Love, Eternally (21 page)

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.

In desperation, Magnus dove behind a pile of wooden crates just as several people came into view. Heart pumping, he waited and watched. The public show was over, and people were streaming home, excited, chattering, paying little attention to their familiar, dreary surroundings. An old man turned into the alley and fumbled with a key, trying to find the keyhole in the semi-darkness.

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.”

“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.

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.