Return to Me (14 page)

“Hail the Roman Emperor of the West, Flavius Honorius Augustus!”

Honorius swept into the room with Theophanes. Africanus bowed to the emperor and went down on one knee.

“Rise, Titus Africanus.”

He got to his feet and bowed again.

“What are these?” Honorius pointed toward the metal lozenges, which were neatly arranged on the nearest table, along with another object, a rectangular case made from the same dark, smooth substance as the lightning bolt weapon. Unlike the weapon, the case’s surface was reflective and had been scored with indentations in a grid pattern, with a fine tube extending from the side.

Honorius honed in on the case. “This is interesting. Is it another weapon?”

“Forgive us, Great Emperor,” Theophanes cut in, “but I, as yet, do not know. The investigation is ongoing, and I am certain the answer will be found.”

Nodding, Honorius leaned in for a closer look. “We see more of that strange language, Theophanes. Do you know what ‘XTG Technology 2 Year Warranty’ means?”

“No, my lord, but our translators are working day and night to decipher it,” Theophanes said.

Africanus cleared his throat in a bid for attention.

Honorius turned. “Speak.”

“
Venerabilis
, the confounding words may be nonsensical. They could be a magical incantation,” Africanus explained. “Moreover, General Constantius himself discovered that the end of the slim tube fits into the small space on the side of your lightning bolt weapon.”

He turned to Theophanes. “Did you know of this?”

“Indeed.” The man nodded and bowed.

“And yet, you failed to tell us.” Honorius frowned. “Already, too much time has passed. It vexes us that many so-called ‘great’ minds have learned so little.”

Theophanes paled. Honorius smiled, but his gaze had grown deadly.

Africanus took to his knee. “My only desire is to serve you, my lord. What would you have me do next? Your will be done.”

Honorius waved his hand. “Your devotion is admirable, Africanus. Come then, you shall join us, and may God grant the coming moments prove fruitful.”

• • •

Weary from the long day, her joints aching, Dipsas stood in the audience hall. She was alone, but for the scattering of
Germani
guards. The throne beckoned her, the upholstery sumptuous and inviting, but she knew she would be killed on the spot if she dared take a seat.

She gazed into the sky-blue eyes of the nearest guard. He and his brethren were mercenaries, thugs hired by Honorius for protection. They were her distant kinsmen, and ages ago their ancestors had hailed from the same tribe. Yet, she felt no connection to them. She had never, in fact, felt a connection with anyone on this earth but her sister, with whom she shared the rare gift of second sight.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the drift of conversation in the hallway. She closed her eyes and waited, knowing Emperor Honorius approached.

“Ah, Dipsas!” he called out.

She glanced in his direction. He wore a purple toga embroidered with silver threads. His dark hair gleamed beneath a crown of pearls and gold. The tall
legatus
, Titus Africanus, walked a few paces behind. A slave followed them, carrying a bundle of blue silk.

Dipsas immediately perked up, for she guessed the silk was that which Honorius had promised, the dress worn by the flute player.

Honorius sat on his throne and waited. Dipsas took the bundle and shook it out to full length. She could tell the silk gown had once been beautiful, but it was now torn and covered with brown stains.

Excited, Dipsas put it to her nose and breathed.
Blood stains.
The essence of the flute player was here, a part of the fabric. She smelled cedar wood, too, and guessed it came from a storage chest. With the cloth still pressed against her nose, she closed her eyes. Her thoughts crystallized and she saw whirling colors rising like smoke, along with twinkling lights, the precursors of great magic.

Come to me,
she thought.
You who are veiled in mystery. Come and let me see you.

She smiled as the shimmering form of a woman took shape, a beautiful lady holding a golden flute. Dipsas held herself still, not even daring to breathe, as a melody drifted into her thoughts, the tune light and soft, like a bird twittering in the far distance. The music faded, yet she waited until she was convinced it would not come again. She exhaled, then resumed breathing deeply of the fabric, until she conjured another vision, tantalizing, pure and white, someone else, another woman.

No, a statue. Venus.

She turned and looked into Honorius’s eyes, and saw that he discerned her excitement.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Is there a statue of Venus somewhere nearby, O Great One?”

Honorius frowned.

Africanus stepped forward and bowed. “My lord, shall I inquire as to the location of the nearest statue of Venus?”

Honorius opened his mouth to speak, but Dipsas raised her hand. “No need!” she called out, suddenly certain. “I can see her. She is here on the grounds of the palace. In a small garden.”

• • •

As Dipsas neared the garden, the hair on her arms rose. She ignored the others and entered, leaving them to wait on the path. This place, this moment, went well beyond the courtiers’ jaded curiosity and Honorius’s greedy wishes. The garden held secrets, vague and spent, whisperings of the ancient past. Although it was in sore disuse, overgrown and littered with twigs and leaves, this was a sacred spot.

And then Dipsas saw her. Venus. She stood in a pond surrounded by columns. Behind her, a tiny cascade of spring water splashed over green stones. Dipsas plunged her hand into the emerald depths and let her fingers trail through it, enjoying its cool purity. Venus stared down at her, her marble features retaining traces of paint, much faded and stained, yet still quite beautiful. Dipsas knew the goddess originally worshiped here was far older than Venus, perhaps a foreign deity like Isis, or one of the truly ancient ones, like the fat Earth Mother of the skin wearers, whose name had been lost to history.

A breeze picked up, and as the leaves whirled, Dipsas spotted a niche behind the falling water. She bent down to examine it. But for some wet leaves, the niche was empty, and she touched the damp interior, seeking information.

The world suddenly grew distant and cold. Her mind pulled her away from the here and now, to see that which had been.

Moments passed. Long moments, until the stone spoke to her. A man had been here. His things had been hidden in the niche, and then retrieved. A man, but who … ?

She tried to conjure a vision of him, but nothing more came. This did not surprise her; in order for her magic to work, she needed to touch tangible objects, things held by the owner, worn and cherished.

Dipsas struggled to straighten her back and looked into Venus’s painted eyes, her mind shifting to her own needs. “O Divine Lady, I am called Dipsas,” she whispered. “But you know it is not my true name. I am your humble servant Amalaswintha. You are no mere love goddess, as I am no mere witch. No, we are each so much more! Help me, Great One! I seek those who caused the death of my blood kin, my sister, the only one I ever loved, the only one who ever loved me.”

The goddess gazed down at her, serene and unmoving. She would deign to answer all questions in her own time. Patience had its rewards, but Dipsas decided to hasten the path to retribution. She would loose the spell on him, her nephew, the mother-killer.

The blood moon was coming very soon. The time was ripe.

She twisted and looked at the sky, recalling her sister in glorious youth, blond hair flowing, blue eyes glittering hot and cold, a strange, god-sent mingling of fire and ice.

“Randegund,” she cried out. “My Randegund! I, Amalaswintha, shall avenge you!”

Barcelona, Spain

Placidia waited with Athaulf in the cloister of the Basilica of the Holy Cross and St. Eulalia. They wore their wedding attire: she her imperial raiment of purple robes, he a Roman general’s uniform with a fine crimson cloak. She thought back to the day of their formal wedding ceremony, which had taken place at the richly appointed house of one of Narbonne’s leading citizens, Ingenuus. How joyful the ceremony had been! How wonderful the banquet! In those days, the world seemed so full of promise.

She looked up at Athaulf and fought tears. Little Theo continued to haunt her waking moments and her every dream. They were here to honor him and the saint with whom he now dwelt, in sight of God’s Holy Throne.

“St. Eulalia, please accept these gifts. In your memory, we pray. Amen.”

Bishop Sigesar’s voice brought Placidia back around. She looked out at the crowd, then down at the stone pavement before her. Two large dishes rested there, one heaped with gold, the other precious gems. Athaulf’s wedding gifts to her. They would be used to house and care for her gift to this church, a gift which would last for all time.

Honks echoed from beyond the cloister walls. A man with a crook appeared, herding in thirteen white geese. The herdsman was young and handsome, not the old man Placidia had seen in her vision.

She smiled inwardly as the geese scurried in to take up residence. Thirteen geese to represent each year of St. Eulalia’s life. In the future, as each passed from this mortal world, they would be replaced with other perfect white specimens, to honor St. Eulalia’s brief life and holy martyrdom.

May she be remembered for eternity!
Placidia prayed and crossed herself.

Athaulf took her hand and gently squeezed it. She turned and looked into his beautiful hazel eyes. They flickered in the sunlight, jewel-like, flashing green and golden brown.

Her heart lifted and tears welled again. But her grief had been supplanted by a new hope: that they would someday reunite with their beloved son, and live together in the sight of God, at His right hand.

• • •

No one would witness this, not even Honorius. As with her true name, Dipsas chose not to share her secrets with anyone else, for they were hers to keep and guard, taught to her long ago by another of the Gifted Ones, her sister Randegund.

She wiped a tear. The night breeze rose, and the trees whispered to her. The stars sparkled overhead, raining down a soft, pure light.

They whispered, too.
The blood moon is rising, it is rising. The moment has come, and he shall be cursed in his blood and bone, cursed back to dust.

Dipsas waited as the moon rose in the eastern sky. She knew the emperor and his advisors were watching it, too, from the balconies of the palace. Dipsas had prevailed upon Honorius to allow her this time alone, so that the cursing could be done in private and, thereby, be assured of success.

She took a rock from her bag and placed it in the niche behind Venus’s statue. It was an ancient cursing stone, worn smooth from use and rounded by countless hands. She looked up at the moon, round, too, ancient, too, and waited for the eclipse to commence. She saw it then, the sign: a smoky red shadow that appeared on its edge. Slowly, it spread, until half the orb was covered.

The moment had come.

“I, Amalaswintha,” she intoned, “do beseech the gods to curse Athaulf, King of the Visigoths!”

The stars and trees whispered back as she reached down and turned the sacred stone, rotating it in a circle going right to left, toward the sinister side, the left-hand path. Darkness swathed the garden, the moon now fully engulfed in its blood shadow. She did not relent, continuing to chant as she turned the stone ’round and ’round. “I, Amalaswintha, do beseech the gods to curse Athaulf, King of the Visigoths! I, Amalaswintha, do beseech the gods to curse Athaulf, King of the Visigoths! Mother-killer!”

Finally, the moon threw off its curse. At last, the trees and stars fell quiet, to sleep through the deepest part of night. The deed was done.

Exhausted, cradling her sacred stone against her body, Dipsas shuffled from the garden. There were two more curses to make, two more people who must suffer for the death of Randegund, but they could wait until the next blood moon appeared in September.

Summer,
A.D.
415, Near Arles, Southern France

The air was thick with dust, the sky hazy from a hot, dirty breeze that had been torturing the encampment for days. Constantius considered taking a quick dip in the smaller fork of the Rhodanos, where the shallows lessened the current, but pushed the thought away. He was too busy, and, besides, his men and horses were already there, bathing away the grit in shifts. He would let them take their ease without a general in their midst. Nevertheless, he looked forward to a cool swim before bed.

But would he be able to sleep after that? Deep, untroubled sleep had eluded him for days, such were his burdens. It seemed the entire Roman Empire teetered on the brink of disaster.

He untied his filthy neck cloth and slapped it against his knee. A puff of dust rose, and then dissipated. He dunked the cloth into a jug of water, wiped his face, and then dunked it again, before retying it around his neck. The cooling sensation was a relief, enabling him to focus on the map before him. He’d brought his men to this place for a few days’ rest, and he would be loath to leave it, but they needed to push on toward Hispania in the morning, where the Visigoth king lurked, thinking himself safe.

Taking a deep breath, then blowing out hard, Constantius tried to control the sense of urgency that dogged his every waking moment, and plagued what few dreams he’d managed to have.

Placidia.

She had been taken captive and forced to marry his great enemy, the oaf-king, Athaulf.

Constantius slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. He had been promised her hand by Honorius. All the years of tender devotion he’d nursed in his heart for her, and for what? A sullied woman!

He noticed several men casting glances his way, and headed for the banks of the river to be alone with his thoughts. Watching the ebb and flow would ease his tension.