Authors: Morgan O'Neill
“No!” he screamed as they pressed in on him.
“No!” he screamed again, as pain seared his body, as hands gripped, pounded, tore at his flesh.
“No!” King Sergeric screamed a final time, his voice carried off by a breeze.
He lost his footing and fell.
A final glimpse of the sun, before his eyes were gouged from his head, but darkness did not end his pain, blazing white-hot until he was torn apart, until death finally ended his agony.
September,
A.D.
415, Ravenna, Italy
It was the fifth day of September, the day of the blood moon, the second one to occur since she had arrived in Ravenna, the third in less than a year.
By royal command, Dipsas had been given leave to be alone again in Venus’s garden. She held the crimson
legatus
cloak and childhood
bulla
that had belonged to Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, objects that until now had languished under lock and key in one of the emperor’s private warehouses.
She thought back to her previous sojourn in Venus’s garden, when she found the niche behind the statue. At that time, she had not been able to envision Magnus, having touched nothing he had cherished.
Such fools!
Why hadn’t anyone in the palace thought of requisitioning his things from the warehouse before this? Was she supposed to divine their existence?
She shook her head, determined, at long last, to find out more about him. She needed this knowledge, for in this, she would have the very thing no one else could provide Honorius: information on where he and his flute-playing wife could be found.
The answer awaits, for the blood moon is coming. It is coming.
She held the cloak to her nose, inhaled, and waited. A faint hint of sacred myrrh tweaked her senses, and she pictured a tall man with dark hair, but nothing more.
She waited. Still nothing. She glanced at Venus, and the statue stared back, mute and unseeing. Had the goddess fled?
Her guts knotted. Had she lost her powers?
Anxious, she pressed the
bulla
to her thundering heart. “Speak to me! Goddess of Old, I beseech you! Before the blood moon rises, you must reveal the truth! Please, Great One, where are Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus and Gigiperrin hiding? I would ask for their destruction, for they wronged my nearest kin, my only, my dearest sister!”
She felt sudden warmth emanating from the golden
bulla
. It was deep, penetrating, and gentle. The goddess had taken note of her pleas. She was here.
“O Venerable One,” she repeated, rocking back and forth, “where is Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus?”
Dipsas closed her eyes. The warmth spread over her body, as if she stood before a glowing campfire. She did not open her eyes; she did not dare. Long moments passed. She felt the glow engulf her until the heat flared into a fire raging through her veins, until she fell, screaming in pain, as if she were being burned alive. She thrashed and rolled toward the water of Venus’s pool to immerse herself, to save herself, and then the heat was gone.
You must not curse them.
The words came softly, as if they had been spoken from somewhere inside her skull, just behind her right ear. Dipsas clawed the earth and shivered, stock-still and suddenly cold as ice.
You must not curse them.
Why not?
her mind cried out.
They shelter your blood kin, the fey-child, the one called Margareta.
Stunned, Dipsas opened her eyes and stared out. A vision rose above the water, that of a beautiful girl with white blond hair and eyes that sparkled bright blue. Deeply thankful the goddess had stayed her hand against the curse, Dipsas struggled to roll over and caught a glimpse of the Seven Sisters twinkling above, blue as Margareta’s eyes.
Randegund’s granddaughter! Dipsas knew this child would surpass all of them. She would be great one day, and must be protected.
Dipsas threw off the shackles of age and terror, and scrambled to her feet. She twisted her body with all her might, until she could raise her arms to the sky in blessing.
The moon was rising, blood red and bewitching. “Margareta!” she called out. “Hear me, precious one. You shall be safe! The goddess has spoken.”
She closed her eyes and was blessed with a final vision; that of the beautiful fey-child standing on a distant shore, living far to the west, beyond the Pillars of Hercules, beyond Honorius’s reach.
“Margareta, beautiful pearl,” Dipsas said the name gently, like a prayer. And she resolved to help her grandniece in any way possible, to curse those who would seek her ruin, and protect those who now provided her shelter.
Livid, Honorius headed to the realm of the magicians, deep within his palace. His lightning bolt weapon had ceased to function and he needed to hold someone accountable.
Leaving his entourage in the corridor, he stormed into the room, held up the weapon and screamed to the magicians and their apprentices, “Have any of you idiots discovered how to restore its godly power?”
Surprised and terrified, the men gasped and cried out, and Honorius had his answer.
“You craven scum!” Honorius felt a thunderous rage as they cowered before him. He stormed toward the table holding Magnus and Gigiperrin’s things. Throwing the useless lightning bolt weapon to the floor, he stomped on it, and then overturned the table, sending everything crashing down.
He pointed to his magicians, about to pronounce death sentences upon them all.
“Forgive the intrusion,
Serenissimus
, but I have urgent news.”
Livid, he turned. His Master of Offices, Rutilius Namatianus, stood in the doorway.
Honorius’s blood still roiled. He clenched his jaw and spat out, “What?”
Namatianus bowed. “O most worthy emperor, I have momentous and glad tidings. The Visigoth king, Athaulf, is dead, murdered in his bath last month in Barcino. As you requested, General Constantius has sent the man’s pickled remains. The courier awaits you in the throne room.”
Honorius gaped in astonishment. “And … my sister? Did she survive?”
“Indeed, my lord, she is alive and well, but I heard all of the royal children were killed.”
Honorius clapped his hands, laughing with delight. Athaulf dead! His brats gone! Placidia unharmed, and soon to be returned and once more living under his sway. These were indeed momentous and glad tidings.
He turned back to the magicians. “Thank the stars for the Visigoth king’s murder, because his death just gave you back your lives.”
Then he left, eager to see what had been pickled. Chuckling, he sauntered toward the hall.
• • •
Honorius sat on his balcony as his slaves put the finishing touches on his hair, hands and feet.
Smiling, he gazed at the sea, pondering all that had happened in the past few hours. In addition to Athaulf’s remains, the pickled body of Titus Africanus had also been delivered to the palace, and now a famed embalmer worked on it. Honorius wanted only the best for his favorite and most noble
legatus
, and the embalmer was a genius, having studied with the few remaining Egyptian priests practicing the ancient art of preserving bodies. Africanus’s corpse would not be mummified, of course, but still, he would look glorious as he lay in state. Honorius planned to celebrate the man’s honorable death with thirty days of games, circuses, and banquets, a fitting tribute for his loyal service.
As the slaves finished his manicure and pedicure, he basked in the delightful remembrance of seeing Athaulf’s pickled remains. The jar was locked in a cabinet in his private study, a mess of tattered flesh and cloudy liquid, but still delicious to behold. He was delighted by the diminutive size of the barbarian’s cock and wished he could show it around, but, despite his glee, he had decided to hide the thing. He did not want Baha to see it, fearing it would cause her much distress, something he could not bear.
Life was good. General Constantius’s plans had worked, and the future of the Western Roman Empire looked bright. There were some disappointments, to be sure, the criminals Quintus Magnus and Gigiperrin had avoided capture once again, but Honorius was certain they would soon be found and made to suffer for their crimes.
One mystery nagged him, however; the witch Dipsas had disappeared from Ravenna. Honorius could not fathom why she had not remained to share in his triumph, for he knew her dark arts had played a major hand in Athaulf’s downfall.
Ah, it mattered not. Honorius shrugged and smiled. Before the public celebrations started, he had private plans, an intimate celebration with his girls. He had called for Baha, along with his former mistresses, Britomartis and Adriadne, to attend him this evening. And Rome, his pretty, pretty chicken. All of his beauties, together again!
The hairdresser finished, gave him a bronze hand mirror, then bowed and left, knowing Honorius preferred to look at himself in private. He glanced at the wavy image, moving the mirror so that he could see his face in the best possible light, and approved his new hairstyle, his face framed with dark curls and … white hairs?
Honorius almost dropped the mirror, such was his shock. He stared hard at his reflection. There were new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, too, and … his jaw … it sagged!
Oh, God, no!
His guts twisted.
Just then, he heard the giggling of his women, the clucking of a chicken, and he burst into tears, for, despite his great anticipation of the afternoon’s pleasures, he felt nothing down below, his loins flaccid, dead.
His instincts flared, and he feared this was permanent. His body went cold, his throat dry. What cruel curse was this?
No, no!
Honorius sat there, blubbering and soft, as Baha, Britomartis, and Adriadne passed through the curtains, Baha holding Rome. The women stopped short and stared, and then they surrounded him, attempting to give comfort as he told them his woes. They began soothing him with gentle caresses and tender kisses, sucking and licks, just as he’d always enjoyed from them, but nothing drew him up. Nothing!
Honorius pushed them away, and their looks of piteous concern only made it worse. “Go,” he cried out. “Go!”
They hesitated, but he waved them off, tears falling down his cheeks and onto his bird, now clucking on his lap, his only solace.
Alone, but for Rome, Honorius had a sudden, stark vision of the future. True death was not far off, for him or his beloved chicken.
No, oh, God, such heartache!
He hugged Rome, then hung his head and sobbed in agony.
• • •
The moonlit night was clear; the winds light but steady when Gigi came on deck to relieve Magnus of his watch. Moving to the stern, she sat beside him and snuggled close.
“It’s my turn to take the helm,” she said. “Everyone below deck is asleep.”
“I’ll go down soon,” he replied, “but being alone with you has become too rare an event to give it up for mere sleep.”
Gigi smiled. “I think I know where we can take the kids, but we’ll need to put into port somewhere and buy a decent chart. The only ones Lucius has barely cover western Italy, Sardinia and Sicily.”
“Where do you propose we go?”
“
Canariae Insulae …
the Canary Islands.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of them, but where are they? How far?”
She held up her right fist and pointed to it. “Say my hand is the top of Africa, my thumb its western coast. The Pillars of Hercules are up here, at the first knuckle, and the Canary Islands are just off the coast, right here, maybe one hundred miles, or so. I’m not really sure. But they’re a cluster of islands. I know people live there. It’s quiet, peaceful, and we’d be safe, I’m pretty sure.”
“Beyond the Pillars of Hercules?” Magnus sounded skeptical. “Have you ever sailed out there? I’m sure Lucius hasn’t ever gone so far.”
“I’ve never sailed there, which is why we need a chart and maybe some information from sailors who have. The currents through the Strait of Gibraltar might be bad, but probably no worse than at the Golden Gate or Deception Pass. With the wind at our back … ”
“Can you handle it with an inexperienced crew?”
Gigi tilted her head and smiled at him. “Everyone will be experienced enough by then. I’ve read stories about the Canaries, and they’re supposed to be beautiful. I don’t think we’ll regret the choice.”
Gigi could see Magnus’s smile by the light of the moon, and knew the matter was settled. A sense of peace enveloped her when she realized they would soon be sunning, swimming, and playing on sandy beaches to their hearts’ content. There would be no further threats of capture, torture and execution.
“You look happy, my sweet.”
“I am.” She reached up and drew his face to hers, kissing him and inviting more.
He shifted and dropped a leather loop over the tiller — the ancient mariner’s version of auto-pilot — then pulled off her tunic and his. He embraced her, covering her throat and breasts with kisses.
The night air was warm and velvet-soft on her bare skin. Magnus’s body was searing hot, sending jolts of lust through her with his caresses. Running her hands over every inch him, she relished the familiarity, knowing what would set him free. She kissed him slowly, moving down, exploring his body with her lips, her tongue.
Magnus groaned when she reached the delicious area just below his navel, the magic trail, then pushed her onto her back and covered her with his body.
“There are certain things I cannot withstand after being so long denied, and you know it,” he murmured with a smile in his voice. “I would come inside you, my sweet, deep inside. But I mean to take my leisure before reaching that moment.”
He explored her body with his lips and tongue, tasting, taking his time. He entered her gently and she arched, loving every bonding thrust, until the heavens seemed to waver and dim in the wake of her own explosion of stars.
• • •
Below deck, Lucius settled in beside Vana, a single candle casting shadows and sharp angles across her pretty face. He grinned at her lowered chin, knowing her face was deeply flushed with uncertainty, despite the gloom. He could tell she enjoyed his attention; the blush hardly ever left her cheeks when he was near.