Valley of Decision

by Lynne Gentry

  “Okay, I’ve got it.” Maggie tapped Naomi on the shoulder. The servant girl showed no signs of relinquishing her spot. Instead, she continued staring at Eggie, the sponge clutched tightly. Maggie tapped her again. “Naomi, don’t you have pots on the fire?”

  “Do you think he has family?”

  Maggie said nothing for a moment, debating whether to mention Eggie’s delirious renunciation of his father. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe your father will ask Titus if he can stay.” Naomi handed Maggie the sponge, wiped her hands on her tunic, and rose. “Pat. Don’t rub.”

  Maggie plunged the sponge into the brown liquid. “Got it.”

  “Look, Maggie.” Across the room, Laurentius held up a piece of parchment. “Ith done.”

  She dropped the sponge in the basin and went to see Laurentius’s latest work. “This little guy with the extra-long tail looks kind of sneaky, don’t you think, Larry?”

  Her uncle gave her a sideways glance followed by his adorable pie-faced grin. “That one ith you.” He dipped his quill in the ink horn.

  “Who’s that?” She pointed at a mouse with a determined face and a bulging bag slung over its shoulder.

  “Lithbutt.” He smiled and lowered his head. “I mith her.”

  “Mom misses you too.” Her mom wasn’t the type to whine about things she missed, but the sad faraway look in her eyes had to come from somewhere and Maggie was pretty sure her mother’s unhappiness stemmed from the loss of her brother and mother—and the man she loved. Maggie gave Laurentius a hug, then wiped a smudge of ink from his cheek. “If you come home with me, I promise not to torture you with fake shots and hair bows.”

  “You were little then. I forgive you.”

  “I was old enough to know better. I’m sorry, Larry.” She patted his shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “No.” With exacting precision, he added whiskers to the long snout of his mouse.

  “Can you tell me why?”

  He shrugged and jabbed his quill into the well again. “Me and Mama live here.”

  “Oh.” His devotion to Jaddah was a punch in Maggie’s gut. “If your mother came with us, would you want to come to Dallas then?”

  Her uncle frowned. “No. I can’t draw there.” He dipped his pen and started crafting a larger mouse for his mouse family. Brilliant works of art, actually, considering his handicap.

  “In Dallas, we have so many office supply stores you’d never run out of paper and ink.”

  Tears watered her uncle’s almond-shaped eyes. “I can’t leave Mama.”

  “Look at me, Larry.” Maggie lifted his chin. “I’m not going anywhere without you or my Jaddah. We’re family. Understand?”

  Laurentius sniffed and shook his head. “Thyprian thays Mama is in prithon.”

  “You’re right. She is. But my daddy is a very smart man. He’ll think of a way to get her out. I promise.”

  Naomi came through the atrium lugging another pot of hot water for Eggie’s vaporizer, the second one he’d needed since sunup and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

  “Excuse me, Larry.” Maggie jumped to her feet. “I know I don’t do things as well as my mother, but I can pull my weight, Naomi.” She gathered the hem of her tunic and used it like a potholder and took one of the handles. “I said I’d take care of Eggie and I will.”

  “The water was boiling so I thought I’d go ahead and freshen his breathing tent.”

  Maggie swiped at a curl stuck to her forehead. “Everything in this century is ten times the work and takes ten times as long to accomplish.” The first time she’d tried to lift the pot from the fire she’d grabbed hold of the handle and blistered her hands. Her back hurt from trying to keep sloshing hot water away from her legs. Worst of all, she was afraid her hard work wasn’t making any difference.

  Eggie’s sores were still oozing and he’d not been awake long enough to suck down more than a few sips of that awful drink Naomi whipped up. “No wonder my mother wasn’t in a big hurry to come back to this century. She can’t boil water without a microwave. How did she manage to treat critically ill patients with nothing but a campfire?”

  “Microwave?”

  “Best thing ever invented.”

  Naomi looked at her as if she had two heads or something. “Actually, all of us managed very well and with very little sleep most nights.”

  “I only meant things are tough here.” Maggie lifted a corner of Eggie’s tent.

  “Then why did you come back?”

  “I—”

  “It doesn’t matter. You always get your way.”

  The steam from the pot they were carrying together couldn’t have stung any worse. Together she and Naomi emptied the boiling water into a pot at the base of the little tepee. Naomi stirred in crumbled eucalyptus leaves and in seconds fragrant steam fogged the room. “Do you think he’s handsome?”

  Handsome? Maggie cut a sideways glance at Naomi. Sure enough, she was staring at Eggie as if he were the best thing she’d ever seen. So that’s why she’s picking on me. “Hard to tell with all of those nasty boils.”

  Naomi started to reach for Eggie, then dropped her hand as though she’d reconsidered. “Think his fever has broken?”

  What was with this girl? Maggie had seen her checking out Barek, which she had to admit made her a little jealous. Which was stupid, when she really thought about it. She wasn’t staying here, so what did she care if Naomi had the hots for both Barek and Eggie? Maybe one of them would notice Naomi drooling and marry her.

  Maggie laid her palm on Eggie’s forehead the same way her mother did if she even hinted at not feeling well. “No.”

  Eggie’s eyes fluttered open.

  Maggie sponged his forehead and smiled. “You’re awake.”

  “I hope not.” His slate-gray eyes had a vaguely glazed quality. “I’m having the best dream ever.” A silly smile slid across his cracked lips. He reached for her hand.

  Maggie tingled with awareness. “You know you’ve been hallucinating, right?”

  He shook his head. “A golden-haired goddess with a heart-shaped face is holding my hand and asking the gods to spare my life.” He kissed her hand.

  Heat flushed Maggie’s cheeks. “God. I was asking God to help me help you.”

  “Please tell me you’re not one of those Christians I’ve heard about.” The guy knew how to flash a smile that could melt a girl’s defenses.

  But that didn’t mean she should have given a total stranger information that could get them all killed. Both Dad and Barek had warned her not to tell this guy anything about what the people in this house believed, at least not before they knew more about him.

  So much for keeping a low profile until she smuggled her father out of here.

  Maggie removed her hand from his. “Okay, Romeo, I’m no doctor, but I know that when someone has a fever he needs to drink. A lot.” She rinsed her hands in the nearby basin and dried them on the front of her tunic.

  “Call me Eggie.” A twinkle of mischief in his voice drew her in. “And I’ll call you?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Unusual name.”

  If his gaze hadn’t been so bleary, she would have blushed at the way his eyes loitered on her figure. She could name only one other guy who’d ever made her blush, and in his eyes she would forever be the five-year-old irritant who’d interrupted his life.

  “I was named after my grandmother, Magdalena.”

  “She must have been beautiful.”

  “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And, if everything goes as planned, you’ll get to meet her.” Maggie could feel Naomi’s eyes boring into her back so she decided to change the subject.

  “So, Eggie, where are you from?” She slipped her hand behind his neck and elevated him enough to avoid drowning him in Naomi’s magic tea.

  “Far from here.”

  “Me too.” You have no idea how far, buddy. “Mind handing me his drink, Naomi?” When the cu
p did not come, she glanced up to find Naomi’s arms crossed and her lips pursed. “Please?”

  “I have bread in the oven.” Naomi rotated and ran smack into Barek. Flustered, she scuttled back, straightening her dress and hair. “The eel you pulled from the sea is awake,” she told him, then stormed from the room.

  “What was that about?” Barek picked up the cup and handed it to Maggie.

  If he’d felt the same spark she did when their fingers brushed, the jolt hadn’t knocked out his perturbed stare. How grown-up did she have to get before he considered her his equal?

  “Maybe Naomi needs a nap.” Eggie took a sip then promptly fell back on the pillow, sound asleep.

  Maggie’s gaze panned to Barek. “For a minute there I thought he was getting better.”

  Barek was squinting at her, a disapproving frown on his face. “Wonder where he heard about needing a nap?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she teased, hoping to lighten his sour mood.

  “You’re just like your mother.”

  Maggie cringed at the possibility. “Funny, you’re nothing like yours.”

  They stood with eyes locked. Two cowboys in one of those standoffs in an old western G-Pa watched on Saturday afternoons. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw, like any minute he’d explode from the strain of holding back. Why did Barek always take everything so seriously? Why did she care what he thought? She was here to get her father, not impress Barek. The urge to laugh at how ridiculous they both were acting bubbled inside her. She pursed her lips but the giggle would not be held back.

  Then, a total surprise.

  Barek burst into laughter at the exact same moment.

  His laugh was rusty, as if it hadn’t been used in so long it needed to be oiled. Maggie loved how the unexpected sound of it surprised him and caused him to sputter for a second. But instead of clamming up as he usually did whenever her antics shoved him off balance, his amusement gained speed. He threw his head back and really laughed. The more he laughed, the more limber and enticing the tone, and the softer the angles of his cheekbones.

  Maggie was the first to catch her breath and she used the advantage to notice how handsome Barek’s wide, white smile looked against his tanned complexion. “Maybe Eggie’s right, we could all stand a good nap.” She set the cup on a table. “Where’s my dad?”

  The smile slid from Barek’s face, taking the magic with it. He quickly returned to his solemn, sour self, and Maggie felt a tremor of fear. “Tell me.”

  “Uh, Cyprian and uh . . . he decided to check on your Jaddah.”

  She didn’t know how Barek had pulled off the writ of libellus thing because he wasn’t a very good liar. He wasn’t telling her something. Something important. “I wish he would have taken me.”

  Barek lifted her chin with his finger and Maggie caught a glimpse of her surprised reflection in his dark eyes. “He’s going to do everything he can, but his hands are tied until Valerian sends someone to replace the proconsul.”

  Eggie mumbled something and turned over. His arm flopped off his chest and hung limp from the side of the bed.

  “Oh, no.” Barek snatched Eggie’s wrist. “Somebody has marked him.”

  “It’s just a tattoo.” Maggie had noticed the Roman numeral III earlier and wondered what it meant, but so far the opportunity to ask Eggie about his choice of ink hadn’t presented itself. “What’s the big deal? Lots of people have them.” She raised her sleeve and held out her wrist. “Even me.”

  Horror and disbelief widened Barek’s eyes. “It’s pagan to let someone cut your arm with a flint and stain the wound with gall and vitriol.”

  “You sound like my mom. She went ballistic when she found out. I told her I went to the same reputable place as my friend Kellie, but she was convinced I’d probably contracted hepatitis or something.”

  Barek leaned in for a better look at the delicate figure eight with the word DAD inked on the lower right loop. “That is a punishment mark reserved for slaves and criminals.”

  “No one punished me.” Maggie knew she was quite capable of punishing herself, thank you very much. Her finger had traced the design so many times in the last two years she worried the ink would be worn away. “I did it to keep my father close.”

  Barek held Eggie’s wrist high. “I can promise you this fugitive does not wear the mark of someone he wishes to remember.” He dropped Eggie’s limp wrist upon his chest. “This man is running from someone, and if whoever branded him finds him here, we are all subject to the wrath of his sword.”

  15

  MAGDALENA’S CHAINS GAVE HER no room to stretch her legs. There was little she could do to pass the time but stare at the ceiling and wait for the moment the celestial lights reached their zeniths. She counted the small shafts of light that breached the mortar chinks as gifts from God. She took advantage of the illumination to write her thoughts upon the parchment Cyprian had left behind.

  Across the narrow cell she could hear her three friends growing equally uncomfortable in their chains. “Kardide, how are you feeling?” In the silence, Magdalena noted that somewhere within their hearing, cicadas buzzed happily, free to go about their lives. She couldn’t help but envy those winged creatures. She’d been someone’s captive for so long she wondered if she could handle freedom. “Kardide?”

  “Well enough,” responded her friend feebly.

  The dry rasp of Kardide’s voice heightened Magdalena’s fears of dehydration. Her friend had refused her ration of the water Cyprian brought. “Tabari, has Kardide’s bleeding stopped?”

  “I’m not sure.” Tabari’s slight frame scooted over stones, an abrasive scraping that caused Magdalena to worry the girl was grinding away skin along with the scant protection her thin tunic had to offer. “Do you want me to check when we have light next?”

  “No. Best to keep the bandage tight for now.” Magdalena wished her chains were a foot or two longer so she could access her friends, especially Iltani, who couldn’t speak for herself. “Tabari, is Iltani well?” Magdalena could hear Tabari shuffling to the length of her tether.

  “She is,” Tabari said, then struggled back to her place, huffing from the added exertion.

  Magdalena’s friends had suffered so much on her behalf. Unless something miraculous happened, they would die alongside a healer whose own body was worn out from carrying her spirit through this dark world. She swallowed her regret for allowing their involvement in Aspasius’s surgery and Lisbeth’s escape and whispered, “Grace and peace to you all.” Silvery streaks of light slowly sifted through the cracks. “I must write while the moon is high.”

  Magdalena spread the parchment across her lap and blindly searched the damp stones for the sharpened charcoal. Cyprian had asked her to record every detail of Aspasius’s surgery, to construct an airtight defense for herself. But she’d witnessed enough of the criminal trials in the Forum to know guilt or innocence was decided long before the accused took the stand. Whether she had accidentally committed malpractice would be of little consequence.

  Magdalena wiped away the perspiration dripping into her eyes and began.

  If anyone finds this note, please see that it is delivered to the family of Dr. Lawrence Hastings, twenty-first century.

  Magdalena read the line again. This scrap of parchment was far too small to write out all the names of those she loved. Besides, by the time it was discovered, her family could all be dead. She scratched out her greeting and started again.

  To whoever finds this record . . .

  It is the year AD 258 and I, Magdalena Hastings, along with three dear friends, have been accused of the murder of Aspasius Paternus, proconsul of Carthage. Cyprianus Thascius has offered to be our defense counsel. After Cyprian came to visit us in this dark prison, I allowed myself to feel hopeful. The man is a fine solicitor. If anyone can secure our release, it is he.

  Yet the happy news of his willingness to plead our case brings great conflict to my soul. Defending us will put both Cyprian and t
he church at risk. Even if Cyprian is allowed to resume his legal practice, he has added the name of our dearly departed Bishop Caecilianus to his. The moment Cyprian states his new legal name in court, his convictions as a Christian will likely make the codicil to Aspasius’s will null and void. By association, I too will be suspected of Christianity. The medical mercy I provided Aspasius will be declared an act of treason. And Cyprian will be accused of rendering aid to a traitor.

  What shall I do? Demand that Cyprian withdraw from the case? While such action might save Cyprian and the church, it will most assuredly mean my death. And far more difficult to bear, the deaths of three innocent women whose only crime is loving me nearly as much as they love our Lord.

  For those inclined to judge me, know that this decision torments me worse than any nightmare of wild beasts and angry gladiators. Every time I awake drenched in sweat and fear, I doubt my ability to remain brave. And then I remember the faithfulness of those who have gone before me, those trapped in this very same valley of decision. Men like our beloved Bishop Caecilianus, who died for his faith. I recount their courage and my spirit finds strength to trudge from this interminable darkness toward eternal light.

  I’ve spent much time in prayer and have reached this conviction: if asked, I must confess Christ. There is no other way for me. For I cannot imagine calling myself anything other than what I am—a Christian.

  Confident as I am in what I must do, know that I will go to my death weeping for the time lost with my precious family. Mingled with those tears are tears for Carthage.

  Who will be their healer once I am gone?

  IMPATIENT VOICES penetrated the iron door. Keys rattled the heavy lock.

  Magdalena pressed the charcoal into a crack between the stones and quickly rolled her parchment. She barely managed to slip this tiny diary inside her tunic when then door banged open. Her hand flew to her eyes to block the glare of their torches.

  Two soldiers strode the cramped aisle. Swinging their lights and rousing the prisoners by kicking their feet, they were obviously looking for a fight. They stopped in front of Magdalena. “You. Stand.”