Valley of Decision (39 page)

“The plan is simple,” her mother explained to the group who'd finished gathering anything they could use as a weapon. “Metras, you will stay with Mama and her friends. The hospital must be protected at all costs. Arria and Candia will help, along with two able-bodied men chosen by Barek, to stay behind. Papa, you'll stay as well.”

“Oh, no.” Papa grabbed the only weapon left, a large stick. “I'm going with you, Beetle Bug.”

Mom argued for a few minutes, but when she saw G-Pa wouldn't give, she threw up her hands. “Fine. But I want all doors barricaded after the rest of us have exited.” She didn't need to clarify their purpose. Everyone understood the mission.

The larger the contingency, the easier it would be to distract the guards long enough to give her an opportunity to get close to Cyprian, to convince him that he had supporters who would be sorely disappointed if he gave up. And his legal expertise was needed if they were going to delay his trial until the emperor's grandson returned. Either Eggie would arrive with news that a stay of execution had been granted from the throne or he would bring with him the full wrath of Rome.

While Barek and Pontius checked the streets for soldiers, Mom checked her medical supplies one more time.

“You and G-Pa are going to stick with me, kiddo.” Her mother's reference to her former immature self no longer sent Maggie over the edge. She'd follow to the ends of the earth this woman who'd forgiven her everything. “I think it best if we divide into
small groups and use different routes to meet again outside Cyprian's back gate.”

Maggie and her mother held tightly to each other's hand, counted to two hundred, then stepped into the outer garden. They turned in the direction of her father's villa and stopped.

They stood face-to-face with the redheaded soldier and his bloody sword. “You're not getting away this time.”

C
YPRIAN SET HIS LAMP
upon the floor. He would not be caught unprepared when the time came for his transport before the court. He pulled one of the heavy trunks from the storage closet and began to paw through the tunics he'd worn before his exile. Fine silks slipped through his fingers, but it was the crisp white linen that he secured in his grasp. The ample sleeves had been trimmed with an expensive band of threads woven and dyed to the deepest purple. His finger traced the exquisite work of Ruth and Caecilianus.

“Perfect.” He slid the garment over his freshly washed body and immediately felt as if he'd been wrapped in a peaceful presence. He tied a gold sash about his waist and covered his burial clothes with a crimson cloak.

Next, he dug out a handkerchief to cover his eyes in his final moments. His courage went only so far. He would not embarrass his Lord by shying away from the executioner's blade. He tucked the cloth into his sash, then set out to complete one last chore.

The library door creaked against Cyprian's trembling hand. Traces of ink and parchment lingered in the air. Memories flickered in the lamplight. He'd experienced so many wonderful discoveries and conversations as he and his dear friend and mentor pored over the sacred scrolls. Bits and pieces of those treasured
Scriptures lay scattered about the carpets, destroyed by the hands of those who refused to believe. Cyprian squeezed back the sting of tears.

Some words on one of the larger scraps caught his attention:
Love will last forever.
He held the paper tightly and finished from memory the verse penned by Paul, “Even when the end comes.” Warmth spread through his veins and fortified his bones. He folded the tiny piece of paper and tucked it inside his tunic. These were the words he would carry into his next life.

Cyprian set his lamp upon the desk and flipped a secret latch hidden behind one of the mahogany bookshelves. He reached into the cubby and retrieved a heavy bag of gold. He counted out twenty-five pieces, added the money to a pouch sewn into his sash, then returned the bag to its hiding place. If the Lord granted him opportunity, he would whisper the location of this treasure's whereabouts to the first trusted face he encountered upon his way to his death. If not, the Lord would provide for those left behind.

The insistent knock at his door came as no surprise. Cyprian backed away from his sanctuary.

Two high-ranking officers strode into his atrium. Chinstraps secured their transverse crested helmets. Their faces were unreadable.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?” Cyprian prayed the fear rising in this throat wouldn't taint his feigned cheerfulness.

An officer with a triangular face and a scruff of hair on his chin said, “You are to be moved to my house. From there, you will be taken to the Praetorium at first light to be tried before Galerius Maximus.”

Cyprian allowed himself one last look at the home he'd filled with all sorts of people: Rich. Poor. Sick. Healthy. All of them had
changed his life for the better, and he prayed that one day they could say the same about him.

He stepped over the severed head of his father's marble god and said, “Then let's get on with it.” He raised his hood and walked boldly toward the unknown.

To his surprise, a legion of swords and shields did not await him. If he presented such a dangerous threat to the state, why was he guarded by only the two men who flanked him?

“Cyprian,” someone called from the side garden.

“Pontius?”

Members of his little church waited in the shadows. His guards drew their swords, but when the commander saw there was no threat from a few ragged peasants, he ordered the other guard to sheath his weapon.

Pontius stepped forward. “Where are they taking you?”

Cyprian scanned the crowd drifting into the light. Relieved and disappointed that his wife and daughter were not among them, he said, “Where you, and anyone else who loves me, cannot follow.” He clasped his friend's shoulder, desperate to say what must be said before it was too late. “Promise me you'll salvage what you can from my library.” He hoped Pontius caught his meaning and would remember the money he kept stashed behind the bookshelves. “And promise me you'll see my family returned to safety.”

Pontius nodded. “They should be here. We took separate paths.”

“Find them, Pontius. Find them and take them home.”

Cyprian surveyed the frightened faces awaiting his next move. He'd seen them bravely reach across the boundaries that had always separated patrician from pleb, join hands, and work together. Of one thing he was certain: these were his people and they loved
him more than they feared the future. He longed to give them more than the gold from the sale of his foreign holdings or stashed in his library. He wished to bestow upon them the strength to continue, something they could hold on to when he was gone.

The Scripture resting near his heart came to mind. He held up his hands. “My friends, I have only one thing left to give, words that will carry me as I complete my journey. ‘Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance. Love will last forever . . . even when the end comes.' ” He lowered his hands. “Go and make disciples.”

“Were those Christians?” the guard whispered to the commander.

“Who could know for certain in this darkness? Not I, and not you.” The commander took Cyprian by the elbow. “Let's go.”

Cyprian climbed into the waiting chariot. Flanked by the two officers, he did not look back as he rode into the night.

L
ISBETH POSITIONED HERSELF BETWEEN
the soldier's blade and her daughter, her heart pounding against her chest.

“Going somewhere?” The redheaded soldier coughed as he jabbed his sword over Lisbeth's shoulder, pointing at Maggie. “You two will not escape me again.”

“You have us confused with someone else.” Maggie whipped around her mother. “We are freedmen.” She pulled papers from her pocket and held them out. Parchments fluttered in her clutched hand. “Manumission receipts. All in order. Check them.”

Lisbeth dared not let the soldier see how impressed she was with Maggie's quick thinking and preparation. “Go ahead. Check our papers.”

“Manumission?” His laughter was cut off by another round of coughing. “I don't care if you're a slave or not, you'll burn on a cross for your part in the death of the proconsul and aiding the escape of his murderers.”

Barek stepped out from behind Lisbeth. “Your fight is with me. Let the women go.”

“You're the son of the pleb I saw beheaded.” The soldier spit at Barek's feet. “No wonder you hide behind the skirt of a woman.”

Barek lunged but Lisbeth pulled him back.

The soldier's hacking cough forced him to lower his head. His helmet fell off and rolled to Lisbeth's feet. When he rose she could see the sweat glistening on his forehead. He wiped droplets from his eyes. “We have a score to settle, scum.”

“Not tonight. You're too sick.” Lisbeth reached in her bag and came forward with her stethoscope extended. “I can hear the congestion in your lungs from here. You have the plague.”

“Liar.” The soldier waved his sword, his eyes wide with the horrifying possibility she was right. “Stand back.”

“Already the rash is spreading to your face. From the flush of your cheeks I suspect you're burning up with fever. Soon you'll not have enough strength to rise out of bed let alone swing a sword.” She didn't like the small voice whispering in her head, the one that said she was to help this boy, but she could not deny its demand. She was to take a risk. Lisbeth inclined her head toward the stack of bodies not ten feet from them. “Let me help you. I know you've heard the Christians have a healer.”

He coughed and shook his head. “Christians are going to die.”

“As we all do eventually. But we're the only ones who can help you now.”

“You'd help an enemy?”

“Yes, even our enemies.” She stepped toward him, her hand outstretched with the offer of her most prized possession, her mother's stethoscope.

“Lisbeth, don't.” Barek tried to pull her back but Lisbeth wouldn't be deterred.

“Take this to the house of Titus,” she said. “Tell the healer that Lisbeth sent you. She'll know what to do.”

The soldier's face creased in distrust. “Why would you do this?”

“Because those I believed to be my enemies have cared for me.”

He dropped his sword and the papers, snatched the stethoscope, and ran in the direction of Titus's villa.

“Let him go, Barek.”

“But he could—”

“He won't.” Lisbeth picked up the pieces of parchment. “Maggie, where in the world did you get manumission papers?”

“Googled them and had several sets printed in case I had to smuggle Jaddah out of Carthage.”

“And all these years I thought you couldn't plan ahead.” Lisbeth smiled and kissed Maggie's cheek. “Forgive me.”

Hand in hand, they hurried toward Cyprian's villa. Cool pinpricks stung Lisbeth's skin: fall was here. She didn't have much time. How they would get past the guards at Cyprian's villa she didn't know.

When they arrived the place was deserted except for Pontius, who waited on the steps.

“Am I too late?” Icy-hot tingles pushed Lisbeth forward. “Where is he?”

Pontius waved his hands to slow her down. “They've taken him, but his trial is not until tomorrow.”

“Take me to him.”

“I promised I would take you to safety.”

“Listen to me, Pontius. I haven't risked everything just to walk away now.” Lisbeth grabbed his cloak. “Take me to my husband!”

The group reached the corner of Venus and Salus and found they could proceed no farther: a rather large crowd had surrounded the officer's residence. Only one soldier with a spear guarded the front door. Lisbeth recognized the believers who were clustered in the shadows, but the majority of the crowd had never darkened the door of a church service. Had they come to see a wealthy patrician humbled?

“Wait here,” Lisbeth told Pontius.

He clasped her elbow. “I cannot.”

“Then I guess whatever happens, we're all in this together.”

“How are we going to get to Dad?” Maggie held Barek's hand tightly.

“By the grace of God.”

As Lisbeth pushed her way into the crowd, someone recognized her. She turned to shield Maggie, but instead of being mobbed, it was as if the Red Sea parted. Lisbeth braced for an attack.

A man stepped forward and declared the great solicitor of Carthage a man worthy of praise. “My daughter belongs to his church. She's alive because of those in the house of Cyprianus Thascius. I promised her I would cast our idols into the street.”

Murmurings of support rippled through the crowd. Her husband's good works had reached beyond the walls of his garden. Was the court of public opinion turning in favor of the Christians? That was exactly what happened in all the early church historical accounts she'd read. Romans had been so touched by the care and sacrifice of Christians during this third-century plague that there had been an outcry for the legalization of Christianity . . . but that didn't happen until
after
Cyprian's death. Lisbeth's chest constricted around her heart.

The crowd surged forward as Lisbeth and her little rescue party trudged the steps. Wind knifed through her thin tunic. Foreboding dimpled her flesh. “We've come to see Cyprianus Thascius,” she announced to the guard.

“No one here by that name,” the guard reported.

“He was injured during his arrest.” Lisbeth produced her medical bag. “I'm here to tend his wounds.”

His spear pointed at her throat. “Best move on, woman.”

“Cyprian!” Lisbeth shouted above the growing murmurings behind her. “Cyprian! I'm here!”

The door swung open. A large man wearing the sleeveless woolen undertunic of a soldier and boots that laced to his knees filled the doorframe. His waist was free of the sword military guards usually holstered in their belts. His calm face indicated he was not the least bit concerned that he was unarmed and outnumbered.