dawned on her before? She knew why. Because the idea was ludicrous! Falling down a hole in the Cave of the Swimmers could have broken her neck, but the crazy accident could not have dumped her into another time.
Time travel was just an unsubstantiated theory. Michael Crichton beach reads for the gullible. Santa Claus fantasies on par with the possibility of a supreme god. Science couldn’t support these flimsy theories, and neither could she. In all her years exploring ruins, not once had Papa found a place like this . . . an inhabitable domicile that was actually inhabited.
In an attempt to keep her heart from beating out of its cavity, Lisbeth wrapped the towel tight across her chest. “Ruth, is this . . . where am I?”
“Let me check your scalp again. Maybe I missed a serious bump that requires a physician’s attention.”
Stuffing the urge to scream that she was a doctor, Lisbeth dodged Ruth’s reach. “Where? Please tell me.”
“Carthage.”
“As in Roman Carthage?” Lisbeth sorted through mental snapshots of the crumbling stone pillars she and Nigel had buzzed what seemed only a few hours ago. She knew every inch of Carthage. Her eyes darted around the fully operational bathroom. Nothing this elaborate or complete remained of the strategic port ancient Romans had fought three wars to own. “How can that be?”
“Someone brought you here.”
She must have been out for days if someone had transported her all the way from her father’s cave.
Offering reluctant cooperation, Lisbeth slid deeper into the water and rested her neck on the tiled edge. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slowed down long enough for a salon shampoo and haircut, let alone spa-like pampering.
Ruth’s fingertips burrowed through the knots in Lisbeth’s thick hair and found her scalp. Eyes closed, Lisbeth allowed the aromatic smells, coupled with the circular motions of Ruth’s nimble fingers, to carry her back twenty-three years, to a time when her mother used what precious little water they’d hauled into the desert to wash her hair over a basin outside their tent.How could she miss something she barely remembered? Something lost so long ago?
Ruth filled a ceramic jug and rinsed the suds. “I’d like to know how Felicissimus acquired you.”
“Me, too.” Tension eased under Ruth’s very capable hands. “Unfortunately, I was unconscious, so I don’t remember.” Lisbeth gave a dreamy shrug. “All I know is, one minute my life was headed one direction, the next I’m lost in some ancient nightmare.” Lisbeth shot upright, nearly pulling Ruth into the tub with her. “ Ancient? Wait a minute.” Water trickled down her face. She stuck a hand under the waterfall filling the tub. Cool. But the tub water was comfortably warm. “This is a Roman bath?” Her brittle voice hung in the steamy air. Lisbeth plunged both hands beneath the sudsy water and felt the warm tiles. “The water pours in cold, but then it’s heated by underground steam piped through the floor, right?”
Ruth’s face contorted in confusion, the front of her gown wet from Lisbeth’s splashing about. “You need to settle down.”
“I’m not settling anywhere until somebody tells me what in the world is going on.” Lisbeth scrambled out of the pool and grabbed a towel. “I helped my father excavate a place like this in England. Even though we found the underground furnaces where slaves stoked the wood fires, we wondered if this plumbing actually worked, but . . . wait a minute. Am I . . . is this . . . some other time?”
“I’m not sure of the time.” Ruth shook her head. “The sundial is in the courtyard. But the light is fading. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”
Why hadn’t the possibility she’d traveled in time dawned on her before? She knew why. Because the idea was ludicrous! Falling down a hole in the Cave of the Swimmers could have broken her neck, but the crazy accident could not have dumped her into another time.
Time travel was just an unsubstantiated theory. Michael Crichton beach reads for the gullible. Santa Claus fantasies on par with the possibility of a supreme god. Science couldn’t support these flimsy theories, and neither could she. In all her years exploring ruins, not once had Papa found a place like this . . . an inhabitable domicile that was actually inhabited.
In an attempt to keep her heart from beating out of its cavity, Lisbeth wrapped the towel tight across her chest. “Ruth, is this . . . where am I?”
“Let me check your scalp again. Maybe I missed a serious bump that requires a physician’s attention.”
Stuffing the urge to scream that she was a doctor, Lisbeth dodged Ruth’s reach. “Where? Please tell me.”
“Carthage.”
“As in Roman Carthage?” Lisbeth sorted through mental snapshots of the crumbling stone pillars she and Nigel had buzzed what seemed only a few hours ago. She knew every inch of Carthage. Her eyes darted around the fully operational bathroom. Nothing this elaborate or complete remained of the strategic port ancient Romans had fought three wars to own. “How can that be?”
“Someone brought you here.”
She must have been out for days if someone had transported her all the way from her father’s cave.
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