Return to Me (5 page)

Bassa reached the third-floor landing and searched the hall, getting his bearings. Harbor side. The door to the room stood ajar. He treaded softly. The brazier’s coals gave off a feeble glow; just enough to see two forms nestled beneath the covers. They were still, their breathing deep, even. He closed the door, moved to the bed, and stared down at the larger figure.

Bassa raised his blade, made sure of his angle, and plunged it into the man’s flesh. Luck was with him and it hit true, causing instant death.

He pulled out the knife and raised it once more, but the woman suddenly thrashed to life and let out a shriek. Bassa leapt upon her, covering her mouth with one hand, his knife piercing her eye and brain with the other.

Her body went limp. He threw the blanket over the corpses and raced out the door. The coins banged against his balls as he left the inn and headed for the whorehouse.

• • •

Gigi held Placidia’s infant son. He was so sweet, a little peanut with big, blue eyes and a smile that reminded her of Athaulf’s youngest daughter, Rosenda …

A scream of terror rent the air and was cut short.

Awakening with a start, Gigi sat upright, breathing hard, and tried to make sense of the sound.

Magnus yanked her out of bed. “That was meant for us. The window — open the window!”

Gigi threw back the curtains and opened the shutters as Magnus grabbed their gear and leaned out, letting their leather knapsacks and cloaks drop onto the stable roof.

Damn!
The .45 was in her bag, so was the stun gun. They would do her no good for the moment. Thank goodness they’d kept their blades in their belts!

Magnus held onto the window ledge and lowered himself outside, then dropped the few feet to the tiled roof below. Gigi did the same, easing into his outstretched arms before her feet touched down. They sat and slipped to the edge, then repeated what they’d done at the window.

The stable boy opened the door a crack and hoarsely whispered, “Who’s there?”

Magnus wedged his foot into the doorway before the boy could shut himself in, and spoke softly, “There has been a murder inside tonight, and I hope to the gods you did not forget to keep our horses saddled.”

“They are ready, sir,” the boy said, his voice squeaking with fright. “I, I heard the scream. I am most grateful it wasn’t you, sir.”

Gigi hurried past him and headed for their horses. Taking their leads, she brought them to the main door as her husband pressed a pouch of coins into the boy’s hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” she urgently whispered, desperate to get away.

“You must leave this place, lad,” Magnus warned. “They’ll torture you to find out where we’ve gone, whether you know or not.”

“But his family … they’ll go after his family, too,” Gigi said.

Wide-eyed, the boy stared at the pouch. “I have no family.”

“Then go now and never return,” Magnus ordered.

As he dashed off, Gigi and Magnus mounted their horses and raced away. She hoped the stable boy would escape. She didn’t want him to suffer for helping them, like the bald man certainly had.

Gigi closed her mind to dark thoughts and concentrated on staying on her horse. Portus to Barcelona by land. It had to be a thousand miles, maybe more. How long would that take in the best of circumstances? How long would it take in the worst? She entwined her fingers through her mare’s mane and bent over its neck. They were flying through town, making enough noise to raise the dead, but thankfully it was very late and no one seemed to care.

Soon, the gate and Portus lay behind them, open country and myriad back roads before them. They made less noise out here, hooves beating against packed dirt, two shadow figures riding low as they galloped into the moonless night.

• • •

Africanus was livid. They were dead! He’d given strict orders Magnus and his wife were to be captured and brought alive to Ravenna, to suffer and die at Honorius’s whim. But a lone, idiot assassin had killed them in their sleep, and now, he, Africanus, would pay for the bungler’s mistake!

Bassa, you fucking Thracian, may you be cursed to the deepest pit of Hades!
Africanus had strangled him that morning. Would Honorius mete out the same punishment to him when he delivered the news of this colossal failure?

It had taken Africanus a day to be notified, another to reach Portus. Wretched fate! His fury only increased as he strode toward the inn, a troop of legionnaires marching behind. Leaving his men on the street, he and his second-in-command entered. The owner and his staff nervously waited inside.

“Where are the bodies?” Africanus bellowed.

The innkeeper blanched, then turned and sprinted up the stairs. Africanus and his officer followed him to a third-story room.

The bodies lay on the bed, hidden by a bloody blanket, the open windows doing nothing to alleviate the stench of death. Africanus tried to lift the blanket, but it stuck to the remains. He signaled to his officer for help, and together they peeled back the covers. The corpses had already started to darken and bloat. They were twisted into grotesque poses, the woman’s mouth frozen in a silent scream.

The innkeeper gagged and ran from the room.

Africanus stood and stared. Praise all the gods; it was not Quintus Magnus or his wife! Smiling at his second-in-command, he left the room.

The innkeeper waited in the hall, visibly shaking. “Sir?”

“What is it?” Africanus bluntly asked.

“Did you find those you sought?”

Africanus exchanged a glance with his officer. “No. The dead are not the
legatus
and his wife.”

The innkeeper pursed his lips. “Then I have something to show you, sir.”

Africanus and his second-in-command followed the man downstairs, to a second-story room. Inside, lay an abandoned
legatus
uniform.

“I was baffled to find this here, and you might also be interested to know my stable boy has disappeared,” the innkeeper said. “I believe — ”

“They switched rooms,” Africanus finished for him. He looked at the open window. “Was the murder noisy?”

“Very much so. The woman screamed.”

“Then they left by the window as soon as they heard the commotion. They probably got horses from your missing stable boy, and are certainly long gone by now.”

Africanus stared at the window, thinking. He would find out exactly where they were heading. It wouldn’t be difficult. Tongues were probably already wagging in this town. Soon they would be wagging for him, spilling the truth by means of bribery or force — the method mattered not.

He grinned and good naturedly smacked the innkeeper on the shoulder. He had his life back. From now on, he would personally hunt Magnus and his wife. He would never let the task fall to anyone else, not ever again.

The Castle, Barcelona, Spain

Barcino’s
castellum
was sheltered by the town’s great Roman walls, but it was close to the sea and, therefore, damp in winter. Placidia wondered if she would get used to this, having spent many months in Gaul, in the city of Narbonne, which was slightly inland. She rubbed her belly, feeling her babe stir. Narbonne would always have a special place in her heart, for this child had been conceived there, and it was the place where her official marriage to Athaulf had taken place. It had been a sumptuous royal affair, not especially to her taste. She much preferred the intimacy of their first ceremony, so warm and loving, celebrated among the tents of the Visigoths.

A guard knocked, then entered her chambers and bowed low. “O most gracious Queen of the Visigoths, the nurse Elpidia requests an audience with you.”

“Please tell her she may enter.”

Oh, dear Lord.
Placidia shook her head at the formality of this place, which was almost as rigid as the royal court in Ravenna. How she longed for the freedom she’d enjoyed in the Visigoth camp.

Her old nurse hobbled in and Placidia patted the seat beside her. “Dearest Elpidia,” she said. “Sit down beside me and enjoy the warmth from the brazier.”

“How are your back pains?”

“Much better. Thank you.”

“It won’t be long before we’ve a little babe to fawn over,” Elpidia said, smiling. She moved slowly, lowering herself onto the bench.

Placidia picked up the jar of scented cream her nurse commonly used to ease pain, then shifted, resettling her belly so she could reach the old woman. “Give me your poor hands.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Elpidia replied, tucking her hands into her lap.

Placidia smiled. “You have served me since before I can remember. It would be my honor to give you some moments of pleasure. I know your hands, knotted as they are, pain you more than you let on, so if I must, then I make it a command. Give me your hands.”

Elpidia shook her head, but a smile belied her acquiescence. Stretching forth first one hand, and then the other, she closed her eyes and moaned with pleasure and relief as Placidia worked in the cream.

Kneading each swollen knuckle, massaging the muscles, Placidia was happy to give comfort in some small way. Her nurse, who’d always seemed old to her, was truly elderly now. Living in tents with the Visigoths over the last four years, while traveling almost constantly, had taken its toll. Placidia was glad, however, that in the poor woman’s decline, she might yet have the delight of a new babe to love.

“The Queen of the South and the King of the North have brought forth a princeling,” Elpidia whispered, her eyes still closed in bliss, “unifier of Rome and the Visigoths. That’s what they will be shouting all across the world.”

Placidia chuckled. “Are you so sure it’s a boy?”

Elpidia opened her eyes and nodded. “Of course. If it is God’s Will — and how is it not? — so it shall be! Now let go of my hands. It’s time for another drink.”

“Yet another blackberry leaf tisane?” Placidia groaned. “I think I shall drown in the stuff before our little prince ever sees the light of day.”

“Twice a day for the past week is not drowning. As I’ve told you, it relaxes the womb. Helps the babe to find his way out without so much of a struggle.” Elpidia got up and started ambling away. Over her shoulder she added, “And you’ll be thanking me for it, once he’s easily here and you still look pleasing to the king!”

• • •

The blessing of the Christmas season always gave Placidia great joy, because of its meaning and pageantry. She and Athaulf led the people of Barcino through the Forum, past the old Temple of Augustus, and toward the newer Catholic church, the Basilica of the Holy Cross and St. Eulalia.

I’m as large as Hannibal’s elephant,
Placida thought as she waddled inside the great cathedral. Athaulf’s oldest daughter, Gaila, walked by her side, and his eldest son, Beremund, led the way with his father. They were children no longer, poised and growing tall, soon to be coming of age.

Placidia took Gaila’s icy-cold hand. The girl had argued against wearing her heavy cloak and gloves that morning, and Placidia could not convince her to relent and bundle up against the cold. Ah, the travails of being a stepmother! Nevertheless, she felt a twinge of satisfaction, for the church was almost as chilly as it had been outside, and Gaila doubtless was regretting her decision, considering the glacial feel of her skin. Placidia guessed the girl would dress with greater care the next time she went outdoors in the dead of winter.

Smiling, Placidia let go of Gaila’s hand and greeted Bishop Sigesar, who was himself clad only in his ceremonial robes. He also looked chilled, but would soon find relief, for the body heat of hundreds of worshippers would warm their surroundings.

The bishop led them to the marble sarcophagus of St. Eulalia, where they prayed for her soul, and for all those who had been martyred for their Christian faith. The girl had been tortured and burned at the stake by Emperor Diocletian. At her death, the poor thing was only thirteen years old.

Placidia watched as Gaila knelt before the sarcophagus, bowed her head, and murmured into hands tightly clasped in prayer. Gaila was almost the same age as Eulalia had been at her execution. Placidia nodded to herself, satisfied Gaila would now reflect on her own selfish and trying ways. She would remember the sacrifices of Eulalia, and thereby receive the grace to comport herself with dignity.

The bishop made the sign of the cross over the tomb, and then led Placidia and her family to the royal enclosure. He climbed the steps to the altar and turned to face the multitude of worshippers.

“God is great!” he joyously proclaimed. His voice was pure and strong as he told of the Lord’s most blessed gift to the world, His Son, Jesus Christ. Placidia felt gladness in her heart, not only for this, but also for more personal reasons. She looked at Athaulf, standing tall by her side. He was her other gift, the love of her life —

Placidia felt a sharp pang that made her gasp, a sense that every muscle was pulling her inward. “Oh, not now,” she whispered.

Both Athaulf and Gaila glanced at her.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Gaila asked.

Athaulf gently put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Let me know if you need to go home, dear one,” he said quietly.

Placidia bravely smiled and straightened, shaking her head. The moment had passed.

The priest droned on, and for once, she found it hard to concentrate on his words. All she could think of was her desire to sit, to lie down, to rest.

Another pain gripped her belly. “Ahh!” she groaned, grasping the railing and doubling over.

Nobody asked how she fared now. It was time. The royal family simply smiled at concerned faces and helped Placidia from the church.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Placidia bellowed, once they were outside. Only Athaulf’s strong arms kept her from collapsing.

It seemed to take forever before they reached her chambers in the
castellum
, where she was stripped down to a shift and put to bed. Her maid, Vana, and other women scurried around her, and Athaulf kissed her goodbye before being banished from the room. Pillows were piled behind her, sheets and a heavy blanket drawn over her. She could see Elpidia sitting in the corner, wringing her hands and praying. Ona, the royal
obstetrix
, who’d been at the palace all week, was calm and in control, giving directions to the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.