Return to Me

PART THREE


chapter 18


Montserrat, Barcelona, Spain

Exhausted and overcome with grief, Gigi stood in a cave on the flanks of Montserrat. Even with the help of Wallia’s men and fast horses, it had still taken them all afternoon and most of the night to arrive at this hidden spot.

They had just buried King Athaulf in a ravine not far away, in a place where he could rest in peace until the day Wallia returned to retrieve the body.

The queen sat mute, rocking herself, her eyes vacant and teary. Leontius and Elpidia waited nearby, watching her with great concern. Magnus, Wallia and the other Visigoths were still at the grave, erasing all traces of their presence, so that no one would be able to find clues which would lead them to Athaulf’s remains.

There was nothing Gigi could do to take away Placidia’s heartbreak, so she simply sat next to her friend and held her hand. She gazed into the distance, past faraway Barcelona, and saw several sailing ships in the waters beyond. She wondered which one, if any, belonged to Lucius.

Placidia stirred beside her, then withdrew her hand, and Gigi realized she was being scrutinized.

“What is it, Placidia?” she gently asked.

“Yesterday, when you got back to the chapel, you said something to Magnus about changing history. What did you mean?”

Gigi froze. She could not lie. It was time she told Placidia what they knew.

“Let me get Magnus,” Gigi replied, scrambling to her feet. “We need to explain ourselves, but it can be for your ears only.” She looked at Leontius and Elpidia. “Please, when my husband arrives, give us this moment to speak to the queen.”

They complied, and Gigi hurried to find Magnus. She quickly told him the situation, and soon they were standing with the queen at the mouth of the cave.

“Do you remember that day in the baptistery when Horace vanished and I was suddenly there?” Gigi asked.

A faint nod from Placidia was all that told Gigi she was listening. Her dull expression told Gigi she didn’t care in the least.

Gigi exchanged a nervous glance with Magnus.

“Go on, tell her everything,” he urged.

She took a deep breath and dove in. “As strange as it sounds, Horace and I switched places in time. You see, I was born in the late twentieth century, almost sixteen hundred years from now. I was playing my flute for some people in the baptistery, when all of a sudden everything changed. I could hear Horace playing, trying to mimic my music, and somehow we changed places. He went to twenty-first century Ravenna, and I came here, to your time.”

Placidia frowned in confusion.

“I know this sounds insane, Placidia, I know that, but hear me out. The time travel might have been caused by the flute playing, or it might have been Magnus’s ring.” Gigi touched her husband’s hand. “My grandfather found the ring in 1947, in southern Italy, very near where Randegund ripped it from my finger the night Magnus was kidnapped. It was not found at the battle site where he’d lost it, because I’d altered history by traveling back in time with it.”

Placidia muttered, “A wonderful story, Gigi. A great tale for children, but it is beyond me why you should think it comforting for me to hear such … such a ridiculous fantasy.”

“Placidia,” Magnus took up the thread, “it is the truth. I swear on my love for you it is true. After I was kidnapped and tortured by Honorius, Gigi saved me by getting me to the baptistery, playing her flute, and taking us both to her time. The medical knowledge there is very advanced, far beyond anything I could ever have imagined, and they were able to save me. We enjoyed our time there, happy to finally be free of your brother, but when the ring was mysteriously returned to Gigi, we knew we were called to return. When we checked the historical records, we realized what had happened … and what we had to try and stop from happening.”

Magnus glanced at Gigi and she knew why he hesitated. This was the crux of the problem. The fact that they had known of Athaulf’s impending death and not stopped it might turn her against them forever. How could they help her to understand?

Gigi continued, “We knew Athaulf would be murdered, and we did try to stop it — we did try to change history. Some things we’ve been able to nudge, but not the major events. Not the events that would ripple down through history with lasting effect.”

Tears started to course down Placidia’s cheeks, and her shoulders shook, but Gigi could not be sure if she was accepting the story, or if she was simply reliving the prior day’s horror.

Gigi took hold of Placidia’s hands. “The reason we came back was because history told us Athaulf’s children would be slaughtered, and we knew we couldn’t let that happen, regardless of the danger it might put us in. Marga isn’t in the history books, so when we arrived in Barcino and met her, we hoped that meant we were supposed to save her as well. If we made history think they’d all been murdered, then we thought we could save them.”

“Did history tell you about Theo, too?” Placidia asked flatly.

Unable to meet her gaze, Gigi looked down. “We knew, and we came with medicine in hopes of saving him, but we had no control over when we got here, and we simply got here too late. I’m so sorry.”

Placidia’s lower lip quivered. “What else do you wish to tell me?”

“That Sergeric will die within the week, and Wallia will take over and rule well. But before he dies, Sergeric will torment you and others by parading you as captives, however this will cause such an uproar that everyone will turn on him.”

“And then?”

Gigi hesitated, knowing Placidia’s near future was going to be very painful.

Magnus took up the story again. “You will be turned over to Constantius and taken back to Ravenna. You will marry him in a little over two years.”

“That is ridiculous,” Placidia flared. “I would never marry him!”

Gigi sighed, but soldiered on. “You will have two beautiful children together. Then, Honorius and Constantius will each die within ten years of your return, and you will become regent over your son, who will go on to rule the Western Roman Empire.”

When Placidia didn’t respond, Gigi added, “Please believe us. We would never lie to you.”

“So you say.” Placidia shook her head in frustration. “You did save the children, for which I am indebted. But … if I am to become regent, will I ever see them again?” Her voice caught. “And my Marga? Dare I hope … ?”

Gigi shrugged. “We don’t know, Placidia. We have no idea what will happen to them, because … it hasn’t happened yet, and there’s nothing recorded except that they all died just as we said.”

“Oh, God!” Placidia leaned against Gigi and wept. Magnus embraced them both, and they let the queen mourn.

After a few moments, Placidia wiped her eyes. “It seems I have a role to play, and I do not wish to delay the inevitable. I want to return to Barcino, to meet my fate.” She paused and looked out at the distant sea. “You told me once you know how to sail. Perhaps that is the best plan to get the children out of harm’s way. Escape with them. Take them somewhere far away, across the very ocean if you must, and I will cherish the thought of them growing strong and wise and safe in a land of beauty and peace and sun. This knowledge will keep me strong in the years ahead.” Her voice faltered again, and she buried her face on Magnus’s shoulder and wept.

Gigi looked into his eyes. He looked as devastated as she felt.

He wrapped his arms around both women and whispered, “We love you, Placidia. And we will love your children as our own. In fact, we already do.”

• • •

Late that afternoon, they were ready to begin their descent toward Barcino. They would travel most of the night under cover of darkness, then rest and finish the trek in the morning. Placidia did not want to enter the city in the dark, without the people of Barcino as witness to her arrival.

Knowing they could not return to the city without risking capture, Magnus and Gigi would hang back, keep watch, and eventually make their way to the cove and the planned rendezvous with Lucius.

“I still do not know what to think,” Placidia said, as they stood by their horses. “But my heart tells me you are sincere. I have seen some of the items you carry, and witnessed what they can do. They are marvelous and terrible beyond my ken, and it makes sense they come from the future. Based on this, and the love I know you have for me, for my family, I have chosen to step forth in faith.” She kissed Gigi’s cheek, her voice thick with emotion. “I have cherished our time together and love you as a sister.”

“I love you, too,” Gigi said tearfully. “I wish we could make this easier for you.”

They embraced a moment more, and then Placidia turned to Magnus. “My protector, my true brother, please know that I will forever honor your name and your memory. You have been my closest friend, my greatest advocate, and I love you dearly.”

Eyes brimming, Magnus swallowed hard and could only nod in response.

Placidia touched the flute strap on Gigi’s shoulder. “Play your flute for the children. Play for yourself and for Magnus. And, once in a while, play for Athaulf and me. Write a song about the love we shared. Something beautiful. I’m sure I will hear it in my heart, and it will bring comfort to me.”

At a loss for words, Gigi nodded.

There was a last round of hugs, and then Magnus and Gigi watched as Placidia, Leontius, and Elpidia mounted their horses. Wallia saluted Magnus, then turned his mount and led the group down the hillside.

Gigi and Magnus followed the others at a careful distance. The day passed uneventfully, and if not for their grief and the sense of foreboding, Gigi would have enjoyed the mountain trek. Late that night they were within several miles of Barcino when Placidia’s group made camp.

Speaking very little, and then only in hushed voices, Gigi helped Magnus pitch their own meager camp and they hunkered down. The night air was oppressive, her thoughts dark, and she knew sleep would be elusive.

A great clamor sent Gigi and Magnus out of their bedrolls in an instant. Gigi had her gun drawn, Magnus, his sword. Light was just brightening the sky, and the horses were agitated, but not alarmed. Gigi looked at Magnus. The racket was not close by, but it had all the hallmarks of an ambush. Placidia’s camp was being attacked!

“Should we help?” she asked.

Magnus shook his head. “No, I believe history has taken hold, and Placidia’s fate is out of our hands.”

“So we just leave?”

“How long was the forced prisoner march?” Magnus asked.

The questions shook Gigi. Implacable history would have its way, and she shuddered at its power. “I think it was about ten or so miles, but I don’t know what that is in Roman mille.”

Nodding, Magnus turned to her. “I think we are about ten miles from the outskirts of the city.”

Gigi leaned against Magnus and holstered her gun. “I hate this.”

“She will be fine. You know this will bring the people out against Sergeric, and that is good.”

Gigi nodded. “Would it be safe to follow and watch?”

“Perhaps. In any case, it would greatly ease my heart.”

When they were packed and mounted, Gigi and Magnus were able to get close enough to the others to see what was going on.

Placidia’s party was surrounded by several dozen troops wearing new colors, Sergeric’s colors. Sure enough, Sergeric was at their head, taunting the queen, Wallia, and his men. Their horses had been confiscated, and everyone was bound at the wrists and forced to march on foot.

It was hot and dusty, and Sergeric hurled insults at every opportunity. As the group drew closer to Barcino, local people lined the roadway, silent and sullen.

Gigi saw a little boy recklessly dash out and press a flower into Placidia’s hand, before he was shoved to the side by a soldier. Many of the people prayed, some wept, and as Placidia’s group got closer to the city, townspeople began to pelt Sergeric and his soldiers with whatever they had at hand.

As Gigi watched with tears in her eyes, Magnus touched her arm. “We have risked too much already,” he said. “It’s time to follow our own path and let her go.”

With a ragged sigh, Gigi agreed. They mounted their horses and skirted Barcino in silence, heading toward the cove.

It had grown dark, a deep, moonless night, and they couldn’t see if the ship was there. Hoping they weren’t too late, Magnus lit a pair of torches and waved them back and forth.

Before long, they heard the soft lapping of oars in the water. Lucius was rowing toward them. They unsaddled their horses, set them free, and climbed into the boat.

“Welcome aboard,” Lucius whispered. “The freedom ship and her crew await.”

• • •

The door shut and Placidia stood mute in her bedchamber. How dare he! How dare Sergeric come here and tell her she would not be allowed to attend her husband’s funeral mass!

Shaking with rage, she turned to Elpidia.

“We shall honor the king before the Lord, right here,” Elpidia firmly stated. “Our prayers will be heard. By God, Sergeric’s will not, for his words will fly straight to hell.”

Grief supplanted rage and Placidia thought back to her last moments with Athaulf. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she realized there was one thing yet to do, one more thing before they prayed.

She went to her sewing kit and withdrew her shears. “Help me, Elpidia. It is time I honor my husband as a true Visigoth queen.”

Her old nurse nodded, took the shears in hand, and began to work.

• • •

King Sergeric left the cathedral and stepped into the bright sunlight with Bishop Sigesar at his side. The High Holy Mass had been packed with the bereaved, mourning the loss of King Athaulf and his children. Outside, the streets were just as congested, the people silent in their sorrow.

He squinted, shading his eyes as he looked about, congratulating himself on thinking to keep Placidia at the castellum under heavy security. Neither the Visigoths nor the people of Barcino had much liked it when he’d forcibly brought her back to town, along with her protector, Wallia, and his men, all bound at the wrists and trudging behind their horses. He’d later gotten word she had shorn her hair, as if she were a Visigoth! Had she been seen in church after that, she would have elicited even more sympathy, perhaps to the point of causing a riot.

But that had not happened, for she was locked up. Sergeric was confident he had made the right moves in that and all other matters before him. He’d even put forth a huge sum of his own coin as a bounty for Athaulf’s assassin.

Assassin. Where the hell had Eberwolf gone off to, anyway? Seven days and he’d still not resurfaced. Neither had any trace of the children he’d murdered. This ongoing mystery was giving Sergeric sleepless nights. He wanted to be done with it, knowing many in Barcino were convinced Eberwolf had acted on Sergeric’s command, despite his insistence the mimi had been Honorius’s plant.

As his personal guard surrounded him, Sergeric bowed to the bishop, thanked him, and then moved down the steps. The crowd parted before him, still silent, although their eyes spoke of anger and hatred.

Refusing to show any hint of the nervousness he felt, Sergeric held his head high and kept his gaze forward as he made his way toward the castellum.

Once he’d turned a corner and the cathedral was out of sight, a creeping sense of dread pricked at the base of his neck. He shrugged it off, but the sensation only grew.

The utter silence, the pulse of anger pouring off the people who filled every street along his route, was palpable and disturbing.

It’s the heat, he told himself. It’s just the heat.

Pearls of sweat formed across his upper lip and he licked at them, hoping the oppression might be eased at last by a thinning of the crowd, or maybe a breeze from the sea.

The next street. The next street will be better.

Turning the corner, the road was blessedly empty of people and ablaze with sunlight and color. Sergeric sighed with relief. He was nearly to the castle.

Suddenly, the sense of dread he’d felt earlier became overwhelming. He could no longer fight the urge to turn, and spun around to face the threat, whatever it was.

Eyes wide, Sergeric realized too late that his guard was gone, evaporated into the crowd who swarmed to cut off any further advance. A glance told him Visigoths made up the angry mob, his kin, his people, bent on revenge.

They pressed in on him, silent, eyes glinting with fury. He knew. They knew. Words were not necessary. He would die for the crimes they were sure he’d committed. Crimes he would have committed, given the chance. He tried to back away, but felt hands shove him forward, into those he faced.

“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.