Authors: Morgan O'Neill
Her hands shook, and she cursed herself — jelly fingers! It took precious moments before she willed a semblance of composure and started to play. A few off-key notes issued from the flute, and she summoned all of her willpower to blow true.
Music filled the room, clear and lively, and she played on, gaining confidence, hoping, hoping, the air whirling with color. She heard an answering call and paused briefly to hear the faint sound of another flute, then began again with relish.
Magnus held her, his eyes wide with astonishment. Her gaze darted toward the watchman, who had fallen to his knees, then down at the door where a group of Roman soldiers stood, mouths open, staring up at them.
As the air around her twinkled, the other flutist matched her note for note, the melodies merging, beautiful, electrifying. Suddenly, Gigi saw the other player, a man in a garish purple toga, his fingers flashing gold, his flute silver. In the next instant, he vanished and she heard a solitary cry pierce the air.
Play! Play!
She squeezed her eyes shut, frantically played. But she felt nothing like before, no roaring, no floor giving way.
Play harder!
The notes were shrill, like a shriek or an agonizing wail, a pitiful prayer, and in desperation she played on and on.
Suddenly, Magnus let go and fell back against the pulpit.
No, no!
Devastated, Gigi dropped her flute and grasped at him in fear, clutching him in farewell, weeping. She knew death was imminent — or worse, that they would face Honorius again, very, very soon.
She blinked away her tears and saw sunshine bathing Magnus in its glow, a last, beautiful moment of life in his arms.
“I love you, Magnus. I love you.”
He opened his eyes, then glanced over her shoulder and frowned, clearly sensing something.
She cringed and listened for the soldiers’ footsteps, then caught her breath, hearing instead the unmistakable sounds of …
traffic?
Gigi stared at Magnus.
Could it possibly be?
Turning toward the entrance, she saw the kiosk and modern doorway, sunlight streaming in through the open door.
“Oh, my God.”
Hardly daring to believe, Gigi willed herself to accept the truth her senses were proclaiming — this was real!
“I, I think we made it,” she stammered. A wave of relief swept over her, and she started to help Magnus to his feet, but to her horror, his skin felt even colder than before, and his teeth were chattering again.
The sword dropped from Magnus’s hand, clattering on the floor, and he grimaced, then groaned and leaned against her. She had to get him help quickly. Using what little strength she had left, she supported him and they stumbled from the building.
As they entered the day-lit garden, time seemed to flesh out, capturing and holding them in the present, her present. Gigi took one deep breath after another, reveling in the modern scents of café food and vehicle exhaust, hearing the wonderful cacophony of mopeds and horns honking and rock music blasting from a car stereo.
Home
, her mind soared.
Home!
A group of women tourists surged forward, waving cameras and chattering in English. They stopped short when they saw Gigi and Magnus.
“Brilliant!” one exclaimed, her British accent thick. “Are we in time for a reenactment?”
The ladies began talking all at once and it took a long moment for Gigi to adjust to their spate of rapid-fire English.
Just as she was about to open her mouth, one of them stepped forward and spoke above the rest, “What in the world is she wearing beneath her shawl — burlap? If you ask me, neither of them looks very authentic, not like Horace. I want my picture taken with Horace.” She looked down her nose at Magnus. “Dear Lord, is he drunk?”
“No, he’s not drunk!” Gigi flared. “He’s been injured and needs help. Do any of you have a cell phone?”
Eyebrows shot up all around, but before the ladies could react further, Magnus lost his footing and tumbled down. Crying out, Gigi fell to her knees beside him, then noticed her hands were covered in fresh blood. Several of the women screamed, drawing passersby from every direction.
“Call 911!” Gigi yelled. Holding Magnus, she heard frantic conversations in Italian, French, Japanese, and then English again, with someone shouting above the others, “Call 311 — it’s 311 in Italy!”
A white-haired woman suddenly pushed through the crowd and knelt beside Gigi. “
Signorina
, I am a physician,” she said in accented English. “I have called the hospital and an ambulance is on the way.” She touched Magnus’s throat, feeling for a pulse, then lifted an eyelid to examine his pupil. Magnus blinked, which reassured Gigi he was still alive.
“Did he fall? Can he move his legs?” the doctor asked.
Gigi nodded. “He was cut and, and poisoned … given belladonna … and something to make him bleed.”
The woman gaped at her, then shook her head and started checking his bandages. Sirens blared, police vans and an ambulance arrived, and the crowd was moved back.
“Signorina, andatevene!”
an emergency worker said, pushing Gigi aside as they wheeled in a gurney.
The physician spoke quietly to them, and Gigi heaved a sigh.
He’s going to live, he’s okay,
she kept telling herself as she watched them set up an IV in Magnus’s arm.
He’s safe now, he’s going to make it.
She followed Magnus to the ambulance and got inside, forgetting to thank the doctor who had done so much for him. One of the English women ran up and shoved the flute and sword at her. “Are these yours? I found them — ”
Sirens started again, and Gigi mouthed “thank you” and took their things, just as the medics closed the doors.
She reached for Magnus’s hand. It felt warmer, and she heard him draw breath, a deep sigh. Suddenly, her tensions eased and she rested her head on his chest, exhausted, relieved. They were finally beyond Honorius’s reach, somewhere he could never threaten them again. Gigi smiled, the bastard was dead, long dead, and they were here, alive.
She listened to Magnus’s beating heart and realized all she had been through had a purpose, now that she’d brought him to her world, to safety — and freedom.
“I love you, Magnus. You’re going to live. You’ll be fine,” she whispered to him, not expecting a response.
He squeezed her hand.
Winter,
A.D.
411, Hadrian’s Villa
At Hadrian’s Villa, in the craggy hills east of Rome, Placidia stood wrapped in a heavy cloak. At long last, she felt a measure of contentment. “It eases my heart to see our people well housed and well fed, if only for a brief while.”
Elpidia shivered. “I would like it even better if you would take yourself inside, for some warmth and a bit of food.”
Placidia smiled. “I told Athaulf I would meet him here. We enjoy watching the sun set over the reflecting pool. Go on and get your meal. There are guards everywhere. I’ll be all right — there, you see, he’s already here!”
Placidia waved happily as her handsome husband strode toward her. His smile, the way his eyes danced when he looked at her, the way his athletic body moved, everything about him worked a spell on her, every time she saw him.
The sound of hooves interrupted her thoughts, but she was used to this. Although Athaulf’s kingship was still new and the demands on him constant, he was a natural leader, who took great pride in caring for his people. She watched as a small group of horsemen clambered to a stop. As they dismounted, Placidia saw a thin girl near her own age, sitting behind one of the riders. When Athaulf approached and the girl was helped down, she dropped to her knees. He raised her up, and together they spoke in hushed tones.
More news from afar,
Placidia thought, curious as to the stranger’s identity.
“Whoever she is, it’s clear she hasn’t brought good news,” Elpidia grumbled, as she turned to leave. “Another of Honorius’s victims having to beg for food, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Placidia didn’t comment as she watched Athaulf and the girl break away from the horsemen and walk toward her. She was blond and tall, with the look of the
Germani
people, yet there was something else Placidia couldn’t put her finger on, something familiar … her clothes!
Placidia rushed forward and took the girl by the shoulders, immediately noticing the slave collar and nasty brand on her forehead. “You are wearing Gigi’s clothing!” she exclaimed. “Who are you? What happened to Gigi?”
Once again, the girl sank to her knees, this time a great sob tearing from her chest. “Vana. I am Vana. I am … I was a slave at the palace and knew Gigi well. I saw her come in one night, many days ago. She gave me her clothes and some coin. She told me I was free, to escape while I could, and bade me find you here. I swear it!”
Placidia fought panic, sank to her knees, and wrapped her arms around Vana’s shoulders. “You are safe now, safe with us,” she said, managing to control her voice. “You are free. But tell me, do you know anything more about Gigi, or her husband, Magnus? We hope they may find their way here, too, very soon. We look for them daily.”
Vana’s shoulders shook as her sobbing increased. “She … was going to find Honorius that night. I did not know why, although now I know it was to save Magnus. I left the palace kitchen, as Gigi ordered. I ran and, thank God, I escaped Ravenna.”
Trembling, Placidia rose and tried to pull Vana to her feet. “Where are Gigi and Magnus?” she asked again, but the girl’s agony redoubled, robbing her of speech.
Placidia felt a chill and looked at Athaulf, reading the dread in his eyes. As one, they again knelt beside Vana.
“Tell us,” Athaulf coaxed, “tell us what you know.”
“There was a great commotion the following morning. I was already in the countryside, but even there everyone spoke of it. They said all Ravenna was celebrating, and Honorius was heaping great honors upon a general … one Sarus, because … he, he delivered Magnus and Gigi to the palace — ”
“Oh, my God, no!” Sobs caught in Placidia’s throat, tears welled in her eyes. “Are they, will they be executed? I must write to my brother — ”
“No! It is said there was a chase, and this general cornered them in a shack. When they refused to come out, he,” Vana covered her eyes, keening, hardly able to form the words, “he burnt it down around them, then delivered … God help us all … delivered the charred corpses to Honorius.”
“No!” Placidia screamed. Sagging into Athaulf’s arms, she sobbed. “No, no, no!” Dreadful words played and replayed in her mind as though screaming at her, mocking her:
Delivered the charred corpses, delivered the charred corpses …
Then, another voice, her husband’s anguished voice, quieted them, if only for a moment. Coming to her ears, as though from a great distance, she heard, “By God, Sarus will pay for this. I swear before God, he will not see another spring.”
Time became meaningless for Placidia as horror dimmed the world around her, as grief engulfed her and dragged her into dark oblivion.
Present Day, Ravenna, Italy
Hiding behind sunglasses and a dark wig, Gigi fortified herself with two Bloody Marys at a bar near the hospital, where Magnus was recovering. So far, no one knew she was back except her manager, Jack, and her parents, who were en route from Seattle.
Clutching her new flute case, she purchased her ticket to the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia. Her flute was examined as she passed through security, but then they waved her on. With a deep breath, she hurried after the guide and other tourists toward the entrance of the rather plain-looking brick structure.
“As you will see,” the tour guide said as he entered, his voice echoing, “the interior is breathtaking, perhaps the most beautiful in the world, even more so than Ravenna’s other golden mosaics, which were said to inspire such literary luminaries as Dante and Yeats. In fact, this ceiling was the inspiration for Cole Porter's beautiful song, “Night and Day.” The mausoleum was originally part of a much larger structure, the Church of the Holy Cross, which fell into ruin long ago. What remains is called a mausoleum, but historians believe it was originally the oratory of the Holy Cross. It is said to contain the most perfectly preserved mosaic ceiling from the ancient world, hence our designation as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”
Removing her sunglasses, Gigi stepped over the threshold and looked up, captivated by the gorgeous gold and blue mosaics of stars and angels. Nothing could have prepared her for the impact of seeing this place in person. She thought back, remembering another ceiling depicting the night sky, and the lovely, dark-haired young woman standing beneath it, so vibrant and alive.
Placidia. Tears threatened, and Gigi could feel her presence still, remembering the warmth of her smile, her brave heart.
What happened to you?
she wondered.
Did you grow old with Athaulf, sharing your love for years? Did you have children?
Gigi had no idea — yet. And what of the others? Verica? Little Berga and the boys? With a tremor of expectation, she willed her thoughts back through time, hoping somehow she had made a difference for them as well.
She’d been holed up with Magnus in his hospital room since their arrival, but once he was out of danger — and at his urging — she’d decided to give herself this gift of time and knowledge.
A shuffling of feet and fading conversation brought Gigi around, and she realized the tour group was moving away from her. She started after them, straining to hear the guide.
“Look at the light, how the translucent mica in the windows casts an amber glow on the room,” he was saying. “Wonderful, isn’t it? And now, let us examine some of the mausoleum’s other treasures, our three marble sarcophagi, precious relics of ancient Rome! You will notice they are plain, bearing no insignia except
Alpha Christus Omega
, signifying ‘Christ is the Beginning and the End.’ Scholars believe the central sarcophagus contained the remains of Galla Placidia.”