Authors: Morgan O'Neill
As they moved forward, Gigi hoped the presence of the soldiers was just a coincidence. Still, she ran over her gun lessons, focusing on an important rule: know what is behind any potential target. She didn’t want to shoot anyone, but if she were forced to, she sure didn’t want to hit any innocent bystanders lurking in the background.
Sensing danger, their horses snorted and pranced, but thankfully didn’t try to bolt.
“Magnus! Halt!” the centurion shouted.
The command jolted Gigi.
“I am Titus Africanus, and you and your wife are my prisoners!”
Townspeople scattered. The presence of the soldiers was no coincidence, and Gigi and Magnus were horribly outnumbered. An image of Honorius laughing over Magnus’s tortured and inert body came to mind, and she steeled her resolve. Her husband must never be at his mercy again. Never.
Grim, yet determined, Gigi listened as Magnus answered, “We do not recognize your authority to detain us,” he said, “so let us pass unharmed, or prepare to meet your own end.”
The centurion laughed and brandished his sword.
The soldiers circled them, and she recognized the tactic. Heart pounding, she knew their only option was to go on offense, slash blindly and try to survive. Or …
The centurion and his men suddenly rushed Magnus. Gigi raised her .45 and fired.
A blinding flash. The roar of the gun. Everything was instantly illuminated, then gone, leaving only a negative image of the scene seared onto her retina. The explosion continued to reverberate, echoing and hurting her ears. Her mare screamed and ran off. She looked around, dazed. Many soldiers had gone to ground, cursing in fear; others stood gaping.
Stunned, the centurion was on his knees, covering his ears.
Farther off, townspeople had also dropped, groveling and praying. She glanced at Magnus, then looked down at his feet, where a solder sprawled, limp and still, blood pouring from beneath his body.
Horror engulfed her — she’d shot a man to death! — but then Magnus jumped on his horse and hauled her up behind him. Holstering her gun as they galloped through the dark streets, Gigi buried her self-recriminations, knowing there was no time for such luxuries if they were going to survive.
When they reached the northernmost dock, there was a small sailboat waiting. Even as they neared, Gigi could see someone onboard throwing off dock lines.
Magnus ground the horse to a halt and they leapt off his back. He grabbed his gear and together they jumped onto the skiff. Gigi heard shouting and saw soldiers running down the dock, ducking away from the escaping horse. Cursing, they flung their torches.
“To the oars!” the skipper shouted.
The torches landed all around them, sizzling as they hit the water.
Gigi and Magnus scrambled to sit and began pulling on the oars, while their skipper fishtailed the tiller, slow and steady, back and forth.
Heart pounding, Gigi could hear the soldiers furiously calling for a boat. Agonizing minutes dragged by as their skiff neared the imperial blockade ship. Their sailboat wasn’t more than thirty feet in length and low in the water, but was it small enough to go unnoticed?
The sounds from shore faded, only the faint
dip
and
swish
of their oars could be heard.
Dip
and
swish
, in and out of the water, in and out.
Gigi held her breath. No shouting. No alerts. The imperial ship appeared deserted.
Dip
and
swish
. In and out of the water, in and out.
They left the inner harbor behind. Gigi could feel the night breeze pick up as they moved out. Waves began slapping against their hull. She glanced back and saw the blockade ship, still dark and silent.
Magnus kissed his garnet ring and whispered, “Blessed Victoria blinded them, just as Vespera asked.”
When they finally rowed into open water, the wind picked up sharply. It felt good, refreshing, and Gigi took a deep breath.
“We will raise the sail, then put up the oars,” the skipper said, speaking low and grinning. “But first, pay up, cousin, or I’ll drop you overboard before we’re out of sight of land!”
Magnus laughed, paused in his work with the oars, and reached for his knapsack.
“I’ll take care of the sail,” Gigi said, hurrying to the mast.
The sail was attached to two booms, one that was tied off at the base of the mast, the other that had to be drawn to the top. As Gigi hauled up the sail, she saw Magnus pull out a bag of coins. With a jolt, she realized her knapsack was still attached to her horse, gone forever. What had they lost? What would the Romans find? Her extra ammo — useless to them. What else? She wracked her brain, trying to recall every item she’d stowed away the last time they packed.
Gigi finished with the sail, tying it off when it was fully open. Using the sail lines, she adjusted the angle of the lower boom to match their heading. The sail caught the wind and snapped full. They were under way.
Shit! The stun gun — and one of the chargers!
Gigi glanced at Magnus and their skipper, who were smiling and talking.
Jaw clenched, she checked her shoulder, glad to feel the straps of her flute case and gun holster. She had the double magazine in her .45, which meant only fifteen rounds of ammo remained.
Shit, shit, shit!
There would be no practicing, and there must be no missed shots. More than ever, each one would have to count.
She turned her mind to the man she’d gunned down. He wasn’t her first kill; after Honorius double-crossed the Visigoths and attacked their camp five years ago, she’d taken the lives of two Roman soldiers. She’d done it defending Alaric and Verica’s kids, a noble reason if there ever was one. Still, three killings by her own hand …
She shook her head. She didn’t have the time or luxury of wallowing in doubt or guilt. The fate of Athaulf’s children was all that mattered now.
As for the Roman soldier she’d just shot, she hoped he wasn’t supposed to have kids after this day. If so, she might have just turned history on its head in spite of their best efforts.
With a sigh, Gigi looked out at the sea, realizing all she could do was let it go, just let it go.
The Castle, Barcelona, Spain
Sorrow hung heavy, like a shroud. The
castellum
was quiet and dark with foreboding, the joy of Christmas forgotten. People tiptoed and spoke in whispers, if they spoke at all.
Placidia placed her hand on her infant son’s chest, feeling his heart, its beat erratic and much too fast. He was very ill, his skin hot, his eyes unseeing and clouded with pain.
Just yesterday, Theo had been cooing and smiling, a healthy babe, but at dawn he had awakened fussy. By mid-day, he was listless, fevered, and sweating. The physician tried ice water baths and an array of medicines to cool him, but nothing worked. By evening, the seizures began — terrible, wracking fits, which no potion or prayer had been able to stop.
Now, deepest night enveloped them, and her little Theo had grown quiet, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he struggled for breath. It was starting to dawn on Placidia no one knew what they were doing, or how to help her babe.
“Oh, Jesus, no!” she heard someone cry out, and then realized it was her own strangled voice.
Athaulf bade Placidia sit by his side. Together, they held their child. Their tears dripped down and bathed his tiny face. Could nothing more be done? She looked at the physician, who shook his head, and then saw Bishop Sigesar standing by the door. Why had he been called … ?
Instantly, she knew they had only moments left. Placidia put her hand on her son’s chest once again, praying for a miracle, but his heart fluttered and stopped, and he went still.
Oh, God, no! Please do not take him from us! Lord, please!
She felt Athaulf sag against her, heard him clear his throat as he struggled with his own grief. She gazed at Theo in disbelief. This could not be happening. It was a nightmare.
Awaken!
she ordered herself.
As if from a distance, she was aware of the bishop’s approach, then of Athaulf saying, “Leave us. I will call for your return when we are ready.”
The physician bent and whispered something to Athaulf, who nodded.
Placidia studied Theo’s face, so peaceful now. She fought her grief and cradled him, guarding the desperate hope he would yet stir, but knowing he would soon be taken from her arms, as he’d been taken from her life, never to return.
Awaken,
her mind implored, as she fought against the hollow blackness in her chest, a deep chasm where her heart had been.
With a gasp, the babe suddenly moved, and Placidia’s heart thudded back to life. “Athaulf! He lives!” she cried out.
“No, Placidia, he has died. The physician
told me this might happen, the last movements as the soul leaves the body.”
“No, he is mistaken!” Placidia wailed. She had felt Theo come back to life. She had heard him try to breathe. “Athaulf, no, Theo is still alive!”
Her husband put his arms around her, rocking her until her wild sobs died away, until her son grew cool to the touch and she knew, she knew.
Gently coaxing the child from Placidia’s grasp, Athaulf took their babe to the bishop, who proceeded to shout the infant’s name into his tiny ear, “Theodosius Germanicus! Theodosius Germanicus! Theodosius Germanicus!”
Numb, Placidia watched as the bishop turned to Athaulf and pronounced, “The soul of Theodosius Germanicus has gone to God.”
Athaulf’s shoulders drooped, tears streaming down his cheeks as he started to remove his son’s
bulla
.
Placidia felt faint.
No, no! This cannot be happening. It is a nightmare!
“Give him back to me!” Overcome, Placidia leapt up, intent on taking Theo and leaving this foul place, but her legs gave way and she dropped to the floor. Screaming, flailing about, she rolled in grief, until Athaulf took her in his arms and the world went black.
That night, Placidia dreamt she was in the depths of hell, being chased by demons. She woke the next day, only to find her hell on earth.
• • •
Standing at the mast, Gigi scanned the horizon in all directions. Not a ship in sight. They’d been the only vessel at sea since leaving Vada Sabatia four days earlier. They hadn’t been chased, so, in a perverse way, the imperial blockade must have worked to their advantage.
Gigi laughed at dolphins swimming alongside their boat. With each leap, they looked at her and seemed to smile as they frolicked at the prow. She hadn’t sailed in quite some time, only on her honeymoon in the Greek Isles, and then on a romantic trip with Magnus along the Turkish coast. Ah, the smells, the wind, the sounds of sails snapping full, the creak of the lines. Everything about it felt right and good.
She’d spent her time at their skipper Lucius’s elbow, learning everything she could, including navigation — something she’d formerly left to modern charts and GPS. Despite her misgivings about ancient vessels, this one had proven very sturdy and easy to handle. The ingenuity of its design impressed her. The planking overlapped, much like a wooden rowboat, but without nails or rivets; instead, the boards were sewn together with hemp rope and then caulked with tree pitch. The boat didn’t leak at all, and the only water in the bottom came from the occasional high wave. Lucius had chosen the perfect vessel to steal.
About twenty, Lucius was funny, lighthearted, and very bright. He was also extremely handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes, not quite as blue as Magnus’s, but gorgeous, nonetheless. He looked like he should be surfing in Malibu, or giving Ryan Gosling a run for his money on stage and screen.
They were all delighted about Magnus’s renewed relationship with Vespera and her son, Lucius. In the months ahead, Magnus would be able to keep in touch with his cousins via the carrier pigeons that flew continually between Barcelona and Vada Sabatia.
And Barcelona wasn’t more than a day’s sail away, now, if their steady wind kept blowing. She was excited to see Placidia, anxious to get there in time to save her little boy.
“Gigi?” Magnus called from the tiller. “I think you should hear this.”
She went aft and sat near her husband, wondering what he and Lucius were discussing. A big talker, Lucius told stories so exaggerated, she’d spent most of her time doubting if even a kernel of what he said was true.
Keeping this in mind, she smiled at him. “What do I need to hear?”
Magnus answered first. “He tells me there has been a peace of sorts between Honorius and Athaulf — and that Honorius consented to Placidia marrying Athaulf in a great ceremony in Narbonne.”
Gigi nodded. “I remember reading about that, but didn’t know Honorius had anything to do with it.” She turned to Lucius. “The Visigoths are in Barcino by now, though, right?”
“Indeed, indeed,” Lucius said. “You will find them there. They had to flee to Hispania because of the blockade, and because General Constantius threatens them. As for the marriage, I believe our great emperor only pretends to be happy about it, but in truth his hand was forced and most believe he did it to save face.”
“That definitely sounds like Honorius,” Gigi commented. “But why the peace?”
“Ah, that is because of Jovinus!” Lucius said, knowingly. “Jovinus was General Sarus’s man, and he was enraged when King Athaulf had Sarus murdered a few years back. So Jovinus made a pact with Honorius, vowing to help the emperor by usurping the Visigoth throne and allying with Rome.”
Worried, Gigi glanced at Magnus, who frowned. She’d never heard of Jovinus, and was shocked at the news of Sarus’s death. Why had Athaulf ordered him killed? She had no idea, but she could imagine how incensed, and therefore dangerous, Sarus’s brother, Sergeric, must be over this. She knew he was already on a path to murdering Athaulf and his children, and seizing power.
“There’s more,” Lucius said. “This is the best part. You can’t imagine how everyone waited for news during all of this. It was so exciting, and for once, we little people were not having to pay the price for the Western Roman Empire’s deeds.”