Love, Eternally
Page 16
“Have you anything to say for yourself, traitor?” he asked.
Stilicho raised his head and glared. “I am no traitor and this trial has nothing to do with Alaric. It is about the vile treatment of my daughters at your hand — ”
“Silence!” Honorius bellowed. Still clutching his handkerchief, he lunged toward the prisoner, then stuffed the wad of cloth into Stilicho’s mouth. “How dare you make such rude, false insinuations when everyone knows the truth of your deceitful nature? Say no more! We condemn you to silence, also.”
Stepping back to the dais, Honorius stood before his throne and surveyed the crowd, his chest heaving. “One last decree we shall make, because the traitor brings up his odious family. We hereby divorce our imperial self from his lascivious, worthless, and barren daughter. We hereby confiscate all properties and wealth claimed by the family. They will be witness to the beheading, and after, they will be exiled to Rome, and banned from receiving any aid from anyone here present. Is that understood? Is that understood?”
Honorius shouted this last, and everyone nodded, silent, compliant to a man, and he thrilled at their utter submission.
Now he was sure, finally, he had their respect.
Chapter 12
Sunset found Magnus standing on his balcony, looking past his villa walls at the pinetum. Out there was freedom. Glancing at his garden, he watched Honorius’s soldiers move in and out of lengthening shadows, watching him.
He had waited and waited, but still there was no word of Gigi and Rufus’s whereabouts. He knew not if his beloved had reached safety in Capreae. From dawn to sunset, from day to day, he coped by wearing a locket of rock crystal and gold holding Gigi’s hair, and by telling himself that the lack of news was no real cause for alarm, not yet anyway. He dismissed the damnable silence as happenstance, the fickle will of the gods.
Under house arrest since shortly after her departure, he spent most days languishing, his own fate unimportant. He reminded himself that as long as Gigi was well, as long as she thrived, he would be able to face any challenge.
And so, Magnus whiled away the time on his balcony, growing his hair out — piss on you, Honorius! — and drinking from his store of good wine, leaving his rooms only occasionally for a vade mecum, a “go with me” jaunt to the cellars. In the company of his steward, he would select a vintage to assuage his palate and mood, sometimes a flask, often two or three.
Magnus poured another glass of his latest choice, a Grecian white called retsina, infused with pine resin. He chuckled at the appropriateness of the selection, for he had spent the last few hours doing nothing more than drinking and watching the pine trees sway in the breeze. Sour, caustic, potent, retsina was most assuredly an acquired taste, yet he was now able to savor the piquant wine, enjoying this gift of Bacchus.
The days were tolerable, and he felt no real sense of alarm, no pain, as long as he drank and drank and drank.
But at night …
At night, he lay awake in his bed until all hours, restless, wretched, and wondering what had happened, imagining the very worst, the endless raging of his troubled heart.
Darkness was falling on this, the thirty-seventh day since he’d last beheld his divine Gigi, and he faced yet another dreary night. Magnus withdrew from his balcony, entered his shadowy bedchamber, and knelt before his personal shrine. He bowed his head to the small, golden statue of Victoria, gifted him by his uncle — the very man from whom he awaited word, any word.
Uncle Decimus would see to Gigi’s safety. He would care for her as he would his own daughters. And he would surely send word soon.
“O, Victoria, hear me now,” Magnus whispered. “Mighty Goddess of Victory, grant safe passage to the only woman I have ever loved.” He lowered his voice further, resisting the temptation of uttering her name aloud, for fear of Honorius’s spies. “Protect her and guide her into that safe harbor.”
He smiled, wobbled on his knees, and then righted himself, suddenly worried he’d let something slip. No, he was sure he hadn’t revealed any clues as to the safe harbor, but even if he had mentioned something about an uncle here or there, and even if someone had been listening at that moment, he had many uncles, nearly a dozen.
“Victoria knows I sent Gigi to Decimus,” he muttered, then started. He looked around, realizing perhaps he’d drunk too much, angry at himself for taking risks. “Victoria, O Goddess of Victory, help — ”
He heard a rap at the door, then creaking as it slowly opened. “Magnus?”
He turned, heart racing. It was Taura, one of his female slaves.
“Dominus,” Taura said, “forgive the intrusion.”
Carrying a tray, she was accompanied by his body servant, a Greek named Sosigenes, who held two flickering oil lamps. Sosigenes placed the lamps on the table.
“Dominus, do you wish for me to draw your bath?” he asked. “I would shave your face — ”
“No, I do not need a bath or a shave. Tomorrow will do.”
Watching Taura closely, Magnus rose unsteadily to his feet, barely noticing as his body servant bowed and left, so taken was he by her presence in his chambers. She was head cook in his kitchen, and she rarely left her realm.
“Taura? What is it?” Magnus asked. In the dim light, he caught a quiver, a slight tremor in her hands, as she placed the tray on the table. “Is there a problem?”
“There is nothing wrong, Dominus,” Taura whispered. “I merely wished to bring your evening meal. We received a delivery today, your favorite — pickled totani, from Capreae.”
Magnus felt as if his heart had stopped.
“Dominus? Is there anything more you desire?”
He eyed her carefully, catching a nervous flicker in her gaze. It seemed as if she wished to depart — and swiftly.
“No, Taura. Thank you, no.”
“Then good evening, Dominus.”
After she left, he went to the table. On the tray rested a plate of pickled squid and a rolled linen napkin. Magnus lifted the plate — nothing beneath it — then he took the napkin and began to unroll it. As the last of it unfurled, a small papyrus scroll dropped out and fell to the floor. It was affixed with a red wax seal, the stamped impression unmistakable — the initials DPF, for his favorite uncle, Decimus Pontius Flavus.
He broke the seal, opened the scroll and read:
My dearest boy, your aunt and I wish you a most felicitous birthday on this, the Ides of Augustus. We know how much you love totani in white vinegar, our specialty. We wish you well, and hope you will soon join us for a visit. Alas, we have not seen enough of you — or anything of your friends — in a long while. May the gods keep you safe, your uncle, D. Pontius Flavus.
Veiled words, terrible with implicit meaning … have not seen enough of you — or anything of your friends.
As of the Ides, Gigi and Rufus had not arrived in Capreae. They should have been there weeks ago. He closed his eyes, counting, forcing himself to calculate. The Ides of Augustus fell on the thirteenth, and this was the … what day is it?
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, willing himself to stay calm. The date did not matter. Many days had passed since he sent the note — his uncle must have welcomed her by now — sent another letter on the heels of this one, with glad tidings. Gigi was certainly in Capreae. Besides, the gods unfailingly smiled upon Rufus like no other, and he had never failed in any task or request, such were his talents and good fortune.
Magnus recalled the comforting words sent to him via one of Placidia’s spies, saying Gigi and Rufus were in good spirits upon taking their leave of her caravan. Placidia had directed several of her most trusted guards to discreetly follow them at a distance for the next day, to make certain they were well off and away.
They must have been delayed at Vada Sabatia. It was a busy port. Ships were frequently late in their a
rrivals and departures, because the winds were notoriously light in summer.
If Magnus had not been under house arrest, his every move watched, he would have had his steward arrange for a message to be sent to his uncle via carrier pigeon. But he could not risk such a thing now. He would just have to stew.
He took a deep breath and sought to calm down, willing his mind to dwell on more optimistic thoughts. He tried to imagine the scene in Capreae: his rotund uncle and equally plump Aunt Publilia were at this very moment reclining on couches in their villa, eating dessert and fawning over Gigi, who by now felt overwhelmed by their generosity. He could almost hear her laughter as they tried to force yet another round of sweets upon her, or insisted she taste their favorite wine, a honeyed elixir infused with essence of lavender. They made it themselves and it was delicious.
Magnus walked out to the balcony and faced west, catching the last glow of dusk, the faintest trace of violet on the horizon. He visualized his uncle’s seaside villa, white marble against the chalky cliffs, the ocean as deep blue as the sky. By Bacchus’s Holy Cup, would that I could be with all of you to share this moment!
He took the flask, raised it, and drank the rest of the retsina in a gulp. Swallowing wrong, Magnus choked, his throat on fire. Coughing, he wiped his mouth and stared at the horizon, now shrouded in night’s gloom, and he felt anxious, undone.
Gigi, he thought, oh, my Gigi, where in Hades are you?
• • •
Standing taller than most people, Magnus could easily look out over the faces, young and old, rich and poor, the powerful and those stripped of all power, not unlike himself. Two guards stood shoulder to shoulder with him, a third just behind. In the bright sun his head felt like it was about to split, but he didn’t care. He’d heard nothing of this execution until early this morning, had no idea things were so very grave at the palace.
Frowning, Magnus continued his study of the crowd. What he read on those faces seemed to be a mixture of confusion, anger, curiosity, and, hanging over everything, a palpable sense of foreboding.
There was a rumble near the prison entrance, and he could see people being shoved out of the way by the emperor’s bearded guards. More of the brutes followed, bringing forth the condemned man, Magnus’s mentor and lifelong friend. A wail went up from somewhere in the crowd, and he saw Stilicho glance at the platform where the execution was to take place, built in the great square near the baptistery. Honorius had chosen the site well. It was central to everything in the city, and everyone would have access to the spectacle.
From where Magnus stood, he could see Stilicho’s family, or what was left of it, gathered near the platform, crying. Thermantia and her little brother, wrapped in each other’s arms, wept loudly in their agony. Serena stood alone, looking angry and far, far too proud.
Magnus’s gaze flicked toward the stairs and he blinked, for he recognized the man climbing them — Heraclian! He looked grim, the sword in his hand a heavy burden. Was he to be the executioner? Magnus knew Heraclian and Stilicho were old friends, and he closed his eyes in revulsion. Truly Honorius’s evil knew no bounds.
A burst of angry protest from Stilicho’s supporters drew Magnus’s mind back to the moment. Now the general climbed the steps, surrounded by his guards, while the irate shouting continued. Within moments, others began to jeer and taunt Stilicho, and several fights erupted among the onlookers. The emperor was nowhere to be seen, which didn’t surprise Magnus, given the near riot conditions.
As additional guards swarmed into the unruly crowd, Stilicho was forced to turn slowly about on the platform, so all could behold the traitor.
His angry followers pressed closer, but Stilicho called out, “Desist! The Empire is too important. Let not my death provoke civil war!”
Magnus nodded with approval. The man had honor. He was glad, at least, Stilicho had been allowed all the formal regalia of a Roman general, except for his sword. The scabbard was empty, and other than his cloak and uniform, there was no insignia, no other sign of rank. That had all been stripped away.
Suddenly, Magnus felt shoving and bumping behind him. His guards cursed, threatened, and shoved back.
“My apologies.” Priscus Attalus clumsily pushed his way up to Magnus. “Entirely my fault — so sorry — arrived a bit late — needed a bracer before coming out this morning.” He teetered toward Magnus, then grinned and clapped him on the back. “Come to watch, have you? Stilicho stepped on the wrong toes. Too bad, that.”
Magnus kept his expression neutral and didn’t respond, but watched Attalus carefully, fully aware the man almost never touched strong drink. Suddenly, Attalus looped an arm over Magnus’s shoulders and drew his head close.
“Stilicho was falsely accused,” Attalus whispered, “and we are next — flee — do not return home. Meet me after nightfall in Venus’s abandoned garden.”
Venus’s garden? Gigi’s garden? Magnus realized it must be a sign from Victoria, for Priscus Attalus revered the old gods and the ancient ways, too.
The guards grumbled and shoved Attalus aside. He gave them a bleary smile, then hiccupped and slurred, “Magnus, guards, my sincere apologies if I disturbed your morning. I’ll just be moving along.”
Magnus watched as Attalus continued his ungainly advance toward the platform. Something was certainly afoot, or Attalus would never have taken the risk he did.
He assessed the crowd, calculating his chances for an escape. Stilicho was doomed, as were he and Attalus, it seemed. But perhaps he still had time, a very thin sliver of time, to save himself.
Magnus watched as Stilicho knelt and placed his helmet on the platform. Heraclian took a stand and gripped his sword with both hands. More cries of anguish suddenly went up from the children. Stilicho gave them a last, sorrowful look, then lowered his head, baring the back of his neck.
Magnus glanced at his captors, knowing he was about to seal their doom. But it didn’t matter, for if his plan worked, and even if he failed to kill them now, they’d be dead before nightfall anyway.
A low rumble rose from the crowd. Heraclian raised his blade …
Screams filled the air. Magnus thrust upward with his elbow, jamming it into the throat of one of his guards. The man collapsed, hands to his crushed throat, as Magnus spun, grabbed the second guard and rammed the man’s startled face against his up-thrust knee. His nose exploded in a torrent of blood. Then Magnus balled his fist and struck the third guard under the ribcage, driving the air from his lungs.
Now! Magnus lurched forward and was instantly engulfed by the chaotic throng, then swept against his will toward the platform and more guards. Here and there he caught glimpses: Stilicho’s lifeless, headless body in a bloody heap; Thermantia out cold; Serena holding her weeping son, angrier than ever.
Desperate, Magnus punched and pummeled, thrust against those closest to him, and broke free. Weaving between men and women, he darted right, then left, again and again. He could hear the shouts of guards over the din of the mob, but they couldn’t get to him, for the crowd was too tightly compressed for them to easily make good their chase.
By the time Magnus reached the road beyond the baptistery, the crowd had thinned. He cursed the fact that he’d been forced to wear his white senator’s toga to the execution. It would be easily detected, even at a distance. He ducked down an alleyway and ran for several blocks through a poor neighborhood, before stopping to catch his breath.
Where could he go? He was on the opposite end of town from his home, from the palace, and from the garden where Attalus had set the rendezvous. He had no money and no horse, no weapons. How was he going to get out of this?
Skulking along, he moved from shadow to shadow, building to building. People would take notice of a wary senator in this neighborhood, and news of his presence would travel. But he couldn’t wait for the cover of night; it would be too late by then.
Magnus crept up, holding his breath. The key found its mark, then turned, and the door opened. He sprang forward, put his hand over the man’s mouth, and shoved him inside. His arm flexed, and he was about to jerk the man’s head sideways to break his neck, when images of Gigi, Stilicho, and Thermantia flashed through his mind. His thoughts settled on Gigi, and he compressed the man’s neck briefly instead, until he collapsed. Bending over him, Magnus checked to make sure he was still breathing, then moved away, knowing he had only moments before the fellow regained consciousness.
Looking around, he realized he was in a wheelwright’s shop. Wood, tools, a large forge, and wheels of every size and description filled the room. Magnus went to the back of the shop and found a flight of stairs that led to a small, windowless, sparsely furnished loft. Hanging near a straw pallet, he saw just what he’d hope to find: clothing to swap for his toga. But after rummaging, he found only one short, seedy cloak and a shapeless wool cap.
Magnus heard rumblings downstairs and knew his time was up. He hurried back to the man, who sat on the floor, still dazed.
“Have you a delivery wagon?” Magnus asked.
“Eh?” the man groaned, rubbing his neck. “Who in Hades — ?”
Magnus grabbed the man’s tunic and lifted him to his feet. “Listen to me — don’t ask questions. Be thankful I didn’t kill you just now, and tell me, have you a wagon? You must deliver this stuff somewhere. How? Tell me!”
“I have a cart and a donkey,” he whispered, terrified, his eyes taking in every inch of Magnus’s person, “out back.”