Valley of Decision

by Lynne Gentry

No coughing. No crying out for relief from fevers. No sign of the soldiers. All that remained of Lisbeth’s little hospital were the motionless bodies of the people he’d failed to protect.

  He no longer had to worry about his lack of faith. His sin would never again allow him to boldly approach the one God of his father, but he had nowhere else to turn. Barek squeezed his eyes tight and dared to commit one last sacrilege. “God, please do not make Cyprian pay for my disloyalty.”

  Struggling for breath, Barek searched the carnage in the atrium. The patients were dead. What about everyone else? Those he loved who had been caring for the sick. If they had been spared, he would dedicate his life to their protection.

  Barek grabbed hold of a nearby bench to steady himself. “Laurentius?” His desperation echoed in the frescoed arches. “Naomi?”

  Pain accompanied every jarring step. He skirted bodies and hurried to the quarantine hall. The secluded space had been assigned to keep the Cicero family away from those with measles after Lisbeth discovered their daughter carried an even more deadly kind of sickness: typhoid.

  “Titus? Vivia?” The bed where the wealthy patrician’s daughter had been recovering from surgery to repair her damaged bowels was empty, and her parents were gone.

  Barek scanned the destruction in the hall for their bodies.

  Nothing.

  Behind him a faint rustle was followed by the slightest of whispers. He strained to listen, to nail down the location of what he hoped was a survivor, but his own heart was thudding so loudly in his ears he couldn’t trace the sounds.

  “Barek?” The female voice came from behind.

  He wheeled. “Naomi?” Relief pumped strength into his legs. He rushed to the servant girl and grabbed her outstretched hands. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wet with tears. “But you are.”

  Her concern was more than he deserved. More than he wanted. “Where are Laurentius and Junia?”

  She tugged him toward the back door. “Come with me before the soldiers return.”

  4

  BREATHLESS AND EMPTY INSIDE, Cyprian returned to his villa with great haste. His wife and daughter deserved a chance to be a family. That he would never join them was a sadness he could not let stop him from his promise to locate Lisbeth’s mother and half brother. At the earliest opportunity he would send them sailing through the time portal after her.

  “Barek!” he called as he burst through the door. Overturned mats, smashed pottery, broken vaporizer tents, and the still bodies of Lisbeth’s patients littered the atrium. “Barek!” His anxiety growing, Cyprian picked his way through the mess and sprinted to the gardener’s cottage.

  The door stood ajar.

  He slowly pushed back the weathered wood. “Barek!” Ruth’s son stood beside Pontius. Both had their daggers drawn. Barek’s eyes were wide, and his ghostly pale face was smeared with blood. Cyprian held up his palms. “Barek, it’s me. Where are Junia and Laurentius?”

  Barek shook his head as if he didn’t understand Cyprian’s question.

  “Pontius, where are they?”

  Cyprian’s faithful friend stepped aside. Laurentius had his face buried in the shoulder of the young girl Lisbeth had saved and Ruth had adopted. Junia’s arms were wrapped tightly around Laurentius and Naomi.

  “Is everyone all right?” Cyprian rushed to the little huddle. “What about the Ciceros?”

  Barek pointed, and Cyprian turned to see them hiding behind the door.

  Junia was the first to snap from their terrified trance. “Aspasius is dead.”

  Cyprian whirled. “What? How? When?”

  “Aspasius is dead,” Barek repeated.

  “Magdalena has been arrested for his murder,” Pontius added.

  Cyprian dropped to his knees. What had he done? Had he sent Lisbeth home for no reason? Of course not. That was selfish thinking. The medicine Maggie needed was in the future. His place was in the past. Cold swept through his core and rattled his fears. He lifted his eyes. The silent faces surrounding him begged for his action.

  Cyprian forced himself to his feet. “We must do what we can for the dead, and then I will find where they’ve taken our healer.” He armed the remorseful Barek with a sword. “We’ll deal with what you did later,” he told the boy. “Pontius, I’ll need your help in the atrium.”

  Flies buzzed over the crusting blood pools left by plague victims too weak to defend themselves. Cyprian and Pontius set to work removing the bodies.

  Pontius lifted the limp body of a small boy not much older than Maggie. “When did life become of so little value to Rome?”

  “I’m just grateful Lisbeth isn’t here to see what has become of those she worked so hard to heal.” Fury burned inside. Cyprian had to put an end to the madness. How? He wasn’t sure. The installation of a new proconsul could alter the rules in their favor. He pushed away his doubts. Come what may with the governance of the province, until Rome’s heart softened toward Christians, his calling would remain the same: stop the plague and bring an end to the senseless killing of innocent people.

  He inhaled slowly, drawing in the sharp scent of eucalyptus. Irreplaceable loss stung his nostrils. The last time he’d made love to his wife, traces of camphor lingered in her hair.

  Pontius started to draw the bolt to lock the front door.

  “You waste your effort, friend.” Cyprian picked up a eucalyptus leaf, held it briefly to his nose, and then tucked it inside his belt. “A flimsy piece of iron will not stop Rome from taking whatever it wants.”

  The contents of Cyprian’s library had suffered extensive damage. Most of his law scrolls had been destroyed. Sadder still, his copies of the Scriptures were in tatters. He dug through the rubble until he found a few usable scraps of parchment and a sharpened piece of writing charcoal. Once he found Magdalena, he would need her to record anything she could about what had happened in the proconsul’s palace. Moving on to the kitchen, he and Pontius rummaged through what was left in the larder: a few rounds of yesterday’s bread, a jug of water, a small skin of wine. Not much, but hopefully enough to keep Magdalena from starving before her trial.

  He peered out the door. Convinced the coast was clear, he and Pontius hurried back to the gardener’s cottage. Cyprian paused before the shed and checked to make certain they were not being watched. Then he and Pontius slipped inside.

  “What’s going on out there?” Titus Cicero, one of the city’s wealthiest landowners, was not used to hiding in an outbuilding meant to house slaves, and his displeasure at the humiliating experience showed on his long face.

  “It’s quiet for now, but I think it would be safer for everyone to move to your home. Did the soldiers see you flee my house?”

  “No,” Titus assured him. “We managed to slip out after you left with Lisbeth and Maggie.”

  “Are your wife and daughter safe?” Vivia asked hopefully.

  Cyprian wasn’t sure how much the Ciceros had figured out about his time-traveling wife, daughter, and mother-in-law. He hoped they’d attributed his family’s strange ways to the ever-expanding borders of Rome and not to the fact that the women he loved more than his own life arrived and left Carthage via a deep well. “As far as I know.”

  “When it is safe, you shall bring them to us,” Vivia insisted. “We can’t begin to repay Lisbeth and Magdalena for all they’ve done, but we will die trying.” She looked up at him. “And what about you?” Vivia had a supportive arm wrapped around her daughter, Diona, who was still too weak from typhoid to be up and about. “Are you coming too?”

  Cyprian swallowed. He fastened his cloak at his throat and raised the hood. “I cannot let Lisbeth’s mother die. Pontius will see you and the children to your home.”

  “I can get them there,” Barek offered, color slowly returning to his face.

  The young man had put himself between Lisbeth and a soldier’s blade, but he’d also had a part in bringing this calamity upon them in the first place by joining Feliciss
imus in his betrayal. “Now is not the time to argue the merit of having an extra sword along. Pontius will go with you.” Cyprian could see Barek shrink at his failure to regain Cyprian’s trust, but he had neither the time nor the patience to deal lovingly with the discipline Ruth’s son deserved.

  “Let me go see about Magdalena,” Titus begged.

  Cyprian shook his head. “I need you to care for what is left of my family.”

  “But there’s a price on your head,” Titus argued. “Magdalena has been charged with the murder of the most important official in the province. How do you plan to stop her execution on your own?”

  “I’ll defend her against these ridiculous charges.”

  “You?” Titus laughed. “Just because Aspasius is no longer the ruler, do not think that guarantees you an amicable welcome by the Senate, or the immediate reinstatement of your solicitor’s title. Patricians are not quick to forgive a man they’ve condemned, let alone forget that this same man has been successfully hiding beneath their noses for months.”

  Cyprian clasped the wealthy man’s thin arms. “All I’m asking is that you take my family to safety. Can I count on your help?”

  Titus’s face clouded with a mixture of angst and disagreement. “You run a fool’s errand. What if Aspasius is still alive and this is a trap?”

  Aspasius was dead. Cyprian could feel the relief in his bones, as if the desert winds had blown away the cloud of evil that had hung over Carthage far too long. But the proconsul’s death did not assure that justice would once again prevail if someone did not dare rise to the occasion. “I will not leave Magdalena without a defender.”

  “You’re assuming the healer will survive incarceration. I’ve seen many accused walk into the tunnels beneath the Hippodrome, but in the end, few prisoners live long enough to walk out and stand before their executioner, no matter how swift their hearing. What if it takes several weeks for the newly appointed proconsul to assume his place in the curule seat?”

  “All the more reason to do what we can to see that Magdalena stays alive.” Cyprian hid his supplies beneath his cloak. “Pontius goes with you.”

  When Titus could see his arguments had hit a wall, he gave a reluctant sigh. “Had you not given my family refuge, my daughter would have died. I owe you and that dear woman held in Roman chains more than my life.” Titus removed a dagger from his belt and pressed the warm handle into Cyprian’s hands. “I’ll do what I can to find out whom Valerian will send to assume the office of proconsul.”

  “Pray the new ruler is a man of reason,” Cyprian said. “Who is currently acting as praetor?”

  “Xystus.”

  “My father’s generous loans once saved the olive groves of Xystus.”

  “May his memory be better than his oil.”

  Titus’s lack of enthusiasm spoke to the treacherous waters Cyprian was entering. His chest tightened as he kissed Junia and Laurentius, perhaps for the last time. When he came to Barek, the young man lowered his eyes and stepped back. “I don’t deserve your kind farewell.”

  If losing Lisbeth had taught Cyprian anything, it was that he could not allow his anger to cause him to leave things unsaid. Not when there was a chance his decision to make his presence known in Carthage could bring about his own demise. He trained his eyes upon Ruth’s son. “Barek, look at me.”

  Barek slowly raised his head.

  “I cared deeply for your mother. She was a good wife and an even better friend.” He pulled Barek to him and felt him crumble beneath his forgiving grasp. “You will always be my son.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cyprian. I shouldn’t have helped Felicissimus betray you. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  He clasped Barek’s face. “I’m counting on you to step up in my place. Understand?” The Senate could refuse to consider his exile the desperate move it really was. If the senators decided to continue Aspasius’s legacy of hatred against the house of Thascius, it was important that Barek understood Magdalena wouldn’t be the only one fighting for her life. He waited for the young man’s agreement. Barek managed a tortured nod. “Very good. Now be the man your mother wanted you to be.”

  In the silvery glow of moonlight, Cyprian helped the small group exit via the back gate. The fear on their faces put an extra heaviness upon his shoulders.

  Lord, help me. He pressed his torn loyalties to the far recesses of his mind, thanked Titus for the use of his home, then turned in the opposite direction and raced toward the prison.

  He could not dispute Titus’s pessimism. Saving Magdalena would require him to present her case before the local magistrate. Word of his presence in Carthage would spread quickly. It would be foolish to assume that the death of Aspasius had freed Cyprian of his enemies. He could very likely find himself chained beside his mother-in-law. And then who would see to her return? Titus was right. His impromptu plan was fraught with risks, but doing nothing was out of the question.

  Cyprian made his way toward the arena, near the southwestern edge of the city. Massive travertine arches several stories high rose from the iron-rich soil. He slipped through the trees that shaded the venue’s bloody history with a sense of serenity it did not deserve. The angry roar of wildcats halted his step. His heart thumped, slowing once he realized the sounds were coming from the cages kept somewhere in the maze of tunnels beneath the arena floor.

  Uneasiness prickled Cyprian’s skin. He swallowed the urge to flee and made his way to the narrow stairs leading down to the most dangerous tunnel in the city.

  A small torch flickered above the uniformed guard who slept slumped against the stone wall where he’d propped his heavy thrusting spear. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, and mouth agape. Loud snores rattled his thick lips.

  Cyprian drew his hood to shadow his face and tossed a small stone. It pinged off the soldier’s breastplate.

  The guard roused, arms and legs flailing like a startled bird. “Who? What?” Not fully alert, he clumsily reached for the gladius holstered on his belt. “Halt!” He pawed at his scabbard. “Proceed at your peril.”

  Cyprian waited until the befuddled man had freed his weapon, then he held out the small bag of provisions to show himself unarmed. “I’ve brought food to a prisoner.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one accused of murdering the proconsul.”

  “Don’t waste your bread.” The guard spit, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They’re to be executed in the morning.”

  “They?”

  “Took four of them to do in the proconsul.”

  “Did any of them confess to the charges?”

  “Do they ever?” The guard burst into gravelly laughter, obviously pleased at his joke.

  Cyprian pretended to appreciate his crass humor, chuckling along with him. “Then I guess that means they must stand trial.”

  “Their trial will be a wooden cross. If the lunch crowd is lucky, the condemned will even be set aflame.”

  Alarm punched Cyprian’s gut. “By whose orders will they be denied due process?”

  The guard shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. I just do as I’m told.”

  Cyprian reached into his sack and ripped off a corner of bread and offered it to the guard. Feigning nonchalance, he said, “I would not want to be in your boots . . . uh . . . What’s your name?”

  The soldier glanced around to make sure a superior wouldn’t catch him chatting with a civilian while on duty. “Brutus.” He took the bread, crammed it in his mouth, and proceeded to talk and chew at the same time. “What do you mean?”

  “Allowing prisoners accused of killing a proconsul to be executed before the new proconsul arrives might not sit well, Brutus.”

  “With who?”

  “I mean, if I were the new ruler”—Cyprian moved in closer—“I’d prefer to have them taken to the arena as my first order of royal business. Demonstrate what becomes of those who conspire to commit such a heinous crime against the empire. Put an end to any chance
of having someone plunge a knife in my back.”

  Brutus swallowed hard. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “When would you find the time, my good man?” Cyprian clapped his hand upon the guard’s metal-clad shoulders. “People have no idea how taxing this post can be.”

  “No. No, they don’t.”

  “Probably not even your commander.”

  “Especially him. That man stood beside me in this very spot nigh on ten years before our superior retired and he got the promotion.”

  “And you two are still close?”

  Brutus shook his head in disgust. “My captain’s too good to even share a mug of beer.”

  “See what I mean? The higher ranks move on with nary a thought to how the lower half lives. He probably doesn’t care a whit what happens to you. Let me save you a terrible mistake, my friend.” Cyprian raised the food bag to the light. “Let me help you keep these accused murderers alive at least until things get sorted out.”

  “There’s not much I can do to stop the wheels of justice.”

  “But when the new proconsul demands an accounting of what happened, which he will, you can say you did everything you could.”

  The guard toyed with the ring of keys hanging from his belt and then holstered his blade. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt for them to have a meal.”

  “And if it’s their last, it won’t be because of you.”

  Brutus put his shoulder to the metal door and pushed. Despair weighted the rush of cool air fouled by human waste. If typhoid wasn’t in this dungeon, it would be soon. Cyprian took the torch from the holder. He drew a deep breath, ducked beneath the doorway’s low stone lintel, and descended into the depths of the earth. When he lifted his head, it nearly scraped the ceiling. Rats skittered into the shadows as he waved the flame.

  “Mercy,” someone begged in the darkness. “Have mercy.”

  “Sure they’re worth it?” Brutus asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  The door clanked behind Cyprian, and the key turned in the lock. Cyprian calmed the intense desire to pound on the thick metal and ask to be released. “Magdalena!”