Free Valley of Decision by Lynne Gentry Page B

governing hall. They quivered in the wake of his purple-trimmed cloak and that ridiculous golden wreath he wore to conceal his baldness.
    In death, diabetic-induced weight loss and a raging infection had reduced Aspasius Paternus to mere mortal status. His decaying body was no safer from the ravaging effects of a deadly disease than those of the plebeians struggling to survive in the crowded tenements.
    Lisbeth averted her gaze, unwilling to allow this man a permanent place in her thoughts. His decades of evil had destroyed the lives of so many good people. People she loved. He’d killed her friend Caecilianus. He’d exiled her husband. He’d inflicted atrocities upon her mother. And quite possibly he’d have removed her husband’s head before some postoperative complication had removed him. Dwelling upon her hatred of the former ruler of Carthagewould destroy her, and as long as her child was alive, she couldn’t let that happen.
    â€œLet’s get out of here.” Lisbeth clasped Papa’s arm and spun out of line.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œThe only place Maggie would know to look for her father.” Lisbeth set a brisk pace toward Cyprian’s villa. When they reached the magnificent structures of the rich, she rushed ahead. “This is it.” She burst through the doors. “Cyprian! Maggie!” Her feet went out from under her and she fell hard in a pool of blood. Drying her hands on her tunic, she scrambled to get her legs under her again.
    Tossed mats, spilled water gourds, and tumped oil lamps littered the beautiful mosaic floor. “Cyprian!”
    â€œWhoa!” Papa surveyed the mess. “What happened here?”
    â€œWhen I left, soldiers were destroying the hospital. I can still hear the screams from that day.” She couldn’t bring herself to say that Cyprian may have sent her down the well and returned to the point of a sword. “The bodies are gone—maybe that means Cyprian is alive.” She found a lamp. “It’s still warm. Someone may be hiding and too frightened to come out.” For better or worse, she had to know. “If it’s the family I told you about, maybe they can tell us if Maggie showed up.” She started down the typhoid hall.
    Something sharp pierced the sole of Lisbeth’s sandal and punctured the tender flesh of her heel. Her cry echoed in the empty hall.
    â€œAre you all right?” Papa helped her limp to Diona’s deserted recovery bed.
    Lisbeth dug sterile gauze from her bag and then pulled a piece of broken pottery from her foot. “I don’t think I need stitches.” Pressure did little to slow her hemorrhaging emotions. “Maybe everyone’s in the cottage out back.”
    â€œOr maybe—”
    â€œDon’t say it.” Lisbeth quickly wrapped her foot. “I’ll check the estate grounds. You check the other halls.” She then tested her weight. Painful. “I think I can still walk.” When her father didn’t answer, she noticed he hadn’t left the atrium. “Papa?” He stood before a statue of a woman, his eyes fixed on her face. “Papa! What’s wrong?”
    He struggled to get the words out. “It’s one of the Women of Victory.”
    â€œCyprian has lots of art.”
    â€œNot like this.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI unearthed this statue the summer you were born. I had promised your mother I would not go to England to dig but would find a project site near Tunis, one that would allow me to stay within driving distance of the hospital where she worked. So I joined a team excavating in what was believed to be the destroyed wealthy residential area of Old Carthage.”
    â€œDestroyed? When?”
    He gave a pained nod. “We could never pinpoint the date of destruction.”
    Of course Cyprian’s home hadn’t lasted forever. She’d explored modern Carthage before