Authors: Morgan O'Neill
“She is so grown up, so beautiful,” Gigi said. “Like her mother.”
“Thank you. She is my delight.”
As Verica resumed her work, it occurred to Gigi that, whether curly or straight, the women all had generally the same length hair — not quite to mid-back. She recalled King Alaric’s funeral, four years earlier, and how the women of his family, even Placidia, had all followed an ancient pagan ritual of shearing their hair to the scalp and tossing the shorn tresses onto the funeral bier. The last time she’d seen any of them was that night, their heads bald and ugly, grief haunting every gaze. Magnus’s kidnapping happened that night, too, as well as her flight to save him … and her last encounter with Randegund.
More than ever, Gigi was convinced the horrible old crow was dead. Sitting straighter, she tried to keep the tone of her voice neutral. “How is your mother, Verica? I haven’t seen her.”
Verica put her work aside and looked at Gigi with an expression that spoke equally of sadness, shame, and uncertainty.
“We lost all three of you the night of Alaric’s funeral,” she said. “Mother had given me a draught for sleeping, so my recollection is hazy. I’m told Athaulf cursed her for what she’d done to Magnus, and sent her from our tent. We never saw her again, never found any trace of her.” Verica shivered. “The wolves were out that night because of the … er, because of the cold, but Athaulf didn’t worry about her, because he never suspected that she would go outside camp.”
Gigi remembered something else about that night, something horrible: the slaughter of the slaves. She shivered, and then glanced at Placidia, who kept her eyes on her work. Apparently no one had told her of Athaulf’s order to murder all the innocents who’d helped to bury King Alaric, thus ensuring his grave would never be found and desecrated by his enemies. She wondered about the wolves, but didn’t remember hearing any that night, only Randegund’s evil cackle. The old witch had drugged Magnus and handed him over to Roman soldiers, then ambushed Gigi on order to steal Magnus’s precious ring.
If the wolves got her, Gigi sure wasn’t going to cry about it.
“But even wolves leave traces,” Verica continued in a faraway voice, “and yet there was nothing. It snowed that night, but there was no sign of struggle, no blood. It is my belief that she could not bear to leave Alaric, her foster son and the one she loved above all others, so she went back to the river and joined him.”
And good riddance!
Gigi couldn’t help thinking, wanting desperately to change the subject. Instead, she said, “I’m very sorry, Verica. It was a terrible time.”
Nodding, Verica stood and shook out her skirt. “It was terrible, but things are better now, excepting poor Theo, God rest his soul.” Both she and Placidia crossed themselves, before Verica resumed, “My heart has begun to heal, my children are well, and we have a home for our people, at last.”
“You do look wonderful,” Gigi offered.
Verica laughed at this. “Haven’t you noticed? I am getting gray.”
Gigi had seen silver strands amid the dowager queen’s blond tresses, but to her they looked like gorgeous platinum highlights. “You look even more radiant than before. Is there a secret?”
Placidia looked up at Verica and smiled.
Verica laughed again. “There may be a certain someone, if that’s what you’re trying to pry out of me.”
“Good!” Gigi exclaimed. “Tell me everything.”
Verica flushed like a schoolgirl. “His name is Frideger. He is a distant cousin to Alaric, but has lived mostly in the region of the Danubius. He came with men to help us fight the wars against Jovinus.”
“And he stayed … for you?”
Verica nodded, little crinkles of happiness showing at the corners of her eyes. “He asked Athaulf for my hand, and Athaulf consented. We were to be married after Christmas, but of course it has been delayed.” She glanced at Placidia, who took her hand and nodded to her with a smile.
“Will you stay here, in Barcino?” Gigi asked.
“No. Athaulf has asked that we return to Narbonne, to hold the city for the Visigoths,” Verica replied. “It will be our great honor. Narbonne is a beautiful town, and not too far from here. We will marry this summer, I think, and then we will go. I am very happy.”
Delighted, Gigi hugged Verica. “You deserve to be happy, Verica, for all you’ve done and given for your family and for your people. You deserve this.”
Placidia joined them, hugging them both. “I am glad for your happiness, Verica,” she said, before tears filled her eyes. “Now … I would ask your forgiveness,” she added, wiping her eyes. “I, I must be alone.”
Gigi and Verica bowed to the queen, gathered up the girls, and left.
Placidia’s grief had resurfaced, and Gigi ached for her friend, feeling helpless as she left the palace and headed for home.
• • •
Placidia bade her entourage wait outside the Basilica of the Holy Cross and St. Eulalia, for she needed to be alone with her thoughts. She entered the cloister and sat on a stone bench. The rain had stopped, the clouds parting. She turned her face up, toward the blue sky, seeking warmth in a world grown cold and dark. She closed her eyes and thought of Marga, her little angel.
If not for her, Placidia feared she might yet commit a grave sin.
No, no, she could not. She must live for Marga.
Yet, without Theo …
She heard a voice call out to her and she opened her eyes. A man stood before her, a peasant with a kindly face and snow-white hair. He held a crook. “Geese,” he called out to her, “white ones, pure as snow.”
Placidia stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Please explain.”
“Thirteen,” he responded. “One for each year of her life. She is with him, you know. She has joined your mother in this, and together they will watch over him.”
Placidia awakened with a start. The rains had begun again, a heavy mist falling from above, like a veil of tears soft against her cheeks. She rose from the bench and looked up. Through the clouds, she spied a wisp of light, a hint of sunshine amidst the storm.
As her own tears fell and mingled with the rain, she whispered, “St. Eulalia, blessed lady, I understand. Thank you. I will honor you.”
She walked inside the basilica and knelt before a marble sarcophagus. She bent her head and prayed for herself, her family, and her dearly departed.
• • •
The rain had not let up. Despite her heavy wool cloak, Gigi was cold and damp as she entered her villa. She felt so sorry for Placidia, but she didn’t know how to ease her pain over the loss of Theo. Gigi’s only comfort was in knowing she and Magnus would do everything in their power to save Marga and the other children.
She found her steward in the foyer, waiting for her with a cup of heated wine. Gigi thanked him as he escorted her to the dining hall, the room warmed by several glowing braziers.
“My lady, I will fetch your husband,” the steward said.
Gigi sipped the wine, then, still feeling cold, she held her hands before the nearest brazier. Magnus entered the room moments later. He was wearing a new tunic of blue brocade, which perfectly matched the color of his eyes.
“You are late,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her throat. “I am very hungry, but first … we must eat some food.”
She laughed, her mood lifting as he led her toward a pair of Roman sofas.
Reclining, they ate a wonderful meal of grilled lobster drenched in a buttery sauce, which they daubed with big, sinful hunks of fresh rosemary bread.
When they were finally done, Gigi got up and sat by Magnus’s side. She touched his lips with the tip of her finger and gazed at his beautiful eyes. “I love you.”
He smiled. “Would you like another glass of wine,” he asked, “or should we just hold each other and make passionate love, then drift off, forcing the world to fend for itself for the rest of the evening?”
Gigi grinned. “I’d like some more wine, and all of the rest, but I want to share some hopeful news first.”
“What news?”
“Verica’s engaged to Frideger. Do you know him? Athaulf wants them to live in Narbonne.”
“Yes, I have met Frideger. I’m happy for her, and it’s a wise decision by Athaulf.”
Gigi could sense he hadn’t realized the full impact of the news. “That means her children will be safe.”
Magnus’s eyes widened. “Of course! That is very good news, indeed. Since history recorded that Theodoric would become king of the Visigoths, we knew he had survived. It is a relief to know the other children will be protected by Frideger’s sword and will doubtless survive, too.”
“Now we’ll just have to convince Athaulf and Placidia to let us take their kids, so that we can protect them, too.”
“Still a very tall order. Would you allow your children to be taken away, forever?”
“That’s why I’m convinced the only way is to tell them the truth, the whole truth. We have to find the right time, and soon. We have to convince them it’s the only way.”
Magnus considered this for a moment, and then shook his head. “We can’t tell them how much we know of the future — certainly not that Athaulf is supposed to die this year. They would think it sorcery, or that we have lost our wits. I have decided I must do whatever it takes to protect Athaulf, the course of history be damned. I will not stand by and let his slayer act, unhindered. But Athaulf and Placidia cannot know of this, not yet. We must think this through and plan accordingly. For now, the children’s best protection, and my first priority, is to save Athaulf.”
Gigi watched as concern clouded Magnus’s expression. This was a risky plan, and the course of history would be changed, but he was right. They had to keep their secret and fight against the future they knew. If they failed, then and only then could they tell Placidia the truth of where they’d been the past four years, and why they’d come back.
She shook her head as she thought of Placidia’s current heartache and all the heartache yet to come.
Magnus gently took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Come, my sweet,” he said. “Let me hold you.”
“Yes, hold me,” Gigi whispered. “Promise you will hold me forever and never let me go.”
He folded her in his arms. “I promise I will never let you go.”
Ravenna, Italy
Dipsas stood in the baptistery, staring at the pulpit. Something strange, well beyond her ken, had happened here.
The emperor watched her, his dark brown eyes hooded, suspicious. She wasn’t concerned about him, however. She would prove her worth.
“You say, O Great One, that your flutist, one Horace, disappeared, and the woman, another flutist, appeared to take his place?”
Honorius nodded, and then turned to his axe-bearing guards. “Out,” he ordered them. “We wish to be alone with Dipsas. We would speak to her in private.”
They obeyed without question. She walked to the pulpit and placed her hands upon it, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“What do you see?” Honorius asked.
There was very little, really, just a whirl of stars, mere pinpricks, as if she had bent over too fast and then righted herself. She sighed in frustration, but she knew patience was necessary, and if she waited, something would come.
Breathing deeply, she let her thoughts coalesce, and slowly a shape took form, a woman rising from the glittering mist. Dipsas kept her eyes closed and concentrated, but the figure remained maddeningly indistinct, like a faded memory.
She opened her eyes. “O Great One, do you have anything that belonged to her?”
Honorius nodded. “A ring and … indeed, we think someone must still have the gown she wore.”
“Command the gown be brought to me,” Dipsas said. “I shall learn more once I have touched that which knew the warmth of her body.”
“Will you be able to tell us where she was born? We shall lavish great riches upon you if you could also find out where she and Magnus hid for four years.”
Dipsas stroked the edge of the marble pulpit, so smooth and cool to the touch. “I do not need riches,” she demurred. “Serving you is reward enough, my lord.”
But that was a lie. Hiding her smile, she glanced at Honorius. He gloated in her flattery, feeling powerful, but this was mere illusion.
She thought of the world and all its denizens. The emperor would be dust soon enough. As would they all.
• • •
Africanus had spent grueling days going over every detail he knew about Magnus and Gigiperrin’s near capture and escape. He’d been grilled by Honorius and his advisors regarding their strange possessions. And he had watched the emperor use the so-called lightning bolt weapon on prisoners and slaves. He’d also shown him detailed drawings of the body of the soldier who had been killed by the other weapon — a weapon that had produced a sound like thunder and ripped through the man’s chest, killing him instantly.
Unimaginable weapons of lightning and thunder. Honorius had been gleeful as he speculated how they might turn the tide and help Roman soldiers win back territories so recently lost to the barbarous hordes. In hearing this, Africanus’s heart swelled with pride in knowing he had played a part in such a great endeavor. Woe be to Rome’s enemies!
He waited in the depths of the palace, in the realm of the magicians. He felt uncomfortable here, for it was dark and smelled poisonous, like sulfur. He watched as several of Honorius’s advisors examined the boxes that had contained dozens of small, bronze, lozenge-shaped objects. Hard, cold, and without scent, the lozenges had confounded everyone so far, and the boxes were in themselves strange and wondrous; they appeared to be made of something akin to papyrus, but not. In fact, the substance was of an unknown origin, better than papyrus in that it was quite strong and held its shape. Moreover, it was covered with an amazingly life-like painting of the object, the colored paint and writing highly resistant to water and other despoliations.
Africanus recalled every word and number he had seen in that indecipherable writing, having pondered it again and again, to no avail: “Independence. 50 centerfire pistol cartridges 45 auto.”
What could it mean? What was their function? If he could but unlock these secrets! Africanus clenched his fists in frustration.