Valley of Decision

by Lynne Gentry

  She spotted Pontius first. Ever vigilant, Cyprian’s most trusted friend was only a few feet from her husband. “Cyprian!” she shouted, but he was preoccupied speaking to Mama and her friends. Mama looked haggard, thin, and fever-flushed. A woman who should have been in a hospital, receiving the selfless medical care she deserved instead of being forced to risk her health for this ridiculous murder charge.

  Not wanting to add to her mother’s worries, Lisbeth slipped back into the crowd. On the other side of the wooden stage, a barrel-shaped man with hands thick as cement blocks worked the crowd with the flourish of a TV prosecutor. If he was Cyprian’s opponent, where was the judge?

  Thundering hoofbeats prompted trumpet blasts. Heads turned toward the Forum entrance. Five black horses hitched to a golden chariot roared into the center of the circle. A cloud of choking dust swirled in their wake. People scattered from their path. The man executing a perfect pageant wave from beneath the sunshade was pale, slight, and puffed up proud as an adder.

  Lisbeth’s hands turned clammy. “The ghost of Aspasius,” she muttered, but she could have shouted, for it would not have been heard over the rhythmic clop of the magnificent team prancing round and round the witness stand. God, please don’t let anyone question Cyprian’s right to be here.

  She rose on tiptoes for a better look at the man who now held the power of life and death over her mother and her husband. Maximus was a pasty, high-browed man who wore a lopsided crown of greenery. He had narrow eyes, narrow shoulders, and from the sneer on his face, Lisbeth guessed, the emperor’s narrow thinking when it came to Christians. There would be no justice here today. This trial was a sham.

  Heart pounding, Lisbeth raised her arms to capture Cyprian’s attention. Before she could work her way to a place where Cyprian would see her, she was snagged by her mother’s gaze. Terror registered in Mama’s eyes. With a slight shake of her head her mother warned Lisbeth to do nothing.

  How could she do nothing?

  Lisbeth tried to move toward her mother but a solid body pressed her from either side. From the sour-milk smell of them they were cheese merchants. Since she couldn’t go forward, she attempted to maneuver backward. But people determined to see the day’s events had filled in behind and effectively cut off her ability to do anything for now.

  The servant of Maximus exited the chariot first. He dropped on all fours and made himself into a human footstool. The proconsul placed a red boot upon his servant’s back and descended with great pomp, careful not to allow the folds of the toga draped over his arm to touch the dirty pavers. His nose lifted as if trying to rise above the displeasing scents of Carthage. One step at a time, he made his way center stage, slowly assessed the crowd, then seated himself in the empty judge’s seat.

  “I am Galerius Maximus, the new proconsul and judge of Carthage.” Maximus’s voice carried well beyond what she would have thought possible from such a scrawny guy. He waved his hand at the prosecutor, who was strutting before a group of senators clustered together in the shade, one of whom was Titus Cicero. Cyprian had stationed the land merchant among the patricians with the express purpose of silencing any adversaries.

  “Call your first witness,” Maximus ordered the prosecutor.

  Lisbeth held her breath. If the prosecutor was going to protest Cyprian’s presence, this was his opportunity.

  “Honorable proconsul.” The prosecutor bowed respectfully to Maximus, then wheeled and pointed at a smug little man standing within arm’s reach of the platform. “I summon Pytros, former scribe of Aspasius Paternus.”

  For now, Cyprian was safe. Titus caught her eye. With a nod, Lisbeth knew he had held up his end of their plan and convinced the prosecutor Cyprian’s reinstatement by Xystus was all on the up and up. Lisbeth gave him a grateful nod, but her relief was short-lived. The man the prosecutor had summoned was the devious and conniving weasel who’d worked behind the scenes and arranged Felicissimus’s betrayal of Cyprian. Pytros had always been jealous of Mama’s influence over his master and from his pleased prance to the podium he intended to get even for the slight. Cold slithered over her skin and seeped into her pores.

  The prosecutor clasped his hands over his belly. “Pytros, were you a slave of Aspasius Paternus, the beloved proconsul of Carthage?”

  Beloved? Lisbeth wanted to throw up. The only person who loved Aspasius Paternus was he himself.

  Pytros withdrew a hanky from his sleeve and dabbed his eyes. “I was.”

  “And how were you treated while in his service?”

  “I received a new tunic every year, a cloak, and a new pair of wooden shoes. Now that I am free and forced to provide for my own needs, I realize the generous care my master afforded all his servants.”

  “Objection!” Cyprian’s powerful voice rang out. “Death of a master does not free a slave. Yet Pytros is free? How can this be?” He waited, but when his objection went unanswered by the judge, he gave an impatient shrug of the shoulders and continued, “Should I be afforded the opportunity to review the will of Aspasius, will I find evidence of this man’s manumission liberta?”

  Pytros eagerly jumped in with his own explanation: “I am a freedman.”

  “How is it possible you are able to testify as one granted the freedoms of a citizen of Rome without a reading of the deceased’s will?”

  “Objection!” the prosecutor yelled. “My witness is not on trial.”

  “Pytros’s ability to testify should certainly be of interest to this court,” Cyprian protested.

  All eyes turned to Maximus.

  The proconsul shifted in his seat. “I want to know what this man saw, whether or not he has the right to tell me.”

  “Then Pytros is a very fortunate man indeed.” Cyprian pivoted and charged back to his bench, speaking loudly enough for his sentiments to be heard throughout the Forum. “It appears a political sleight-of-hand has magically brewed royal purple from a cheap vegetable.”

  “Maximus, please, remind our eager solicitor of his place.”

  The prosecutor’s pointed threat was not lost on Cyprian. He raised his hands. “I withdraw my comment, my lord.”

  “There’s no need.” Pytros fanned his white hanky. “I would gladly forfeit my freedoms would it bring my beloved master back from the dead.” He jabbed his finger in Mama’s direction. “She killed him. I saw her bloody hands pounding his chest.”

  The crowd clamored behind Lisbeth. It was all she could do not to scream, “She was doing CPR, you fool!”

  “Magdalena’s an angel!” shouted someone to the right. Agreement, a tiny murmur at first, began to ripple around the Forum, picking up steam as it moved from person to person. Soon people started shouting things like “She’s the only one who can save us!”

  “As she saved the proconsul?” Pytros shouted indignantly and the crowd quieted.

  A satisfied smirk spread across the prosecutor’s face. He brushed his hands together and waddled back to his side of the podium. “The state has no more questions for this witness.”

  Cyprian cleared his throat. In one well-seasoned move, he approached Pytros congenially, smiling as if they were friends. “I hope you did not take offense at my comments.”

  “Well, I suppose it would be asking a lot for a patrician to immediately accept a slave’s good fortune.”

  “My congratulations on your luck.”

  Pytros’s posture straightened and he seemed pleased by Cyprian’s concessions. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You served the proconsul as scribe, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Can you tell us your duties?”

  “Correspondence, errands, managing his schedule.”

  “Exacting and taxing work, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And your training, it must have been extensive?”

  “Indeed. I sat at the feet of the best scribe in all of Rome to learn my craft.”

  “Impressive.” Cyprian gave a slight nod. “No wonder
Aspasius was quick to grant one so accomplished his liberty. Well earned, I’m sure.” Cyprian smiled. “Would you say Magdalena was treated with the same generosity you claim Aspasius afforded you?”

  “Far better,” Pytros said, his former wariness all but vanished.

  “How unjust.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Concern furrowed Cyprian’s brow. “Was this because of Aspasius’s appreciation for her expert training?”

  “Oh, no.” Pytros had become putty in Cyprian’s expert hands. He leaned forward eagerly. “She escaped numerous times. My master could have branded her forehead or had an iron collar permanently riveted around her neck. Her medical services were not the reasons for my master’s generosity toward this woman.”

  “Her face is seamed with the marks of your master’s generosity.” Cyprian’s mention of her mother’s scars brought Mama’s hand to her mouth and Lisbeth’s ire to the boiling point. She attempted to wriggle free of the cheese merchants but failed.

  Cyprian moved closer, forcing Pytros to take a startled step back on the witness stand. “Is it true that Aspasius paid six thousand denarii for this woman and only five hundred drachmas for you, Pytros?”

  The scribe’s nose twitched like an animal sensing a waiting predator. He shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t know what he paid to have her in his bed.”

  Lisbeth clawed at the cheese merchants’ arms, but they were too engrossed in the unfolding drama to give way.

  Cyprian planted his feet and poised his body to wield the final blow, any pretense of nurturing their friendship gone. “Did it ever occur to you that Aspasius considered you nothing more than a cheap commodity?”

  “My value was not only in my skill, but in my undying loyalty.” Pytros dabbed his eyes with a cloth. “I did not mutilate and murder my master.”

  “Were you not in charge of his medical care once Magdalena left?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you seek potions to treat your master’s wounds and administer those salves and tonics yourself?”

  “I did what any attentive slave would do to ease my master’s pain.”

  “And yet he worsened,” Cyprian said. “Are you trained in the healing arts?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t it possible it was your mistakes and pitiful ministrations that ultimately hastened your master’s death?”

  “Don’t try to blame me.” Pytros jabbed his finger in Magdalena’s direction. “No one wanted the proconsul dead more than me . . . I mean her.”

  “You wanted him dead?” Cyprian’s grin could not be contained. “Were you jealous of the respect and love Aspasius had for the healer?”

  “Free the healer!” Townspeople pressed toward the platform. “Free her!”

  Cyprian’s brilliant checkmate of Pytros had the prosecutor running toward Maximus. “He’s putting words into the mouth of the witness. Make him stop!”

  “No more questions!” Cyprian shouted over the cries for Mama’s release. He strode to stand beside his client.

  Maximus raised his hands and the crowd quieted. “I’ve heard enough.” He stood. “I find on behalf of—”

  “My lord,” the prosecutor said, “the state has yet to call the accused.”

  Maximus sat back down abruptly. “Call her.”

  The flustered prosecutor boldly summoned Mama to the stand.

  Mama didn’t move. Had she not heard the prosecutor call her name above the ruckus? Lisbeth shimmied her shoulders against the burly arms of the cheese merchants. Cyprian leaned over and whispered into Mama’s ear. She nodded and rose slowly. Her weight was down ten pounds and her complexion had sallowed. She stood planted in that spot but there was no hiding the tremble that said she was acutely aware of the danger.

  Lisbeth saw that the bruise around her eye had faded from deep purple to more of a mustard green and the reduction in swelling allowed both eyes to complete a panoramic assessment of the crowd. Lisbeth lunged against the cheese merchants. Mama’s countenance suddenly seemed to soften, as if she’d seen something that gave her a shot of courage. She lifted her chin and dragged her chains across the pavers. Once she mounted the platform, she clasped her hands in front of her. In a show of defiance, Mama fastened her gaze on Pytros, who’d sandwiched himself among the senators.

  The prosecutor had regained his composure. He licked his lips and began his interrogation. “Are you the one the plebs call ‘the healer’?”

  “I have done what I could for their sick.”

  Cheers rose up across the gallery. Was the crowd’s support a good thing? Lisbeth craned her neck for a better view of Maximus, but the prosecutor silenced the mob and quickly moved on with his questioning before she could correctly frame the proconsul’s scowl.

  “Did you or did you not conceal a child of deformity?” A gasp echoed in the pillared circle. This charge alone, should it stick, could seal her mother’s doom.

  Lisbeth’s gaze followed the trajectory of Mama’s fixation to the opposite side of the Forum. Papa? No wonder her mother had settled after her gaze swept the venue. Of course her father would be here. Lisbeth tried waving at him, but she knew her father’s attention was so intently fastened on his wife he wouldn’t have noticed Lisbeth if she’d been close enough to slap him.

  The days he’d spent tending Mama in the prison had taken a toll on him as well. His beard had grown in gray and shaggy, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t dared fall asleep for fear his beloved wife would disappear again. But it was the intense helplessness on his face Lisbeth couldn’t take. She shouldn’t have left him alone with Mama for so long.

  Sunlight bounced off a small hot pink box held high in the general vicinity of Mama’s gaze. Neon colors of the twenty-first century were as out of place in this drab crowd as the snowy white togas of those conducting the trial.

  Maggie?

  Lisbeth strained her neck for confirmation. Not more than two steps behind Papa, Maggie was doing her best to get the perfect shot with her phone camera, and beside her was the boy who’d promised Cyprian he’d make sure Maggie didn’t leave the house. Eggie was also there. Every cell in Lisbeth’s body prepared for battle.

  “I’ll kill her,” Lisbeth muttered under her breath, her mind planning the fastest route to her child. “No, I’ll kill all three of them.” Her frantic attempt to move yielded no gain.

  “Deformity?” Mama’s shoulders visibly stiffened. “Did your father rail when he saw your unusually large ears and order you exposed?”

  “My lord,” the blushing prosecutor demanded over the tittering crowd, “instruct the witness to answer.”

  Maximus flicked his wrist. “Slave, you heard the man. Did you or did you not conceal a deformed and cursed child?”

  Papa gave Mama a slight nod of encouragement.

  “It is true that Aspasius Paternus fathered my son.” Mama returned her focus to the antagonistic man standing before her. “But my beautiful boy is neither deformed nor cursed. He is a light in the darkness.”

  “It has been reported that his eyes are unnaturally slanted and that his mind remains forever childlike.”

  “Thankfully, he does not resemble his father in appearance or temperament.”

  A sly smile dimpled the prosecutor’s face. “The child of a free man and a slave woman is still . . . a slave. Was it or was it not the legal obligation of the father to order the child’s exposure?”

  Mama swallowed. “Your laws granted Aspasius that prerogative, yes.”

  “And did the proconsul order it so?”

  Silence echoed in the Forum. Lisbeth could feel the people leaning forward as they awaited her response.

  “He did.”

  “And yet you, a lowly slave in the house of the proconsul of Carthage, took it upon yourself to circumvent a direct order of your master?”

  “I live by a higher law.”

  The prosecutor’s brows rose. “And what is this law that is higher than that of Rome?�
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  A slow, deliberate smile spread across Mama’s face. “The law of Christ.”

  Murmurings that had been but a pebble thrown into a pond blossomed into nervous ripples through the crowd.

  “So.” The prosecutor’s delight curled his lips. “This Christ had you circumvent Roman law and hide your deformed son from his father. Did he also instruct you to take a jagged instrument to your master’s leg and saw it off with malice and forethought?”

  “When a doctor loses a patient”—Mama’s voice was remarkably steady—“it is something we never forget. I have had ample time to think about my decision. I have gone over and over that day in my mind. What could I have done differently? Whether it was a blood clot or septic shock that brought about Aspasius’s ultimate death, I’m still convinced amputation was the best choice of treatment and the proconsul’s only hope.”

  “May I never be at your mercy,” the prosecutor said with a humorless chuckle. “Is it true you oppose the bloodletting of the Roman physicians?”

  “What does this have to do with the proconsul?” Cyprian objected.

  “True or not?” the proconsul demanded.

  Mama held up her palm to stop the arguing. “Yes,” she said. “Bloodletting is a barbaric, ineffective, and dangerous form of treatment in my opinion.”

  “Then why did you step in and perform your own manner of bloodletting upon the daughter of Titus Cicero?”

  The senators, all clustered together near the stage, turned shocked faces in Titus’s direction.

  To Lisbeth’s surprise, the rich land merchant kept his eyes on Mama. Ever so slightly, his shoulders rose and he stepped away from his colleagues. The worry pinching his face dissipated and he acquired a rather proud and pleased expression as he said, “The skills of this accomplished surgeon saved my daughter from the sickness ravaging her bowels.”