Love, Eternally (22 page)

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.

• • •

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.

With a final glance at the still-glowing horizon, Gigi set off down the hill. She would be needed for chores. Being a priestess did not excuse her from work.

At the main tent, Alaric’s wife, Verica, was busy chopping root vegetables and tossing them into a cauldron hanging from a tripod over the fire. “
Waíla
, Jolie,” Verica said in greeting. “The children were sent to fetch water, but I am afraid they are playing. Please go find them.”

Gigi smiled and started toward the river. She found the kids playing along the bank, covered in mud and having a delightful time.

“Jolie! Jolie!
Waíla
, Jolie!” they called out. “We heard you playing for the dying sun. Will you play for us tonight? That is the best way to go to sleep! Please? Please?”

Verica’s five-year-old, Berga, her blond hair a rat’s nest of curls, grabbed a stick and pretended to play the flute as she scampered around, making little squeaking noises.

“No promises until you’ve all washed up — right now!” Gigi tried to sound stern. “It’s getting too dark to be out here alone, and your mother is waiting for the water.” She spotted the king’s eldest son, Theodoric. “Theo, get the others out of the water. If you all don’t hurry, I won’t be able to play for you for a week, because you’ll be in so much trouble.”

The kids giggled at her dire words, but Theo urged them on and they picked up the buckets without any more stalling. As Berga struggled up the short embankment, Gigi took the bucket from her, noticing her half-hearted attempt at washing herself. The girl still carried the river’s mud on her face and hands.

Gigi smiled. “I’ll give you a rest today, because you have such skinny little arms.”

“
Thags
, Jolie, but they are very strong,” Berga countered. She grasped Gigi around the knees, squeezing with all her might. “See?”

Gigi shut her eyes and groaned, then looked down at her once-white dress. “Ahh,” she hollered, “get off me, you little mud hen!”

Laughing, the kids pointed at the mess Berga had made, and Gigi could only shake her head and chase them back toward camp.

As they scampered on ahead, Gigi slowed to a walk, humming. The sky held the last vestiges of daylight, the horizon a lavender glow. She could see a group of men standing by the fire, Alaric, Athaulf, others, which was unusual given that dinner wouldn’t be ready for some time. Then she noticed Verica standing with the men, too. Randegund, however, stood apart, scowling as she tended the food, her back to everyone. Again, unusual.

Gigi wrinkled her brow, wondering what the gathering was all about, and tried to guess why they wore such serious expressions. A knot of fear formed in the pit of her stomach. Was there trouble? She started to hurry.

The group shifted slightly, and Gigi spotted a tall, grubby-looking man with a short, heavy beard. In that instant, Alaric and the stranger grasped each other’s forearms, serious expressions turning to smiles, and Verica laughed out loud. Then, so did the man.

Gigi dropped her bucket and stood, frozen with shock. They all turned to look as the water poured out, soaking her feet.

She
knew
that laugh … that turn of the head … that man.