Love, Eternally (20 page)

A smattering of mumbled agreement swept through the crowd.

“Senators,” he boomed, daubing his forehead again. “What say you? What is your decree upon this man, this proven traitor?”

Not a sound. The room seemed frozen in the moment.

“Priscus Attalus?”

Attalus steadily returned his gaze. “Not guilty.”

Honorius sensed the wave of shock sweeping over the gathering. How dare Attalus defy him? The miserable wretch, his pagan rebelliousness was intolerable. Honorius was God’s Anointed, His Chosen One. No one defied him and lived.

He ground his teeth, making sure his demeanor showed unconcern, before continuing, “General Constantius, how do you declare in this case?”

The man’s ugly, bulging eyes showed anger, as if he too would defy.

Choking back his fury, Honorius watched as Constantius exchanged a long look with Stilicho. The men knew each other well, for both hailed from the East and had fought together since the days of their youth in the campaigns of his father’s reign. Quickly assessing the crowd, Honorius saw the blatant scowls of the malcontents. He realized this was the moment; Constantius’s submission was pivotal.

Honorius drew himself up, crying out, “Flavius Constantius, how do you declare?”

The general turned, but wouldn’t meet his gaze.

There it was — the unmistakable precursor, the mark of shame, Constantius’s defeat and his gain.

“
Abyssus abyssum invocat
,” Honorius sneered. Hell calls to hell.
Yet you must know this hell is preferable
, he thought,
for if you defy me, you bring eternal damnation upon yourself.

Feigning impatience, Honorius tapped his foot.

Constantius swallowed, clearing his throat, choking on his words, “He is … guilty.”

Oho, sweet victory!

Honorius called on every senator, every general, and to a man, the rest condemned Stilicho. The only blemish on the proceedings, besides Attalus’s defiance, was the absence of Magnus, under house arrest since his failure to capture the slave, Gigiperrin. How Honorius would have loved to force Magnus’s hand in this. Would he have been like Constantius and the others, siding with his emperor to preserve his standing at court? Or would he have defended his old friend and comrade-in-arms, General Stilicho, and so endanger his own existence? Oh, it would have been such an interesting moment.

Honorius faced the condemned man. “Flavius Stilicho the Vandal, you have been found guilty of traitorous actions by your peers, and the sentence for that is death.” As Thermantia and little Eucherius wailed as one, Honorius continued, “and we decree the deed shall be done by your friend. Heraclian shall strike off your head tomorrow at dawn.”

Very pleased with the drama of the moment, Honorius walked past Stilicho’s family, gloating. Serena glowered at him while her remaining children wept, making him reckless with glee.

“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.

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:

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 arrivals 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.