Valley of Decision (19 page)

His faint smile was lined with weariness. “Everything will be as God wills, my love.” Cyprian folded her into his arms, drawing her against his chest. Scents of ink and parchment clung to his clothes. He'd been in Titus's library for hours poring over legal documents, searching for any loophole that would eliminate the necessity of his request for the reinstatement of his legal privileges before the Senate.

Though Lisbeth knew she shouldn't let herself be drawn into the problems of Cyprian's people again, she could more easily quit breathing than pull away from the steady beat of his heart. Each thump sank deeper into her soul, plowing through the crust she'd nurtured these past thirteen years. Softening her up. Preparing her for the moment they both knew could no longer be delayed. Tomorrow Cyprian would officially make his presence known in the city. He would stand before the praetor, beg the reinstatement of his rightful place, and officially set into motion events neither of them could stop.

“You have the note?” she whispered.

“I have the note.”

“And you'll tell Xystus to explain to the Senate that Aspasius set you free—”

“I'll tell him.” Cyprian's finger skimmed her cheek. “I'll seek an expedited decision and press to go to trial immediately.”

“And if Xystus refuses your requests?”

“I'll remind him of my father's generosity to his family over the years.”

“But a trial may not go—”

Across the atrium, someone rapped on the door. Lisbeth couldn't help the frustrated sigh that stirred the hair escaping her loose braid. “More sick have found us.”

Cyprian planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “I'll get it. You rest a little longer.”

“If it's an emergency—”

“I'll call you.”

She heard Cyprian open and close the peephole, then throw open the door. “Metras!”

Metras?
Lisbeth peeked around the pillar. The old man who'd stuck by them while the rest of the church followed the traitor Felicissimus out the door was shaking Cyprian's hand.

“Tappo!” Cyprian turned and offered his hand, but the Egyptian stonemason tromped in without a word. After him came twenty more adults and at least that many children, Cyprian's pleasure growing with each guest. “Thank you all for coming.”

Lisbeth left her plate and went to investigate. “What's going on?”

These were not new patients. In fact, it was easy to see none of the new arrivals crowding into the atrium were even sick. Some she recognized as former patients she and her mother had already nursed to health. All of them were members of the church who had at one time or another served alongside Ruth and herself.

Metras made his way to the front of the group. “Lisbeth, you look worn out,” he said with a gummy smile. “Good thing I
brought some help.” The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Except for Metras, these people had abandoned her husband and left him to face the Roman soldiers alone. She never wanted to see these traitors again. She opened her mouth to express those very sentiments when an exhausted sigh drew her attention. An emaciated woman suddenly slumped into Metras. Her sunken cheeks were flush with fever. In her arms, she clutched a bundle in the shape of an infant. Lisbeth would have thought her another pleb from the slums except for the expensive clothes on her back and the gold jewelry draped around her neck. “And who is this?”

“Don't know.” Metras shifted his cane to better support the weight of the woman swaying from his arm. “Found her wandering the street not a block from here. If the rich coward who left his family isn't dead, someone ought to kill him.”

“You were right to bring her to us.” Cyprian led the woman to a bench. “Lisbeth, this woman could use your help.” The room went silent. “Lisbeth?”

All eyes turned on her. This woman was a patrician. She could bring trouble. Lisbeth willed her feet to move toward the bench. “What's your name?” she asked the woman.

“Arria.” The bundle in the woman's clenched arms didn't move.

“Can I see your baby?”

Arria gave a cautious nod and eased her grasp on the child. Lisbeth pulled back the blanket and peered at a tiny blue face not more than a month old. The woman had come too late. Lisbeth lifted her eyes to deliver the bad news, but Arria's anxious eyes compelled her to run the stethoscope bell under the bindings and listen for a heartbeat anyway.

Lisbeth swallowed the sting that always swamped her when someone died, and she tucked the bindings back in place. She gently touched Arria's arm. “Wait here.” She caught Cyprian's eye and
cocked her head toward the alcove. He excused himself and followed after her.

“I hate to throw cold water on your excitement,” Lisbeth whispered. “But that woman with Metras is obviously somebody important. Perhaps even the wife of one of the senators who voted in favor of your exile.”

He brushed her lips with his. “I seem to remember someone I know rather well proposing we care for
anyone
who was sick.”

“A lot has happened since then and you know it.” Lisbeth's rising volume caused everyone to turn and stare. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Her baby is dead. If the praetor sends you to face the senate, you don't need to give them reason to blame you for the death of one of their children. And I'd hate to think what would happen if she dies and—”

“Shhhh. Tomorrow has enough worries of its own.”

“But she could—”

“Lisbeth, her husband has clearly abandoned her. Many of the senators have left town. I know you can see it's a difficult time for her, but what you may not see is that this could be good news for us. If there aren't many senators left to rally, Xystus will be free to reinstate my solicitorship on his own.”

“Wait.” Lisbeth pulled Cyprian back into the alcove. “Contrary to what you and Maggie may think of me, I'm not made of stone. I'll help her.” She jerked her head in the direction of the crowd staring at them. “But these people whom you seem so happy to welcome back into the fold are the same backstabbing cowards who walked out on us.”

“They are.”

“And all is forgiven? No questions asked? Is that wise?”

“Is it not enough that followers of Christ have to fight against the court of public opinion? How will it help the dying in Carthage if Christians bicker among themselves?” Cyprian clasped her
shoulders, a stern look in his eyes. “Neither you nor I can claim to be free of mistakes.” He didn't have to list the reasons for the tangled emotions in his voice. His decision to marry Ruth had changed everything for both of them. “These good men and women had to swallow a great deal of pride to come to our aid. Being here is the same as admitting they were wrong. I must forgive them.”

“I'm all for grace, but what if the new proconsul makes them a better offer? Food for their bellies? Their properties restored? Assurances of safety for their families? Who's to say they won't desert you again?”

The meaning of his heavy sigh was not lost on her. Cyprian was disappointed in her inability to back him up, and frankly, so was she.

His fingers dug into her shoulders as if he was attempting to pull her back from a dangerous ledge. “When the soldiers came for Christ, he looked about the garden and found he stood alone.” Cyprian released her. “Do I deserve better than our Lord?”

“You're right. You can choose to trust whomever you like just as you can foolishly choose to go before the praetor.” She peeled from his grasp. “But forgive me if I sleep with one eye open.”

“If I fail before the praetor, I want to know I've left you surrounded by friends, people who can help you do whatever you must to take our family home.” Cyprian brought her hand to his lips. “A few days. It's all I'm asking.”

Lisbeth let her gaze sand the ragged group staring at her. They distrusted her as much as she distrusted them. These were not her friends. She fastened her apprehension on Cyprian. “Three days.”

M
AGGIE COULDN'T HELP THE
little flutter of pride when her mother congratulated her on Eggie's recovery and told her to transfer his vaporizer to someone in greater need. Maybe Mom was beginning to see that she wasn't a total screwup.

“Cool your jets, Eggie. This will only take a second.” Maggie freed the silky fabric draped over the tent. The stowaway's seal-gray eyes peered at her through the tepee stakes. “What are you looking at?” She shook out the cloth.

“You.” Eggie grinned. “You don't talk or look like anyone I've ever met before.”

“Well, stare at something else.”

Although her patient had definitely gained strength since Mom arrived and shot him full of antibiotics, he was still a frightful mess. Brown crusty scabs dotted his face. Cracks deep as a Texas blacktop in August split his lips. His hair was a tangled bird's nest her own mother couldn't tame, and her mother thought she could conquer everything.

“You're beautiful.” Eggie's voice was still raspy from healing pustules in his throat.

“My mom says measles can ruin your eyesight.” Maggie lifted the tripod she'd cobbled together, taking care to keep the frame intact so she wouldn't have to reassemble it for the next patient.

Eggie pushed up on his elbows. “I see things others do not.”

“Those are hallucinations from the high fever.”

He glanced around the room. “See the cloisonné vase on the pedestal?”

Maggie looked over her shoulder “What do you know about cloisonné?”

“It's Greek. A copy, but a fairly expensive one.” Eggie pointed at the wall mural. “Rural and common in flavor. Most likely a Peiraikos.” He directed her gaze to the floor. “The mosaic is Roman in design, but judging from the color combinations, the artist was Etruscan.” He smirked at her surprise. “As you can tell, I have a very refined appreciation of beauty. So when I say your beauty is of more value than any of these things”—he scooped her hand and brought it to his lips—“you may take my observations on the highest authority.”

“Okay, anyone who knows the difference between cloisonné and a mosaic has my attention.”

“Finally.” Eggie's grin tilted mischievously toward his dimple. “I didn't think I stood a chance of redirecting those magnificent eyes from our heroic fisherman.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“I've seen you sketching him when you think no one is looking.”

Heat swept up her neck and flamed scarlet on her cheeks. Her free hand slid to her pocket where she'd hidden the small pen-and-ink sketch she'd finished late last night. Maggie wasn't going to talk about Barek, not to anyone. “And you came by this appreciation of art while swabbing the decks of fishing vessels?”

“Give me a kiss and I'll tell you how I came to possess my appreciation.”

Maggie removed her hand. “I don't need you to teach me about art, or kissing.” She folded the tripod and started to leave but something inside her screamed
Stay!

What was it about this guy? Maggie tucked the tripod under her arm. “So why would you tell me your secrets?”

Eggie crammed a pillow behind his back. “Because I trust you?”

Trust? Nobody trusted her. Not her mother. Not her father. And especially not Barek. She gave Eggie a doubtful look. “Whatever.”

“Really, I do.” Okay, he was a smooth talker and possibly an escaped convict, but she liked him.

Eggie had a creative side he wasn't afraid to express. Maggie liked the hint of trouble brewing in the depths of his eyes. She liked how the richness of his voice beat inside her chest and made her feel alive.

“Girl! Come here!” an impatient male voice shouted at her from the doorway. “Quick!”

Maggie turned to find Titus waving her toward him. Never thought she would have considered Friar Tuck a lifesaver, but his interruption had saved her from doing something stupid like divulging her silly thoughts and giving Eggie the wrong idea.

Titus smoothed his bangs impatiently as Maggie made her way to him. “Tell your mother word has come of the new proconsul's arrival. I'm heading to the harbor to meet him.”

“Now?” Maggie stared after his hurried exit, then turned to Eggie. “We are in so much trouble.”

Her fright must have shown on her face because Eggie took her hand and asked, “Why does the new proconsul's arrival matter to you?”

“He doesn't. It's the emperor who sent him. I've read all about Valerian and everybody's thinking he's wonderful, but history records him as a jerk who thinks Christians should be eliminated.”

“Whoa! You talk faster than a runaway horse. History? What records are you talking about?”

Her mouth fell silent. Maggie had once again said too much. “Never mind.”

“Do these history records also say the great Valerian is a pompous, self-righteous pig who's more concerned about keeping Rome together than his family?” Eggie let his shoulders fall back upon his pillow. “I hope the Sassanids remove the old man's head.”

Maggie stepped back, unsure if he was teasing or if he was an emperor-lover setting her up. “You talk like you know him.”

Eggie lifted his head and eyed her coolly. “Valerian is my grandfather.” He ripped his sleeve from his wrist. “I will bear his mark to my grave.”

“Holy cow.” She shuttled back even farther, knocking over a chamber pot as her eyes skimmed the premises for Barek. “Who are you?”

“Publius Licinius Egnatius Marinianus. Youngest son of Gallienus Augustus and Cornelia Salonina.” He nodded his head in a half bow. “At your service, my lady.” For once he wasn't smiling, and neither was she. “Are you going to tell your fisherman friend he saved the successor to the throne?”

All of Barek's warnings beat in her ears. “What do you think?”