Valley of Decision

by Lynne Gentry

  “Move along, man,” Maximus ordered.

  Titus flicked the reins and the white horses trotted past refuse clogging the gutters and bodies covered in powdery ash.

  Maximus pressed his mask to his nose. “So this is why there is no one to welcome me?”

  “I told you, there is sickness. We are battling two plagues. The death toll continues to rise. The lime kilns of Egypt are burning night and day, but they cannot keep up with the demand of our burial needs. I suggest you reopen the cemeteries as quickly as possible.”

  “Why are the burial grounds closed?”

  “Aspasius thought it . . . best.”

  “That is absolute folly. The emperor has directed me to clean up this mess. Open the cemeteries immediately.”

  A very pleased smile drew Titus’s lips apart and exposed large gums and small teeth. “Good to hear that our great emperor believes Carthage a worthy investment.”

  “Rome fought three wars to own this port. I wouldn’t be here if they were going to let it rot.”

  Titus smiled. “Then Rome will want you to do what’s best for the province, I’m sure.” He clicked the reins. “You’ll have a full court, a military and civil staff, a privy council, a full consortium of well-connected dignitaries, and several subaltern clerks at your disposal.”

  “And which one are you?”

  “I, sir, am one of your more tenured senators.”

  “I won’t be relying on senatorial rule.” Maximus nearly laughed out loud at the shock on Titus’s face.

  “In the past, the emperor endeavored to keep the senators in good humor,” Titus pouted.

  Maximus could do an intoxicating monologue using the senator’s dramatic facial expressions alone. “And why would he do that?”

  “The details of the city’s government come under our supervision, and so far it is the senators of Carthage who have managed to maintain law and order. We should be rewarded for our efforts.”

  Maximus flicked a fly from his toga. “Rome is fighting wars on nearly every border. Whether the details of this little frontier outpost are handled with good humor is of little concern to the emperor.”

  “The emperor knows the only extra stores of grain and oil lay in the silos of the African provinces.” Titus lifted his snub nose. “I know because I own the majority of the surplus.”

  Apparently there was a learning curve to ruling without question. The first rule was: find out who believed themselves to be in power. The second: let them continue in their error.

  Maximus fanned his face with the linen Titus had given him. “And what would make you happy, my most esteemed senator?”

  “Aspasius left many pressing matters . . . unattended.” A hint of a threat lowered the senator’s enunciation of pressing matters.

  “Such as?”

  “Persecution of the Christians. Some say it is a necessity. Others claim it barbaric.” Titus’s gaze slid toward his. “What say you?”

  “Unlike the last proconsul, I do not view Christians as unprofitable members of society or a miserable bunch of weaklings. They are simply ill-informed and misguided plebeians.” Maximus pondered Titus’s huge sigh. Expressing relief for the welfare of plebs must be a southern thing. “Once these Christians understand how their refusal to acknowledge the gods of Rome has brought about plague on this province, their thinking should be easily corrected, don’t you agree?”

  “An undertaking that would consume a considerable amount of your time; therefore I’m offering my services.”

  “What do you know of these Christians?”

  Titus shrugged. “Only that they are peaceful people.”

  “Peaceful people who spread sickness and death.”

  Titus pulled hard on the reins. “Quite the opposite, my lord. They are doing everything within their powers to help curb the tragedy that has befallen Carthage.”

  “So you are a sympathizer with these Christians?”

  “I’m simply saying that I’m actually quite versed in the law. If you were to appoint me as judge, you would be relieved of the nasty duty of sorting these types of matters.”

  “Are you asking for special favor?”

  “Simply offering my services.”

  Maximus tugged at the neck of his tunic, once again mindful of the danger of wearing the white toga. “Tell me the details of this role of judge.”

  Titus eyed him as if he had two heads and no common sense. “Court is held in the Forum. A prosecutor presents the evidence and a defender presents his defense. And the judge, a man of means and high standing in the city, decides the fate of the accused.”

  “I know how trials work. My question is: will everyone in the city come to see the proconsul’s murderer tried?”

  “My lord, you will be pleased to know that even the frontier provinces have a keen appreciation of justice. You can rest assured this trial will be well attended and fairly judged if you allow me to—”

  “I shall act as judge.”

  24

  LISBETH TREATED THE SICK and more kept coming. Even if she could climb the stairs and sink into the little mattress beneath the eaves, she wouldn’t be able to sleep, not when there was so much at stake.

  For Maggie’s sake, Lisbeth had kept to herself her reservations concerning the plan Titus and Cyprian had devised to free her mother. Titus was to greet the new proconsul and work to get himself appointed judge while Cyprian presented his case for reinstatement of his proper place in society before the praetor.

  This afternoon, Lisbeth had washed her hands and helped her husband dress in one of Titus’s best togas. She’d even followed him to the door and kissed him soundly. But when he set off with his neatly written petition tucked beneath his cloak, she couldn’t watch.

  Worst-case scenarios played in her head as the hours dragged by and no word came from Cyprian or Titus. At about sunset, her jubilant husband had returned. The current praetor, a longtime family friend indebted to Cyprian’s father, had readily restored Cyprian’s citizenship along with his right to practice law. She’d worried about Cyprian being a wanted man for nothing. Xystus had not asked to see the note. Even more surprising, the praetor agreed with Cyprian: to delay Magdalena’s trial by waiting upon Senate approval of Cyprian’s petition would not be in the best interest of the city. Already, maintaining law and order was becoming more difficult. No one wanted Rome to send in more troops.

  Cyprian was so encouraged by the meeting, he felt certain he could present her mother’s case before Xystus and have the trumped-up charges dismissed before the new proconsul had a chance to unpack his bags.

  “And if Xystus does not rule in Mama’s favor, what then?”

  “There is that slight possibility. In that case, your mother would be forced to stand trial, thus the precaution of having Titus appointed as judge.”

  Neither of them commented on the fact that Titus had yet to return from his treacherous errand. His delay was nearly as disconcerting as the idea of Mama’s fate resting in the hands of Valerian’s new man. Neither Valerian nor his appointees could be trusted. Cyprian, on the other hand, believed an emperor who’d arranged for all exiled bishops to be brought home was exhibiting a change of heart.

  “Don’t worry,” Cyprian had said, “I’ll make certain I present a pretrial case that leaves the praetor no choice but to dismiss the charges.” The odds were in their favor, he had assured her, and her mother would never stand trial. “God has not forgotten us after all.”

  Cyprian seemed so grateful for the opportunity to witness the workings of God, how could she argue with that? When Lisbeth stopped to count all that God had done for her in the past eighteen years—bringing her to this place, helping her find her mother, letting her fall in love with an incredible man, and most important, giving her a beautiful daughter—she would be a fool not to count on God to work things out for her mother. But she wasn’t willing to go so far as to claim the ease with which Cyprian had reentered public life was a sign that God intended to spa
re him . . . or that Valerian would prove a leopard could change its spots.

  Lisbeth could not argue that the restoration of her husband’s place in his world was a giant victory, one history had not recorded.

  Lisbeth checked with the servants one more time. Titus had not returned. Had he stopped by the prison to inform her mother? Willing her exhausted legs to move, she climbed the shallow steps to the bedroom tucked beneath the eaves of the villa. She lit the oil lamp and opened the window. The desert breeze did little to cool the small space. She stripped from her tunic and poured water into the basin. Though she was in a hurry to run her errand, she indulged in a quick sponge bath. She checked the gash on her foot from the pottery shard. It appeared to be healing slower than she would have liked. Every step was a painful reminder of the damage an incensed Rome could bring down on this house.

  Lisbeth redressed the wound and exchanged her old tunic, covered with phlegm, for a fresh one. She grabbed her bag. Her supplies were low. She hurried down the back steps to the kitchen. Chickens roosting near the door squawked at the intrusion. She stepped inside and was surprised to find Eggie watching Naomi and Junia trying to teach Maggie the art of kneading wheat meal and water into a usable dough. If Aisa were here, he would beam at Maggie’s progress.

  Lisbeth remembered watching these same girls make popcorn over an open flame and now here they were, acting like responsible adults, even though Junia and Naomi hadn’t matured past the point she’d left them. It was good to see that although Maggie was a foot taller and far more filled out than Junia, Maggie’s changes hadn’t lessened the bond the two had formed the night an ox trampled Ruth to death in a tenement alley. On the other hand, Naomi’s glare communicated sheer disdain for Maggie’s transformation.

  Maggie looked up from her dough, flour dusting the end of her nose. “Mom? Where are you going?”

  “To check on your grandparents.” Lisbeth loaded fresh bread into her pack.

  Maggie wiped her hands on her dress and went to check the pot of water sitting on the grate above the fire. “But there’s a curfew.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Does Dad know you’re going?”

  “He’s busy preparing your grandmother’s case.”

  “So you didn’t tell him?”

  Lisbeth stuffed a jug of wine into her bag. “No. I didn’t tell him.”

  “Take me with you. I’m dying to see G-Pa and Jaddah.” Her daughter passed the pot of boiling water to Eggie. Since the handsome young man’s recovery, he’d become Maggie’s shadow. Lisbeth could tell from the way his eyes never left Maggie’s, Eggie was smitten. Too bad she and Maggie were leaving for home as soon as her mama was a free woman. Maggie deserved the attention of a nice young man, but someone from her own century. Lisbeth shoved her longings to the back of her mind. She didn’t want her daughter to spend her life torn between two very different worlds.

  “That’s not a good idea.” Lisbeth hefted the heavy bag to her shoulder.

  “What if you run into trouble or need help?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “With that limp? You couldn’t outrun Metras.” Maggie wiped wheat dust from her nose. “Please, Mom. I haven’t been out of this house since Dad brought me here.”

  “Navigating this city is not like going to the mall, Mags.” She saw her daughter recoil, face flaming as if she’d been slapped. “I’m sorry, I—”

  Her daughter’s eyes burned into hers with a look of total disbelief. “I got myself here, didn’t I?”

  Her words were a scalpel meant to carve a serious dent in the notion that Lisbeth could protect her forever. “Okay, get your cloak. But once we leave these doors, you don’t take a step out of my sight. Understand?”

  “Is that even possible?” Maggie whispered. “You tracked me down in another century.”

  “Do you want to go or not?”

  * * *

  METRAS WAS waiting at the door, his extended cane barring their exit. His lips hugged his bare gums in a pained expression, raising the possibility he’d overheard their conversation about going out without telling Cyprian and didn’t approve. “You remember Quinta?” he asked Lisbeth.

  She was in no mood for a lecture. “The feisty grandmother who followed Felicissimus and half the church out the door with her grandchild on one hip and a giant grudge against Cyprian on the other?”

  “That’s the one.”

  From the set of Metras’s jaw, Lisbeth knew she was in for a good head rapping if she tried to get past without hearing him out. “Why are we discussing Quinta?”

  “I asked her to come help us.”

  “Well, she didn’t. I guess she’s content with her writ of libellus.”

  “She’s torn that worthless piece of paper to shreds.” Metras dragged his hand over his thinning hair. “She would have been here if she could.”

  “Why didn’t she come with the rest of you?”

  “Too sick.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Send one of our carts for her immediately.”

  He leaned his entire weight against the cane. “She won’t come. Doesn’t think you’d want her . . .” He lowered his eyes, leaving his explanation for her to finish on her own.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight: she trusted that lying weasel Felicissimus and his counterfeit protections against Rome, but she won’t trust me? She’s seen me treat people I didn’t like.”

  “I didn’t say Quinta’s thinking made sense,” Metras said. “I said she’s sick and needs help.”

  Lisbeth could feel Maggie’s eyes boring into her back. “All right, I’ll make a house call. But I’m not making any promises.”

  Metras’s satisfied smile revealed an enviable full heart. “Forgiveness is the sweetest honey you’ll ever eat.” His eyes skated between her and Maggie. “But sometimes you’ve got to be a persistent bear to get a pawful.” He lowered his cane. “Thank you.”

  Persistent? Lisbeth wasn’t one to give up easily, but even a bear will abandon a honeycomb if he gets stung enough times. At least that was the reason she gave whenever she backed away from this growing rift with her daughter. Had she really become so hardened and thick-skinned from all the years of work and death?

  Lisbeth opted to visit Quinta first, praying that along the way she and Maggie would find more than the supplies she needed. Maybe, if they were lucky, she and her daughter would stumble upon a pinch of grace. Something that would allow them to forgive one another the way Cyprian had forgiven the church members who’d hurt him so badly.

  “Remember, stay close,” she whispered to Maggie. “Draw your cloth across your face.”

  Huge grain freighters sent from the capital waited in the harbor. Valerian had ordered the storage silos of Africa emptied. Full-time guards patrolled the mountains of corn piled high upon the quays, awaiting shipment to Rome. Not a single kernel was to be distributed to the starving in Carthage. Whatever Rome won by the sword it secured with the plow and made certain the citizens of the capital were the ones who enjoyed the bounty. It was a wonder, Lisbeth mused, that the desperate and oppressed had not rioted. The closer the two women came to the heart of the tenements, the more intense the damage. Once-robust neighborhoods had taken on the skeletal appearance of the terminally ill. Buildings with peeling paint and dying shrubbery sat empty, the doors kicked in by looters. Drought, famine, and plague had ravaged the city much the way Lisbeth’s refusal to get behind Maggie’s campaign to bring Cyprian to the twenty-first century had nearly destroyed her relationship with her daughter.

  Desperate to locate some common ground she and her daughter could use as a foundation for rebuilding, Lisbeth asked, “So what do you know about Eggie?”

  “Nothing.” Obviously Maggie was still stinging from Lisbeth’s insistence that she stay close.

  “I saw you sketching him the other day. He seems pretty chatty to me.”

  “His mother is a Bithynian Greek.”

  “That’s it?”r />
  “His older brothers are dead.”

  “That’s sad.” Lisbeth steered Maggie around some bloated bodies. “What about his father?”

  She shrugged. “They don’t get along.”

  Bull’s-eye! The barb lodged and deflated Lisbeth’s hopes of coming to a point of shared grace. “Is that why Eggie ran away?”

  “Are we almost there?” Maggie’s change of subject meant this discussion was finished.

  Kicking herself for once again pushing too hard, Lisbeth turned down an alley with vulgar graffiti scribbled on walls. Several doors down, a wooden tooth swayed overhead. “We might find some supplies in the dentist shop.” Lisbeth lifted the latch and cautiously peeked inside. Dusty abandonment wafted from the quiet sanctuary. “All clear.” She waved Maggie in, instructing her to leave the door open to allow the moon to light the dark space. From the corner of her eye, she saw Maggie draw something shiny from her sash. “What is that?”

  “A knife.”

  “Where in the world did you get a knife?”

  “I bought it from a local vendor outside the airport.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t believe Maggie had thought ahead, which was more than she’d done. “Well, hopefully you won’t need it.” Once Lisbeth’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see they’d come too late. “Looters have already taken the tools and herbs.”

  Outside, the stamp of hooves on the cobblestones was quickly followed by the rattle of chains and buckles. Lisbeth grabbed Maggie and pressed both of them behind the door. A slit between the leather hinges afforded Lisbeth a view of what was happening in the alley. The centurion sitting atop a pawing horse was flanked by foot soldiers with torches.

  “Secure the perimeter,” the commander ordered.

  One of the soldiers strode to the threshold of the dentist shop. Lisbeth could feel Maggie’s fingers digging deeper into her arm. Any moment she expected her claustrophobic daughter to bolt, to scream that she couldn’t breathe, but she was still as a statue, the knife raised and poised near Lisbeth’s ear. The soldier extended his torch through the shop’s doorway and waved the flames. “This place has already been stripped.” He backed out and moved on.