Valley of Decision (14 page)

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 the 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.”

Magdalena hadn't been on her feet since these same two ruffians had hauled her in. Had the new proconsul arrived? Where was Cyprian? “What's wrong?”

“Up!”

Her joints were stiff and uncooperative, with every muscle hurting after the beating she'd taken. “Give me a minute.” Magdalena did her best to manipulate the ankle chains to keep her feet from getting tangled. “How can I help you?”

“It's been reported that you know the whereabouts of Cyprianus Thascius.”

Who could have alerted the authorities before the case came to trial? No one had been in or out of the prison since Cyprian was here and Magdalena was quite certain Cyprian had not given his name to Brutus, the guard who'd allowed him to access the new prisoners and now feared he'd be found out.

It had to be Pytros. The cunning little scribe of Aspasius had always hated her. Pytros had been present in their master's sickroom when Aspasius revealed he already knew of Cyprian's return. Pytros had also openly opposed the terms she'd imposed upon Aspasius before agreeing to provide him with medical care. She should have known Pytros would never allow her to get away with trumping him. Not only would he get even, he would do everything he could to have his master's addendum nullified. Of course, whether Cyprian was now a free man was a moot point if Cyprian could not locate the sealed parchment Lisbeth was supposed to have delivered into his hands. Without the actual paper it was Magdalena's word against that of Pytros. And Pytros wasn't the one with bloodstains on his tunic.

The only way she would know whether Cyprian had managed to retrieve that invaluable scrap of paper would be if he showed up to defend her on the day of her trial.

Magdalena fought the leg tingles protesting her lack of exercise and gingerly distributed her weight to restore her balance. “Curubis, last I heard. Exiled by my master.”

“Liar!” A soldier's hand smacked her cheek. “Where is he?”

“Leave her alone!” Kardide had managed to stand and was swinging her fists across the aisle, managing only an occasional dull thunk against the soldier's armor. “She said she didn't know.”

The soldier wrenched Kardide's arm behind her back and forced her to her knees. Then in a flash he raised the hilt of his blade and brought it down with a sickening crack upon Kardide's
head. Tabari screamed as Kardide crumpled to the floor. A hush fell over the tunnel. Out of the corner of her eye, Magdalena could see Kardide pinned beneath the soldier's boot.

Magdalena pulled against the chains, the iron cuffs cutting into her ankles. “Kardide!”

The soldier lifted his boot and backhanded Magdalena again, sending her sailing. She hit the wall with a breath-robbing thud. Her legs buckled. Rough stones sanded her back as she slowly slid into a useless heap.

L
ISBETH AND PAPA FOLLOWED
Cyprian down the torch-lit path that led to the Hippodrome. Cyprian stopped and implored Lisbeth and her father to wait away from the prison's sinister entrance. He reached up and dragged a finger through the soot of the torch holder. He smeared a little on Lisbeth's face. “Can't risk one of the prisoners recognizing you.”

“What about you?” she asked.

He added a bit of soot to his chin and lowered his hood to shade his eyes. “Let me do the talking.”

Lisbeth hesitated for only a moment. “Mama is not taking the fall for this. I was there. She did everything medically possible to save that monster, especially considering the circumstances.”

Cyprian drew her to him. The strength in his arms immediately reminded her of how difficult it would be to leave him again . . . and leaving him again was what she had to do because that's how her visits into his world always ended. “No one can know Magdalena is your mother.”

“How can I allow Mama to die for a crime she did not commit?”

Papa came to Cyprian's aid and pulled her aside. “Perhaps it's best if you save your indignation for the judge.”

“Lisbeth cannot testify.” Cyprian had warned her and Papa of
her mother's dire situation and the danger they might face in coming here. But neither she nor Papa had heeded his warning or discussed their next course of action. They'd headed toward the Hippodrome before Cyprian had time to reconsider his offer to take them. “Please, keep your voices low.”

“What do you mean, I can't testify?” Her indignation was clear.

“You're taking our daughter and going home.”

“Not without my mother.”

“Shhhh,” Papa warned. They all froze, listening intently.

The slam of a metal door was followed closely by a growing commotion at the base of the stairs. Without a word, Cyprian quickly pressed Lisbeth and her father into a nearby thicket and signaled they say nothing. Then he placed his body as a shield between them and the knot of soldiers marching up the stairs, laughing and discussing how they'd roughed up the old woman who'd hacked up the proconsul of Carthage. “Taught her a thing or two,” bragged the redheaded soldier who'd left them in a dark alley not thirty minutes earlier.

Lisbeth struggled to stay put. The second the soldiers were out of earshot, Cyprian extracted another promise from her that she'd keep silent, then released her and hastily made his way to the pale-faced guard. Lisbeth and Papa hurried after him.

“Brutus, my good man.”

“It's after curfew. You shouldn't be here.”

“You seem upset. Are our prisoners well?” Cyprian approached cautiously.

The guard, a short, muscular fellow, reached for his weapon. “There wasn't much I could do. I think one of them is hurt pretty bad.”

Cyprian didn't back away. “Let me help.”

“Get us in there, boy,” Papa said.

Brutus eyed them warily. “Who are they?”

“I'm a healer,” Lisbeth said. “I can help.”

Brutus's uncertain gaze shifted between Cyprian and Lisbeth. “You'll tell the proconsul I did what I could, right?”

“You have my word, Brutus.” Cyprian turned and warned Lisbeth under his breath, “Remember what I told you.”

“Fine.” She hated tunnels. Not only did they rekindle the claustrophobia she'd fought so hard to overcome, she hated anything that reminded her of the proconsul's palace and the underground labyrinth she'd been forced to navigate several times: Once to care for her mother. Another time to save her brother. And the last time to save herself. Lisbeth steeled for whatever waited in the darkness: Rats. Plague. Death.

Brutus stood there weighing his options so long Lisbeth wanted to scream, but instead she stuck to her promise and kept her mouth shut.

“Brutus, please. Let us help,” Cyprian said.

Finally, the guard fumbled with his keys. “Don't let her die on my watch.” He heaved the door open. A putrid stench rushed at them.

“Smells like someone already did,” Lisbeth said.

Cyprian shot Lisbeth a warning look and grabbed a torch. “Stay close.”

Lisbeth reached to steady Papa, to protect him from whatever lay ahead. “It could be bad.”

“I've got to see her.” The color had drained from his face and his palms were sweaty, but he had a determined, hopeful look in his eyes.

In truth, it was she who needed bolstering. Whatever they found in this stink hole would only add to her guilt. She should never have left Mama in the third century. Nausea threatened to empty Lisbeth's stomach of the stale bread she'd found hidden in a
jar in Cyprian's kitchen. She clamped her lips, held tightly to Papa's hand, and ducked beneath the lintel. Unprepared for the drop in temperature, she shivered. How long could anyone survive in here?

Cyprian waved the torch in front of him. “She's at the very end.” Flashes of light swept human shapes chained along sixty feet of stone wall. The prisoners were filthy and too emaciated for her to determine whether they were men or women. She placed each footstep carefully to avoid the bony legs and arms reaching for her.

“Over here.” Cyprian waved her forward.

Lisbeth stumbled across what felt like a knobby stick, but it was a leg so thin she could see the outline of the femur. “Sorry.” Despite Cyprian's concerns that she might be recognized, she stopped and felt the prisoner's wrist for a pulse. Weak, but alive. “Watch your step, Papa. They don't have the strength to move.” She spoke to the inmate. “I'll be back.” She picked her way through the tangle of legs, forcing her mind to block out their cries for help.

“Lisbeth?”

The urgency of the woman's voice drew Lisbeth's attention to the cluster of bodies near where Cyprian waited. “Tabari?” Two of her mother's friends huddled over a woman sprawled on the floor. Panic radiated from their upturned faces. Much as Lisbeth wanted to stop and help, she couldn't because across the aisle Cyprian stared at a body rolled up like a carpet.

Bile seared Lisbeth's throat. “Is it my—?”

“Yes.” Cyprian shoved the torch into a holder.

“Magdalena?” Papa raced around her and sank to his knees beside the body. “Magdalena?” His hands trembled over her hair-covered face.

“Let me have a look.” Lisbeth gently moved her father aside, pulled her bag off her shoulder, then squatted beside her mother. Lisbeth pressed her fingers to Mama's carotid and prayed for a pulse. “She's alive.” She stroked away ropes of matted hair. “I'm here now,” she told her mother. “You're going to be fine.” The sight of her mother's tunic stiff with blood nearly panicked her and forced the medical knowledge right out of her head. She nudged her mother's shoulder. “Ma . . . Magdalena, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said in a feeble whisper.

“Thank you, Lord,” Papa said.

Tears coursed down Lisbeth's face in hot release. “Can you name your injuries?”

“My pride.” Mama rolled over. Her left eye was swollen shut and blood trickled from her split lip. “What are you doing here, Lisbeth?”

She hadn't meant to gasp, but now Mama knew she knew how badly she was hurt. “Long story.”

Mama waved off Lisbeth's rush to help her sit up and started to push herself upright. “I just got the wind knocked out of me. Check on Kardide. She's taken a couple of hard blows to the head. The last one knocked her out for a minute or two.”

Lisbeth remembered the tough old bird who'd once helped her escape the proconsul's palace. “Kardide,” she whispered.

The older woman roused and slowly turned her head toward the sound of her name. Except for the bandage, she appeared to be in better shape than Mama. “I may have a little headache.” Kardide made a fist and pumped it in the air. “But that soldier's shins will sting with my wrath for quite some time.” Her fist fell to her chest as if someone had cut the string on a puppet. Then she rolled slightly in Lisbeth's direction and vomited.