I hope this gift will help you remember your special friendship with Grand-père. Perhaps it will give you comfort when you feel lonely, so far from your family.
Mom and I send our love.
Gros bisous, Papa.
Her eyes misted. Big kisses back at you, Dad.
She had no doubt now as to the contents of the box. Fingers trembling, she opened it, and tears spilled down her cheeks. It was Grand-père Perrin’s old Roman ring. She had never seen it off his big hand.
A note was tucked in with it, the handwriting spidery and frail, so unlike her grandfather’s normally bold script. She wiped her eyes to read:
“Mon Chou,
It strikes me hard I will never see you again …”
The whole world stopped, and Gigi realized he’d known he was dying. But she had been told it was sudden, unexpected — not that he knew.
Grand-père, why didn’t you tell me? she thought in agony. I would have come.
Her mind veered to the last time she’d seen him, two months before he died and just before she’d been caught up in her first tour. He’d been quieter than usual, but seemed just fine, sitting by his fire, rifling through his heap of books, telling her he’d discovered something new about their genealogy. But she’d only half-listened to him. At the time, her plans for shopping and nightclubbing seemed much more important.
What pain had her indifference caused him? If only she’d realized what was happening to him, if only she’d stayed with him that evening, held his hand and listened.
She took a deep breath and read on:
Know that I love you for who you are, but I sense you strive for independence and a greater purpose in life. I will not be here to guide you as you seek your destiny, so I leave you this ring and a favorite quote — “The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived, and lived well.” Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Dearest Geneviève, may you live well. I know you shall. Always help those in need, my darling girl. Your heart is so full of love.
Your grand-mère and I will watch over you from Heaven.
Ton grand-père.
He was the only one in the family who called her by her given name, and she realized she would never again hear him softly sing something old and dear, his special song for her, “O Geneviève, sweet Geneviève.”
Dear Grand-père, what I wouldn’t give to hear you sing that one more time.
She ran her finger over the carved red stone. Winged Victory. To her grandfather’s amusement, she used to call it the “dancing girl” ring. It was so gorgeous, the message so special. He’d always been there for her, had never once judged or condemned, and even now he touched her life. But how would she live up to such high expectations? What could she do?
“Merci, mon pote,” she whispered. “I think of you every day.”
She slipped the ring over her middle finger. The garnet shimmered with ancient beauty, the carving delicate and superbly detailed, but the ring was still much too big to wear. Gigi laughed through her tears, recalling how she’d reassured her grandfather from the time she was very young that she would grow into it one day.
She grabbed her purse and searched through it until she found her jewelry bag. Taking out a gold necklace, she strung it though the ring and placed it around her neck. Perhaps she’d get the ring sized one day, but for now this seemed right.
“I want this close to my heart,” she said to herself.
Her eyes welled once more, and she touched the ring, seeking solace in heartfelt memory. “Thank you, Grand-père,” she whispered. “I’ll always love you.”
• • •
Sunglasses firmly in place, Gigi adjusted her chiffon wrap to cover her hair as she walked off the elevator and into the quiet hotel lobby. She felt better now, her regrets soothed by her recollection of the many phone calls she’d exchanged with her grandfather in the weeks before his death, wonderful conversations filled with loving thoughts and happy memories.
Dressed in one of her slightly over-the-top concert gowns of flowing aqua-blue silk — perfect with her green eyes — Gigi had her flute case in hand, waiting for Jack. Pleased for having thought to ask the concierge about a birthday greeting, she repeated the words newly learned, “Buon compleanno.”
She’d also asked about the mausoleum, because she planned to go there first thing in the morning. He had told her Galla Placidia was a Roman princess, and the mosaics in her ceiling were world famous, depicting all the stars in heaven. He also said the ceiling had inspired Cole Porter to write his most famous song, “Night and Day.”
That was it, Grand-père’s favorite. Smiling, Gigi recalled hearing him whistle the tune; she just hadn’t realized the significance.
Jack arrived and they left for the baptistery. Minutes later, Gigi stepped out of the Mercedes. Before her stood an octagon-shaped brick building, surrounded by a colorful garden. She glanced at Jack, but he was discussing something with the driver, so she headed off on her own. She could see the remains of the baptistery’s ancient door sunken partway into the ground. The structure had to be really old, if the original level was that far down.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet, the sound of traffic from the nearby Piazza Kennedy fading with each step. Sweet, flowery air wafted over her. Outside the entry, a lone palm stood sentinel, surrounded by riotous sprays of orange and white gladiolas. Beside the door, a plaque read “Battistero Neoniano.”
She stepped inside. Sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating a pulpit and several dozen modern gilded chairs. Recessed chapels lined the perimeter, the walls painted with frescoes. She looked up, slowly turning. Glittering above, richly colored mosaics rose to the top of the dome. There, images of Peter, Paul, and the other Apostles seemingly whirled toward a central golden medallion, where Jesus was depicted being baptized in the Jordan.
Taking off her sunglasses, she picked up an English language brochure and read:
“The Battistero Neoniano is the most ancient of Ravenna’s monuments. Constructed by order of Emperor Honorius early in his reign, the original building was completed in A.D. 402. However, the mosaics and frescoes were not added to the baptistery’s Nymphaeum until after A.D. 452, the work commissioned by Bishop Neon.”
The building was late Roman and perfectly preserved. She stepped to the railing surrounding the empty baptismal font and was surprised by the drop, maybe ten feet down. The font was big, too, a Texas-sized hot tub. The Romans must have been into full-body immersion.
“Wow,” she said, listening to the echo. “Hey!” She grinned, her own voice coming back at her, crisp and clear. Jack was right. The acoustics were perfect.
Gigi noticed someone had placed a wrought-iron candelabrum on the pulpit, and she guessed that was to be her stage. She flicked open the case latches and put her golden flute together. She couldn’t wait to play.
But what? She was suddenly unsure of her repertoire. Most of her pop-rock stuff seemed inappropriate for such an ancient setting. It was a given she’d play “Night and Day” and something classical like “O Mio Babbino Caro,” but which song to start? Then she thought of the perfect choice: Charlotte Church’s “Just Wave Hello.” She knew it by heart, and the flute overture was one of the most beautiful in modern music.
Gigi held the flute to her lips, her eyes closing as the first evocative notes surrounded her, echoing back and dancing around the walls like magic. She was transported to another realm, and for the few minutes the song lasted, she felt blissful.
Then, as the final notes faded, she smiled, replaced her flute, and decided to head back outside to find Jack. She opened the door to a glorious pink sunset and was surprised by at least two dozen people in formal dress, who broke into applause.
“Oh, thank you
,” Gigi said. “Grazie, grazie.” The birthday party for the mayor’s wife had certainly turned into an event.
Jack approached and spoke in her ear, “Damn, I should have expected this. I ought to have a camera and recording crew here.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t always think of everything?” she teased.
He gave her a crooked smile. “Here’s the mayor now.”
Gigi turned to see a short, balding man with a friendly smile. A petite woman stood beside him, her white hair soft and framing lovely, coal-dark eyes.
When the mayor moved to greet them, Jack turned on his official game face, glad-handing and schmoozing his way into the crowd. “Buongiorno. How are you?”
Gigi followed in his wake, shaking a few hands, and for several minutes everyone chatted. Understanding very little Italian, she kept to the basics — ciao and grazie — while she signed autographs.
Finally, it was time for her to play and the mayor, his wife, and their guests went inside. Gigi took up position at the pulpit. “I am honored to be here with you for this special occasion.”
Several people nodded, but most studied her with quizzical expressions. Their English was, apparently, no better than her Italian.
“Okay. Well.” She smiled at the mayor’s wife and repeated the words she’d been practicing, “Buon compleanno, Signora.”
Looking pleased, the lady thanked her and the mayor beamed.
Gigi set up her flute once more, then touched her grandfather’s ring through the bodice of her gown. It was perfect, wearing this old Roman ring, in this old Roman setting. She placed her lips against the cool metal of her instrument, enjoying the way her yellow diamond glittered in the candlelight. Her two rings. The past and the present, together. Perfect.
She blew softly. Musical notes lifted, filling the baptistery, and time passed without notice. Any thoughts about the location or audience were forgotten as she transitioned from one piece to the next. Feeling her way through each song, Gigi let the moment speak to her, telling her what to play.
When the last, passionate notes of “Time to Say Goodbye” echoed back to her, she felt a shiver of pleasure course down her spine. A man called out, “Magnifico!” and she looked up, surprised to see that sunset had faded into night. Except for the candlelit pulpit, the baptistery was dark, the frescoes obscured by shadow.
Gigi curtseyed to enthusiastic applause. Someone turned on the lights, and, taking this as their cue, the audience stood. Conversation filled the air. Waiters appeared with trays laden with flutes of champagne.
Gigi took a glass and everyone grew quiet. Was she supposed to make a toast? Drawing a blank at the appropriate Italian, she decided French was okay. “À votre santé,” she said, raising her glass.
“Sì, sì,” the mayor jumped in. “Salute!”
A little crush of guests formed around Gigi. Some heaped praise on her in charmingly broken English, but most spoke in breakneck Italian. The bubbles danced on her tongue as she sipped and nodded. Smiling broadly, the mayor and his wife approached, thanking her once more, then headed for the door.
Jack winked at her. “Great show, kiddo. I’ll be waiting outside.” He steered the last guests toward the exit.
“Thanks.” Gigi sighed, finally catching her breath. Jack knew she liked to be alone for a few moments after a performance.
She turned to put her flute away, recalling the piece she had intended to play as an encore: Chopin’s “Minute Waltz.”
“It would have been so perfect,” she said. “Ah, do it anyway.”
Grinning, she took up her instrument as the groundskeeper appeared at the door. “Just a sec,” she said, holding up her flute. Shutting her eyes, she placed it to her lips and blew, imagining the notes tumbling out, like musical popcorn. Time flew, the ending sparkled. There. Done. Perfect!
Gigi laughed and bowed to the air, then heard a distant cacophony, a really badly done version of the “Minute Waltz.” Another flutist? But where? The baptistery was empty. Probably someone outside, a bystander. Funny. She raised her flute and played along, appreciating the musician’s struggle, wanting to help. Finally, she heard pure tone, matching hers note for note. Yes, that’s it —
A whoosh of air, a faraway cry. Gigi’s eyes flew open to inexplicable images, wavy, ghostly shapes: men in togas, women in Grecian-style gowns. The scene flickered in and out, like a broken TV set, and a weird roar filled her ears, like a freight train inside her head. The room suddenly spun, the floor opened wide, and she grasped for the pulpit — but fell headlong into a whirlwind of stars.
Chapter 2
Spring, A.D. 408, Ravenna
Senator Magnus glanced down the steps to the entry, fighting the urge to make some excuse and leave the baptistery. He stared at the hairy toes of Rutilius Namatianus, the heathen Gaul who served as Master Poet for the royal court. Golden sandals did nothing to hide the man’s coarseness. It was said all roads led to Rome, but that had changed. Ravenna was now the political center, the place where the Roman Emperor of the West, Flavius Honorius Augustus, preened and schemed with his sycophants and lowborn advisors.
And dithered with his damnable birds!
Magnus sniffed in derision and Honorius turned, his brown eyes blazing from the pulpit.
Take care, Magnus chided himself. The Gaul beside him turned, too, but Magnus kept his gaze fixed on Honorius, forcing a neutral expression. A ghost of a smile played across the emperor’s lips as he glanced at Magnus, his gaze contemptuous. Those hated eyes reminded Magnus of his ignoble ransoming from King Alaric.
Honorius was forever seeking ways to put Magnus in his place. For years, he had publicly questioned whether the temporary paralysis Magnus suffered in battle was a ruse to avoid combat and an honorable death. But his attempt at branding Magnus a coward had fallen on deaf ears. Even so, new lies were being spread at court, rumors of a sexual liaison between Magnus and Alaric’s stepmother, the Witch of Rocesthes. Honorius had seized upon them, calling Magnus “the witch’s phallus” — but never to his face. The emperor’s slur was vulgar and juvenile, but designed to intimidate, nonetheless.
Magnus was not intimidated, though, merely filled with loathing. Victoria, his mind called out, I still serve you faithfully, although you have turned your eyes from me. Emperor Theodosius was blind to his son’s base and cruel nature, else he would not have asked me to protect the lout. Hear me now! Release me from this insufferable bondage to such an unworthy emperor.
A moment passed, then another, yet he felt nothing, no tingling of anticipation alerting him to Victoria’s presence.
Meanwhile, Honorius had stepped away from the pulpit, expectantly watching the door.
Magnus frowned. Even now, Ravenna buzzed with gossip about the emperor’s most recent affront to decency — his shockingly cavalier behavior following two recent deaths in the royal family: his young wife, Empress Maria, and his brother, Emperor Arcadius, who had ruled the Eastern Roman Empire from Constantinople. It was too soon for Honorius to give self-indulgent baptismal ceremonies, let alone the drunken palace orgies known to have taken place since the funerals.
All men bore shame, but Honorius reveled in his. He had mocked Magnus for not falling on his sword after the ransoming, as was expected of any defeated commander. The depraved spawn of Hades had demanded it of Magnus, hounded him for months, but Magnus could not, would not commit suicide for him. He would rather sacrifice his honor than sacrifice himself for such a man.
But now, Honorius used him in his dealings with the Visigoths and Magnus played the part, ever mindful of his oath to Theodosius. His life was a sham of falsity and insincere devotion, flattering Honorius with the same eagerness as the worst of the sycophants.
Asinus asinum fricat … the ass rubs the ass.
Magnus suddenly realized everyone had grown deadly quiet. He glanced at s
everal of the emperor’s palatini guards, but the huge, hairy Germani brutes were watching Honorius, not him. To his dismay, the emperor walked toward the knot of people standing by Magnus and then crooked his finger.
Honorius clapped Namatianus on the shoulder. “Come, my pagan friend, and you, too, Magnus, come. You shall both help. Perhaps you will see the light and convert.”
O, ye gods!
Magnus looked beyond the men and women awaiting baptism and saw the angry scowls of the bishop and priests, who stood ready in the marble font. He reminded himself the ceremony had already degenerated into blasphemy for them, not only because Honorius wanted two pagans to participate without first converting, but also because the emperor wished his favorite chickens to be given baptismal rites. Upon learning the plans, the bishop’s face had flushed as purple as Honorius’s robes, while all others cast down their eyes, for none save a fool would question the emperor’s desires.
The door to the baptistery suddenly opened wide, and four screeching hens were brought inside, wings beating the air, feathers flying.
The emperor threw out his arms. “Fulvia, Rome, Octavia, Livia! Our dear girls, how we have missed you!”
• • •
It was stifling inside the baptistery. Thank the gods the wine was cool and delicious, a ruby-red caecubum. Magnus let it linger on his tongue as he eyed the absurd chickens, strutting about with golden baptismal bows tied around their necks. The emperor’s ceremony had lasted a grueling hour, and now an air of relief and celebration descended on the crowd.
He spotted the magister utriusque militiae, Flavius Stilicho, and carefully stepped over a hen, wanting to speak with him. The general was the Western Empire’s supreme military commander, the second most powerful man, after Honorius. But now, it seemed, Stilicho was failing physically, and Magnus noticed how much older he seemed since his daughter’s funeral, his beard shot through with gray, his face lined with grief for Maria.
Love, Eternally Page 2