Valley of Decision (7 page)

Barek hoisted the heavy net that he'd found in one of Titus's many stables. He'd hastily repaired the frayed hemp by tying the knots he and his friend Natalis had learned from prowling the docks. Would guilty bile always accompany his memories of his friend?

Barek stood on the dock and searched for the small skiff Titus Cicero's stable boys had said he could borrow. The boat was an odd assembly of rough planks scavenged from the aqueduct building projects and lashed together with strips of cured animal hides. A seal of sticky black pitch kept the crude vessel afloat. Pushing aside his worries that a boat constructed by stable boys might not be seaworthy, Barek tossed the net into the bobbing boat.

Launching the skiff in darkness would make it easier to avoid the 25 percent
tetarte
Rome levied upon fish poached from its waters. As an added precaution, come daylight he'd check his catch
and discard any shellfish or eel. Those delicacies would fetch an exorbitant price at the kitchen doors of the wealthy, but they would also draw attention he couldn't afford.

Barek freed the rope from the concrete post and shoved off from the pier. When he and Natalis used to fish these waters, they usually stayed close to the shore, but the sailing season was nearing its close. Once the harbor gates were officially closed for the winter, no one would have access to the open waters. He needed to cram in as many nights of serious fishing as possible.

Across the water, he could hear the rattle of heavy chains. Seamen were preparing the military triremes to lift anchor. Lisbeth had wanted the port closed until the plague burned out, but she had been forced to leave before Cyprian could anger the senators by insisting they pursue such a financially disastrous course of action. At sunup, the narrow channel would be clogged with the comings and goings of vessels in the emperor's charge. Barek clamped his hands upon the oars and rowed faster.

The slap of his oars churned the glassy surface. His shoulder muscles began to burn, and cramps tugged at his curled hands. He maneuvered the skiff past the massive stone pillars holding a portion of the Mediterranean waters captive and pressed on through the chilly mist, determined to steer clear of the harbor by sunrise. What was left of the wind would rise with the sun. Once he had enough breeze, he would hoist the tattered sail made of spun flax and let the forces of nature carry him far from his troubles.

His little boat began to rock, gentle as a baby's cradle. He felt his body relax for the first time in days. He needed sleep. What would it hurt to close his eyes for a few moments? Just as his head lolled to his chest, the skiff shuddered beneath him, jerking him instantly alert. Had he hit something? He scrambled to correct his course . . . but which way? Squinting into the drizzle for clues was pointless. The sky and sea had melded together and swirled him in
a bowl of black soup. He couldn't tell where heaven left off and earth began.

Barek plunged the right oar into the water. Before he could add the left oar, an enormous swell lifted his boat high above the surface, held him suspended for a second, then cast him down hard between two walls of water that immediately tumbled in upon him. He clawed frantically against the skiff's slick animal skin sides that rolled seaward. The boat took on water at a rapid pace, swamping his feet and then his ankles. The blasted scrap heap was sinking beneath him.

Hands cupped, Barek began to bail. Had he been caught in one of those unexpected early fall squalls that made sea travel so dangerous during the winter months? Or had he crossed paths with the Illyrian pirates who prowled the coast? At any rate, he'd once again proven himself a fool by venturing into deep waters with an untested vessel. It would serve him right to die in a watery grave.

A large swell hit him from behind and flung him across the skiff like the rag doll Maggie had insisted they retrieve from the slums, the rag doll that had gotten his mother killed. His ribs smacked into the protruding oar handle, and he felt as if he'd been stabbed. Air whooshed from his lungs. Gasping for breath, he worked to drag his battered body to the plank bench.

Shouts sounded above him. Threats and protests. A struggle of some sort. The rhythmic slap of hundreds of oars hitting the water in perfect unison told him he was trapped in the passing wake of one of the empire's larger vessels. He stood and scrambled for his oars. Something solid whizzed past his ear. Before he could duck, a giant oar caught him hard in the chest and sent him flying overboard.

Foamy turbulence sucked him under. His mouth filled with water. Barek kicked and clawed against the pull of the deep. Just as
he broke through the surface a large object sailed through the air and hit the water only three strokes to his left. He strained to make out what had been tossed overboard, but whatever the sailors had discarded had quickly disappeared in the ship's wake. Ten good strokes to his right he spotted the skiff. Comfortingly, it had remained afloat. Treading water, Barek tried to gauge his ability to make it back to his boat before he was spotted by one of the imperial henchmen who lent their swords to the protection of Rome's commerce.

He searched the settling waves. Something bobbed to the surface. An empty grain barrel? A broken shield? Or was it just a rusty shinguard? Perhaps it was something that would fetch a good price in the market and make up for his lack of fishing success. Barek swam toward the lump.

“Help! I can't swim!” A hand reached for him.

Barek stopped in midstroke.

“Please . . .” The young man slipped beneath the surface.

Barek dove after him. He snagged a hand, then kicked hard for the surface. Gasping for breath, Barek hooked an arm under the man's chin and hauled him to the skiff. By the time Barek had both of them safely aboard, the sky had turned pink. They were surrounded by two hundred imperial vessels.

Barek propped the slumped fellow against the stern. Streaks of dawn peeked through the fog and struck his passenger's face. Red splotches like the ones he'd had when he and his mother suffered from measles. No wonder this fellow had been thrown overboard. What should he do? If he took a contagious man to the home of Titus, the sickness could be passed on to the land merchant's family. And Barek couldn't take him to Cyprian's, because the hospital his mother and Lisbeth had set up in those wide halls had been destroyed. No matter where he took him, there wasn't really anyone left to care for him. Magdalena was in prison. And Lisbeth was . . .
wherever it was she went when she disappeared. Whatever he decided would have to wait until he got to shore because he couldn't stay here.

The young man lurched forward and began to cough up water. When he finally caught a good breath, he said, “Thank you.”

Barek dropped onto the plank seat and began to row. “Stay quiet and keep your head down.” The man fell back, too exhausted to argue.

Barek took the long way back to the quay berth where the skiff had been moored. Across the harbor he could see deckhands lowering the anchor of the
Syracousia
. It was rumored the enormous fishing vessel was equipped with a lead-lined saltwater tank that made it possible for the ship to harvest live parrotfish from the Black Sea and deliver the delicacy fresh to the bellies of the rich in ports as far away as the Neapolitan coast.

Barek surveyed his passenger as he rowed them past the last of the imperial freighters. About his age. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Broad forehead. Patches of pale skin beneath the inflamed pustules. Fire-colored hair the breeze was whipping into a blaze. Sitting square in the center of the man's swollen face was the classical nose of someone with a northern heritage.

When they were out of earshot, Barek whispered, “What's your name?”

“Eg . . . Eggie.”

“Well,
Eggie
, what were you doing aboard the
Syracousia
?”

Eyes gray as a summer storm drilled Barek without wavering. “Deckhand.”

Barek glanced at his passenger's limp hands. Pink and smooth as a newly shorn lamb. “I don't think you've bailed much bilge water.”

“You calling me a liar, sir?”

“I'm saying those hands lack the rope burns of someone who's swabbed decks and wrestled sail riggings across the Mediterranean.”

Eggie crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands into his armpits. “Maybe I fed the fish in the large onboard tanks. Sea bass can be very demanding, you know.” He started coughing and struggled for breath.

Barek glanced around to make sure the racket hadn't given them away. “Looked more like the
Syracousia
's crew intended to feed
you
to the fish.”

Eggie shrugged and held up his hands in surrender. “I am a stowaway with plague. Going to turn me in?”

Barek eased the skiff along the dock. “First I'm going to try to keep you alive.”

Cave of the Swimmers

L
ISBETH POKED THE CAMPFIRE
she and Aisa had built from brittle tinder scavenged in a dry wadi not far from the Cave of the Swimmers. Sparks popped into the chilly night air. Lisbeth's gaze followed the fiery bits of ash until they disappeared into the vast emptiness like taillights on a getaway car. On the surface, the arid expanse looked lifeless. No shade. No water. Scorching days. Freezing nights. Yet, beneath the windswept sand lay a secret treasure trove, a labyrinth of underground waterways. Dark. Full of life. Her only connection to the past.

And somewhere in that dark, infinite continuum of time her daughter was all alone.

Not since Ruth's tragic death had Lisbeth felt so small. So absolutely helpless.

She'd given Nigel the tongue-lashing he deserved after she discovered him at the cave, kicking at the tires of his plane and cursing his folly for believing Maggie's story that Lisbeth had sent for him. Losing her temper with such a good man hadn't done anything but make him feel responsible, and heaven knew the responsibility for this mess belonged solely on her shoulders.

Just being back in the shadow of the cave and all that had happened in this place confirmed what Lisbeth already knew: pursuing her daughter and bringing her back from the third century was
the best course of action. Maggie was a hopeless romantic who remembered Carthage through a five-year-old's eyes. The girl's memories were skewed by the thrill of discovering her father, grandmother, and uncle. The Carthage Maggie remembered no longer existed. Were it not for the scar on Lisbeth's wrist and her beautiful fair-haired daughter, she might believe that it never had.

Lisbeth zipped her jacket to keep her racing heart from galloping right out of her chest. What if she couldn't find Maggie before trouble found her daughter? “Tomorrow, I want to leave at the exact time of day Nigel said Maggie dropped through the portal,” she announced to the small rescue party gathered around the crackling flames.

Her father sat cross-legged on the sand, calmly smoking his Meerschaum pipe. “I can go through the portal tonight.” A smoke ring floated toward the blanket of stars. “I won't break, you know.”

Papa, although spry for seventy-two, had no idea how physically taxing it would be to time-travel through the Sahara's underground aquifers. Riding a waterslide into the past was comparable to being hit with a fire hose for hours. And the physical toll paled in comparison to the emotional roller coaster of stepping into a bygone era. The tears Lisbeth had seen in Papa's eyes when the pilot set Aisa's plane down near this cone of granite told her his emotions were already taxed.

Lisbeth poked the fire again. “We're all exhausted.” This cave had changed their lives in so many ways. She couldn't take it if she lost her father in the portal. “To have the best shot at landing at the same time and place as Maggie, I want to repeat her steps exactly.”

“But it won't be the same day,” Papa pointed out.

“It's all we've got.”

*  *  *

AFTER A
restless night, Lisbeth rose before the sun, and strapped on one of the backpacks filled with supplies, including several rounds of antibiotics and her mother's stethoscope. She helped Papa do the same, and then to reduce the risk of getting separated from her father, she strapped their wrists together with a strong cord. Together they ducked inside the cave.

“If we're not back in a week, Aisa, you and Nigel fly out of here and never come back.” Lisbeth turned to her father. Despite the alarms going off in her head, she smiled and said, “Ready?”

“Been ready for over forty years.” Excitement danced in his eyes, and every muscle in his body seemed taut. He clamped his nose plugs in place. “Let's do this.”

Lisbeth placed her hand upon the wall painting of the child with the outstretched arms and let the bottom fall out from beneath the life she'd so carefully guarded. After spinning for what seemed like an eternity in a washing machine, Lisbeth's head broke the water's surface. She took in huge gulps of air. The saccharine stench of death assaulted her nostrils. “Papa!” She tugged at the reassuring weight on her wrist and Papa surfaced, sputtering and eyes shining.

“Amazing!” His exuberance echoed in the well's chamber. “What a rush.”
Rush. Rush.

“Shhh. We don't know who could be up there.” Their necks instantly jackknifed toward the moonlight.

“No rope,” Papa whispered. “And no one to pull us out.”

“Time travel is not an exact science.” What else had she miscalculated? What if she couldn't find Maggie? She quelled the fear that had followed her through the portal. “Hang on to this ledge. I'll climb up and throw you a rope.” Unstrapping her pack, she hoisted it to the ledge.

Several painful minutes later her arms were burning from her assent. With a bit more effort than it took the night Barek had
hauled her and Maggie out of the cistern, she flung herself over the lip of the well. A hollow gourd dangled from a long rope tied to the crossbeam. She untied the gourd and dropped the rope down to Papa. It took about thirty minutes and every ounce of her strength to haul their gear to safety and raise Papa up the slick walls.