Love, Eternally

by Morgan O'Neill

  “Your Rufus,” he said, “drew sword and attacked one of my men as we approached. It was an unprovoked attack, unwarranted, and he died for it.”

  Stunned, Gigi shook her head, then started for the trees. “You’re lying! Rufus, where are you?”

  Athaulf grabbed her arm as she passed, stopping her short. “He is gone. We shall bury him or burn him, whatever you think proper. And here, take this, if you want a token. I believe your friend would deem the courage you’ve shown worthy of the honor.”

  He tossed her Rufus’s ring.

  “Oh, no … no,” she murmured, staring at it through teary eyes.

  “Come. We have gathered your horses and your belongings,” Athaulf said. “You ride with us, now. And you should keep your priestess robes close about you, if you wish to remain unmolested. Our people do not harm the Holy Ones of the Ancient Rites, and you will be safe enough, if they believe you to be one. Especially,” he added with a grin, “if you don’t prance about naked anymore.”

  Gigi glared up at him, blinking back her tears. “Your people? To hell with your people! Apparently they have no problem murdering an innocent man — a good man! I don’t want anything to do with your people. I’ll get to the coast on my own.”

  “You no longer have a choice in the matter. You belong to us now. You are the property of King Alaric and will keep your mouth shut unless bidden to speak.”

  “Alaric? You’re the Visigoths?” Gigi said weakly, taking in his clothing, his beard, and long, braided hair — so un-Roman — and realized he was telling the truth.

  “Indeed,” Athaulf said proudly, his hazel eyes glinting green in the afternoon sun. “We are the Visigoths.”

  • • •

  Althaulf and his men rode out in stony silence, taking Gigi with them. Lost and miserable, she was allowed to plod along on her mare, hands unbound, although she was aware that silent guards shadowed her every move. Days passed, and they left the hot lowlands, ascending into the hills, then onto a broad plain edged with deep forests. Beyond them the Alps commanded the distance, their peaks capped by glaciers streaked dirt-gray with the season.

  Gigi tried to figure out where she was, but couldn’t. Before her time in Ravenna, in her former life, she’d only traveled to Italy on weekend jaunts to Rome, Florence, and Venice. She’d never been anywhere near the Alps. She lost track of the days, until at last they crested a hill and met some sentries, who saluted Athaulf and let them pass.

  “Where are we?” she asked him. It was the first time she’d spoken to him, to any of them, since leaving the river.

  Athaulf glanced her way, but did not answer. Before her, Gigi saw multitudes of men in a huge encampment, as well as women and entire families, along with livestock, household goods, every blessed thing they owned. A whole nation forced into exile and on the move.

  As evening approached, Gigi was led to a clearing and a fire, where a man and woman sat, silently watching her. Behind them, another woman stood apart, beautiful, terrible, and ancient all at once, her hair silver-blond. She assessed Gigi with cold, glacial-blue eyes. Scary eyes. Athaulf dismounted and approached the man, bending on one knee before clasping his arm in greeting.

  Gigi decided the seated man must be King Alaric — the one Magnus knew — and the blond woman next to him his queen. She watched as Athaulf rose and faced both women. He laughed at something the younger one said and kissed her cheek, then moved on to the older woman, placing a kiss on her brow.

  Gigi wondered about the old lady. Was she really as frightening as she looked? And how should she approach them — with honey or vinegar? She wanted them to realize how furious she was about Rufus and about being kidnapped.

  She dismounted and was made to stand on the other side of the fire from them, guards on each side of her. The seated man, she noted, seemed somewhat older than Athaulf, with a touch of gray in his reddish-brown hair. He wore the standard leather armor and breeches, but also a cloak luxuriously trimmed in gray fur.

  The older woman spoke quietly with Athaulf and then left. Gigi felt a measure of relief at her departure. Athaulf was speaking with the others and pointed to Gigi. They all paused to consider her.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Gigi grumbled and faced the man in the cloak. “I suppose you’re the great Alaric, King of the Visigoths?”

  Glaring, Athaulf said, “Silence, priestess.” His voice was low, lethal. “Silence until you are recognized.”

  She was so sick of him and his constant insistence on keeping silent. All of her pent-up anger, everything she’d been holding in for days, burst, and she shouted in English, “Go to hell, you sonofabitch!”

  Bunching his fist, Athaulf stepped toward her.

  “Athaulf, slaváith,” the king waved his hand and switched to Latin. “Let her speak. Priestess, come closer. Stand before me and speak in a tongue I can understand.”

  His voice was surprisingly low, a rumbling baritone — and dignified, his elocution and grasp of Latin superb.

  Pointedly ignoring Athaulf, Gigi approached the king and replied in Latin, “Your men killed my escort in cold blood and abducted me, dragging me here, wherever we are, against my will. Except for Athaulf’s intervention — thank you very much — I would have been raped. What did either Rufus or I do to cause this? You behave like a marauder, nothing more, nothing noble.”

  “By Christ,” Athaulf exclaimed. “You go too far! Apologize, else I’ll — ”

  “Do what?” Gigi glowered at him. “What more could you possibly do to me?”

  The blond woman whispered something to the king, causing him to nod. Several moments elapsed as Gigi and Athaulf eyed one another, each daring the other to look away. Growing weary but still determined, Gigi saw past his rough, barbarian appearance for the first time and noticed that beneath the travel dirt he was extremely handsome, a Visigoth version of Orlando Bloom. But she ignored his good looks; Magnus easily outshone this guy.

  She dropped her gaze, heartache finally winning out over bravado.

  “So be it,” Athaulf muttered.

  Gigi looked up. Athaulf returned to stand by the blonde, his gaze surly.

  The king let the moment play out before saying, “As you have guessed, I am Alaric,” he shrugged, “although some may dispute the term ‘great’ you so graciously bestowed. This lady is my wife, Queen Verica.” He smiled, “And Athaulf, my brother-in-law, you have already met.”

  Gigi saw a twinkle in his eye and couldn’t help but give him grudging respect as he continued to speak.

  “I am sorry for the death of your escort, but Athaulf said he attacked first, without provocation, and my men had to defend themselves. As to the near rape,” the king shrugged once more, “it was stopped, and men are imperfect beings. Such are the expectations and commonplaces of war. Now tell me of yourself, priestess. Few venture cross county these days, fewer still travel in so small a party, except in the direst of circumstances. What is your story?”

  Gigi weighed her options a second time, wondering exactly what she should reveal, then decided the truth was best — especially when she remembered what Rufus had said about Alaric and Magnus.

  “I have come from Ravenna,” Gigi explained, “and as I told Athaulf, I was traveling with Rufus to Vada Sabatia, because … because when I refused to play my flute for Honorius he sent me to the palace kitchens as a slave.”

  Their eyes widened at this, and Athaulf seemed especially curious.

  “You are a musician?” the queen asked.

  “Indeed, my lady,” Gigi answered, knowing her next words would truly grab their attention. “After I was enslaved, another man, Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, took my side and protected me — ”

  “Magnus?” King Alaric leaned toward her, his gaze questing. “How do you know him? Why should he risk protecting you?”

 
“He was there when I refused to play for Honorius, and was angered by the treatment I received. He hates Honorius, too.” The men laughed at this, and Verica nodded. “As I said, he protected me, but when he was away, dealing with you, I believe, the emperor tried to take advantage of Magnus’s absence. He tried to rape me, but I was able to, er, incapacitate him and escape.”

  “How did you incapacitate him?” Queen Verica asked. “Poison, perhaps?”

  “I kicked Honorius in the balls — twice.”

  The three roared at this, and Verica added, “Ah, a priestess and a warrior, like the goddesses of old! I wish I’d had the chance to do the same, just once, when the Romans held me hostage.”

  Gigi wanted to know more about the queen’s captivity, but now was not the time. She continued, “Then, later on, Magnus had Rufus smuggle me out of Ravenna. After Vada Sabatia, I was to catch a boat to, er, Corsica, to pray at the sacred grove of … ”

  Gigi let her voice trail off. Best not to tell all, her instincts warned. She needed to stop talking, or she’d spill her guts about everything. If she could just get away from here, somehow she’d make it to Capri. Frustrated, she took a deep breath and stared at the royals, wondering how long it would be before she could escape.

  “How can we be confident you tell us the truth?” the queen wondered. “Perhaps you know of our acquaintance with Magnus, and you play us, as you say you play your flute.”

  “My flute is in my baggage, so my abilities will be easy to prove,” Gigi hesitated, hoping she guessed right. “As for Magnus, this is proof he is my protector, my friend.”

  Gigi drew forth the Roman ring from her pouch.

  The king sprang to his feet, while Athaulf exclaimed, “The ring! He was bereft after losing it. It was all he spoke of for months. How came you by this?”

  Gigi drew herself up and then played her final hand. “I am a priestess of Victoria. I was guided by her to find this ring. Magnus was just as amazed as you when first he beheld it. He said if anyone ever doubted our friendship that I should show it, and they would understand the solemn bond between us.”

  “By the bones of Iésus, I believe you speak the truth.” King Alaric stood back and studied her, then nodded. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or at least one to be treated respectfully, and we do count Honorius our enemy — and Magnus a friend, despite his ill-placed loyalties toward the Empire. Let me say again, and more sincerely, I am sorry for the death of your escort, doubly so if he was Magnus’s man. However, you will not be taken to Vada Sabatia, nor will you go anywhere alone. It is too dangerous. I keep a very close watch on the entire region. Honorius’s men are everywhere, and they would surely find you. You will stay with us for now — we shall see to your protection. Rest assured all honor and respect due your station will be granted you. You shall be free to move within our ranks as you wish, share housing with my family, and you may take meals with us, but you will not be able to leave. You have seen too much already and will only learn more as the days go by. Such information would be a boon to Honorius, who, I think, would happily torture you to learn all you know.”

  Alaric grasped Gigi’s forearm. “Welcome, priestess. Welcome to a people of great pride and noble heritage, but one without land or home, yet consumed with enough determination to survive against all. Now, I would ask your name, so we may become more than friendly enemies.” He grinned. “Perhaps … actual friends?”

  She had to be careful. Trust was a luxury she could no longer afford. She couldn’t give a name that anyone here would ever tie to her.

  “Jolie,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “My name is Angelina Jolie.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter 11

  The tall ceiling and marble walls of the throne room held the summer heat at bay, and the open porticos allowed in a cooling breeze. But the comfort and beauty of her surroundings did little to calm Thermantia’s thoughts. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer to God, for courage in the face of grave danger.

  Honorius took her hand and kissed it, and Thermantia had to fight the urge to pull away. The emperor was wreathed in vainglory, wearing his royal regalia, a smug smile on his face. He had left a fortnight before, having gone off on one of his rare little jaunts, this time to Ticinum, to officially review his troops before they left for battle in Gaul. But on the Ides of Augustus there had been a revolt in Ticinum, and Honorius barely escaped the chaos, returning home a week earlier than planned. Ignoring the debacle, he pretended all was well, while the Empire was actually on the brink of open war. Thermantia prayed for her people — and herself.

  Sitting on the throne that once belonged to her beloved sister, Maria, Thermantia turned and smiled back at her husband, making sure no one in the room could discern her inner misery. It would mean death if she let on that their marriage was anything but blissful. She swallowed as she studied Honorius’s hooded gaze, fearing execution at the hands of one so depraved.

  He had been uncharacteristically attentive in public all morning, and now he had begun extolling her virtues to the point of absurdity in front of his officials. What plots were hatching in his cruel soul?

  “Our darling, our truest heart,” Honorius gushed as he let go of her hand and addressed the gathering. “You must all forgive such frankness, but we cannot help but utter the certainty of our convictions based on our nearly constant, er, activity, since our return home, that one day soon we shall fill this room with our sons and daughters.”

  Strained smiles and polite applause greeted the shocking comments. Thermantia squirmed on the throne, wishing she could vanish.

  Honorius chuckled. “As a matter of fact, she is our sole diversion from the badgering her father gives, after telling us we should shower riches and land upon that traitor, the murderer, Alaric the Uncouth.”

  Thermantia hazarded a glance at her father and saw him tense, his fists clenching and unclenching. Then to her surprise he bowed his head, as though to acknowledge his sin. Do not quail, Father! she wanted to shout. Honorius must not see any weakness.

  She had heard rumors, horrid rumors that her father was responsible for the uprising at Ticinum. The evil gossips added that he secretly plotted to kill the boy-emperor in Constantinople and replace him with her little brother, Eucherius. Believing the lies, the Roman troops of Ticinum had risen up and killed her father’s supporters, and Honorius had been caught up in the madness. For a time no one in Ravenna knew the emperor’s fate; for a time she’d held her breath.

  She glanced at her husband, knowing full well her thoughts these days amounted to nothing less than a grave sin. Would that you had died on your journey, she thought. Oh, what a blessing if I were a widow!

  She focused on what he was saying, wishing she could cover her ears.

  “Ah, indeed, so happy, so enthusiastic and athletic is our coupling,” Honorius snorted with delight, “that we are together continually transported beyond ourselves, beyond our very bodies, to another plane entirely.”

  The crowd was silent.

  What is he playing at? Thermantia closed her eyes. Appalled by his grotesque insinuations, she felt heat creep up her neck and infuse her face as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. She prayed she would soon be allowed to return to her rooms.

  “As a matter of fact,” Honorius tilted his head and pretended to listen to something she said, “our dear wife is saying even now how she desires nothing more than to leave this gathering and ride us all afternoon, so as to work toward impregnation.”

  Thermantia gripped the arms of her chair and stared at her feet, trying to avoid the looks of open shock on the faces of those standing nearby. She glanced up, and the others averted their eyes, no longer pretending this was the normal puffery from her buffoonish husband. How she wished she had the courage to show her feelings!

  Suddenly, she felt the ghostly presence of her sister
, dearest Maria, and she embraced the thought of death, longed for its sweet release. She prayed for the strength to force her husband to strike out against her, that she might be free at last. Is that what Maria had done?

  Smiling broadly, Honorius took her hand again and rose, escorting her off the dais and through the center of the crowd. “It is an endless task, sating our young bride. Wish us well! Wish us well!”

  The next few moments were a blur of anguish and shame. How could he have said such things in public? Oh, God in Heaven, what is he going to make me watch now?

  Once they were away from witnesses, Thermantia let burning tears pour down her cheeks. “Please, Honorius. Please let me go to my own room tonight. Have your sport — I don’t mind — but I am so very tired of watching.”

  “Tired of watching? Does this mean our little empress wishes to participate at last?”

  “No, no — ” Her throat felt thick with agony, and her voice caught in a strangled cry. She tried to pull away, but his grip found her wrist and tightened.

  “Oh, we’re sure we heard you correctly, little dove,” Honorius leered at her, “and we shall see you have your every desire. Fear not, dear empress.”

  As they entered the hallway leading to his rooms, he shouted toward the guards standing duty at the doors. “Away with the lot of you! Away! Take your posts at the other end — not here. Go!”

  Honorius pulled Thermantia relentlessly toward his rooms with a gleam in his eye, his mouth twisted in a way she had never seen before. She tearfully looked away, anywhere else, for she could not stand the sight of him. The long line of statues seemed to bend and waver, their faces eerily twisting, as if to mock her fright.

  “No,” she sobbed. “Please, leave me alone. Honorius, I beg you, please let me go.”

  He yanked her forward, and she lost her footing, falling hard. Honorius did not stop. Instead, he quickened his pace, dragging her across the floor. When they reached his chamber doors, he paused and bent her hand at such an acute angle the pain nearly paralyzed her.