After the Fall

chapter 18


The moon hid behind silver-edged clouds. Using her shoulder, Gigi supported Magnus, guiding him down the path into the depths of the garden. She was terrified by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet, the sound magnified by the night and her fear. Stumbling on, she was relieved when the gravel finally gave way to dirt and weeds. Magnus felt so heavy, and he was groaning more often, but this only made her more determined to reach the tumbledown wall and her horse.

We’re almost there, she thought, willing herself on. We’re almost there.

She had been aware for some time of dampness spreading across her shoulder. This was bad. He was bleeding too much!

Gigi could hardly see in the gloom, the path overgrown and so dark, the naked vines pulling at them, raking like claws. Magnus’s steps were unsteady, like he was drunk, and she adjusted her gait, bracing herself to counteract his ever-increasing wobbliness. But just when Gigi feared their legs would give out, the vines disappeared, and they emerged into the clearing.

She could barely see the statue of Venus guarding the frozen pool, and to her relief, she heard her horse’s gentle snorts. Good. No one has taken him.

“Magnus,” she whispered, halting by the little bench, “we’re in the garden. We’re almost safe. I have a horse waiting on the other side of the wall.”

He managed a slight groan and whispered, “I don’t think … I can’t go on. Save yourself.”

“No,” she whispered back. “We’re staying together no matter what.”

The moon slid from behind the clouds, and the luminous statue glowed at the center of her columned temple and icy pool. But Gigi barely noticed. Magnus’s hood had fallen back, and his face looked terrible, his eyes sunken, dark pools of agony. And there were stains on the cloak, fresh stains.

“Magnus, you’re bleeding badly. I need to bandage you up.” Thoughts racing, Gigi wished she’d kept some of the torn sheeting. Desperate to find some way to staunch the wounds, she decided the cloak would have to do. She kissed his cheek and helped him sit on the bench. Untying the cloak, she could see dark smears all over his arms and chest, oozing, dripping blood.

Tears threatened, but she fought against them, the lump in her throat agonizing, making it hard to breathe. Unsheathing her knife, she cut strips from the cloak.

“Magnus,” she whispered, hoping to provide some comfort as she worked, “we’re going to get out of here. You’ve got to believe me. Placidia and Athaulf are waiting for us at Hadrian’s Villa. We can stay with them for the winter, and then maybe we’ll get a boat and sail away. Far away. Ever heard of blue water sailing? Of course you have. You’ve sailed to Constantinople. It’s very risky, but it might just be what we need to do. Perhaps we can go to the other side of the world. Hawaii, maybe. I don’t know if anyone lives there yet, which might be good, too. We’d be the only ones.”

As she rambled on, he tried to answer back, but all he could manage were gasps and moans. Working furiously, she finished binding his arms, then started on his chest and back, trying to ignore his tortured breaths, all the while cursing Honorius and berating herself for not killing him when she had the chance.

Tying off the final bandage for Magnus, she took a moment to study her handiwork. No seepage showed. Maybe he’d be okay for now. She glanced at her arm. The bleeding had stopped, but she wrapped a last strip around the cut just to be safe. Looking down at the cloak, she realized she’d made a mess of it. There wasn’t enough whole cloth left to wear as a cover.

She was sweating with her efforts, but the air was cold, and Magnus’s skin was freezing and damp to the touch. “Magnus, here,” she said, fumbling with her wool palla, “you must wear this. You need to stay warm.”

“Th — the statue,” he stammered, “has a niche behind … with my clothes.”

She stared at Venus, pale in the moonlight, catching the goddess’s little smile, as if she held a deep secret.

“Before I … left with Attalus,” Magnus’s teeth chattered, “I hid my robes.”

Elated, Gigi nodded and carefully made her way across the ice. She ran her hands over the frozen, mossy wall behind the statue and found a crevice. Reaching inside, her fingers touched cloth; it was still there and thankfully only cold, not stiff with frost. She hurried back, draping the garment over Magnus as best she could.

His eyes were closed again, his body swaying as she said, “Magnus, we need to go. I’ll help you over the wall. It isn’t very high. I want to be miles away from Ravenna by sunrise. Here, take my arm.”

He opened his eyes and nodded. With her assistance, he struggled to his feet. “Gigi,” he said with a deep shiver. She was suddenly aware of how weak his voice seemed. “Gigi,” he repeated, then licked his lips. “Get my robes, Gigi, and we’ll leave. We’ve got to leave. Agrippa can carry us both.”

He’s delirious! Terrified, Gigi somehow managed to find the strength to get Magnus over the wall and on the horse. She got up behind him, encircled him with her arms and held him close as she coaxed their mount forward. “Magnus,” she whispered, “I love you.”

He managed to respond with a halting, “I … love you, too,” but then his head rolled, and Gigi grasped him even tighter. She forced her attention on the road ahead. They were past the last stretch of garden wall, leaving the palace complex behind. Before them, the Via di Roma stood empty. Avoiding the light cast by street lanterns, Gigi nudged her horse onward. Moving through the shadows as much as possible, she was grateful for the late hour and frigid temperatures keeping the curious indoors.

As they moved into a big square, Gigi guessed it was the parade grounds where Magnus had witnessed General Stilicho’s execution. She took a deep breath, recalling her husband’s bleak expression when he’d told her about that day, so long ago. She wondered if this was where Honorius would kill them, given the chance.

She looked around, but felt no impending threat. Still, she could not let down her guard. The horse kept a steady pace, ears relaxed. He wasn’t sensing anything, either. If they could just get past the gates and out of the city.

But then what? Gigi felt Magnus shivering through his clothes. She tried to recall what else she could do to counteract shock, other than keeping him warm, but had no idea. The possibility she’d gotten this far only to have him die from shock was inconceivable.

As his body continued to shudder, they rode toward an area just off the plaza. With its scattering of churches, wide streets with plane trees, it was a familiar-looking place.

She was suddenly consumed with a desperate thought, so crazy she knew she had to push it aside, and yet she’d considered it before. Instantly, she found herself looking down the street, urgently searching, until she spotted it — a tall, octagonal structure. Could it be their only hope?

No, Gigi told herself. If we go inside, we’d be trapped. No! You can’t pin Magnus’s life on something so insane.

• • •

A shock of sound ripped through Sarus’s dream. Heart pounding, he awakened with a start, instinctively pulling out his dagger, ready to strike the intruder in his room.

“A-hem.” The tall centurion, Titus Africanus, stood several paces away, holding an oil lamp.

Shielding his eyes against the glare, Sarus lowered his dagger. “Iésus, Africanus, what is this about?” he muttered.

“General,” Africanus said evenly, “forgive the intrusion, but the emperor was attacked this night.”

“Is he alive?” Stunned, Sarus bolted from bed, grabbed his tunic, and started dressing.

“He will live,” Africanus said as he assisted Sarus with his sword.

“Where is he?” Sarus asked as they left his quarters.

“In his bedchamber. His physicians insisted he stay there.”

As they hurried down the corridor, Africanus continued, “Honorius was alone but for Magnus, who escaped with the help of a female, a kitchen slave. It was well planned, for Magnus took Honorius’s cloak, and when several of the Palatini guards saw him and the female in the imperial gardens they did not interfere with his, er, sport, assuming it was the emperor. Guards are searching the palace grounds … ” Africanus hesitated.

“And?” Sarus asked.

“To my knowledge, Magnus and the woman have not yet been found.”

“Shit!” Sarus said, changing direction. “Saddle my horse and have it brought to me.”

“It is already done.”

“Then make certain the other kitchen slaves are thoroughly questioned,” Sarus said as he swept past Africanus. “Torture them if you must. Have the sentries at the city gates been alerted?”

“No, General. I came here straight away.”

“Send word for all to be on the lookout. I want a citywide alert for the two of them: check the gates, docks, even the sewers. Assemble my personal guard.”

“Your guard already awaits you outside, and the rest shall be done immediately, General.”

Nodding, Sarus left the palace. Africanus would see to the lowly details, allowing him the luxury of hunting Magnus. He bounded down the steps, accepted the salutes of his men, and mounted his horse. “Yah!” he shouted, welcoming the surge of muscle beneath him.

Despite the cold night air, the hard ride, Sarus was suddenly drawn back to a cozy image, a snatch of a dream, which enveloped him in a palpable feeling of warm expectation. Images and sensations flitted through his mind: peering down at the sandy floor of the arena, the continual roar of the crowd, a rush of deep satisfaction, and then the dream came back full-blown, and he saw the rotting corpse of that bastard Alaric, murderer of his family, being torn apart by jackals. Sarus smiled, recapturing his exultation as he sat by Honorius’s side in the royal enclosure. Laughing uproariously together, they beheld the spectacle of Alaric’s final defilement.

But … was the dream a portend? Would it become reality?

He frowned. Honorius was a fool for not letting him question Magnus first, for Sarus knew he could get the location of Alaric’s tomb out of the bastard’s traitorous mouth. Honorius had not the talent for subtle torture, and now he had let Magnus escape.

Then Sarus chewed on another thought: the female slave who aided Magnus must be none other than that bitch of a flute player in disguise. Of course! Who else would have known he’d been brought here?

Perhaps she also knew where Alaric’s corpse had been buried. Torturing her in front of Magnus’s eyes would no doubt loosen his tongue, for he was besotted with her, and if he didn’t reveal the location, she certainly would.

Riding on, Sarus was glad he had not divulged the true details of his plan to Sergeric. For all his failings, his younger brother was loyal to his people and would never reveal the location of a Visigoth king’s tomb. In fact, even Honorius had not guessed the real purpose of Sarus’s plan, so engrossed was he by his own vulgar desires.

But it was now clearer how things might play out, with a little luck. Yesterday, Sarus had received word the new king, Athaulf — may he be cursed! — was leading his people north, to winter in the shelter of the Sabine Hills, near Hadrian’s Villa.

Sarus was certain Magnus and Gigi would be heading there as well. Indeed, he thought, tonight they would try to leave by Ravenna’s southern gates.

He nudged his mount to the left, southward, then motioned for his men, fifty strong, to follow.

• • •

Gigi heard the distant drumming of hooves. She glanced over her shoulder, listening, trying to ignore her thudding heart.

Horses were coming their way, they were coming!

She didn’t know what to do. Dozens of horsemen with torches burst into sight at the far side of the square and Gigi was forced to make a desperate decision. There was no hope of evading them, no hope of outrunning them.

There was only one option, one choice left.

“Magnus,” she whispered as she reined in, “Magnus, we need to get off now.”

She slid down, helped him dismount, and then slapped the horse’s rump, sending it trotting back toward the moonlit square.

A moment. It was all she had. Turning, Gigi set off through the shadows, helping Magnus along, moving as fast as she could go.

• • •

Sarus saw the riderless horse. Was this a diversion? Where were they? He reined in and looked around, his men already fanning out in all directions, searching, shouting, sensing blood.

At first he saw nothing, but then he caught sight of two dim shapes moving beneath the plane trees.

He turned his horse’s head and shouted, “There they are!”

• • •

Just as they reached the door of the baptistery, Gigi heard someone shouting. She propped Magnus against the wall and started pounding on the door, working the latch, yelling, “Help! Please, let me in. Hurry! I am a woman in need! Help me!”

Gigi glanced over her shoulder, then pulled out Magnus’s sword, thrusting it into his hands. His eyes seemed to focus and he stood straighter, gripping his weapon, ready to challenge the horsemen bearing down on them. Gigi continued pounding the door. “Please, let me in! Hurry, hurry! Please, hurry!”

The door opened, and Gigi barely had time to react, catching herself from falling in just as the watchman gaped at what was happening over her shoulder.

“Magnus!” she shouted, pushing the man away before he could close the door on them.

To her relief, Magnus followed her inside, then fell against the door, closing it. She took his hand and pulled him up the steps to the pulpit.

“Block the door!” Gigi shouted to the watchman, but the man shook his head and backed away.

Only seconds remained. This was it. The moment when …

“Magnus, hold on to me,” Gigi said, then yanked her flute from its leather sling.

If this doesn’t work …

Magnus grabbed her, nearly knocking her into the font, but she managed to stay upright. She put the flute to her trembling lips, thinking of home, of that moment years ago when she played “The Minute Waltz,” when she’d heard another flutist from far off, their music meshing note for note, when her life changed forever.

Her hands shook, and she cursed herself — jelly fingers! It took precious moments before she willed a semblance of composure and started to play. A few off-key notes issued from the flute, and she summoned all of her willpower to blow true.

Music filled the room, clear and lively, and she played on, gaining confidence, hoping, hoping, the air whirling with color. She heard an answering call and paused briefly to hear the faint sound of another flute, then began again with relish.

Magnus held her, his eyes wide with astonishment. Her gaze darted toward the watchman, who had fallen to his knees, then down at the door where a group of Roman soldiers stood, mouths open, staring up at them.

As the air around her twinkled, the other flutist matched her note for note, the melodies merging, beautiful, electrifying. Suddenly, Gigi saw the other player, a man in a garish purple toga, his fingers flashing gold, his flute silver. In the next instant, he vanished and she heard a solitary cry pierce the air.

Play! Play! She squeezed her eyes shut, frantically played. But she felt nothing like before, no roaring, no floor giving way.

Play harder! The notes were shrill, like a shriek or an agonizing wail, a pitiful prayer, and in desperation she played on and on.

Suddenly, Magnus let go and fell back against the pulpit. No, no!

Devastated, Gigi dropped her flute and grasped at him in fear, clutching him in farewell, weeping. She knew death was imminent — or worse, that they would face Honorius again, very, very soon.

She blinked away her tears and saw sunshine bathing Magnus in its glow, a last, beautiful moment of life in his arms.

“I love you, Magnus. I love you.”

He opened his eyes, then glanced over her shoulder and frowned, clearly sensing something.

She cringed and listened for the soldiers’ footsteps, then caught her breath, hearing instead the unmistakable sounds of … traffic?

Gigi stared at Magnus. Could it possibly be? Turning toward the entrance, she saw the kiosk and modern doorway, sunlight streaming in through the open door.

“Oh, my God.”

Hardly daring to believe, Gigi willed herself to accept the truth her senses were proclaiming — this was real!

“I, I think we made it,” she stammered. A wave of relief swept over her, and she started to help Magnus to his feet, but to her horror, his skin felt even colder than before, and his teeth were chattering again.

The sword dropped from Magnus’s hand, clattering on the floor, and he grimaced, then groaned and leaned against her. She had to get him help quickly. Using what little strength she had left, she supported him and they stumbled from the building.

As they entered the day-lit garden, time seemed to flesh out, capturing and holding them in the present, her present. Gigi took one deep breath after another, reveling in the modern scents of café food and vehicle exhaust, hearing the wonderful cacophony of mopeds and horns honking and rock music blasting from a car stereo. Home, her mind soared. Home!

A group of women tourists surged forward, waving cameras and chattering in English. They stopped short when they saw Gigi and Magnus.

“Brilliant!” one exclaimed, her British accent thick. “Are we in time for a reenactment?”

The ladies began talking all at once and it took a long moment for Gigi to adjust to their spate of rapid-fire English.

Just as she was about to open her mouth, one of them stepped forward and spoke above the rest, “What in the world is she wearing beneath her shawl — burlap? If you ask me, neither of them looks very authentic, not like Horace. I want my picture taken with Horace.” She looked down her nose at Magnus. “Dear Lord, is he drunk?”

“No, he’s not drunk!” Gigi flared. “He’s been injured and needs help. Do any of you have a cell phone?”

Eyebrows shot up all around, but before the ladies could react further, Magnus lost his footing and tumbled down. Crying out, Gigi fell to her knees beside him, then noticed her hands were covered in fresh blood. Several of the women screamed, drawing passersby from every direction.

“Call 911!” Gigi yelled. Holding Magnus, she heard frantic conversations in Italian, French, Japanese, and then English again, with someone shouting above the others, “Call 311 — it’s 311 in Italy!”

A white-haired woman suddenly pushed through the crowd and knelt beside Gigi. “Signorina, I am a physician,” she said in accented English. “I have called the hospital and an ambulance is on the way.” She touched Magnus’s throat, feeling for a pulse, then lifted an eyelid to examine his pupil. Magnus blinked, which reassured Gigi he was still alive.

“Did he fall? Can he move his legs?” the doctor asked.

Gigi nodded. “He was cut and, and poisoned … given belladonna … and something to make him bleed.”

The woman gaped at her, then shook her head and started checking his bandages. Sirens blared, police vans and an ambulance arrived, and the crowd was moved back.

“Signorina, andatevene!” an emergency worker said, pushing Gigi aside as they wheeled in a gurney.

The physician spoke quietly to them, and Gigi heaved a sigh. He’s going to live, he’s okay, she kept telling herself as she watched them set up an IV in Magnus’s arm. He’s safe now, he’s going to make it.

She followed Magnus to the ambulance and got inside, forgetting to thank the doctor who had done so much for him. One of the English women ran up and shoved the flute and sword at her. “Are these yours? I found them — ”

Sirens started again, and Gigi mouthed “thank you” and took their things, just as the medics closed the doors.

She reached for Magnus’s hand. It felt warmer, and she heard him draw breath, a deep sigh. Suddenly, her tensions eased and she rested her head on his chest, exhausted, relieved. They were finally beyond Honorius’s reach, somewhere he could never threaten them again. Gigi smiled, the bastard was dead, long dead, and they were here, alive.

She listened to Magnus’s beating heart and realized all she had been through had a purpose, now that she’d brought him to her world, to safety — and freedom.

“I love you, Magnus. You’re going to live. You’ll be fine,” she whispered to him, not expecting a response.

He squeezed her hand.