Valley of Decision (12 page)

The tall soldier ran the back of his hand along Lisbeth's cheek. “Lucky boy.”

F
IGHT OR FLIGHT SIGNALS
surged from the soldier's grip upon Lisbeth's arm. This was the man who'd dragged her to the palace of the proconsul. A vile, bitter taste invaded her mouth. Lisbeth willed her rubbery legs to stand their ground and prayed he was too drunk and she'd aged too much in the past thirteen years for him to recognize her. She fastened her animosity upon the soldier who smelled of fish sauce and stale beer.

Keeping her wits would have been easier if Barek hadn't appeared out of nowhere. His betrayal had brought trouble crashing through Cyprian's door, and for that she wanted to slap him. But she also remembered this same angry young man planting his body between her and this soldier's blade. Why was he here and willing to save her again? She'd obviously misjudged Ruth's son, and she wanted to live long enough to apologize.

First she had to get rid of these goons. She blurted out the only name of status she knew. “Vivia, wife of Cicero.” She prayed she'd delivered her lie with the conviction it would take to scare this overzealous soldier into letting her go.

“Well, Vivia, what do you say you and me find a quiet spot and—”

“How drunk are you, fool?” The stocky little soldier grabbed the redhead's arm. “Didn't you hear? She's a senator's wife. I'm
leaving before you get us strapped.” He wheeled and gathered up the other gawking patrols. “You're on your own.” With their departure, the fine line between Lisbeth and trouble did not vanish.

The soldier with the death grip on her arm pulled her in so close torch flames coiled beneath her nose. “What's a senator's wife doing in the slums after curfew?”

She refused to let this excitable soldier think he was getting to her. “Many of my servants have died of the pox. There was no one to send to fetch my son.”

“Why are you dressed like a pleb?”

“Advertising my wealth would be foolish in this neighborhood, don't you think?”

He wasn't buying her story. “Well, Vivia Cicero,” he whispered coarsely in her ear, “ever bed a real man?”

A split-second glance at Barek pumped her pulse into overdrive. His nostrils flared in that hotheaded way of his, and both hands were clenched for a fight. The redhead had at least six inches on Barek. It would be a short-lived match sure to end with all of them arrested. If Lisbeth was stuck in prison, it would be impossible to locate Maggie. She summoned years of experience mastering panic in the OR and spoke with amazing calm. “Do you know a real man?” She fluttered her lashes.

The soldier's brows drew together, confirming her flirting skills had, in fact, become as rusty as her Latin. What did she expect? It had been years since she'd wanted the attention of a man. A teeny spark of fear licked at her righteous anger. This young man had lots to prove. Maybe she should rethink her approach.

Before Lisbeth could inject sappy sweetness into her tone, Barek had claimed her arm. “Mother!” His forceful jerk set off an immediate tug-of-war between him and the soldier for possession of her body. Barek was not about to let go. “We must fetch the
wagon or the magistrate will be within his rights to fine us for having a wheeled vehicle on the streets after sunrise.”

“Only a fool would dare fine the wife of Cicero.” Lisbeth wrenched her arm from the soldier with a strong, freeing twist. “You do not want to tangle with the real man awaiting my arrival.”

The soldier laughed, a disgusting guttural sound that made her want to rip his eyes out. “Feisty as a shepherd's cur.” He reached for her again. “What's your hurry?”

“Stultissime!”
Agitation raised Lisbeth's volume louder than she intended, but she had thirteen years of beef with this guy to get off her chest.

He came at her with both hands. “No woman calls me an idiot.”

Lisbeth was starting to backpedal when a hooded man burst from the shadows and strode toward them, fury flashing in his eyes. Lisbeth instantly recognized the commanding gait and regal bearing of the former solicitor of Carthage. She stopped dead in her retreat. Incredulity erupted into elation she couldn't let show. The man charging to her rescue was the same man who'd barged into the slave trader's cell and bought her right out from under Aspasius. The man who'd thrown her over a horse like a caveman bringing home a fresh kill. The man who'd forever changed her life.

Her eyes locked with his and she shouted, “Go back!”

But Cyprian snatched the soldier by the collar. Before the soldier had a chance to draw his sword or jump back in surprise, Cyprian spun the redhead around to face him. “The lady said she had to go.”

The soldier was probably fifteen years Cyprian's junior, six inches taller, and twenty pounds heavier—advantages he used to easily shake free. “You and whose army's gonna make me?”

“Me and the one God.” Cyprian's clenched fist flew up hard and fast. A loud crack confirmed his angry jab had made a square connection with the soldier's jaw. The dazed man staggered backward. His helmet bounced off the wall opposite the sliver of space between the multistoried buildings. Startled for no more than a few seconds, the young man quickly regained his balance. Before Lisbeth could move, he shook off the punch and came at her with a flash of stained teeth.

“Fool!” He went for his blade, but the hilt had gotten hung up in the clasp of his scabbard.

“You don't want to do that!” Barek had his blade drawn and ready to thrust, as did Cyprian.

Panting, the redhead planted his feet and searched the alley for backup, but his friends had deserted him.

“Catch up to your cohorts, boy,” Cyprian warned, pressing his advantage with a lunge that landed his daggertip at the soldier's throat. “No need to die for being an idiot.”

The young soldier looked at the blade and then at Lisbeth. He held up his palms and took a step back. “I never forget a face, Vivia Cicero.” He did a one-eighty and double-timed his way out of there.

All of them stood watching the flash of armor disappear into the night. But no one moved until the scrape of retreating cleats no longer echoed in the narrow passageway. With just their labored breathing rasping in their ears, Cyprian slid his dagger into his belt and turned to her.

“Lisbeth!” He pressed her to the wall, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her solidly, reclaiming all that was his. Familiarity sparked vivid memories of midnight swims and making love beneath a blanket of stars. Old regrets and dreams stirred inside her like ashes goaded into flame. The past refused to change, yet here she was, allowing the sweet kiss of hope to consume the fears that hounded her future.

Alive!
The man she thought she would never see again this side of heaven was alive!

Shock Lisbeth had managed to delay in the heat of battle crashed into her and buckled her knees. In a flash, Cyprian's roughened hands slid down the length of her neck like molten lava. His touch careened over the straps of the pack hanging from her back and drew her up in a supportive embrace. She'd lived the past thirteen years as the grieving widow. Some days the loss and sadness had been so crippling she'd wanted to stay in bed. And she would have if it weren't for the daughter she was determined to raise.

Heat spread from beneath his hungry touch and ignited a tiny moan of gratitude she'd meant for only God to hear. But defibrillating jolts radiated from Cyprian's heart, and her body couldn't help but arch toward the explosion of energy. Relief, warm and exhilarating, pumped darkness and despair from arteries she'd worried had hardened beyond repair.

There was no need for words in this private vortex, this place of completion she'd missed more than anything their vastly different worlds had to offer. Lisbeth wrapped her arms around her husband's neck and opened her lips to take in his hunger. His grip tightened upon her waist and numbed the ache she'd carried for so long. Within the span of a heartbeat, the weight of unbearable grief fell away. Her lungs inflated as if his breath had brought her back from the dead.

“Cyprian!” Barek's panic broke through the cocoon Cyprian's arms had spun around her. “We cannot stay here.”

Cyprian released her lips but not his embrace. His forehead rested upon hers and he whispered, “I know why you've returned.” He kissed her nose. “She's safe.”

“Thank God.” Lisbeth couldn't stop the tears. “Then you're not mad that I broke my promise?”

Cyprian stopped her apology with another quick kiss. “You had to come.”

“Take me to her,” Lisbeth said.

“I think there's someone you'll want to see on our way.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

“You know where to find Magdalena?” Papa asked anxiously.

Lisbeth peered over her husband's shoulder. Her father and Barek stood with their arms crossed and impatience drawing their faces into scowls. “Oh, I'm sorry, Papa.” Lisbeth took her father's hand and placed it in Cyprian's. “Finally the two most important men in my life meet.”

After brief hugs, expressions of mutual admiration, and Cyprian's assurances that he had a plan to free Magdalena, he sent Barek home to make sure the soldiers had not discovered the relocation of the hospital to the house of Cicero.

“But I don't want to leave you,” Barek argued.

“You have proven yourself someone I can trust to take care of my daughter. I'd feel better knowing Maggie has every protection possible.” Cyprian clasped Barek's shoulder. “Do this for me, please.”

Lisbeth snagged Barek's arm. “Thank you. Your mother would be proud.” She kissed his cheek and when she pulled back she was thrilled to see his lack of animosity. “Don't tell Maggie we're here. I think it would be best to surprise her the same way she surprised us. Don't you agree, Papa?”

After Barek had slipped away in the darkness, Lisbeth turned to Cyprian, not sure how she felt about his ability to carry on without her. “You've started a new hospital?”

“Without the help of the church or a healer, I'm afraid it offers little more than a place to die.”

Guilt prickled Lisbeth's skin. “I can't stay. And you can't leave.”

M
AGGIE HAD SPENT THE
past two days filling Eggie's vaporizer pot and sponging him down. She'd slept little and felt tired beyond her years. Stretching her aching muscles, she took a moment to evaluate her work. The crude tepee she'd constructed covered Eggie's head and chest. It was a little lopsided and if bumped in the wrong place, the shortest pole would slide out and drop the whole contraption on Eggie's face. But for her first attempt at being crafty, her vaporizer didn't look too bad. She couldn't help but wonder if her mother would have been impressed. Especially considering how many of Maggie's science projects usually went up in smoke.

But was it working? She lifted a corner of the tent and peeked inside. Eggie was finally sleeping.

Last night his skin was so hot she couldn't stand to touch him. He'd also had several bouts of delirium. Sometimes he shouted curses at imaginary demons or whimpered like a scolded child, begging his father to understand. More than once, he'd thrashed about in the bed while accusing Maggie of stealing his throne. Not knowing what else to do to calm him, Maggie had told him he could keep his old throne. Then, with a look of clarity that had almost had her convinced his fever had broken, he'd told her he didn't want it. Ever.

Strange. If she really thought about it, everything about this whole scenario was bizarre. Art, not health care, was her area of expertise. She had no business building vaporizers or trying to take her mother's place. If she hadn't been desperate to prove to her father that he couldn't live without her, she wouldn't be anywhere near a sickbed.

Maggie dipped a sea sponge into a mixture of cool water and warm beer. She never expected that finding her father would give her a whole new appreciation for her mother's dedication to her work. A few days ago she was anxious to get away from her. Now she was silently begging God to send her mom.

Maggie began to gently rub at the red spots on Eggie's face. The combination of stale alcohol and fevered skin stung her nostrils.

“Your mother always said to pat the sores.” Naomi took the sponge from her hand. “Like this.”

Maggie felt her back stiffen. She didn't mind her father's servant showing her what to do. After all, she and Naomi were friends. Maggie had helped Naomi in the kitchen after Ruth's death. Naomi knew Maggie had never nursed anyone before. So Naomi's tips weren't the problem. It was the way she said them. Like she knew what Mom would have done and Maggie didn't.

Naomi wrung the sponge and sat on the edge of Eggie's bed. “Let me show you again.” She made a big deal out of gently dabbing Eggie's head.

“Okay, I've got it.” Maggie tapped Naomi on the shoulder. The servant girl showed no signs of relinquishing her spot. Instead, she continued staring at Eggie, the sponge clutched tightly. Maggie tapped her again. “Naomi, don't you have pots on the fire?”

“Do you think he has family?”

Maggie said nothing for a moment, debating whether to mention Eggie's delirious renunciation of his father. “I don't know.”

“Maybe your father will ask Titus if he can stay.” Naomi handed Maggie the sponge, wiped her hands on her tunic, and rose. “Pat. Don't rub.”

Maggie plunged the sponge into the brown liquid. “Got it.”

“Look, Maggie.” Across the room, Laurentius held up a piece of parchment. “Ith done.”

She dropped the sponge in the basin and went to see Laurentius's latest work. “This little guy with the extra-long tail looks kind of sneaky, don't you think, Larry?”