Valley of Decision (11 page)

Cyprian glanced at their carefully reconstructed record. “He is.”

Barek's father believed God kept the roll books, thus eliminating his need to record any believer's name. Had Caecilianus known his son's treachery would force Cyprian to reconstruct the roll, he might have left something more tangible. Thus, when Titus proposed dividing the tasks and decided to devote his time to finding out what he could about the new proconsul while Cyprian rallied the church, they all quickly realized there had been no reliable record of whom to rally. Cyprian had questioned Barek for hours, urging him to recall every person who'd ever attended the church gatherings in his home.

Sketchy list in hand, Barek and Cyprian had spent the past two days knocking on the doors of frightened people, all of whom had sided with Felicissimus in the church split. Barek barely had time to state his business before those who'd lapsed in faith would announce, “Your parents are gone and have taken my faith in the church to their graves. What's left for us now? As for me and my house, we'll put our faith in the slave trader's writs of libellus.”

“Felicissimus had a pocketful of those worthless papers,” Barek argued each time, all the while knowing the scowling faces glaring at him had procured their writs from Barek himself. “All the paper in the empire did not stop a Roman sword from piercing the traitor's heart.”

Barek's arguments had gone unheeded. So far, not one person had changed his mind.

If he and Cyprian failed to muster some help, how would they manage the big job of converting the senator's home into a new hospital? Much as it pained Barek to admit it, Maggie was working hard, harder than he expected. She'd assembled a breathing tent similar to the ones her mother used to make, but so far Eggie had not regained his health. While Barek certainly didn't want the cocky stowaway to die, he worried that once Eggie recovered he would seek work at the docks. It wouldn't be long before Eggie told someone about his miraculous recovery. Word would get out and the house of Cicero would be swamped with more measles and typhoid cases than their inexperienced crew could handle.

After a couple of days of pounding the pavement, Cyprian and Barek had drawn a thick black mark through every name . . . but Metras. “What good is an old man?” Barek asked above the scrape of the wooden tooth sign on the stucco.

“That ‘old man,' as you call him, can work both of us under the table.” Cyprian raised his mask to block the stench of chamber pots emptied nightly upon the narrow streets and headed off down the first alley past the dentist shop.

Barek swallowed the reprimand without comment and hurried to catch up. Cyprian had lost everything because of him: Both of his wives. His daughter. His home. His influence. And for a while, even a bit of his faith. He needed the support, and Barek owed it to him to give him everything he had.

Barek stopped outside a door of warped planks lashed together with leather strips. “This is it.”

“Are you certain?”

He nodded toward a small cross hanging on an oil lamp.

Cyprian's eyes met his with a weariness Barek could hardly stomach. “That's the best sign we've seen all day.”

Barek held Cyprian back. “Let me knock, just in case.”

“Metras is a loyal ally.”

“Did you not think the very same thing of Felicissimus and myself?” Barek waited until Cyprian was safely concealed in the shadows, then rapped on the door of a slum apartment. The door opened a crack. Barek lowered his mask so he wouldn't look like a robber. “Metras?”

Gnarled fingers curled around the wood and two rheumy eyes cautiously peered into the alley. “What do
you
want?”

“It's Barek.”

“I know who you are, boy. Used to help you and your father crush snails and harvest the purple tint from them.” The door opened wide. A spare, stoop-shouldered man leaned on a cane. Metras hadn't worked in the quarries since a slab of rock slipped from the wench ropes and crushed his leg. His long beard had faded to the color of limestone dust, and years of working in the sun had chiseled deep crevices into his stoic face. “Can't believe you're the one who split the church over those worthless pieces of paper.” Metras squared up his body and jabbed his cane into the center of Barek's chest. “Your mother would be ashamed.”

“Listen, you may not want to help me, and I can't blame you, but”—Barek whistled Cyprian forward with their all-clear signal—“Magdalena is in trouble.”

“I wouldn't trust a word you said if I hadn't heard it from several others.”

“Then you know Magdalena did not kill the proconsul,” Barek said.

The old man's shrunken frame made it easy to see into his single-room home. “I'm smarter than I look, boy.” Women and children crowded in behind Metras, peering out at Barek with what he could see was disdain. “The healer couldn't any more kill someone than your sweet mother could turn away the sick. They both had too much heart.”

“My friend.” Cyprian stepped from the shadows, glancing around.

“Bishop.” They shook hands. “Come in.”

Cyprian surprised Barek and ducked beneath the low lintel. “You coming, Barek?”

“Am I welcome?” Barek asked.

“Long as you don't try to sell me anything, boy,” Metras said.

“I'm done with that.”

“Come on then.”

Barek stepped inside the cramped little room. Women and children did their best to shuffle themselves into the farthest corner.

Cyprian didn't appear the least bit put off by the humble surroundings. “We're setting up a new hospital. Without Magdalena, we don't have enough help.”

“Heard the soldiers destroyed your place. I'm sorry about that.” Metras shifted his weight to his good leg. “Not easy to lose everything.”

“A house is easily replaced, but without a place to treat the sick, I fear what will become of our city,” Cyprian said apologetically, almost as if what had happened had been his fault, not Barek's. “I won't lie to you, Metras. What I'm asking is dangerous.”

Metras's grip on his cane whitened his knuckles. “Not much safe this side of heaven, is there, Bishop?” Several children with concerned eyes backed tighter into the corner. “Who'll take care of these widows and orphans?”

“Bring them along,” Cyprian said without hesitation. “We'll make room.”

Metras studied the offer for a few moments. The cloudy fog in his eyes made it impossible to know what was going on in his bald head. Finally a slow smile pushed through his leathery wrinkles. He shuffled forward. “I think it best if we come at night.”

Cyprian clasped the old man's shoulder. “Come whenever you think it safe, brother. Can you find the home of Titus Cicero?”

Metras gave a brief nod. “Give me a day or two to get things squared away.”

They shook hands and Barek felt a strange surge of relief. Which made no sense. Metras was far from agile. How much assistance could a cripple offer? It was more likely someone would have to take care of him. Yet Barek couldn't help but admire an old man willing to put not only his comfort, but also his life in jeopardy for what he believed.

“Why did you call him ‘brother'?” Barek asked once they were on their way. “His station is far beneath yours.”

Cyprian stopped and gripped Barek's shoulders, his fingers digging in as if to root the point he intended to make. “You are not the only one who has made mistakes.” Cyprian's eyes were intent. “Hear me well: we will not survive this struggle if we do not rely upon each other. Metras will stick closer than a brother.”

Barek and Cyprian hadn't traveled a block, navigating the dark slums solely by the light of the full moon, when they spotted a small soldier patrol armed with torches and coming their way.

“Quick!” Cyprian whispered.

They drew their hoods and ducked out of sight. Praying the thrumming of his heart would not give them away, Barek dared not move. The rhythmic plink of metal studs on the cobblestone streets came closer, then suddenly stopped. The faces of the soldiers registered suspicion, and their bodies readied for action. Barek held his breath. Had the shadowed alcove of the apartment building obscured their presence, or could they be seen from this angle? He pressed his back tightly against the stucco.

“Halt!” a soldier shouted. The loud crunching sound of hobnail boots thundered past them and faded down the narrow alley.

They had not been seen. All they had to do now was wait. Once the patrols finished roughing up whomever they'd caught breaking curfew, he and Cyprian would slip out and go in the opposite direction. Relief quietly seeped from Barek's lips.

“Is something wrong, officer?” A woman's voice, faint and distant, carried through the corridor. Her Latin had a choppy familiarity that Barek and Cyprian recognized at the same instant. “My father and I are searching for—”

“Lisbeth?” Cyprian whispered, then started from his hiding place.

“Wait.” Barek yanked him back, growling between clenched teeth, “You won't do her any good if you're dead.” He pushed against Cyprian's chest and flailing arms, driving him deeper into the shadows. “Let me go in your stead. Please.” He slammed Cyprian against the wall and shot out into the street. “Mother!”

Two of the soldiers spun on their heels, hands on the hilt of their swords.

“Barek?” Silvery light illuminated the joy on Lisbeth's face. She turned to the man who was with her. “I can't believe we found him, Papa.”

He didn't dare look back to see if Cyprian was following. Instead he ran toward her with his arms open. “I'm sorry to make you worry,
Mother
.”

The need to play along registered in Lisbeth's eyes. “It's well past curfew, naughty boy. You scared me half to death.” She cuffed his ear, which he thought was taking the ruse a bit too far. “Your grandfather and I have been searching for hours.”

“My supply wagon broke down near the market. I was left afoot.”

“So you abandoned our goods?”

Barek wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed tighter than necessary. “Don't worry, all is secure.”

“Torch!” the taller soldier shouted. Light suddenly appeared, and Barek felt Lisbeth tense beneath his grasp. She too had recognized the redheaded soldier who'd led the raid of Cyprian's home. The soldier pressed in, and Barek caught a whiff of wine. Hopefully it had dulled the soldier's memory of thrusting his boot into Barek's ribs. “Remove your hoods.” None of them complied with the soldier's orders. “Now!”

Barek could think of no convincing argument to protect his identity. His gaze slid sideways, hoping Lisbeth would send him some sort of cue. Her lips were pursed in an uncharacteristic silence for the women of her century. Someone had to do something or they wouldn't live long enough to debate who should have made the first move. With a sigh, Barek lifted his hands, slowly pulled back the heavy wool draped over his head, then quickly dropped his chin.

“You.” The shorter soldier drew his sword and pressed the tip into Lisbeth's shoulder. “Remove your hood.”

From the corner of his eye, Barek could see that Lisbeth did not flinch. He needed better light to be certain, but as best he could tell, the woman who'd dropped into and out of his life only days ago had aged, although not at Maggie's rapid pace. Had her face changed enough to make her unrecognizable to this armored killer? Barek stepped between Lisbeth and the soldier's blade. “Mother never shows her hair in public.”

The tall soldier grabbed Lisbeth's arm, and a small moan of pain slipped through her lips. “She will tonight.”

“How dare you try to disgrace my daughter!” The man who'd accompanied Lisbeth down this dark path, the man she'd referred to as her father, tried to pull Lisbeth free. “Let her go.”

“Back off, old man,” the tall soldier warned.

Barek's heart pounded his chest as he considered the different
ways this confrontation could go. Lisbeth could lower her hood and risk recognition. They could run. He and Lisbeth might be fast enough to escape, but the old man with her would most assuredly be caught. Besides, fleeing the law would only make their punishment worse once they were apprehended. That left one option: Barek could start a fight. But he knew without a doubt the clank of swords would draw Cyprian immediately into the middle of the action. They would all be arrested and carted off to die on crosses next to Magdalena's.

The decision was his to make and he had to make it quickly. Hands shaking, Barek reached over and lowered Lisbeth's hood. Waves of ebony hair tumbled onto her shoulders and framed her fierce beauty.

The taller soldier brought the torch flame in so close to Barek's face that heat singed his nose hairs. “You, I don't know.” He must have been too busy kicking the stuffing out of Barek's middle to remember his face. The soldier moved the flame near Lisbeth's head. “This one could be the older sister of the woman we seek.”

“You've said that about every woman we've stopped.” The shorter soldier holstered his sword. “You've had too much to drink.”

“I never forget a face.” Suspicion narrowed the soldier's eyes. “I've seen this plebeian plum somewhere.”

“All plebs look alike, and right now they're all a little cocky,” the shorter soldier warned. “Just because the commander patted your shoulder for catching Aspasius's killer doesn't mean you don't have to help the rest of us keep the peace. Hurt her, and you could cause a riot.”

The taller soldier brushed off his fellow soldier's suggestion that they move on and held the flame close to Lisbeth's face. “Name, woman.”

Again, Lisbeth did not flinch but stared him straight in the eye.

“I told you, she's my mother.” The conviction in Barek's voice did not surprise him half as much as his sudden desire to protect this woman he'd hated for what she'd done to his mother.