Return to Me

by Morgan O'Neill

  “Forgive my skepticism,” Leontius said. “If you would be patient a little longer, I will find a moment to tell King Athaulf. He will know the best way and time to talk with the queen. She is distraught and taking the death of the prince very hard, as you might imagine.”

  “We want what is best for Placidia,” Magnus replied. “It is all we have ever desired, and the very reason we returned.”

  Gigi nodded, and Leontius met her gaze and nodded back.

  • • •

  The following morning, Gigi stood beside Magnus in a richly appointed room, nervously waiting. There was a light tap on the door and Placidia entered, leaning heavily on Athaulf’s arm. Gigi knew the royal couple had already been told by Leontius of their survival.

  Red-eyed, Athaulf nodded to them, his grief plain and deep, but Placidia’s was another matter, even more horrible to behold. She looked pale and lifeless, gazing at Gigi and Magnus as if she’d never seen them before, as though she couldn’t find it in her heart to care.

  Black, all black, Gigi thought. Head to toe. Even the deep circles under Placidia’s sad, listless eyes were black. Then Gigi noticed Placidia wore a pearl necklace, one she’d never seen before, but it too was shrouded in a scarf of black gauze.

  Deep, dark, achingly tragic loss. Placidia was no longer the sweet, cheerful girl of four years earlier, and seeing sorrow’s devastation rocked Gigi to her core.

  At Magnus’s prompting, he and Gigi bowed low, but the stark misery on her dear friend’s face was too much to bear. Gigi’s throat tightened, strangling on words unspoken. Instead of rising from her bow, she dropped to her knees, pressed the hem of Placidia’s gown to her eyes, and started to sob.

  “I’m so sorry, Placidia,” Gigi wept, regret and shame convulsing her body. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, for your son. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help.”

  Gigi felt Magnus’s comforting hand on her shoulder, but couldn’t stop the outpouring of grief. Then another hand, small and cool, gently touched her cheek.

  Placidia knelt on the floor beside Gigi and the two friends clasped one another, crying, comforting, and eventually … forgiving.

  • • •

  That evening, King Athaulf welcomed Magnus to his private chambers. The men had been long apart, and much had happened in the intervening four years, but Magnus knew Athaulf was needful of his company, for the king greeted him in a bear hug.

  “It is good to see you yet drawing breath, my friend.” Athaulf poured Magnus some beer, then bade him recline on a sofa, Roman-style. “Take your ease before me.”

  Magnus nodded.

  “And thank you,” Athaulf went on as he settled on his own sofa. “I am in your debt for bringing Gigi here. Her presence is a blessing for my wife just now.”

  “I am very sorry for your loss,” Magnus replied.

  Athaulf’s gaze wavered, and silence rose between them. Magnus covered this by sipping his beer. It was good and hearty, tasting of rye, with a thick consistency reminiscent of Egyptian brews.

  He glanced around the room. Having noted the rich, Romanized trappings of the castellum, and knowing Athaulf well, he was amazed the king hadn’t pitched it all out the door for more rustic furnishings.

  “I can read your thoughts, Magnus. And I am still as uncomfortable lying here in this vulgar setting as I would be in kissing Honorius’s perfumed ass.”

  Magnus raised his cup. “A king must rule strong and true, yet once in a while he must also bend to the will of courtly fashion, even to the point of reclining on a sofa to share beer with an old Roman friend.”

  The king smiled, but sadly. “It is good to have you here, good beyond all hope that you and Gigi are alive. You must have many questions.”

  Magnus nodded, knowing exactly where to start. “Tell me — for I wish hear it from you directly — why did you order the death of General Sarus?”

  “It was in retaliation for what I believed he had done to you and Gigi. Placidia agreed to it, also, by the way. An eye for an eye. My wife is a gentle young woman, but she is a queen, nonetheless, and, as such, she can be determined, even ruthless, if it be deemed necessary. When we heard Sarus had hunted you down and burned you alive, then crucified you before Honorius as trophies, there was no dissuading Placidia from any other course of action. She would do anything to protect her own, and you and Gigi were like … are like family to her. To both of us.”

  “As are you and she to us,” Magnus replied, remembering exactly why he and Gigi had risked everything in coming back to the fifth century.

  Chapter 8

  The Royal Palace, Ravenna, Italy

  There was no sound in the great hall; even the chickens had fallen silent.

  Frightened, Honorius sat on his throne and stared at the hag. His courtiers looked just as afraid. Many made signs against the evil eye, and several ladies looked as if they were near to swooning, for the woman was hideous: humpbacked; her skin painted with whirling streaks of blue woad; her hands gnarled, with long, twisting, yellow fingernails.

  She had been found at the city gates, wailing like a demon and demanding an audience with the emperor. Of course, no one would ever have considered granting her such an honor, until it was reported she claimed her name was Dipsas.

  Curious, Rutilius Namatianus, poet and Master of the Royal Offices, had offered to question her, explaining that the great poet, Ovid, had once written about an old witch he had known, one who possessed the same unusual name.

  Afterward, Namatianus had raced to Honorius’s side, beseeching him to grant her request, for her tale was far too compelling to ignore.

  Honorius studied the woman’s eyes, trying to see past the glaze of rheumy-blue. He fell back in shock when he discerned two pupils in her left eye.

  Ovid’s words thundered to mind: Et fama est oculis quoque pupula duplex fulminat … in her eyes shines a double pupil …

  But … it must be a coincidence. Ovid and Dipsas lived hundreds of years ago!

  “O Great One,” she cackled, “I would recite a poem for you.”

  Honorius summoned his courage and nodded his assent.

  “Est quaedam nomine Dipsas anus … there exists an old hag named Dipsas learned in magic. She hath power to turn the swiftest rivers and make them flow backwards toward their sources. Skilled is she in the virtues of herbs. She need but to wish, and lo, the heavens grow dark with heavy clouds; to wish again, and lo, the heavens shine in purest splendor. I have seen, wouldst thou believe, blood drip from the stars. I have seen blood overspread the face of the moon — ”

  Gasps erupted from the crowd. The hag grinned at Honorius, what few teeth she had as ugly and yellow as her nails. “My lord,” she crowed, “Master Ovid’s words speak of truths beyond your ken, a well of knowledge as deep and old as time, and known to but a few.”

  Honorius gripped the arms of his throne and strove for calm. “Explain yourself,” he said, “in plain speech.”

  She looked at the court magicians, astrologers, and mathematicians standing nearby, who seemed to wither beneath her stare. “I am older than any alive, older even than Rome, for I hearken back to ancient days when men wore skins and cut their meat with sharp stones. I am a conjurer of dreams and nightmares. By my spells, a blood moon arose last October. Did they not tell you?” She pointed to the royal advisors. “It portended great change for you and your realm.”

  Honorius recalled the lunar eclipse of the past autumn, when the moon had indeed turned red. His astrologers had assured him it was not an evil omen, but now he remembered it came just a few weeks before the news that Magnus and Gigiperrin had been spotted leaving Ravenna via the southern gate.

  “You are late in the telling of this,” Honorius said. “Why?”

  “I was far away at the time,” Dipsas answered. “Long has been my journey, but I
have reached you at last. There is more, my lord. The blood moon to come, the March moon, shall be my doing as well.” She began to chant, “They are close, yet far, close, yet far.”

  Honorius’s heart pounded. It was obvious she referred to Magnus and Gigiperrin.

  “Behold!”

  Honorius started as the hag raised her arms and again cried out, “Behold, behold! See what has been unleashed on Rome!”

  A contingent of soldiers, led by a tall centurion, strode into the throne room.

  Honorius gaped. Titus Africanus? He swayed and almost fell from his chair.

  Africanus halted before the throne, tapped his chest with his arm, and then thrust it out in the Roman salute.

  Honorius saw the centurion’s gaze stray to Dipsas, but the man quickly regained his focus and bowed his head, in deference to his emperor.

  “Africanus, what brings you here?” Honorius asked.

  “A thousand pardons, Serenissimus — ”

  “Come!” Dipsas interrupted, beckoning the other soldiers forward. “All of you, come! Show the emperor what you have found!”

  Honorius felt his blood roil. Audacious bitch! They are not hers to command! She would die for this outrage, her powers be damned.

  He stood and addressed Africanus, “What has happened? We had explicit instructions for you to pursue our enemies.”

  “Your Majesty,” he replied, still keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. “General Constantius gave me direct orders to return here with the discoveries.”

  A hot rush of excitement surged through Honorius’s veins. For the first time, he noticed the soldiers held bundles, wrapped in heavy cloth. “What have you found, Africanus?”

  The centurion looked up. “Objects that belonged to Quintus Magnus and his wife, Gigiperrin.”

  “Belonged?” Honorius felt crushing disappointment, for he had wanted to kill them himself. “Are you telling us they are already dead?”

  “No, my lord. They are alive. When last I heard, they were still on the run. I have brought their things, that which was found on one of their horses. The beast went astray and we found it.”

  Honorius stared at the centurion, considering. Why would Constantius bother him by sending Africanus back here with their things? There had to be some new threat …

  “You must rid yourself of them once and for all, Great One,” Dipsas interjected. “You will need my help to do this.”

  Honorius turned. The hag stood taller, her back straighter than before. At that moment, he swore he saw double flashes of light in her left eye, little gleams of triumph.

  He sat on his throne chair. She was interesting, and he guessed her power was great. She might be a boon to his plans.

  He would let her live.

  • • •

  Africanus knelt before his emperor. Weary from his long journey, yet excited to display his discoveries, he ignored the audacious old woman and began, “Venerabilis!” He hesitated, then carefully modulated his voice, “O most noble and praiseworthy Emperor Honorius, I humbly request that you empty this hall of all but your most trusted advisors, keeping only those with expertise in the scientific and magical arts.”

  Honorius rubbed his chin, and then dismissed the entire assemblage, with the exception of four older men and the strange woman.

  “You may rise,” Honorius said, once the room was cleared.

  Africanus got to his feet and commanded his soldiers to place the wrapped objects on the floor directly before the throne. “As you have heard,” he said, “Quintus Magnus left Ravenna some two months past, dressed as a legatus.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the object closest to him. “Of course, we know that by your order he lost the rank and great honor of being a legatus of Rome after his defeat and capture by Alaric.” He pulled off the cover, revealing a bronzed leather breastplate, along with a warrior’s skirt. “But Magnus did not wear one of his old uniforms, nor did he acquire it by stealth or deception. In fact, the origin of this uniform is a mystery.”

  Honorius rose from his throne and came over, his gaze narrowing as he touched the breastplate with his foot. “It does not look mysterious to us,” he sniffed.

  “There are mysteries as to the methods used in its manufacture, Venerabilis. There is also a strange inscription inside.”

  “Show us that.”

  Africanus pointed to one of his soldiers, who took the breastplate and opened it, revealing the interior. Honorius motioned to one of his advisors. The man wore a blue silk robe covered with elaborate embroidery, stars and crescent moons. The two bent their heads to examine the swatch of cloth affixed to the breastplate’s inner surface.

  Africanus waited a moment longer, then said, “As you can see, the writing is strange, but the words can be deciphered, although their meaning is unfathomable, for the tongue is a foreign butchery of Latin and unknown to any who have studied it thus far. It says, ‘Nero. Scion Productions. Legatus. No. 1 Exterior Palace’, followed by the letter D and a series of numbers.”

  Honorius turned to his magician. “What has Nero to do with Magnus? Do you understand any of this?”

  The man nervously wiped his hands on his robe, before making a show of examining the breastplate again. “It might be an old uniform, from Nero’s era. Perhaps it came to Magnus from an ancestor.”

  “Ridiculous. This is not three hundred years old!” Honorius glanced at Dipsas. “Come here, woman. Prove your worth. Let us see if you can discern what others cannot.”

  She hobbled forward and examined the breastplate, then the leather skirt. She closed her eyes and brought the skirt to her nose, breathing in and out, until, at long last, she said, “O Great One, I believe this came from a faraway land, where men dress as soldiers, but they are not soldiers.”

  With a deep frown, Honorius shook his head. “We told you we don’t want riddles. We want answers.” Turning, he addressed Africanus again. “What else was found?”

  Africanus sensed doom in the emperor’s mood. Go straight to the last and best, he told himself. He walked over to the fifth object. “The other items are interesting, but this one is remarkable.” He uncovered it and carefully held it up for Honorius’s inspection. To others, it would appear to be a simple black box, but he knew the power it possessed.

  Honorius leaned in. “It is does not look remarkable, but … from what substance is it made?”

  “It is unknown, my lord, something wonderfully smooth and somewhat akin to tortoise shell, but not — ”

  “What does it do?” Honorius asked and grabbed it.

  With a cry, Africanus tried to stop him, but the weapon came to life, unleashing a small bolt of lightning straight into the emperor’s hand.

  Screaming, Honorius dropped to the floor like a stone.

  Horrified, Africanus stood stock-still, and then slowly removed his sword from its sheath, ready to fall upon it should his emperor die.

  • • •

  Honorius could not breathe, could not think or feel anything but intense pain. He lay on the floor, his muscles drained, lax and immobile; his thoughts the opposite, a riotous scramble. He had no idea who he was, no idea how to stop the agonizing jolts surging through his body.

  Pain, endless pain, eternal pain — !

  Suddenly, a thought crystallized, one he seized upon and repeated in his mind, a desperate chant, until he could breathe again, until the agony diminished and he remembered his name.

  Live and seek vengeance.

  He rolled onto his side, getting his bearings, and then realized he had pissed himself. Fury replaced his pain and his mind came into sharp focus.

  Live and seek vengeance. Live and seek vengeance. Live and seek vengeance.

  • • •

  Honorius surveyed the great hall, filled to bursting with his entire court. The
gathering was by royal command, but he knew everyone had come willingly, to witness the punishment of those who had harmed their emperor.

  Bound and gagged, Africanus and his men knelt before the throne. Rumors were flying, hideous gossip about the method of execution. Crucifixion. Burning at the stake. Flaying them alive.

  Shifting, restless, Honorius still felt pain and weakness in his hand, which had suffered a burn from the weapon. His physicians had warned him not to remove the honey-soaked bandage, but he had ignored them, taking a peek that morning. He was relieved to find his skin healing well and swiftly.

  The bandage had been replaced; no harm done. He stole another glance at Africanus and smiled. The chant stole into his thoughts once more, as it had many times since he’d been wounded: Live and seek vengeance.

  “Ah, what to do?” With his good hand, Honorius stroked his favorite chicken, his dearest Rome. “Would you have me kill these soldiers now, my precious one? Or shall we spare you the fuss and bother, and set them free?”

  He saw several of the men’s eyes widen at his remark. Ah, how he relished their surprise, mingled as it was with a desperate hope, the desire to live. It was almost poetic, a beautiful moment! Africanus, however, held himself still and straight of spine, as would any worthy warrior. Clearly, he was resolved to his fate, a noble man. Honorius had learned Africanus was ready to fall on his sword for the pain he’d wrought, a willing sacrifice to his emperor.

  Honorius felt a sudden misty-eyed longing to hug him, but instead, he gently handed off Rome to a slave.

  “We have considered this at length, with much thought as to the true intentions of these men,” Honorius proclaimed. “We are exceedingly grateful for the gifts brought to us by Titus Africanus and his legionnaires, and we hereby grant full pardons to them all.”

  Gasps erupted from the crowd, followed by utter silence. Confident, Honorius waited but a heartbeat before he heard a smattering of applause, which grew louder with each passing moment. He watched with interest as several of the soldiers grew tearful. Ah, look at Africanus! He smiles! he thought, overjoyed.