Valley of Decision (24 page)

Titus turned his long face toward the door, but not before Maximus could see that his decision had not made the senator happy. He didn't care. Far wealthier people than Titus Cicero had tried to tell him what to do. It felt good to get his own way for once, even if the idea of judging terrified him.

But, by the gods, he was an actor. He'd successfully pulled off the role of proconsul when he first landed, hadn't he? Although Maximus had not finished his private lessons, he'd acquired enough skills to pretend he knew how to preside over a murder trial. He'd set to work immediately after his arrival. The theater was within walking distance of his palace. Kaeso worried the exercise was beneath the station of a proconsul, but Maximus found taking the stairs a perfect way to warm up his lungs for the breathing drills dear Epolon put him through.

The accomplished actor had sorted his skills in one session. Since then, they'd worked to capitalize on Maximus's few strengths and eliminate his many weaknesses.

“Not to worry,” Epolon had said as he flittered around Maximus as he left the theater. “When you make your grand appearance upon the judge's seat, no one will suspect you have just given the first public performance of your illustrious career.”

Maximus longed for the day when he possessed Epolon's confidence. This year would fly by far too quickly.

M
AXIMUS PULLED THE COVER
over his head. “Please, Kaeso, let me sleep a few more minutes.”

“If you insist on missing your cue, I shall have no choice but to contact the senator and tell him you have changed your mind.”

Maximus growled and tugged the blanket tighter around his ears.

Kaeso threw open the shutters. “The sun is fast approaching its noonday height. You have less than an hour to make your first appearance as the new proconsul of Carthage. What shall it be?”

Maximus lowered the cover and studied the ceiling. What a pleasure it was not to have that shrewish goddess staring down at him. Kaeso was right, this was a new day and he was the author of this next act.

“I shall go.” He rolled out of bed, relieved himself of the jug of wine he'd downed after his all-night rehearsal with Epolon. He splashed his face with the warm water Kaeso had just emptied into a basin. Maximus leaned in close to the polished brass and poked at the dark circles beneath his eyes. “If you line my eyes with kohl, perhaps they will give me the fierce look Epolon said I would need in the Forum.”

“You don't have to do this. That long-armed senator seemed more than happy to take your place as judge.” Kaeso layered heavy
folds of purple-trimmed wool upon Maximus's shoulder. “However, plum roles do not come along every day. And judging the murderer of your predecessor is plum.”

“You're right. I shall not let some frontier senator upstage me.”

“Still, anyone as new as you could easily step into dung and not know of his misfortune until others smelled it upon his shoes.”

“You worry too much, my friend.” Maximus turned in front of the mirror and caught a glimpse of Kaeso's concerned expression. “After you double-check my pleats, add a touch of color to my cheeks.” He patted his churning belly. “Do you have any more of that awful brew for stomach upsets?”

“The gods could be trying to tell you something.”

“It's nothing but a small case of stage fright. Epolon said a nervous stomach can actually propel one's performance if the force of the discomfort is harnessed.”

To regain control of errant thoughts, Epolon had also suggested mind games. One of Epolon's favorites required Maximus to visualize his idea of a perfect day. So as Kaeso finished dressing him, Maximus launched into deep breathing exercises and forced his mind on an imaginary journey. He pictured himself going to the theater instead of the Forum, then taking the stage and delivering his lines flawlessly. He'd even conjured scenes of the entire audience leaping to its feet and applauding him as one greater than Terence.

But when Kaeso tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Master, your chariot is here,” Maximus knew neither his breathing nor imagining had worked. His stomach rolled the way it had aboard the moldy grain freighter, and his confidence was sinking beneath a wave of doubt.

Maximus reluctantly tossed his toga's excess fabric over his arm and filled his lungs. “Let the show begin.”

In a swirl of white and purple, Maximus descended the palace
stairs and waited as Kaeso raised the sunshade on the four-wheeled chariot Maximus had discovered hidden beneath a tattered sailcloth in the corner of his newly acquired stable. According to the head groom, Aspasius had been murdered just hours after the special-order chariot arrived from Bulgaria. Not knowing what else to do with the expensive vehicle, the servants disguised the lavish cart as best they could to keep looters from stripping parts.

Maximus gripped the fine leather dash and climbed aboard. Showing off the exquisite bronze carvings made by illiterate horse-breeders captured nearly two hundred years earlier would remind his subjects not only of their place in perpetuating the success of the empire, but also of his place as the new voice of justice in Carthage. Nothing screamed “cunning” and “just” like mythological panthers with the bodies of wildcats and tails of dolphins. According to Maximus's new acting coach, proper props were as important as a grand entrance when it came to creating a believable character.

Maximus gathered his courage, summoned the lower register of his voice, and instructed his driver, “Proceed to the Forum via the main street.”

The slave looked to Kaeso, then back to Maximus. “Carthaginian tradition demands you ride past the prison so they know when to bring the accused forward.”

“What do I care of your barbaric traditions?”

Kaeso gently placed his hand on Maximus's arm. “Today, you care.”

“But I'll be late.”

“You're late because you would not get out of bed.”

“But a fashionably late entrance can also make for a very grand entrance. A little trick Hortensia taught me.” Maximus issued his next order as firmly as possible. “Drive me past this horrid prison, but then circle back and proceed as I instructed.”

Bodies were stacked along the paved corridor like rotting cordwood. “Will there even be anyone to watch my performance?” Maximus asked Kaeso as they bounced along.

Kaeso shrugged. “We shall see.”

The driver pulled to a stop near the stairs leading down to the prison's metal door. “Do you wish to speak to the prisoner?”

“My words for that wench”—he smiled—“shall be delivered when a well-delivered line counts.”

B
RUTUS HELD A TORCH
over the place where Magdalena and Lawrence clung together like survivors on a leaky raft. “It's time,” the guard said quietly.

Lawrence cinched Magdalena with his ropy arms. “Can we have a few more moments?” he begged the guard. “Our daughter will be here any minute—”

“The judge has already ridden past,” Brutus said glumly. “Your escorts will be here any second. No time for long farewells.” He reached beneath his breastplate and retrieved a freshly pressed tunic. “It's not much, but at least it's clean. Woke a washerwoman and paid her a silver piece to launder it proper.” He held out a brown woolen garment, scuffing his boots like a nervous child. “Told her the wearer would be as fine a lady as my momma. And my mother, may the gods . . . uh, the one God rest her soul, always insisted her dress hold a good crease.”

Magdalena peeled herself from Lawrence's embrace and pressed the stiff wool of Brutus's offered garment to her nose. Sunshine and sea breeze, a gentle reminder of God's continual presence. “Thank you, Brutus.”

“I've heard your prayers and seen how those who profess the faith in your one God have risked their lives to care for you.” Brutus
offered his hand and helped her to her feet. “It would have been an honor to be healed by your hands.”

Magdalena blinked back tears. “To see your heart healed has been my honor.”

Brutus nodded, then turned to Lawrence and whispered, “Now would be the time to say your good-byes and disappear into the crowd.”

Lawrence planted his feet, his jaw set for a fight. “She's innocent!”

“If they find her guilty, you won't get another chance,” Brutus continued whispering. “If they find her innocent and set her free, you can determine a meeting place and she can find you easy enough.”

Magdalena laced her fingers with her husband's. “I love you, Lawrence, but one of us has to take care of the kids.”

“It took me years to find you”—he tightened his arm around her waist—“don't ask me to leave you now.”

“Tell our girls how much I love them.” The tears stinging her eyes would not be held back forever. “I'm counting on you to love Laurentius like your own son.”

Lawrence cast aside the precautions they'd taken with her typhoid and cupped her face with his hands. “I won't go without you.” In his eyes, she could see her distorted face. Ridged slashes that extended her lips almost to her ears. Old before her time. She laid a hand on his chest in an effort to turn him away, to keep him from kissing her out of pity. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, as if her fevered hand had burned straight to his heart.

Magdalena could feel the pain beating inside him, and her own emotions threatened to boil over. “What we see is not all there is. God will not fail us.”

“I love you.” Lawrence lowered his lips to hers. His beard,
which had passed the bristly stage a couple of days earlier, was a soft, private curtain drawn around her mouth. He kissed her deeply, as if he wanted the ridges of her scars permanently etched into his lips. He pulled back only when Brutus gave him a little nudge.

“You can't stay, my love. Go.”

His eyes brimming with tears, Lawrence told her, “Look for me.” His eyes lingered. This time, when her gaze wavered over the watery depths of his love, she saw a woman she'd not seen in years: One who was perfect. Beautiful. Young. “I'm coming for you,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

Magdalena teetered on the edge of running after him, clutching the clean tunic to her chest as if it were a promise Lawrence could actually keep. Short of trying to jump down the time portal with everyone they loved, they could do nothing and they both knew it. She wanted to be brave, to go to her death as those before her had. With her head held high. But her mouth was paper dry, her eyes flooded with tears, and her courage a puddle of candle wax.

Brutus freed Kardide from the wall. The old woman, her drainage tube flopping from her headscarf like a snake trying to escape Medusa's turban, rushed to Magdalena and wrapped her in a steadying hug. Magdalena melted into her embrace, counting her friend's remarkable recovery more than a testament to Lisbeth's excellent surgical skills; her presence was a gift from God. Though they were both unwashed and sour-smelling, each was unwilling to relinquish the support of the other.

“I wish I had time to give your head wound proper attention, Kardide.”

“It can wait,” Kardide assured her.

Brutus unlocked Magdalena's chain from the wall hook, then turned his back to allow Kardide's assistance with Magdalena's garment
change. Next he freed Tabari, and she hurried across the aisle and insisted on finger combing Magdalena's hair. Within minutes Magdalena's hopeless tangles had been subdued into one neat plait that hung down her back. Once Iltani was freed, she silently raised the hem of her dress and wiped the grime from Magdalena's face.

“Thank you, my friends”—Magdalena swallowed the lump in her throat—“for everything.”

“Today's hearing is just a formality, right?” Kardide asked. “Our chance to tell them you did not kill that monster.”

Magdalena didn't have a definitive answer. She'd been counting on Lisbeth to give her the latest information. When her daughter failed to show up, Magdalena knew in her gut that something wasn't right. Doing her best to remove any trace of fear from her voice, she said, “You heard Pontius. Cyprian and Lisbeth are making a plan.”

“Brutus!” a soldier bellowed from the open door. “I swear upon Juno's stone, if you don't get those prisoners out here, I'll beat you along with them.”

“Coming!” Brutus shouted.

If the soldier had captured Lawrence he would have sounded much happier. Magdalena breathed a sigh of relief. “Fear not, my friends.” She gave Brutus's hand a covert squeeze. “I'm ready.” On shaky legs, Magdalena traversed the narrow tunnel, wishing for time to stop and assess each prisoner.

“We're praying for you, lady,” they said as she passed.

Magdalena thanked each one, then bent beneath the stone lintel and came forth from the tunnel like one raised from the grave. Her hands flew to shield her eyes from the white-hot glare. She'd lost count of how many days it had been since she'd seen the sun. She lifted her face and boldly said aloud a prayer of thanks as the blinding rays warmed the chilly dread pumping through her veins.

“Move it,” a soldier ordered.

Magdalena lowered her hands. The redhead who'd taken such great pleasure in dragging her into custody now had a whip. The law was clear. In cases that involved a slave murdering her owner, she could be flogged in the Forum so that no other slaves would consider the possibility of hurting those who enslaved them. Should she be found guilty, the state would exercise its right to inflict the death penalty and she could be flogged yet again. Since she was not considered a Roman citizen, she would die on a cross erected in the center of the arena.

Before her weak knees could betray her, Magdalena checked over her shoulder. One by one her friends emerged into the light, ducking their heads as she had in response to the brightness. In the sunlight, she could see how they were in worse shape than she'd thought: filthy, bruised, broken as she, and unsure of what lay ahead.