Valley of Decision (15 page)

“Kardide!” Mama called.

“I'm fine.” Kardide wiped her lip. “Let Lisbeth help you first.”

“No.” Mama refused Lisbeth's attempt to check the damage to her eye. “Head injuries can't wait.” She grabbed Lisbeth by the shoulders. “She may sound lucid, but she's lost strength in her right arm and now she's vomiting.”

“But you're flush with fever and—”

“You can't let her die.”

“Magdalena Hastings.” Papa had been remarkably patient, but from his tone it was clear he was willing to wait no more for Mama to notice him. “You're still the most obstinate woman I've ever met.”

“Lawrence?” Mama tilted her head. “I thought I was dreaming when I heard your voice, but it is you.” Squinting sideways she tried to focus with her good eye. Her hand flew protectively to her face. “I didn't want you to see what I've become. Ever.”

Papa's Adam's apple went up and down as if snagged upon decades of sorrow. “Seeing you again is all I've thought about for over forty years.” Papa gently clasped Mama's hand and lowered it to her lap. His eyes navigated the changed landscape of Mama's face. A pained smile tugged at the regret and grief swimming in his eyes.

“I'm an old man now, my dear. But you, you are even more beautiful than I remember.” His shaky hands cupped her puffy cheeks. He leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips across each bruise and scar as if he were removing years of sediment from a newly discovered artifact. Saving the broken place on her bottom lip for last, his kiss was light as a butterfly's wing. When he pulled away, he said with a satisfied air, “My treasure.”

Mama tilted her good eye at him and said softly, “You came for me.”

Tears glistened on Papa's cheeks. “I've been trying to get here since the moment I found out where you were.”

Mama opened her arms and Papa fell into her embrace. They
clung together as if they never intended to let go again. Lisbeth's tears made it impossible to tell who was rescuing whom. Since she was five years old she'd wanted her family together. It was all she could do not to launch herself into the middle of the celebration. But this was her parents' private moment.

Lisbeth sensed Cyprian coming up behind her. His arm slipped around her waist. She couldn't help but lean into his strength. For a second she let her heart consider what it would be like to spend her life with the man she loved. Tempting as it was to fall back on the hope that they would be a family, she knew better. So far, history had refused to bend to her will. Either Cyprian would leave her through death or she would leave him through the portal.

“Please tell me Maggie is safe in Dallas,” Mama whispered.

Papa's brows rose in the slow, easy way of a man who'd learned to conserve unnecessary efforts. “Well, Maggie's a long story.”

“She's here, isn't she?”

He gave a reluctant nod.

“How did the child find her way back?”

Lisbeth waited for Papa to answer, but when it became obvious he didn't want to add to Mama's loss, she stepped in and answered for him. “Maggie's no longer a child.”

“How many years have passed in your time?”

“Thirteen.”

“Oh.” Mama's lips trembled and Lisbeth wished she could take back this entire conversation.

“Maggie's a beautiful, artistic young woman and even more stubborn than her grandmother,” Papa added, trying to cheer her up.

“How is that possible?”

His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I do not know.”

“Magdalena!” Tabari's voice interrupted. “Kardide will not wake up.”

Lisbeth snatched her bag and rushed across the aisle. She felt for a pulse. Next she lifted Kardide's eyelids and flashed her penlight. “Unequal pupils.”

“I'm telling you it's a classic epidural hematoma.” Mama's teeth chattered.

Lisbeth wavered between getting to the root of her mother's chills and treating Kardide's possible brain bleed. “We don't know that for certain.”

“Nausea is a sign of increased intracranial pressure and now she's unconscious. What else could it be?”

“Dehydration.” Blood had seeped through the bandage wrapped around Kardide's head. “Maybe even typhoid.”

“She took a pretty strong blow from a sword hilt. Her head hit the pavement in the fall.” Mama's chills were making it difficult for her to speak. “And if we don't relieve the swelling her brain could herniate.”

Of all the creative medical treatments her mother had asked her to give, this was well beyond the scope of reason. “Are you kidding?” Lisbeth said. “You want me to drill into her head?”

“I know it sounds frightening, but I'll talk you through it.”

Maybe her mother was the one with the brain injury. “You've done craniotomies?”

“The gladiator docs do them all the time. I've assisted a very respectable Greek. Twice.”

“Well, that's two more assists than I have, and I've been a surgeon for six years.”

“You did a surgical residency?” Mama's pleasure slipped through her rattling teeth.

“She did,” Papa said proudly, taking off his cloak and wrapping Mama tight. “Graduated top in her class.” He leaned in close to Mama and whispered, “She's got your gifted hands.”

“How many of the Greek's craniotomy patients lived?”

Mama lowered her good eye. “None. But the gladiators he operated on had suffered mortal injuries in the arena.” Mama tried to get to her feet, winced at the pain the effort cost her, and sat back down. “We're wasting valuable time worrying about what might happen if we do surgery when we know for certain she'll die if we don't.”

“I'm not a neurosurgeon.”

“Then I guess you'll have to improvise.”

“Not this time. A craniotomy would be risky in a perfectly sterile OR. Drilling into someone's head by torchlight in a filthy tunnel is insanely irresponsible.”

“Standing by and watching a dear friend die is unforgivable.” Mama hardly let the impact of that zinger sink in before she continued making her case. “The longer we wait, the more likely she will not recover.” She spun her left index finger in a drilling motion over her clenched right fist. “You could save her just by making a small hole in the skull to relieve the pressure.”

Having only one good eye had clearly hindered Mama's perspective. A top-flight surgical crew couldn't guarantee Kardide's recovery if she'd experienced a traumatic brain injury.

Judging stares came at Lisbeth from multiple pairs of eyes. No matter how many fellowships she completed or letters of distinction she added to the alphabet soup behind her name, she was not a savior. “I brought a few antibiotics, some oral typhoid vaccine, and the Kelly forceps you wanted. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to cram in a CT scanner or a high-speed air drill!”

“I've got the Greek's drill.” Mama's announcement was followed by a little cough. “Bought it off him after he retired from his gladiator work.”

“What?”

“It's in my bag. Those overzealous soldiers took my kit from me and gave it to the guard to hold as evidence when they brought
us in.” She cocked her head so that her good eye focused on Cyprian. “I'm sure you can sweet-talk Brutus into letting us have my tools for this small procedure.”

“It's
not
a small procedure.” Lisbeth let her exasperation show.

“The Greek could open and close in less than thirty minutes,” Mama said confidently.

Screams of the wildcats held in adjoining cells echoed in the dark tunnel. Lisbeth knew exactly how these helpless creatures felt. Trapped against their will, yet forced to perform as if they had options.

“Lord, help me not to regret this.” Lisbeth unclasped her cloak and spread it on the floor beside Kardide.

Papa and Cyprian helped her gently roll the patient into a supine position. After wadding Cyprian's cloak to elevate Kardide's head slightly, she sent him to fetch Mama's medical bag.

Through the metal door, Lisbeth could hear Brutus voicing his reluctance to relinquish care of the prisoners or the evidence bag until Cyprian agreed to let him watch the procedure. Brutus lit another torch and joined the ranks of the curious prisoners.

Feeling as if the stone walls were closing in, Lisbeth dug through her mother's tools: a couple of scalpels, a retractor, and a contraption that resembled a crude catheter. Just when she was about to call an end to Mama's game of chicken for lack of a drill, Lisbeth's hand came across a small wooden box buried beneath some fresh bandages. Inside, she found the infamous Greek drill wrapped in pristine white linen. The medieval-looking skull punch was no more than a polished metal shaft with a sharp, arrowhead-shaped tip and an attached horizontal crossbeam the size of a number two pencil.

Sheer panic shuddering through her, Lisbeth held it up. “Please tell me this isn't it.”

“It's a brilliant design, don't you think?” Her mother motioned
her closer, tilting her head so she could examine the tool with her good eye. She proceeded to tout the advantages of the lance's rounded edges and demonstrate via air gestures how to twist the attached crossbeam like a wine corkscrew. “Do beware of the danger of penetrating the dura.”

“If by some miracle Kardide lives through this torture,” Lisbeth said, nearly choking on the fact that she was actually discussing opening a woman's skull with a tent stake, “I'm sure she'll appreciate how we so thoughtfully lessened her risk of contracting meningitis by protecting her dura.”

Mama waved off Lisbeth's sarcasm. “In my bag, you'll find the flask of the sterile wash we made for Aspasius. . . .” Sorrow trailed her unfinished statement. She turned to Papa. “I'm so sorry about everything, Lawrence.”

He gently brushed her lip with his finger. “None of that matters now.”

Lisbeth placed the drill back in the box and snapped it shut. “This is crazy.”

“If you can't do it, perhaps Brutus would find it in his heart to free her long enough to set her up over here and I'll do it.”

“You don't have the strength to turn the twist tie on a bread wrapper, let alone drill through bone.” Lisbeth laid her palm on Magdalena's forehead. “Besides, I think you have fever.”

Mama removed her hand. “Then we have reached a serious conundrum, haven't we?” She let her head rest upon Papa's shoulder. “Do nothing and let nature take its course. Or do what we can and let God steady our hands.” They both knew Mama was referring to the long night of useless surgery they'd performed on the proconsul. “This time I'll concede. The final decision is yours, doctor.”

“In that case, I want to go on record as saying this is a bad idea.” Lisbeth looked around at all of the expectant eyes staring at her. Cyprian, Papa, Mama, even the other prisoners who'd stopped
their crying out and put their own needs aside: all of them waited for her to pull some kind of a miracle out of a hat. Patients and their families did this to her all the time—expected her to fix broken bodies as easily as a mechanic repaired a car.

Which was more humane? Letting Kardide drift peacefully into the next life or doing a medieval procedure that would probably kill her? And if the surgery didn't do in the old woman, convalescing in a filthy dungeon would. “You know she'll never be able to drive after this, right?”

Mama laughed out loud. “It's a chance I'm sure Kardide would be willing to take.”

The faces of Cyprian and Brutus scrunched in confusion.

She may not be the fearless surgeon her mother was, but neither could she stand by and do nothing. Lisbeth let out a long sigh. She stuffed her hand inside the bag in search of Mama's homemade disinfectant and nicked her finger. “Ouch.”

“What is it?” Cyprian asked from his place at Kardide's head.

Lisbeth drew her finger to her mouth and closed the little gash with pressure from her teeth while she peered into the bag. A stainless steel bone saw.

Oh, no
.

Her gaze darted to Mama, who was casting a one-eyed plea for silence. But then they didn't need to discuss how her mother came into possession of a twenty-first-century bone saw. They both knew exactly how this modern tool had gotten mixed in with her mother's primitive instruments. It was the saw Lisbeth had loaned her mother to amputate the gangrenous leg of Aspasius Paternus. Even more damning, the serrated blade was smeared with dried blood.

“Nothing.” Lisbeth wheeled and spoke to the guard. “Brutus, we need every torch.”

The moment Brutus left to get more light, Lisbeth turned her
back to everyone and slipped the damning piece of evidence into her bag. By the time the guard returned, Lisbeth had used a little bit of Mama's sterile wash on her finger wound, applied a Band-Aid, and was rechecking Kardide's pupils as she and Mama discussed the hematoma's position. Without a CT scan she could never know with 100 percent certainty, but based on Kardide's arm weakness on the right and her blown pupil on the left, the most likely spot would be under the left temporal bone in the region of the middle meningeal artery.

Lisbeth marked the target area with her index finger. “Okay, now what?”

“Once you remove the bandage, measure two finger widths anterior to the tragus of the ear and then three finger widths above the tragus of the ear and you will have located the perfect spot,” Mama instructed.

Lisbeth gloved up and offered Cyprian a pair. “Our patient's unconscious for now, but God forbid she wakes up during the procedure. I'll need you to hold her head very still.”

Cyprian nodded and Lisbeth could almost see him turning green at the possibility of seeing so much blood.

“Papa, bring that extra torch in closer.” Lisbeth unwrapped Kardide's head. To the naked eye, the injury appeared to be little more than a glancing blow that had scuffed the surface of the scalp. She shaved away a strip of Kardide's hair with a disposable razor she'd thrown in her bag at the last minute and took the makeshift measurements with her fingers.