Love, Eternally

chapter 13




The journey had been filled with torment, yet Magnus tried to convince himself there was still hope. Hot and sweaty, he scratched the heavy stubble on his face, wishing for a soak and a shave. He was heading toward Vada Sabatia, then on to Capreae, where he would at last find Gigi at his uncle’s villa. She had to be there.

Magnus rode his favorite horse, the great chestnut stallion Agrippa, the only thing salvaged from the life he’d abandoned. After parting company with Attalus just outside Ravenna, he’d pushed hard despite the blistering sun, heading northwest. Mirroring the route he knew Rufus had taken, he stayed well away from the major road, the Via Aemilia, keeping to the numerous viae rusticae, the Empire’s secondary roads. The gravel paths were well maintained and marked with milestones, yet lacked travel amenities such as tabernae, but this suited him just fine.

For three days, Magnus hadn’t seen another soul, had spoken to no one but the gods — exactly what he needed to keep one step ahead of Honorius’s spies.

He shook off his wariness and patted the horse’s neck. “Thanks be to all the gods,” he said aloud, needing to break the wretched silence. “Ah, you lift my spirits, Agrippa. Clever Attalus, to have so deftly removed you from my stables. I shall ever be grateful to him. Freedom is splendid. Don’t you agree?”

The stallion reacted with a snort and a nod, and Magnus laughed for the first time in days.

• • •

The sun shone bright in the west, hitting Magnus squarely in the eyes. He blocked the glare with his hand, searching for a spot to camp for the night. A copse of shade trees stood in the distance, and a river nearby beckoned.

Agrippa raised his big head and turned toward the water. Magnus smiled as the horse picked up his pace; the tedium of crossing this dusty plain weighed on him, too.

“We shall wither on the vine if we do not swim soon, eh, my friend?” Magnus nudged his stallion with his heels, and off they cantered. He raised his eyes to the mountains, crowned with golden clouds, but then wrenched his gaze away as Agrippa broke his pace and shied. Struggling to calm his mount, Magnus searched the distance. What was wrong?

Then he saw them: vultures lazily circling above the trees, dozens of vultures.

• • •

He could not tear his eyes away from the rock mound. The odor of death hung heavy in the air. Walking slowly, Magnus led Agrippa by the reins. He stared at a Christian burial, hastily built, but not recent, as evidenced by a dearth of fresh tracks nearby.

Moving closer, he could see rocks had fallen away, exposing the corpse. Most of the vultures were airborne, wary of Magnus and Agrippa, but a bold few still tugged and fought over what was left of the remains.

The horse pulled back, and Magnus knew he could coax him no farther. After securing the reins to a tree, he moved forward, waving his arms about, yelling at the brazen scavengers. “Be gone, you miserable scum! Go, go!”

A dismembered arm rested a bit away from the rocks, flesh rotted and shredded to bits, nearly skeletal. Beyond that, a ribcage peeked out of the tumbledown cairn, its leather breastplate askew.

Magnus’s throat tightened. The leather — it bore unmistakable patches. They were his own handiwork, sewn on long ago at fireside, while Rufus recovered from battle wounds. The gods could not be so cruel!

He frantically looked around and called, “Gigi! Where are you?”

He dropped beside the cairn and started pulling away stones. Rufus, who did this to you? Gigi, where are you? Are you in here, too? Fingers bleeding, Magnus stopped when he saw Rufus’s bronze citizenship plaque. Oh, by the infernal Styx! The skeleton was now fully exposed, and Magnus was relieved to find none but Rufus in the grave. Where was Gigi? She had to be alive, she must — or … was she buried somewhere nearby?

He stumbled away and searched the riverbank for hours, until it was dark and the moon was rising. But there was no sign of her.

He collapsed on the shore, shivering with cold and cursing the Fates, the lack of a second body no comfort at all.

• • •

Magnus had bathed in the river, not for pleasure, but for ablution. Clean, cold, and bitter with grief, he stood before the bier where Rufus lay. He had placed coins on the man’s eye sockets, to pay the ferryman on the Styx, and carefully arranged the bronze plaque, of which his friend had been so proud. He had prayed to Rufus’s favorite gods and sprinkled fragrant herbs over him. Magnus was glad to honor Rufus with a proper pagan funeral instead of a horrid burial of his body in the ground, where what remained of him would be eaten by worms.

“Centurion, I salute you!”

Magnus touched his chest, then thrust out his arm in the Roman salute. He pulled a burning stick from the campfire and lit the bier. The dry wood caught swiftly, and he moved back as the heat became unbearable, watching the fire purify, until the remains were utterly consumed by flame. Then he sat, praying by the ashes while they cooled, beseeching the Infernal Spirits of the Dead to welcome Rufus. Afterward, Magnus rebuilt the rocky cairn over the ashes, a fitting grave for a soldier who had died doing his duty so far from home.

He stood back and whispered sacred words, “Aeternum vale, Rufus. Sit tibi terra levis … farewell forever, Rufus, brave comrade and loyal friend. Fertile Earth, I beg you, rest lightly upon his bones, so his ashes do not fly into a rage under the burden. Farewell.”

Magnus moved to a log, where a tattered, soggy wig lay drying in the sun. He had found it that morning in the hardened remains of trampled muck and tenderly washed it in the river. His heart was torn asunder by its discovery, for it meant she had been taken by riders. The parched riverbank still preserved a trace of their horses’ tracks. He sat and tried to keep unbidden visions from his mind, terrible thoughts, for he knew what men could do to such a beautiful woman.

“Gigi, I — ” He swallowed, then reached out, caressing the wig with his fingertips. “Oh, my love, do not give up,” he said, his voice strained. “Never give up.”

A wisp of gold, a shimmering thread, gleamed amid the dark tresses: a single hair.

Magnus stared. The gravity of the moment overwhelmed him, and his torn heart started to mend, hope revived. He bent his head in prayer to Victoria. Thank you, thank you for the sign.

He carefully removed the golden strand from the wig, walked to the river, and let it fall from his hand, a sacrifice to Victoria and all the gods.

Choking back his emotions, he watched the swirling waters as he touched the precious locket with Gigi’s hair. And he waited for another sign.

The wind came up, a soft sigh in his ears. He stood there for a long time, listening, but then shook his head. It was merely wind, nothing more.

Dejected, Magnus turned toward his horse … then he heard something faint, a ghostly voice singing in a foreign tongue, “O Geneviève, sweet Geneviève … I see thy face in every dream.”

He tensed, listening to the incomprehensible words, yet recognizing her given name. Hearing it struck him like a thunderbolt. Mighty Jupiter, is that you? Or are you that trickster, Bacchus, come to taunt me? Or Mars, still angry for my refusal to fall on my sword?

The voice faded back to pure wind. But now Magnus realized the source did not matter. It was a divine sign. Gigi was out there, somewhere, waiting for him.

I must find her, Magnus thought, somehow. Even if I must do as Orpheus and follow her to the Underworld to reclaim her, then I shall. I shall do it.

• • •

When the last vestiges of the horse tracks vanished amidst the damnable dust, Magnus lost the trail of Gigi and her captors. Scouring the west, he traveled all the way to Vada Sabatia and nearby Genua, then further south to Pisei, in case she had escaped and ventured to any of the western ports. But no one had seen her. By carrier pigeon, he sent a hopeful message to Uncle Decimus in Capreae. The reply was grim; she had not arrived.

He tried to dull this terrible news with a night of drunkenness, to no avail. The next day, ill, hurting, enraged at the Fates, he started his quest again by heading north, then doubling back across the breadth of western Italia from the sea to the mountains. He spent his days avoiding detection by Roman troops, while searching for any signs of riders, brigands, pilgrims, or merchant caravans. Yet he found no one in the wilderness or on the roads, except for the occasional wandering penitent. The threat of barbarian invasion had put fear in the hearts of all citizens, and most were staying put behind the walls of their cities. Even commerce had ground to a virtual standstill, now that Alaric and his people were on the move.

One morning, sitting at his meager camp, Magnus saw them coming from a long way off. The Visigoths. He knew them well. Although his determination to find Gigi remained as strong as ever, his expectations had dwindled, and he looked forward to seeing familiar faces. Perhaps they would have information.

He mounted Agrippa and met them halfway. The Empire, Capreae, all of his plans were dead to him now. He would go over to the Visigoths eventually, if they would have him, but for now he would continue to devote himself to finding Gigi. He reined in his horse and raised his right hand in greeting. He must ask what they knew and request a parley with Alaric, if he was not too far away.

The Visigoths walked their horses forward, hands touching their curved swords, their eyes scanning Magnus from head to toe. The man in the lead, a big lout with red hair, moved ahead of the others. His eyes widened as he drew near.

“Luifs Guth — Senator Magnus?” he asked, breaking into a grin.

Nodding wryly, Magnus rubbed his beard. “Hails, Enguld.”

• • •

Alone atop a small rise, Gigi looked toward the setting sun. The few clouds lingering on the horizon were bathed in pink, orange, yellow, and purple. It was glorious, and she longed to be a part of it.

She raised her flute and played what she felt, what called to her from the heavens: “Night and Day.” Hope, passion, abiding love, all set against a backdrop of overwhelming grandeur and beauty. She knew everyone would stop what they were doing and listen, because many thought her musical ability was proof of her nearness to the gods of old.

The last little bit of molten gold sparkled on the horizon and went out. The sun had set, although the sky still held its ambient light. Already bats were flitting around, looking for an evening meal. The wind puffed lazily, billowing the skirt of her priestess robes.

Gigi stopped playing, then touched the mesh bag, feeling the objects it held. The Roman ring, which belonged to her grandfather and Magnus. And Rufus’s ring. Two of those men she would never meet again. But what of the third? Should she hope anymore?

She sighed and turned to leave the hilltop. Below her, a mass of people moved ceaselessly among their tents and wagons, campfires and torches flickering in the coming dusk. Across the narrow valley, beyond the steely ribbon of river bordering the campsite, she could see a group of men on horseback coming in for the night, and another band, to the south, heading out. Lookouts changing watch? Hunting parties? Foragers? Gigi had no idea how they managed to sustain and feed everyone here. It was a constant effort, she knew, and difficult at the best of times. But for now, late in the summer, most seemed content because berries were plentiful, fruit and nuts filled the trees, and the harvests would be coming in soon. Not their harvests, of course. This group never stayed in one place long enough to till the land or plant crops. The grains were requisitioned from farmers far and wide.

With a final glance at the still-glowing horizon, Gigi set off down the hill. She would be needed for chores. Being a priestess did not excuse her from work.

At the main tent, Alaric’s wife, Verica, was busy chopping root vegetables and tossing them into a cauldron hanging from a tripod over the fire. “Waíla, Jolie,” Verica said in greeting. “The children were sent to fetch water, but I am afraid they are playing. Please go find them.”

Gigi smiled and started toward the river. She found the kids playing along the bank, covered in mud and having a delightful time.

“Jolie! Jolie! Waíla, Jolie!” they called out. “We heard you playing for the dying sun. Will you play for us tonight? That is the best way to go to sleep! Please? Please?”

Verica’s five-year-old, Berga, her blond hair a rat’s nest of curls, grabbed a stick and pretended to play the flute as she scampered around, making little squeaking noises.

“No promises until you’ve all washed up — right now!” Gigi tried to sound stern. “It’s getting too dark to be out here alone, and your mother is waiting for the water.” She spotted the king’s eldest son, Theodoric. “Theo, get the others out of the water. If you all don’t hurry, I won’t be able to play for you for a week, because you’ll be in so much trouble.”

The kids giggled at her dire words, but Theo urged them on and they picked up the buckets without any more stalling. As Berga struggled up the short embankment, Gigi took the bucket from her, noticing her half-hearted attempt at washing herself. The girl still carried the river’s mud on her face and hands.

Gigi smiled. “I’ll give you a rest today, because you have such skinny little arms.”

“Thags, Jolie, but they are very strong,” Berga countered. She grasped Gigi around the knees, squeezing with all her might. “See?”

Gigi shut her eyes and groaned, then looked down at her once-white dress. “Ahh,” she hollered, “get off me, you little mud hen!”

Laughing, the kids pointed at the mess Berga had made, and Gigi could only shake her head and chase them back toward camp.

As they scampered on ahead, Gigi slowed to a walk, humming. The sky held the last vestiges of daylight, the horizon a lavender glow. She could see a group of men standing by the fire, Alaric, Athaulf, others, which was unusual given that dinner wouldn’t be ready for some time. Then she noticed Verica standing with the men, too. Randegund, however, stood apart, scowling as she tended the food, her back to everyone. Again, unusual.

Gigi wrinkled her brow, wondering what the gathering was all about, and tried to guess why they wore such serious expressions. A knot of fear formed in the pit of her stomach. Was there trouble? She started to hurry.

The group shifted slightly, and Gigi spotted a tall, grubby-looking man with a short, heavy beard. In that instant, Alaric and the stranger grasped each other’s forearms, serious expressions turning to smiles, and Verica laughed out loud. Then, so did the man.

Gigi dropped her bucket and stood, frozen with shock. They all turned to look as the water poured out, soaking her feet.

She knew that laugh … that turn of the head … that man.

“Magnus!” she cried out, and started running. “Magnus!”

His eyebrows shot up, his emotions raw, exposed — recognition, astonishment, disbelief, joy.

“Gigi!” he yelled.

And then he, too, was pushing his way free of the group and running.

The shock of his touch, a thunderclap of joy as his strong arms lifted her off her feet, holding her suspended, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He smelled of hard travel, of leather and wood smoke. She breathed deeply.

“Thank the gods. I searched everywhere,” he said with a husky voice, “everywhere.”

“Magnus, Mag — ”

His mouth covered hers, his passion laying claim. She’d felt his embrace in a thousand dreams, but now he was here, real, and her body trembled for him.

“I feared I would never find you.” The words strangled in his throat as he kissed her eyes, her throat, her lips. “No news ever came … ah, Gigi … when I found poor Rufus … I nearly lost hope … prayed endlessly to Victoria, but I feared … ”

He paused and gazed down at her without speaking. She closed her eyes and felt his lips on hers again, his kiss a tender wisp that grew deeper with each moment. His beard strafed her skin, raspy hair to tender flesh, man to woman, and this unleashed her heat. She surrendered to his strength and the world grew faint, a distant thunder. She didn’t know how much time had passed before she became aware of the children laughing at them, and the adults doing much the same.

He drew away. “Gigi,” he whispered into her hair.

“How … how did you know I was here? They never — did they send word?”

He pulled her close. “I had no idea where you were. Their lookouts found me, and they claimed no knowledge of you.”

“A-hem,” Athaulf cleared his throat. “I will guess you two don’t need an introduction? I forgot Jolie mentioned she knew you when she first came to us, but she never let on just, er, how well.”

Magnus stared at Gigi and quietly asked, “Jolie?”

Gigi glanced at the Visigoths. “I didn’t think it wise at the outset, as their captive, to tell them everything. I thought if my true name got back to anyone — ”

“Like me?” Magnus smiled. “Alaric would have gotten word to me, somehow, my sweet. Your secrecy made my life dark as Hades.”

“But I didn’t know. I just couldn’t risk it. I was worried they might try to barter me, use me as a pawn, and Honorius would hear my name,” Gigi explained. “I couldn’t trust them. Well, not right away, and then it got a little uncomfortable to explain. I planned to send you word if I ever found out you were somewhere Honorius wasn’t.”

“A-hem!” Athaulf tried again. “Do you two plan to sup with the rest of us, or do you wish to retire to Jolie’s tent?” He raised an eyebrow at Gigi. “Our most holy and, er, virgin priestess has slept all by herself until now.”

Verica whacked her brother on the shoulder and the men laughed.

Ignoring them, Magnus took Gigi’s face into his hands and gazed into her eyes. “I must be alone with you. You are my only hunger, my only thirst. I cannot bear another moment apart from you, when at times I was so bitterly convinced there would never be another.”

“I was here, Magnus, waiting every day.”

He kissed her brow. “Let’s get away. We can ride out together, or we can go to your tent. But … I will not presume — ”

“The tent,” Gigi said, disregarding the continued uproar swirling around them. “Come to my tent. Make love to me.”

Magnus’s gaze flickered toward Alaric, and Gigi saw the king nod ever so slightly.

She closed her eyes, nestling into his enveloping arms. He lifted her, but this time he supported her knees and carried her, bride-like, past the crowd of onlookers and into the tent.

Setting her on her feet, Magnus hungrily sought her mouth with his, his fingers entwined in her hair. In seconds, Gigi’s clothes were on the ground. Magnus struggled with his, so she helped between kisses, pushing the tunic off his broad shoulders, pulling his riding breeches free of his hips. She watched them fall down his long, long legs, then her eyes were drawn back up, and her breath caught in yearning at the size of him, before she noticed the locket he wore about his neck.

“You kept me close.” She touched his locket, with its treasured strands of her blond hair. “So very close.”

She let her fingers drift downward, smoothing her hands over his skin, loving the feel of his chest hair. Her fingertips roamed on, in slow spirals, past his delicious abs, the heat of his skin rising as her hands slid lower still.

He groaned when she touched him and stroked his length. He pulled back from her and kicked his breeches aside, then clasped her naked body against his, lifting her up. He lowered her onto the bed, and she moaned as he stretched upon her.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered.

He kissed her throat and breasts, then lingered on her nipples, his touch light at first, making her shiver with desire, until his mouth concentrated on one, pulling and nipping.

She gasped and implored, “Magnus, now.”

She opened herself to him, pushing against his body. He used the tip of his shaft to explore her delicate parts, caressing her throbbing flesh, dipping in and out, driving her wild. Her juices surged and she grabbed him, guiding him in, taking him deeper, deeper.

Her body was molten, his rock-hard, a hammer shaping her to his will and forging their bond. He pounded her, bringing her to the brink, then slowing enough to prolong the moment, and she moaned, caught in a maddening, whirling eddy. He thrust again, and then again, until she felt a sudden shift in his movements, a clear urgency, and she lifted herself to meet him, to drive him on. Then, with a sudden explosion of pleasure, she cried out, and she heard his cry soon after, a great roar of passion released.

As their breathing slowed with the pace of their kisses, Gigi held Magnus close, delaying his withdrawal. Nestling her cheek against his rough growth of beard, she relished the moment, the miracle of holding him in her arms.

“I love you, Magnus,” she said, her heart’s slow, heavy beat matching his in spent desire. “I love you.”

• • •

They made love throughout the night, and slept, and spoke quietly of the weeks apart, even as they dared to dream of a future together. Then, as light slowly crept into the tent, only Magnus lay fully awake, listening to Gigi’s deep, rhythmic breathing.

It was a new world for him, a new beginning. Love, freedom, a lifetime of sharing stretched out before him, promising joy and fulfillment, a happy life. He closed his eyes and prayed, convinced Victoria was watching over him again. Shifting slightly, he tried to extract his arm from beneath Gigi’s head, and smiled when she opened her eyes.

“You’re still here,” she said sleepily, before snuggling in. “Good thing. I worried it was another dream.”

“I’ll be back shortly, my sweet,” he spoke quietly. “It’s very early. Go back to sleep. I want to bathe in the stream before everyone is up and about.”

“Hmmm, there’s some sapo,” she said, then yawned, opened her eyes and looked around, “somewhere.”

“Are you suggesting I need more than a good oil rub and a scrape?”

“Lord, yes,” Gigi said emphatically, then flushed. “I mean, after last night … I think we both do.”

Magnus grinned. “I’m well acquainted with sapo, so no need to fret.”

He got up and moved around the room, poking among her things. “Ah, here it is. A nice, big wedge — enough for two, if you’d care to join me. Or are you content just to lie there and watch a naked man wander about?”

“Very content with the sights.” Gigi smiled. “But I’ll join you, if only to hold the other women in camp at bay.”

They wrapped themselves in blankets and opened the tent flap to bright, chilly air and a pale blue sky. At their feet were two neatly folded piles of clothing: one, clean men’s clothing for Magnus, and the other, regular women’s clothing for Gigi.

“Oh, my … no more priestess robes,” she said, blushing deeply. “Either they’ve guessed I’m not really a priestess, or they’ve come to the conclusion — maybe after you carried me off last night — that I’m not exactly eligible anymore.”

Magnus laughed and picked up the bundles, handing them to Gigi. Ducking back inside, he grabbed his dagger and reemerged.

Gigi looked puzzled. “Are you expecting an ambush?”

“No,” he replied. “A good shave. It’s been weeks, and I’m no Visigoth.”

“Don’t touch your body hair. It looks,” she hesitated, clearly finding her Latin lacking, “er, sexy.”

He grinned at the strange word. “I assume that was meant as a compliment.” He bundled the dagger with his new clothes. “If it be your desire, then only the beard goes. I hate the damnable thing. Too hot and itchy.”

“Hmmm, I don’t think it’s so bad.”

Magnus put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck.

Giggling, Gigi pushed free, leaving her clothes in a patch of grass and leaping into the river with a whoop. Magnus kept the sapo in hand, but left the rest of his things beside hers, and dove.

The water still held summer’s warmth, and they played and splashed and laughed, unmindful of the noise. They passed the sapo back and forth, but as Gigi was working it through her hair, a look of surprise crossed her face, and she moved to the center of the stream so the water swirled around her shoulders, instead of her waist.

Just as Magnus turned to see the cause, children came out of everywhere, flying, diving, screeching past him. Berga, her twin brothers, other youngsters, landed in the water all around them. It was a free-for-all, the children against the two of them, and battle was met. Great sprays of water shot back and forth. The boys ganged up on Magnus, holding his arms, climbing onto his shoulders, trying to dunk him, tip him over, but he sent them hurtling through the air, one by one, into the deepest water.

“Slaváith!” a woman shouted. Silence!

The shrieks of laughter died and all eyes turned to see Randegund standing on shore, arms crossed, scowling. “Out of the water, children. Now! You may not play with the Roman filth!”

“Akh, it was all in good fun, Great Lady,” Magnus replied, striving to sound amiable. “Sorry to have woken you — ”

“Slaváith!” she ordered again.

By now, the children had scattered. Randegund watched the last of them vanish down the path to the tents, then returned her icy gaze to Magnus and Gigi. “And that means the two of you, also.”

“Not quite yet,” Magnus responded, casually coming out of the water and walking up the embankment. He picked up his blade, then moved back into the shallows. He sat with his back to Randegund and looked at Gigi, who seemed confused. Then he realized she probably hadn’t yet learned much of the Visigoth tongue.

“I still need to shave, Jolie,” he said in Latin. “I know you would not want me looking like a damnable barbarian.”

He could hear Randegund spit on the ground.

“Gasts!” she fumed. Curse it!

Magnus turned and watched the old woman as she marched away.

“Whoa, Nelly!” Gigi said, treading water.

He smiled at the peculiar turn of phrase, liking the sound of her ancestral tongue. He recalled the other word she’d said earlier.

“I gather you would not consider Randegund sexy,” he ventured.

Gigi laughed out loud and explained the meaning to him, adding with a charitable shrug of her shoulders that Randegund might have been sexy once, when she was young.

Magnus shook his head. “No, I think not, for her hateful gaze has never changed, as far as I recall, and I knew her when she still possessed the last vestiges of youth — she was nearly thirty, I believe, back then.”

Gigi smiled ironically. “Well, she’s never been pleasant to me, but I’ve never seen her like that — so furious. Why doesn’t she like us?”

He rubbed the sapo across his beard, building up lather, then began to scrape the blade carefully across his cheek. “She hates all Romans, but particularly me.” Magnus rinsed off his blade and looked straight into Gigi’s eyes. “She blames me for the death of her husband. When I was a young warrior, the Romans and Visigoths were allied. We were fighting together, and in my bloodlust, I pursued a Thracian on horseback, with disregard for those around me who were injured. I could have stopped and dragged her husband free of the fighting, abandoning my pursuit, but I did not. I left him there, wounded unto death. Unbeknownst to me, she had watched the battle and saw me ride off. She told me later … ” His voice trailed off as he thought about his captivity after Pollentia, and how only Alaric stood between him and Randegund’s hatred. “Later,” he started again, “years later, she assured me she would get her revenge. I’m quite sure she hasn’t forgotten that vow.”

He resumed shaving, not noticing the silence until he looked at Gigi and saw she had grown pale.

“Ah, my sweet,” he said, “do not think less of me.”

“I don’t. How could I? She had years to think about that moment, but you had no time.”

“Still, Randegund will never forgive me, nor did she forgive her Arian Christian God, whom she spurned. She went back to the old religion of her people, and many call her a witch, because of it.” Magnus finished shaving and cleaned the blade a final time. “Be forewarned, Gigi, and stay well away from her, for in loving me, you have made an enemy of her for life.”

“But King Alaric is your friend. Surely, he wouldn’t let her harm us?”

“He is her foster child, and she loves him above all others and will do his bidding, without question. Still, she has grown old since I last saw her, and more bitter than ever, perhaps losing not only her strength, but also her wits. Never eat anything she does not first taste herself, and also … ” he turned again, gazing at the spot where Randegund last was seen, “you must always carry this.”

He handed her the dagger, and to his relief she nodded, hefting the weapon in her hand.

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.