Authors: Morgan O'Neill
She understood.
Good
.
He nodded back.
• • •
Magnus sat on the edge of Gigi’s bed studying her golden flute, so strangely perfect, the metal work like nothing he’d ever seen. He glanced up when she entered the tent.
“I’ve got some beer,” she breezily said, holding two leather mugs.
“Thank you, er, we need to talk.” He held up her flute, and her smile faded.
“You look serious.”
“Tell me,” he patted the spot beside him, “whither is your home?”
She sat down hard and the beer sloshed. “
Oops
,” she said, handing him his beer. “
Sorry.
”
He took a drink. “
Oops … sorry
,” he repeated carefully. “More of your strange mother tongue. Truth be told, I have never heard its like before, not even among the host of barbarians I have parleyed with.”
“I’d rather not talk about this. It hurts too much and there’s no way to explain.”
“If your pain is so great, perhaps I can share the burden.”
She smiled sadly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
She met his gaze, considering, then took a gulp from her mug.
Froth covered her upper lip and he kissed it away. “Gigi, trust me with your secrets. Tell me what happened in the baptistery. I must know. I swear I will not judge, nor will I condemn. I once thought you a nymph or a goddess, even Victoria herself come to Earth, for I saw you appear from a magical mist.”
“
Oh, shit
, you saw that much?”
He smiled. “So, I gather
ohshit
is a curse word, isn’t it?”
Gigi nodded. “In English.”
“And where is this
English
spoken?”
She looked at him for a moment, then took another gulp of beer. “All right, you win, but this goes way beyond magical mist.”
He drank from his mug, and listened.
• • •
It was more than a new world; he felt as if he were standing on the moon. Alone in somber reflection, Magnus gazed at the stars, pondering all he had heard. Men had walked on the moon in the time just before Gigi was born. People flew through the air in vast metal vessels as a matter of course, larger even than the greatest
quinqueremes
, the biggest ships of war ever built.
It was unbelievable, hard to digest. Greek scholars had speculated on such things, and Magnus had read their predictions. But to learn it had actually happened, or would, was astonishing.
According to Gigi, 1,600 years had passed. She came from the future, from a place on the other side of the world, an entire continent as yet unknown.
He glanced back at the tent where Gigi slept, worn down from her tale — and oh, what a tale it was — as though Homer himself had spun the adventure. But despite Magnus’s initial incredulity, he found himself believing her, believing every blessed thing she’d said. By the gods, he knew it to be true, for he had seen her appear from that mysterious, sparkling mist in the baptistery. His eyes hadn’t lied.
She was summoned here by Victoria, he decided. By the will of my goddess, she is here with me, bearing my ring as a sign, proof that her story is true. Praise be to you, Sweet Goddess of Victory.
He was determined to seize the moment, to stand by Gigi, protect her, and let her know without doubt he did understand all she’d been through — even if the idea of traveling through time was still difficult for him to comprehend. The firelight reflected softly on their tent, and he imagined Gigi snuggled in her blanket, her face gentle in sleep.
I love you more than life, the connection between us as mysterious as ever, but right and true, beyond time. From this moment on, I vow we shall always be together, you and I, united and bound by our bodies, minds, and hearts.
Vir et uxor.
Husband and wife.
• • •
Relieved their talk had gone so remarkably well, Gigi peeked from the tent, watching Magnus with new eyes, secure, confident eyes, lover’s eyes.
Magnus, Magnus. The name meant “great” — and so he was.
She glanced up, seeing what he was seeing, the stars still bright, no hint of dawn. She was madly in love. It seemed as if everything else had dropped away, and no one else mattered.
Gigi started, taken aback. Yves! She could barely remember his face. With a last, guilty twinge, she realized
he
no longer mattered.
She gazed at Magnus, her thoughts soaring.
You are the one.
Magnus opened his eyes to the dark. He listened to Gigi quietly sleeping beside him and thought about some of the wonders she had described. One, a magical box called a
refrigerator
, offered cool drinks and amazingly, ice, ready at a whim, even for the poorest citizens. Rich as he’d been, in his entire life he’d only had one iced drink in summer, at Theodosius’s court in Mediolanum. The old emperor had sent his fastest men with lead-lined boxes into the Alps, to retrieve snow for a special toast in celebration of his great victory and the bestowing of Magnus’s ring.
The sound of running brought Magnus out of his reveries, and he rose from his bed, careful not to disturb Gigi. He tossed a tunic over his breeches and followed the commotion through the misty night to Alaric’s tent. Standing in the shadows, he could hear words exchanged, but didn’t grow wary until a name was uttered, then repeated: Honorius. A chill swept through him. What could this mean?
He moved to the opening just as the messenger left, and Alaric emerged, rubbing his eyes.
“Magnus!” he said, surprised. “Your emperor has sent word he wants to parlay with us. Not only that, he has sent gold as a partial payment toward what is owed. It is a goodwill gesture, and he is promising the rest. I believe he has seen the error of his ways.”
“He is no longer my emperor, and I wouldn’t trust him, no matter how much treasure he offers.”
Alaric thoughtfully nodded. “I’ve sent for Athaulf and the other elders, both men and women. We need to discuss the matter and make some decisions.”
“Dawn is close upon us,” Magnus hesitated, then forged ahead, “I will be glad to offer any advice, any insight I may have, though I know nothing of this particular gambit.”
Alaric clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Your words are always welcome. Let’s call for some beer.”
• • •
Magnus stared at the flames in silence. It was long past dawn. A heavy fog shrouded the camp, and the crackling fire did nothing to dispel the sense of icy foreboding that hung over the gathering of leaders.
Honorius wanted to discuss terms of yet another settlement with the Visigoths. He would consider their right to the Empire’s protection and to land within her borders, on condition they stop laying waste to his countryside and fighting his soldiers. Magnus had spoken pointedly against trusting Honorius, and his warning had been heard. Now, he could do nothing but wait and hope their decision was the right one.
Sergeric straightened on his stool and looked around. “If there was deceit in Honorius’s promise of gold and land, my brother would have sent word.
He
, at least,” Sergeric sneered at Magnus, “is no traitor to
his
people.”
Magnus let the insult slide. He knew Sergeric’s brother, General Sarus, only too well. A formidable warrior, Sarus was nonetheless shifty-eyed and untrustworthy — and a member of Honorius’s inner circle. Magnus recalled how much Sarus hated Alaric, blaming him for the loss of his wife and children as war casualties while under Alaric’s protection.
“I question Sergeric’s reasoning,” Queen Verica said. “Why has Sarus remained in Ravenna, when so many Visigoths have deserted the legions? What does Honorius have on him?”
Randegund nodded, then spat, while Sergeric’s face grew red. Several men beat their swords on their shields in affirmation of the queen’s suspicions.
Verica raised her hands, pleading for silence. “Daily our ranks swell with Visigoth and Vandal warriors and their families, who can no longer stand by and accept that Honorius murdered Stilicho. The general treated us with respect, and especially me, when the Romans held me captive. He protected me from Honorius’s evil, and I honor his memory because of it. The amount of gold Honorius sent is a mockery, nothing more. He is trying to buy us off with a pittance.”
“I agree,” Alaric said. “Honorius owes us more than money and land. Now we must demand
respect
. I will insist Honorius give me Stilicho’s title,
magister utriusque militiae.
Only then will we have equal measures of honor and safety. Since ravaging his countryside these past months has done nothing to persuade him, I can think of only one way we may get his full attention.” Alaric raised his fist in the air. “We will march on Rome!”
Utter silence filled Magnus’s ears. Rome, surrounded? He had feared this in his darkest nightmares, but never truly imagined he would live to see the day, or that he would be among the besiegers.
Alaric looked slowly from face to face, but no one said a word, so he finished on a quieter note. “Because I hear no disagreement, I say we have talked long enough. We have weeks of travel before us, and we must not give any indication of our plans, so stealth is essential. We leave in three days, which will give everyone time to prepare. Then, God willing, we may yet have fields of our own to plow, in time for the next season of growing.”
Soberly, Magnus rose with everyone else, but few around him said anything or made eye contact. That was fine with him, for he wished to depart quickly to ponder all he had heard.
Grinning, Alaric must not have discerned Magnus’s dour state of mind, for he cheerfully called out, “My friend, I suggest you let your beard grow once more, or you will be spotted by your brethren and singled out for a spear thrust, for the hairless, Visigoth-loving Roman you are.”
Several men chuckled, but Magnus was in no mood for joking. Rome was the Source of All, the Mother City of the World. Despite the inevitability of Alaric’s plans, he found himself silently imploring the gods, begging for their protection of Rome.
He turned and saw Randegund waiting nearby, gloating. He pushed past her and thought how much he loathed the old bitch, how he wished she would die before they trekked south, so she would not bear witness to this, her greatest desire.
He breathed in the cold, clean air, seeking to quell his dread. Still, he felt shaken to his core, his burden great. He alone in this camp loved the city that would soon be vanquished, as he had no doubt it would.
The terrible words of Virgilius echoed in his thoughts, a line from
The Aeneid
eerily prophetic:
I see wars, horrid wars, the Tiber foaming with much blood.
• • •
Alaric’s plan to lay siege on Rome worried Gigi, and she silently cursed the emperor for not following through on his earlier promises to the Visigoths. The fog was lifting as they made their way up the hill. She tried to smile at Magnus, but he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, torn between his love for Rome and the brutal necessity of Alaric’s plan. Gigi knew he would stand with the Visigoths, because their cause was just — and because they were also Honorius’s enemies.
But why had Magnus insisted on coming here? She gazed up the slope toward her favorite vantage point. Was something going on? Something wrong?
She swallowed hard, trying to remember her history lessons. What happened to the Visigoths? Did Alaric win them a homeland? Her grandfather would have known, but she didn’t have a clue.
Magnus took her hand as they continued up the slope. They passed several sentries, who waved them on.
“Magnus,” Gigi finally said, “I don’t like the thought of riding on Rome and using a siege to negotiate with Honorius. But … has something happened with Alaric’s plans, something I don’t know about?”
Smiling, he looked into her eyes. “No, Alaric’s plans are as they were.”
“And you’re
okay
with that?”
“Indeed, I’m
okay
, as you put it. All’s well, Gigi.”
They labored on in silence as they climbed the steepest part of the hill. Breathing hard with the effort, they finally reached the top of the rise and stopped to enjoy the sunny vista. A cool breeze lifted her loose hair.
“Gigi.”
“Hmmm?” she responded, resting against Magnus.
“Do you still have my ring?”
Nodding, Gigi reached for her mesh bag. “I’m so glad you finally want it back. Here, put it on.”
“No, it’s not for me.” He looked into her eyes. “I love you. You are so much a part of me that I don’t want to spend another moment without you, ever. I want to seal our union with a ceremony that will honor both your beliefs and mine, to make it permanent. Marry me, Gigiperrin.”
She looked down at the familiar gold-and-garnet ring she had known all her life. Magnus took the ring and held it near her left hand. The image went blurry for a moment, and she blinked hard to clear her vision. With a smile, he slid the band over her third finger.
Gigi suddenly recalled what Vana had said about senators and slaves, how they could never marry. Nervously, she told Magnus.
“Ah,” he grinned, “but I am no longer a senator! And you, my sweet … you are no longer bound to the royal kitchens.”
Nothing stood between them now. Gigi touched the ring. “It’ll need to be resized,” she murmured absently, moving her finger around inside.
“Do you consent, then?”
Startled by her omission, she raised her gaze to meet his and laughed, then threw her arms around his neck. “Absolutely! Of course I’ll marry you, Magnus.
Yes, yes, yes
.”
• • •
Still holding her hand, Magnus led Gigi back down the hill. Before she got to the bottom, she was all too aware everyone had known about this engagement ahead of time. They stood about, hooting and laughing, and when Magnus raised their joined hands, a cheer went up.
“She consents!” he declared.
The men gathered around Magnus, clapping him on the back; the women surrounded Gigi, hugging her and offering congratulations. Then, almost immediately, and without letting her say goodbye to Magnus, Verica grabbed Gigi’s hand and led her into the tent she shared with Alaric.