Return to Me

chapter 12


Summer, A.D. 415, Near Arles, Southern France

The air was thick with dust, the sky hazy from a hot, dirty breeze that had been torturing the encampment for days. Constantius considered taking a quick dip in the smaller fork of the Rhodanos, where the shallows lessened the current, but pushed the thought away. He was too busy, and, besides, his men and horses were already there, bathing away the grit in shifts. He would let them take their ease without a general in their midst. Nevertheless, he looked forward to a cool swim before bed.

But would he be able to sleep after that? Deep, untroubled sleep had eluded him for days, such were his burdens. It seemed the entire Roman Empire teetered on the brink of disaster.

He untied his filthy neck cloth and slapped it against his knee. A puff of dust rose, and then dissipated. He dunked the cloth into a jug of water, wiped his face, and then dunked it again, before retying it around his neck. The cooling sensation was a relief, enabling him to focus on the map before him. He’d brought his men to this place for a few days’ rest, and he would be loath to leave it, but they needed to push on toward Hispania in the morning, where the Visigoth king lurked, thinking himself safe.

Taking a deep breath, then blowing out hard, Constantius tried to control the sense of urgency that dogged his every waking moment, and plagued what few dreams he’d managed to have.

Placidia.

She had been taken captive and forced to marry his great enemy, the oaf-king, Athaulf.

Constantius slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. He had been promised her hand by Honorius. All the years of tender devotion he’d nursed in his heart for her, and for what? A sullied woman!

He noticed several men casting glances his way, and headed for the banks of the river to be alone with his thoughts. Watching the ebb and flow would ease his tension.

It must be faced, he told himself. Placidia is no longer a virgin. He had lost that honor. But he still cherished her, would do anything for her. It was his greatest pleasure to have been given the command that would see her brought home, once and for all, after the Visigoths were defeated and Athaulf killed. And then, at long last, she would be his.

Constantius straightened and smiled. How he loved her! He would do everything possible to make her happy.

Shouts and commotion in camp caught his attention and he turned to look. A legatus bearing the emperor’s standard approached his tent. A message or command of some sort from Honorius, no doubt. Constantius went to greet him.

“Titus Africanus!” he exclaimed, surprised to see him. They saluted and grasped each other’s forearms. “I thought you were still in Ravenna. Are you come to tell me of your achievements in that regard, I hope? From the look of it,” he indicated Africanus’s new uniform with a nod, “your visit pleased the emperor very much.”

“Alas, only partially. The functions of most of the objects recovered from Magnus’s gear continue to puzzle Honorius’s magicians,” Africanus admitted.

“Ah,” Constantius said, nodding.

“As to my new status,” Africanus went on, “I am most grateful to Honorius for his beneficence.”

Constantius smiled. “As are we all. And what of Magnus and his wife? Have they been captured?”

“No. As you know, they stole a skiff in Vada Sabatia and were able to elude the blockade. It has been confirmed Magnus and his wife have joined Athaulf and Placidia in Barcino.”

“Damn him to Hades!” Constantius blurted. “I swear that man has the goddess Fortuna in his pocket! Any idea where he has kept himself all these years?”

Africanus shrugged. “Britannia, perhaps? I know not, but anywhere else, and we’d have gotten wind of it, you may be sure.”

“Does Honorius send any messages? Directives? Is that why you are here?”

A smile flickered across Africanus’s face. “Only that I and my men are to join up with you, and aid in any way possible on the mission you pursue, for our goals are now the same. But there is a bit more news. Have you heard of the death of the Visigoth princeling?”

“Indeed, I have.” Constantius nodded in self-satisfaction, again savoring the momentous news. When his own plans came to fruition and he married Placidia, it meant there would be no complications from Athaulf’s spawn, no possibility of anyone getting in the way of his own heirs, for he planned on begetting many fine and beautiful children on her. Given Honorius’s penchant for chickens and whores, Constantius had every hope he would father the next royal family.

He guided Africanus to his map table, explaining the route he’d laid out. Then, just as he was about to arrange for the bivouacking of Africanus’s men, he spotted legionnaires escorting a pair of Visigoths to his tent. One was short and very slight, his face smooth like a young girl’s, yet he moved as an athlete and was dressed like a warrior. The other was quite familiar.

Sergeric the Visigoth!

Constantius had served with Sergeric’s brother, General Sarus, for years, and although a very able and cunning tactician, Constantius had not trusted Sarus, and was not bereft when the man got his throat slit. Sergeric, however, had never served Rome. Instead, he’d stayed with his Visigoth brethren, even after his brother, Sarus, had been murdered, most probably on the orders of Athaulf.

Whatever Sergeric had to say, this promised to be a most interesting conversation. Constantius let no hint of expectation show on his face as he held out his arm in greeting.

Sergeric clasped arms and nodded curtly, then released his grip. “General Constantius, greetings. I have come to speak with you on an urgent matter. In private.”

Constantius inclined his head and glanced at the slight man, before returning his gaze to Sergeric. “We may talk in my tent, but you will forgive me if I keep my legatus close at hand, for appearance’s sake.”

The Visigoth looked at Africanus and nodded agreement. “This is Eberwolf. A trusted aide.”

Constantius found it hard to suppress a smile. “You may be certain I did not mistake him for a man-at-arms.”

“You are correct, most noble warrior,” Eberwolf replied, then bowed low. “I am not a warrior, but I think none could disparage my intellect.”

“If you are as smart as you are undersized,” Constantius replied, “we shall determine the truth of it soon enough, I’ve no doubt. Africanus, come, and we shall see what these fellows want.”

“General,” Africanus said with a bow.

Constantius called his steward. “Prepare meat, bread, and drink, and inform the clowns to ready themselves. I have a feeling we shall be feasting tonight!”

• • •

Music filled the night air. A great bonfire had been lit, and food and drink flowed in abundance. Sitting in an honored spot beside Africanus, Sergeric followed Constantius with his gaze. He’d met the general before, on missions with King Alaric and Athaulf to parlay with the Romans. Constantius had always struck him as taciturn and sober, moody even. But now, the general laughed at the clowns capering around and making fools of themselves. Then, when Constantius got up and began to dance and cavort in delight alongside his clowns, Sergeric could only stare, drop-jawed.

Suddenly, the general wheeled toward them.

“Come, come little man,” Constantius grabbed Eberwolf’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Make merry! But first, tell me, I think secretly you must be a great warrior. Show us some of your moves. Surely your specialty is poking knives into the feet of your foes, eh? Indeed, you are probably the very weapon any general would dream of, one to turn the tide of battle forever!”

Constantius bellowed with laughter and clapped Eberwolf on the shoulder.

Sergeric closely watched Eberwolf to gauge his response, and noted a clenched jaw. Well, what did he expect?

“Go on, Eberwolf, dance for the Roman dunces. Play their games,” Sergeric said, speaking Visigoth. Laughing for the crowd, he prodded his man toward the dancing. “We have brought them a great gift this night, and when we receive ours, do not forget that you will be handsomely recompensed.”

Eberwolf glanced darkly at Sergeric, then plastered a smile on his face and began to hop about to everyone’s delight. Sergeric shrugged inwardly. The little man should be happy to be taken seriously at all, given the dearth of blessings God had bestowed upon him.

Sergeric watched as Constantius took a brightly colored cap off one of the clowns and shoved it on Eberwolf’s head. It was much too big, and slid down over his eyes, stopping only when it reached his nose. Another roar of laughter, as everyone watched Eberwolf blindly teeter around.

With a feigned grin, Sergeric glanced at Africanus, who looked introspective as he watched his cavorting general. He admitted to a grudging respect for the legatus. He was tall and well-muscled, and obviously cunning, but emitted a sense of self-control that was palpable. Sergeric could tell he was not a man to be flustered, or let his emotions get the best of him.

Sergeric then turned to look at the small group gathered at the other side of the bonfire. Filthy Huns, here to negotiate some sort of treaty with Constantius. Their brethren lurked in the lands beyond the Danubius, the very lands once belonging to Sergeric’s forefathers. Miserable Huns. Horse-f*ckers, if the rumors were true. He stared at their heads, shaved but for top-knots of hair, long as their horses’ tails. The Huns were bare-chested and covered with tattoos. He half expected to see them drinking from the skulls of their enemies, as they were wont to do. He spat to rid himself of their foulness. A villainous lot, they held no allegiance except to the silver and gold they craved. Equally as cunning as any Roman, they tended to disparage self-control, and were far more apt to let their emotions embolden their ferocity. Thankfully, he need not worry about them, since he’d also made an alliance with Constantius.

Grinning, Sergeric felt such a surge of pride he could hardly contain himself. Thinking back to the meeting, he’d instantly known, by the look of shock, avarice, and lust on the Roman general’s face, that he had offered a plan more audacious, more cunning, than Constantius could ever have dreamt up on his own. It was the first salvo, the first victory in his grand plan.

He knew Athaulf, and more importantly his wife, the filthy Roman bitch, Placidia, would be delighted to welcome him home, only too willing to believe he was ever their loyal captain. As ever, their gullibility would be their downfall. Once he was allowed access back into Athaulf’s inner circle, he would kill the king, and then go after the children, making sure to leave no vestige of Athaulf’s hated bloodline alive. Then he would reclaim that which Alaric and Athaulf had stolen so long ago — his family’s crown, for he and his kin were the true leaders of the Visigoths, not the foul little bastards springing from Alaric or Athaulf’s stinking loins.

Watching the fun, Sergeric furrowed his brow, recalling with surprise that Constantius had insisted, on pain of death, that Placidia be spared and turned over to him immediately, without the least hair on her head out of place.

He chuckled as Eberwolf, still blinded by the cap, stumbled over the ring of rocks surrounding the fire, tumbled to the ground, and had to be batted about by several men, before the flames on his clothing were tamped out.

It would be no hardship to hand over Placidia, Sergeric mused. Let the Roman general do with her what he would. It was not his concern.

With a laugh, Sergeric got up and joined in the revelry.

• • •

Two days later, Constantius and Africanus watched the pair of Visigoths ride out of camp. Constantius waited until the dust kicked up by their departure cleared, then turned to look at Africanus.

“I’ve no doubt the pact Sergeric made with us is sincere, but it does not go far enough.”

Africanus bowed, and then returned the steady gaze. “I am yours to command. What would you have me do?”

“Gather the men with whom you came. You will ride out today for Barcino, but do not follow the same path. Do not let yourself be seen by Sergeric. When he makes his move on Athaulf, I want you to be there. You have two objectives. The first is to fulfill the emperor’s command: capture Magnus and his wife, or if you cannot, then kill them and bring back their bodies. The second command is mine, and it will cost you your life if you bungle it: protect Placidia and bring her to me unscathed.” He looked squarely at Africanus. “There can be no failure of the second command.”

Africanus returned his gaze without flinching, but a telltale swallow let Constantius know he had made his point.