Love, Eternally

by Morgan O'Neill

  Magnus intended to express his condolences for the late empress, but a raven-haired beauty moved in and whispered something to Stilicho. Serena seemed not to share her husband’s pain over their daughter’s passing. Spoiled and haughty, she never let anyone forget she was a cousin to the emperor and of imperial lineage in her own right. She and Honorius were ruled by twin hearts: cold, calculating, and evil.

  Magnus turned away, keen to avoid Serena, vowing to express his condolences to Stilicho at another time. He concentrated instead on a flutist standing nearby, playing from the pulpit. The man was small, mean looking, yet he possessed elegant hands. His fingers were long and slender, moving deftly on the silver flute he held, as if the gods had breathed into them a divine fire.

  Magnus took another sip of his wine, then heard, “Greetings, O most excellent Magnus.”

  It was the sweet voice of the emperor’s sister, the princess Galla Placidia. Ah, here was someone to drive away the foul stench wrought by Honorius and Serena.

  “Greetings, O most gracious Placidia,” he said, as he faced her and bowed. She was dressed in emerald-green silk embroidered with golden thread, a hint of powdered malachite on her eyelids — quite the young lady.

  Smiling, Magnus studied her eyes, inky-dark, yet sparkling with life. Her old nurse, Elpidia, nodded to him, then moved off, giving them privacy.

  “Would that I could play like Horace,” Placidia said, glancing at the flute player.

  “Indeed, he is wonderful.”

  “And so pampered for his talents. My brother dotes on him. Tell me, Magnus, when last we met, you said perhaps you might start searching for … er, have you found a wife?”

  He laughed as a blue-black curl escaped from beneath her golden headdress. This girl was so fine and true, utterly different from her loathsome brother.

  “I have been waiting for you to grow up.” When she pouted, he teased, “The girl is nearly a woman, eh?”

  She grinned. “Nearly. Your dark looks favor your Greek ancestors, my dear Magnus, and your blue eyes, well, you see, they are quite wonderful, but I must admit I have dreamt of someone …”

  “Younger? Tell me you wouldn’t be so cruel.” He pulled a long face. “Alas, I see it in your eyes. Ah, well, I knew I was out of the running, for it is well known you will have none save a Catholic Christian to wed.”

  “True,” she grinned, playing along, “for not only are you a stubborn pagan, but you are also too tall for me — and twice my age.”

  Aha! Honest to a fault. Smiling, Magnus was again reminded of why he was so fond of this girl. “You are indeed grown up, for you are merciless in your candor.”

  Placidia giggled, the lone curl dancing prettily. “And, as to my question?”

  “Which one?”

  “Have you found a lady to wed?”

  He was about to answer when the music stopped and the flutist gaped, staring into space.

  Placidia’s eyes grew wide and she looked up at the dome. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” As Magnus glanced around, a flurry of notes echoed from a great distance, the tune fast, lively, and unlike anything he had ever heard.

  “A marvelous melody,” Emperor Honorius called out from across the room. “Horace,” he commanded with a wave of his hand, “go and see who steals your glory.”

  Magnus watched as a pair of guards set off to join Horace, but Honorius called them back to stand at his side. Horace headed alone for the stairs.

  Magnus squinted. Was it his imagination, or had the air begun to sparkle where the musician once stood? Rubbing his eyes, he cursed the effects of too much wine. This odd air reminded him of trips to his family’s salt mines, where the briny haze twinkled in torchlight, and he could smell it, taste it for days afterward, like tears upon his tongue.

  By now, the extraordinary melody had faded, and Horace returned to the pulpit, but something was still decidedly odd. Magnus studied the flutist’s glimmering robes, the sparkles whirling around his brow. Was this a dream? Was no one else seeing this?

  Horace placed his silver flute to his lips, listening as the phantom melody rose again. He tried a few notes, his attempt rough and too slow. Frowning, he took a deep breath and blew true. For a long moment, the music meshed.

  Troubled, Magnus looked at Placidia, but she was conversing with several young women. The crowd once again grew lively, unaware of the strangeness he perceived.

  When Horace let out a yelp, Magnus spun back around. The flutist was nowhere to be seen.

  Magnus warily cast his glance about the room, looking for the absent musician, but the sound of a gasp brought his attention back to the pulpit. The air sparkled as before, but now a woman appeared, ethereal, glittering like the stars.

  Magnus’s chest tightened.

  She turned and stared at him, clutching a golden flute.

  The air cleared and he let out his breath as she came into focus. Her wide green eyes blazed with an emerald fire, the whites so clear they held a tinge of palest blue. Her body was slim, her bearing regal, and he was instantly aware of her slightest movements: the trembling of her fingers, the sudden flicker of doubt in her beautiful gaze.

  Her vulnerability unleashed a thunderbolt that surged straight to his heart.

  Magnus took a step forward and her perfume floated to him soft as a cloud, enveloping him, the fragrance hinting of figs and something unfamiliar and warmly sweet. He breathed deeply. Who was this glorious creature, this — this divine … ?

  Overcome, he felt compelled to drop to his knees, to worship her as a goddess, but his warrior’s instinct shouted No! He must not reveal his suspicions of her identity to anyone in this most Catholic court.

  Magnus glanced at Honorius and saw the emperor lift his head. His face held a different expression than before, not lewd or wretchedly amused, but dark and dangerous, like a wolf sensing prey.

  • • •

  Somehow, Gigi managed to stay on her feet. What was in that drink?

  For the briefest moment, she stared into the eyes of a tall, handsome man, surprised she hadn’t noticed him earlier, but then people around him started speaking all at once, pointing to her, jabbering. She willed herself to calm down and tried to make sense of everything. The baptistery was full of strangers she hadn’t seen before, all dressed in costumes, and there were chickens walking around. Was this a joke? The birds were hilarious. Was someone pulling a publicity stunt?

  And where was Jack? She started to look for him, but found herself staring into the eyes of a woman with lemon-yellow hair, an unbelievably bad dye job. In fact, all their hair and makeup looked garish, like actors in a comedy show trying to do a spoof on ancient Rome.

  Oh, wow. It dawned on her what was happening — she was being Punk’d. She grinned at the realization, but there was no way she’d let a prank TV show get the best of her, just so their fans could have a good laugh.

  Gigi tried to recall the few Italian words she knew, but nothing came to mind. “Look, I’m being Punk’d, aren’t I?” she said in English. “Good job, everyone, but you can all stop with the acting now. Come out where I can see you, Jack. I’m sure you think this is great publicity and really hysterical, but I’m not falling for it. The joke’s on you.”

  At that instant, someone yelled and Gigi turned to see a young, black-haired man in a purple toga pointing at her. Two men dressed as Roman soldiers set off toward her, and people scattered. The toga guy shouted an order she couldn’t understand, and the soldiers got right in her face, scowling.

  Startled, she gripped her flute, holding it up defensively. “Back off,” she demanded, instantly angry with herself for giving the fans of the show what they wanted. Then, when the men grabbed her arms, hurting her, she came unglued. “Let go of me!”

  They lifted her off her feet, and she kicked at their l
egs, but couldn’t get any power behind her thrusts. She screamed and tried to twist free, but they held her fast, their fingers vice-like and painful.

  “Jack, stop this!” Still thrashing, she was hauled before Toga Guy and forced to her knees. They shoved her head down, and she found herself staring at his sandaled feet.

  “What the … ?” Gigi fumed. “The mayor invited me to be here, and you look ridiculous in that Roman getup, by the way. I was asked to perform. Jack, I want to talk to you now! Jack!”

  Toga Guy stabbed the air and shouted, “Sileo!”

  She sensed the back of his hand just before it hit her temple, and she was knocked to the floor. Cold marble bit into her cheek, and she tasted blood on her lip. For a few moments, four sandaled feet spun in front of her, and she blinked hard to refocus.

  When the whirling stopped, and the four feet became two, she angrily met his gaze. He reached out to touch her flute and she recoiled, holding it tight against her body, surprised she still held it at all.

  “O qui vocaris?” he asked.

  “You hit me?” she said through clenched teeth, though loud enough for the microphones to catch. The audience needed to know what was happening, because she was going to sue every person involved. This was unforgivable, even for reality TV.

  But Gigi felt a growing panic. Jack wouldn’t let people hurt her. Who were these freaks?

  Tilting his head, the creep tapped his foot, his eyes brightening. He made some coaxing sounds and gestured toward her flute, then her mouth.

  He actually expected her to play? Furious and scared, Gigi glared and hugged her flute even tighter.

  He leapt up, shouting at the soldiers.

  Once again, the vice grips seized her arms, this time yanking her to her feet.

  “Stop!” she cried out, struggling. “Let me go!”

  Before Gigi could protest further, someone snatched her flute and gave it to Toga Guy, who stared at her diamond ring. Smiling, he twisted it off her finger and walked away.

  “You ass,” Gigi strained against her captors and shrieked, “give them back!”

  Pain burst through her head as a soldier backhanded her. Dazed, Gigi fought to focus her eyes. Toga Guy waved his hand at her, the ring already adorning his pinkie. The roaring in her ears prevented her from hearing as he spoke to another man beside him. The man turned, and a flurry of words shot back to the soldiers holding her.

  She was certain, now, as they started to force her toward the door, something was very, very wrong. She abruptly remembered the handsome man and wrenched around, seeking him in the crowd.

  “Help me,” she cried out. “Please, help — ”

  A fist connected with her jaw, and her limbs turned to mush. Waves of agony washed through her. Unable to fight, she was helpless to stop the soldiers as they dragged her outside.

  Blinded by sunlight and pain, she could barely make out her surroundings. Her captors hauled her through a maze of streets, until they reached a building with a huge door, then unlocked its heavy chain and took her inside.

  A single torch blazed in a wall socket, illuminating an underground passage with a yellow, uneven light. Odors assaulted her senses: sweat, decay, and filth. Trying not to gag, Gigi saw barred openings on both sides of the passage. What is this, a prison? She could hear pained voices coming from the cells.

  The men shoved her into a void and she stumbled, hitting the far wall, scraping her shoulder. The door slammed, and she slid to the ground.

  The sound of their footsteps faded, and voices rose up to fill the dark. Shouts, jeers.

  Gigi got up and felt her way back to the door. “Does anyone speak English?” She waited, but there was no response. “Parlez-vous Français?” Nothing. She tried one last time, although if this worked, she wasn’t sure what she would do with it. “Italiano?”

  “Salve soror carissima. Nos narro Latin,” an aged voice replied, to insane laughter.

  Gigi’s mind reeled. Latin? She gripped the bars, willing herself to remain standing. Oh, God, they’ve put me in an asylum. This is so not funny!

  Her head pounded. Nausea swept over her, and she lost her balance, her knees buckling as darkness spun past her eyes, and she fell to the floor.

  • • •

  The sound of metal on metal, of old-fashioned keys rattling in iron locks, woke Gigi from her fitful sleep. Light filled the cell, blinding her, and she backed away on all fours, fearful of what new horror came with the light.

  Gigi drew her dress close about her neck, hoping to keep them from spotting her necklace and Roman ring. In the distance, voices wailed and moaned.

  “Salve.”

  She didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but it sounded nice: deep, vibrant, yet gentle. Guarding her eyes, she struggled to her feet as several men entered her cell. One, a soldier, held a torch and stood guard without expression. A second man with bulbous eyes stared at her suspiciously. The third was a somber man with thin, graying hair. The fourth, the handsome man from the baptistery, walked in last. Except for the soldier, all wore light-colored togas, but the handsome guy’s was brilliant white with a purple stripe.

  He had dark brown hair and deeply tanned skin, which set off the blue of his eyes. Despite his spotless toga and perfect grooming, his stance was wholly masculine, broad-shouldered with long legs. His muscles were well defined; an old scar on his right bicep looked like it had been caused by something more than a stray injury. Battle-hardened. Never before had Gigi thought to use that term to define someone.

  “Salve,” he repeated, then continued to talk, but Gigi couldn’t understand anything. She realized that he, too, spoke what she now assumed was Latin. “ … nomen tuum …”

  Nomen? There was no mistaking the root for the modern words: nom, name.

  He tried again, “Quiquis es — ”

  “Wait.” She tapped her chest. “Nomen … Gigi … Perrin.”

  “Ah!” Nodding, he said, “Gigiperrin, Gigiperrin,” running it all together in a funny way. Then he asked, “Qua est volito tibicen Horace?”

  “Huh?”

  He mimed playing a clarinet.

  Thinking she understood, she pointed at her chest and nodded, then lifted her hands to mime playing a flute. “Yes, I’m a flute player.”

  He shook his head and repeated his earlier question — yada, yada, yada — but that was all she got out of it. As frustration mounted on both sides, the bug-eyed man scowled with impatience. Her handsome interrogator frowned, too, but Gigi could tell he was concerned, not irritated. Bug-eye growled something to the others, then stalked out the door, the somber man and soldier following close on his heels.

  It was just the two of them now. The cell was darker, illuminated only by the ambient light of the torch-lit corridor. With the man’s face hidden by shadows, Gigi felt unnerved, because she couldn’t read him. Time was of the essence. She needed to make a deeper connection before he left, even if it was as simple as learning his name.

  He took a step forward, moving into a shaft of light. She searched his face, struck by the intensity of his gaze, his eyes sparkling bright blue. Someone in the corridor called out, and he gave her a smile shaded with disappointment, then bowed and turned to go.

  “Please,” she said in English.

  He faced her again and she could tell by his expression he was moved by her plea, despite the lack of understanding between them.

  Gigi swallowed. Could she trust him? Would he help her? She needed to find Jack. She had to try.

  “Aidez-moi — trouvez mon agent, Jack Benton,” she said in French. “S’il vous plaît?” When he didn’t react, she forged on, “Votre nom, er, nomen? Your name?”

  His gaze held hers, sincere, profoundly thoughtful, and at that moment, she knew without doubt he was a man of honor.

  “Meus
agnomen est … Magnus.”

  She watched him leave and then leaned against the door, wondering at the power embodied by such a name, and the man who bore it.

  Magnus.

  Chapter 3

  Hours passed while Gigi paced her cell. Two yards wide by three long. Filth, stench. Stone floor, stone walls, straw mat and a thin blanket, everything crawling with insects. Finally exhausted, she sat in a corner away from the bed, sleep overtaking her.

  Waking in the dark, Gigi had to go, but where? She knew, of course, but hesitated before gathering up her dress and crouching over a bucket near the door. Then, retreating again to the far corner, she wondered what had brought her to this.

  Despite her creativity and her quest for the ethereal in her music, her lawyer parents had raised her to weigh all the evidence and think logically. So, Gigi ticked off a mental list of the evidence. She’d played the “Minute Waltz” duet with the unknown flutist, then her vision blurred and her ears felt blocked and roared with noise, all at the same time. Next, she’d felt like she was falling, and then there was the handsome man — Magnus — staring at her. The baptistery was filled with “Romans,” all the birthday guests were gone. The frescoes and mosaics were missing, the walls and ceiling bare. Then, she’d been beaten and hauled to this disgusting jail. To top it off, everyone spoke Latin, and neither Jack nor the mayor was anywhere in sight.

  What conclusion? Her mind hovered on the idea of sudden insanity, but veered back to the only arguable solution: She was being Punk’d. It was a new TV season, and they were getting bolder, more elaborate in their stunts. That’s why it all seemed so peculiar, so much more violent. What else could explain it? It had to be a miserable hoax, and she was even more determined to sue every last one of them.

  But … wasn’t the sun shining when they forced me into this hellhole? She rubbed the nasty bump on her forehead, her face still sore where the soldiers had landed their punches. Nothing made sense. Nothing. When she was playing for the mayor’s wife, it was evening. Then — wham — it was daytime? And what about the door of the baptistery? She may have been out of her skull with pain and terror, but she knew something was different because they dragged her down some stairs and then outside, through the old door, the ancient one that had been half-buried, but which opened for them. What the … ? Frustrated and scared, she spun and smacked the wall with her palm. What was going on?