Return to Me

Epilogue


A.D. 430, Ravenna

The Oratory, Church of the Holy Cross

Mosaic gold. Royal blue. Placidia stared up in wonderment. Her ceiling came alive in the candlelight, the stars dancing in moonbeams, grand, beautiful, brilliant.

She moved past tall sentries, their armor polished to gleaming, their bodies smelling of leather and …

She inhaled the heady scent of lavender, wafting from incense burners, her own special touch, because it reminded her … of her Athaulf.

Once more, the ceiling captured her gaze, and she recalled the last time she stood with him beneath the star-filled sky, now almost fifteen achingly long years ago.

My true husband. My dearest! We found love amid the ashes, after the fall of Rome, our life together filled with the hope borne of new beginnings, but passing by so swiftly, too swiftly.

She studied one of the ceiling’s golden figures, his likeness resembling Athaulf. To mask her intent, the angels and saints had all been designed to her specifications, but only this one had a purpose, and it was a secret she would take to the grave.

Ah, my love, I so feared that over time I would forget your cherished face, but my fears proved groundless, for you are ever with me, dwelling daily within my heart and my dreams. Even so, I am comforted to look upon you, towering over me as you always did, so tall, so strong, your essence brought back so vividly each time I visit this sacred place.

She touched the pearl necklace at her throat, recalling how cool it felt against the heat of her skin when first he bestowed it upon her. He had given it to her on the night of their son’s birth, right after Athaulf held their babe in his arms for the first time.

Alas, such happiness was too soon marred by both their deaths! She wiped her eyes, fighting her emotions, when a word like none other, a hallowed word, stemmed the tide of grief: “Mother?”

She turned and beheld a pair of loving eyes, warm brown and filled with such breathtaking sweetness, those of the boy-emperor, Valentinian, her second son. Standing quietly beside his older sister, he was the living image of his grandfather, Theodosius, and her heart rejoiced in this; as Empress Regent she was determined to keep him apart from the legacy of corruption wrought by several of his male relations, most especially that of her late brother, Honorius.

“Come,” she whispered. Taking his hand, they walked to the far side of the oratory, and the boy studied an empty sarcophagus of white marble, which would someday shelter Placidia’s body.

He squeezed her hand and looked up at her. “Mother, you aren’t going to die soon, are you?”

She shook her head, loving the depth of feeling in his gaze, his genuine concern. “No, my dearest, I think — if the Lord God wills it — I shall stay here with you and your sisters for a long time to come.”

“Good,” he said seriously. He studied another sarcophagus, that of his late father, Constantius. “I would pray before Papa’s tomb.”

“Very well, dearest. I’ll stay here with Mara. Go on.”

Mara. A different name than the one given her at birth. Not Margareta, not Marga, but close enough.

When Mara smiled at her, Placidia’s heart rejoiced. Her daughter was eighteen and more beautiful than any goddess of old, tall and blond, with eyes as blue as the clearest summer sky. Athaulf’s daughter, a princess of the Visigoths. If he could but see her, how proud he would be!

Yet Placidia fiercely guarded the secret of their daughter’s identity, having sworn Mara to silence as well. But for the two of them, no one living knew, no one could ever know that a blood child of Athaulf’s had survived the chaos after his death. Placidia feared Athaulf’s enemies still lurked in the shadows. If they ever found out about Margareta of the Visigoths …

God protect her, Placidia silently prayed. They must never know.

She pushed aside her fears, as she had done many times before, and asked for the Lord’s Grace in shouldering this burden. Taking Mara’s hand, they watched as Valentinian bowed his head, his lips murmuring into prayerful hands.

She breathed deeply, seeking tranquility. Life had dealt Placidia many terrible blows, but her faith in goodness was born anew with Mara’s return, and with the births of this blessed son and his precious sister, Justa Grata Honoria, who was at home, in the care of her nursemaids.

Three, here with me, she thought. Six more children beyond my ken, beyond my reach or power to protect, yet I know they are safe.

Placidia glanced at her ceiling, the embodiment of man-made loveliness, but, she had to admit, nothing like the real miracle, when day turns to night, at dusk’s embrace, and she could see past the veil of blue to the heavenly stars.

Day to night …

A melody rose and soothed her, the golden tones of a flute barely heard, a sweet nothing, like the distant call of a nightingale, or the twitter of a lark at morning’s break.

Night to day …

Placidia stood still and listened, for it reminded her of the love she and Athaulf had shared. The music held the air for a moment more, and then faded away, like a wisp of a dream.

Her mind lingered over the tune, and she knew she would never forget the haunting melody. She closed her eyes, recapturing an image of dear, long-lost friends, missing friends she had not forgotten, would never forget.

Happiness always, her heart called to them, wherever you are.

When Valentinian rose, Placidia took one hand, Mara his other. Smiling, she and her children strolled outside beneath the stars, their youth sweet, hers long gone, their loves yet to come, hers tucked away in precious memory.



Authors’ Note


Galla Placidia, our historical heroine, led a life few women of her time experienced. She has been called one of the most powerful and important queens of her age, yet our readers might ask what became of her after our story ends.

As we have described, she and Athaulf lived together as man and wife for at least five years, eventually leaving Italy altogether and traveling with the Visigoths to what is now southern France and then on to the Iberian Peninsula. They had a son, Theodosius Germanicus, and in him, many saw the future ruler of a new world empire, an unparalleled mingling of barbarian and Roman, which held the promise of another blossoming of Pax Romana. But tragedy struck when the boy died of fever in 414, his grief-stricken parents burying him in a silver coffin in the city of Barcelona. Athaulf died soon afterward in 415, murdered by a follower of General Sarus, whose brother, Sergeric, was then proclaimed the king of the Visigoths.

It is here Placidia’s life suffered another dark turn, for historical records describe how Sergeric butchered her stepchildren by Athaulf, the innocents killed in cold blood. It is said Sergeric or his minions tore them from the arms of the Arian Bishop of the Visigoths, perhaps before Placidia’s very eyes. As Athaulf’s grieving widow, Placidia was further abused by being forced to walk twelve miles on foot at the head of Sergeric’s other captives, quite possibly in the company of her ever-faithful servants, Elpidia and Leontius. The people who witnessed this outrage immediately pressed for Sergeric’s removal as leader, and it is not surprising he was assassinated soon after, to be replaced by Wallia, whom some say was a kinsman of Athaulf.

Wallia and his people were by now desperate for food and through treaty they surrendered to General Constantius, now magister militum of Rome. As part of the peace treaty between the Visigoths and the Empire, Placidia was returned to Italy, where Honorius forced her into marriage with Constantius. By him, Placidia had two children: a daughter, Justa Grata Honoria, and a son, Placidus Valentinianus, the future Emperor Valentinian III.

Constantius died in 421 and Honorius followed soon afterward in 423, and once again, Placidia came into her own, her remaining days spent in service to her family and the Western Roman Empire. She acted as Empress Regent from 425 until her son came of age in 437, and was also a celebrated patron of the arts and religious houses, building and restoring many churches in Italy and throughout the world, her mausoleum in Ravenna chief among them.

As for the remaining, tangible remnants of our historical characters’ lives, there are a few that exist, even after sixteen hundred years. There is a necklace, given by Honorius to his first wife, Maria, which is housed in the collection of the Louvre, as well as various golden medallions of Honorius and Galla Placidia. Many of the churches Placidia built or restored still remain, including the Basilica of Saint Paul Outside the Walls in Rome, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, San Giovanni Evangelista in Ravenna, and, of course, her famous mausoleum. The body of Athaulf and Placidia’s child, Theodosius Germanicus, was exhumed and reburied inside the imperial mausoleum in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, where it is sheltered to this day.

We strive for accuracy on all fronts, and so our scenes with Dipsas and the blood moon cursings are based on actual lunar eclipses, which, according to astronomers, occurred in October of A.D. 414, and in March and September of A.D. 415, in the vicinity of Ravenna.

But, because this is a time travel epic romance, and therefore classified as historical fantasy, we have invented some characters for the purposes of our plot, including the aforementioned Dipsas, as well as Titus Africanus, Vana, Lucius, and Margareta of the Visigoths, the fictional daughter of Athaulf and Placidia.

As for Galla Placidia and her real children by Constantius, although their bodies are now dust, they live on in a beautifully preserved miniature painting on gilded glass, which can be seen at the Museo Civico Cristiano at Brescia. Although scholars question if the portrait does indeed show Placidia and her family, we hope it might, for it gives a face to our princess. In the painting, a lavish pearl necklace graces Placidia’s throat. Of course, no one knows who actually gave her the necklace or what happened to it, but we think our romantic solution may be true, and that perhaps the pearls still exist somewhere in the world, gifted from one lover to another down through the ages.

Our time traveling heroine, Gigi Perrin, is of course a product of our imaginations, although we suspect there is more than a trace of us present in her characterization, including our abiding hope that we too will leave the world a better place.

And lastly, we note that Gigi’s great love, Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, is also wholly fictional — although men like him certainly existed in the fourth and fifth centuries A.D., men of honor, loyal to the Empire to the bitter end, until the last flicker of the Ancient World winked out and Rome waned, replaced by an age of darkness.


About the Authors

Two authors writing as one, Cary Morgan Frates and Deborah O’Neill Cordes specialize in recreating pivotal moments in history, epic adventure, and romance — with a time travel twist. This is the third novel in their Roman time travel series. They live with their families in the Pacific Northwest.