“Good. Listen very closely,” Magnus ordered. “Get the cart ready. Put some wheels in it — pile it up and put a cover over the top. I need to get to the palace without being seen, and you’re going to take me there. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
Magnus locked eyes with him. “I was merciful a moment ago. I was going to snap your neck, but decided against it. Don’t make me change my mind.”
“No,” the man shook his head vigorously. “You may count on it, Senator. I will take you wherever you need to go, and … and I never saw you, never, ever spoke with you.”
Magnus smiled grimly. “Exactly.”
• • •
Gigi stared at the flames dancing before her eyes. Where was Magnus? Did he think of her, wonder where she was after all these weeks? Or was he content in the assumption she was safe at his family’s estate on Capri? After all, how could he know things had not turned out as planned? Magnus’s family would eventually let him know, but then what? Would he even suspect she was a prisoner of the Visigoths?
Gigi recalled her ill-planned attempt at an escape in the early days of her captivity. Athaulf’s men had caught up with her within minutes of her late-night departure, as she bounced atop an unwilling horse. They’d have been angrier with her for bolting if they hadn’t found the whole thing so funny. She’d never felt more helpless or humiliated.
Ever since, they’d kept a much closer watch. As priestess, she slept alone, so for a long time they’d tied her to her cot when she went to bed. But now, after several weeks of restrictions, things were beginning to ease. She was free to move around, although guards stood at her tent every night, and they were never far away during the day, either.
The Visigoths had moved camp three times since she’d arrived, a monumental undertaking. The Alps were no longer in view, but she had no idea where she was. They had to be getting nearer to Ravenna with each day, she suspected, because there were constant sightings and skirmishes with Honorius’s troops. After one encounter, a Roman was taken captive. Before he was executed, he said Honorius was seeking a particularly evil female slave, who was to be sentenced to a gruesome death in the arena.
Gigi shivered, hoping no one would connect the wanted slave with her priestess ruse. Yet she suspected Alaric did, although he was silent on the matter, bound by his oath of protection. The Roman’s information also drove home the fact that she had very little chance of surviving outside the camp, let alone making it to Capri.
Would she ever see Magnus again? Her mind refused to accept the possibility she might not, even as her heart was breaking. He lived in danger, too, and she feared Honorius would turn on him because Magnus had not found and delivered her to the palace, as he had sworn to do.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Queen Verica looking in her direction. Gigi refused to meet her gaze. She cared for the Visigoths, but her destiny wasn’t with them. She longed to be with Magnus. Gigi closed her eyes against the dance and flicker of the fire, feeling lost. Finally she rose, needing to get away.
“Jolie,” Verica said quietly.
Gigi ignored her; the woman’s pity was too much to bear. She walked to her lonely tent, to her achingly lonely bed, awaiting yet another dawn in this empty, empty world.
• • •
Dusk had come and gone, and the abandoned garden was dark, but there were no unusual sounds to assure Magnus that Priscus Attalus was holding up his end of the deal.
Had Attalus been arrested?
Magnus sat on a stone bench and looked up at the stars blinking overhead. Or was this a trap? He reached for his sword, realized he had none, and cursed the fickle gods. He took a breath, then another, considering. This was no trap — Attalus was a man of honor and would never work with Honorius to ensnare another Roman. Attalus would sacrifice his own life first.
Scraping at the dusty path with the edge of his sandal, Magnus could hear the play of the water as it splashed over the statue of Venus. He remembered the last time he’d been here, recalling the music. Visions of Gigi blotted out the stars.
Where was she? Was she safe? Alive? The lack of information gnawed at him. At least now he might be able to do something to find her if this plan worked, if he escaped Ravenna this night. Magnus shifted on the bench and rubbed a hand over his face.
Gigi.
She had looked so startled, terrified really, when he’d approached her in this garden. He also remembered, when he was taking his leave, how she’d leaned against him, ever so slightly, with her eyes closed, her lips parted. He could have taken her in that moment — he knew it! And then, at Placidia’s villa, when she was so willing — asking him to make love to her.
He smacked the bench with his open palm. How he’d wanted to, but he also wanted something more than an easy coupling with her. She had a grip on his heart like no other.
Where is she? Where — ?
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he turned toward the entrance, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom. Someone was there. Magnus could just make out the deep black silhouette against the blue-black night.
“Magnus?” a familiar voice croaked.
“Attalus.”
Magnus heard a sigh and saw the figure move toward him.
“We must be quick,” Attalus whispered. “I’ve been anticipating my escape for weeks. Here,” he tossed a bundle to Magnus, “travel clothes. Get changed quickly. My nephew is holding the horses — he shall accompany me to Rome. Our mounts are wearing leather boots for quiet passage. I’ll explain everything once we’re out of town.”
“Why are you fleeing, Attalus?” Magnus asked.
“The sentence upon Stilicho was false, but Honorius needed to be rid of him, so he trumped up the charges. The emperor is cleaning house. He already has his excuse to execute you, and I believe he has set his sights on me as well, because I refused to condemn Stilicho. I was sure neither of us would ever be seen in public again after his execution, so when the rather meager opportunity presented itself today … ” Attalus shrugged and looked around. “Hurry.”
Magnus tore off his toga and rolled it into a bundle. After pulling on the clothes Attalus had provided, he pondered where he could hide his senatorial robes.
The statue! There was a niche behind the veil of water where offerings could be left for Venus. He stashed the toga and followed Attalus out of the garden, out of Ravenna.
Chapter 13
The journey had been filled with torment, yet Magnus tried to convince himself there was still hope. Hot and sweaty, he scratched the heavy stubble on his face, wishing for a soak and a shave. He was heading toward Vada Sabatia, then on to Capreae, where he would at last find Gigi at his uncle’s villa. She had to be there.
Magnus rode his favorite horse, the great chestnut stallion Agrippa, the only thing salvaged from the life he’d abandoned. After parting company with Attalus just outside Ravenna, he’d pushed hard despite the blistering sun, heading northwest. Mirroring the route he knew Rufus had taken, he stayed well away from the major road, the Via Aemilia, keeping to the numerous viae rusticae, the Empire’s secondary roads. The gravel paths were well maintained and marked with milestones, yet lacked travel amenities such as tabernae, but this suited him just fine.
For three days, Magnus hadn’t seen another soul, had spoken to no one but the gods — exactly what he needed to keep one step ahead of Honorius’s spies.
He shook off his wariness and patted the horse’s neck. “Thanks be to all the gods,” he said aloud, needing to break the wretched silence. “Ah, you lift my spirits, Agrippa. Clever Attalus, to have so deftly removed you from my stables. I shall ever be grateful to him. Freedom is splendid. Don’t you agree?”
The stallion reacted with a snort and a nod, and Magnus laughed for the first time in days.
• • •
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The sun shone bright in the west, hitting Magnus squarely in the eyes. He blocked the glare with his hand, searching for a spot to camp for the night. A copse of shade trees stood in the distance, and a river nearby beckoned.
Agrippa raised his big head and turned toward the water. Magnus smiled as the horse picked up his pace; the tedium of crossing this dusty plain weighed on him, too.
“We shall wither on the vine if we do not swim soon, eh, my friend?” Magnus nudged his stallion with his heels, and off they cantered. He raised his eyes to the mountains, crowned with golden clouds, but then wrenched his gaze away as Agrippa broke his pace and shied. Struggling to calm his mount, Magnus searched the distance. What was wrong?
Then he saw them: vultures lazily circling above the trees, dozens of vultures.
• • •
He could not tear his eyes away from the rock mound. The odor of death hung heavy in the air. Walking slowly, Magnus led Agrippa by the reins. He stared at a Christian burial, hastily built, but not recent, as evidenced by a dearth of fresh tracks nearby.
Moving closer, he could see rocks had fallen away, exposing the corpse. Most of the vultures were airborne, wary of Magnus and Agrippa, but a bold few still tugged and fought over what was left of the remains.
The horse pulled back, and Magnus knew he could coax him no farther. After securing the reins to a tree, he moved forward, waving his arms about, yelling at the brazen scavengers. “Be gone, you miserable scum! Go, go!”
A dismembered arm rested a bit away from the rocks, flesh rotted and shredded to bits, nearly skeletal. Beyond that, a ribcage peeked out of the tumbledown cairn, its leather breastplate askew.
Magnus’s throat tightened. The leather — it bore unmistakable patches. They were his own handiwork, sewn on long ago at fireside, while Rufus recovered from battle wounds. The gods could not be so cruel!
He frantically looked around and called, “Gigi! Where are you?”
He dropped beside the cairn and started pulling away stones. Rufus, who did this to you? Gigi, where are you? Are you in here, too? Fingers bleeding, Magnus stopped when he saw Rufus’s bronze citizenship plaque. Oh, by the infernal Styx! The skeleton was now fully exposed, and Magnus was relieved to find none but Rufus in the grave. Where was Gigi? She had to be alive, she must — or … was she buried somewhere nearby?
He stumbled away and searched the riverbank for hours, until it was dark and the moon was rising. But there was no sign of her.
He collapsed on the shore, shivering with cold and cursing the Fates, the lack of a second body no comfort at all.
• • •
Magnus had bathed in the river, not for pleasure, but for ablution. Clean, cold, and bitter with grief, he stood before the bier where Rufus lay. He had placed coins on the man’s eye sockets, to pay the ferryman on the Styx, and carefully arranged the bronze plaque, of which his friend had been so proud. He had prayed to Rufus’s favorite gods and sprinkled fragrant herbs over him. Magnus was glad to honor Rufus with a proper pagan funeral instead of a horrid burial of his body in the ground, where what remained of him would be eaten by worms.
“Centurion, I salute you!”
Magnus touched his chest, then thrust out his arm in the Roman salute. He pulled a burning stick from the campfire and lit the bier. The dry wood caught swiftly, and he moved back as the heat became unbearable, watching the fire purify, until the remains were utterly consumed by flame. Then he sat, praying by the ashes while they cooled, beseeching the Infernal Spirits of the Dead to welcome Rufus. Afterward, Magnus rebuilt the rocky cairn over the ashes, a fitting grave for a soldier who had died doing his duty so far from home.
He stood back and whispered sacred words, “Aeternum vale, Rufus. Sit tibi terra levis … farewell forever, Rufus, brave comrade and loyal friend. Fertile Earth, I beg you, rest lightly upon his bones, so his ashes do not fly into a rage under the burden. Farewell.”
Magnus moved to a log, where a tattered, soggy wig lay drying in the sun. He had found it that morning in the hardened remains of trampled muck and tenderly washed it in the river. His heart was torn asunder by its discovery, for it meant she had been taken by riders. The parched riverbank still preserved a trace of their horses’ tracks. He sat and tried to keep unbidden visions from his mind, terrible thoughts, for he knew what men could do to such a beautiful woman.
“Gigi, I — ” He swallowed, then reached out, caressing the wig with his fingertips. “Oh, my love, do not give up,” he said, his voice strained. “Never give up.”
A wisp of gold, a shimmering thread, gleamed amid the dark tresses: a single hair.
Magnus stared. The gravity of the moment overwhelmed him, and his torn heart started to mend, hope revived. He bent his head in prayer to Victoria. Thank you, thank you for the sign.
He carefully removed the golden strand from the wig, walked to the river, and let it fall from his hand, a sacrifice to Victoria and all the gods.
Choking back his emotions, he watched the swirling waters as he touched the precious locket with Gigi’s hair. And he waited for another sign.
The wind came up, a soft sigh in his ears. He stood there for a long time, listening, but then shook his head. It was merely wind, nothing more.
Dejected, Magnus turned toward his horse … then he heard something faint, a ghostly voice singing in a foreign tongue, “O Geneviève, sweet Geneviève … I see thy face in every dream.”
He tensed, listening to the incomprehensible words, yet recognizing her given name. Hearing it struck him like a thunderbolt. Mighty Jupiter, is that you? Or are you that trickster, Bacchus, come to taunt me? Or Mars, still angry for my refusal to fall on my sword?
The voice faded back to pure wind. But now Magnus realized the source did not matter. It was a divine sign. Gigi was out there, somewhere, waiting for him.
I must find her, Magnus thought, somehow. Even if I must do as Orpheus and follow her to the Underworld to reclaim her, then I shall. I shall do it.
• • •
When the last vestiges of the horse tracks vanished amidst the damnable dust, Magnus lost the trail of Gigi and her captors. Scouring the west, he traveled all the way to Vada Sabatia and nearby Genua, then further south to Pisei, in case she had escaped and ventured to any of the western ports. But no one had seen her. By carrier pigeon, he sent a hopeful message to Uncle Decimus in Capreae. The reply was grim; she had not arrived.
He tried to dull this terrible news with a night of drunkenness, to no avail. The next day, ill, hurting, enraged at the Fates, he started his quest again by heading north, then doubling back across the breadth of western Italia from the sea to the mountains. He spent his days avoiding detection by Roman troops, while searching for any signs of riders, brigands, pilgrims, or merchant caravans. Yet he found no one in the wilderness or on the roads, except for the occasional wandering penitent. The threat of barbarian invasion had put fear in the hearts of all citizens, and most were staying put behind the walls of their cities. Even commerce had ground to a virtual standstill, now that Alaric and his people were on the move.
One morning, sitting at his meager camp, Magnus saw them coming from a long way off. The Visigoths. He knew them well. Although his determination to find Gigi remained as strong as ever, his expectations had dwindled, and he looked forward to seeing familiar faces. Perhaps they would have information.
He mounted Agrippa and met them halfway. The Empire, Capreae, all of his plans were dead to him now. He would go over to the Visigoths eventually, if they would have him, but for now he would continue to devote himself to finding Gigi. He reined in his horse and raised his right hand in greeting. He must ask what they knew and request a parley with Alaric, if he was not too far away.
The Visigoths walked their horses forward, hands touching their curved swords, their eyes scanning Magnus from head to toe
. The man in the lead, a big lout with red hair, moved ahead of the others. His eyes widened as he drew near.
“Luifs Guth — Senator Magnus?” he asked, breaking into a grin.
Nodding wryly, Magnus rubbed his beard. “Hails, Enguld.”
• • •
Alone atop a small rise, Gigi looked toward the setting sun. The few clouds lingering on the horizon were bathed in pink, orange, yellow, and purple. It was glorious, and she longed to be a part of it.
She raised her flute and played what she felt, what called to her from the heavens: “Night and Day.” Hope, passion, abiding love, all set against a backdrop of overwhelming grandeur and beauty. She knew everyone would stop what they were doing and listen, because many thought her musical ability was proof of her nearness to the gods of old.
The last little bit of molten gold sparkled on the horizon and went out. The sun had set, although the sky still held its ambient light. Already bats were flitting around, looking for an evening meal. The wind puffed lazily, billowing the skirt of her priestess robes.
Gigi stopped playing, then touched the mesh bag, feeling the objects it held. The Roman ring, which belonged to her grandfather and Magnus. And Rufus’s ring. Two of those men she would never meet again. But what of the third? Should she hope anymore?
She sighed and turned to leave the hilltop. Below her, a mass of people moved ceaselessly among their tents and wagons, campfires and torches flickering in the coming dusk. Across the narrow valley, beyond the steely ribbon of river bordering the campsite, she could see a group of men on horseback coming in for the night, and another band, to the south, heading out. Lookouts changing watch? Hunting parties? Foragers? Gigi had no idea how they managed to sustain and feed everyone here. It was a constant effort, she knew, and difficult at the best of times. But for now, late in the summer, most seemed content because berries were plentiful, fruit and nuts filled the trees, and the harvests would be coming in soon. Not their harvests, of course. This group never stayed in one place long enough to till the land or plant crops. The grains were requisitioned from farmers far and wide.
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