Return to Me

chapter 3


Hadrian’s Villa, Italy

Gigi shifted in her saddle, her legs and back aching from the long ride in the dank, misty air. She was exhausted. They were six days out of Ravenna and almost there. Hadrian’s Villa. She would see Princess — no, Queen Placidia, King Athaulf, and his beautiful, unhurt children.

Gigi smiled, watching Magnus as he guided his mount over the uneven terrain. He was in his element, so confident and alive. She hadn’t thought he felt out of place in the twenty-first century, but seeing him back here made her realize he’d been a mere shadow of himself.

Her mare blew hard and shook her head, sending tremors rattling down its entire body. The horse was tired, too.

Magnus glanced back at Gigi. “Not much farther,” he said and withdrew his sword.

She reached under her cloak and palla and unsnapped the security strap on her shoulder harness. She still hadn’t told Magnus about the gun, but was determined to use it if necessary.

Until now, they’d avoided the roads and kept to the back country to evade unwanted attention or recognition, although seeing anyone who might identify Magnus seemed implausible. They wore heavy winter cloaks of oiled wool, which protected against the freezing damp and prying eyes. Besides, the lousy weather had kept most people inside and uninterested in strangers passing by.

The trees thinned, then ended, and they emerged from the wilderness onto a breathtaking plateau. Gigi’s mouth dropped open. Craggy rocks and pine trees created a stunning backdrop to marble buildings, pools and statues, columns and lush gardens.

Hadrian’s Villa exuded a sense of peace, of beauty and nature tamed. It looked like a place where the gods might live, and yet it also looked … abandoned.

• • •

Cretia, the villa’s caretaker, welcomed Gigi and Magnus, and easily accepted their invented reason for coming — that he was a legatus traveling with his wife to his new posting in Rome, the side trip to Hadrian’s Villa a special request of his wife.

Thin and frail, the caretaker nevertheless exuded strength and a gentle determination, and, if she harbored doubts as to the veracity of their tale, she didn’t let on. She welcomed them into her office, which was finely appointed, but sparse and chill, the brazier unlit.

Anxious, Gigi shivered with the cold and pulled her cloak closer.

“We are few in number up here, when the royals aren’t in residence,” Cretia explained, “and it has been a very long time since we’ve welcomed any of those. Honorius will not answer our pleas for more funding, furious because we allowed Placidia to stay here. But how could we not? They were a very great force, and she, a royal. Despite our meager condition, we remain, tending the site because we love it, and because this is all we have ever known. I am embarrassed you were able to find your way in through the mountains without being detected, but our protection was withdrawn the moment Placidia and her Visigoths arrived.”

“When were the Visigoths here?” Magnus asked. “How long ago did they leave?”

“Oh, let me think,” Cretia looked up at the ceiling, her fingers tapping the tabletop as she counted. “They arrived in the winter of the fifteenth year of Emperor Honorius’s reign, and were here but several months.” She smiled. “They were quite well behaved and left us without damaging anything. They were forced out by General Constantius, you see. He could not confront them openly, since his forces were stretched so thin, but he was able to block food supplies, and eventually their choices were either to leave or starve.”

Gigi leaned forward. “How long ago did they leave?”

“Where did they go?” Magnus added.

Cretia looked bewildered, as though the answers had already been given. “As I said, they were only here for the winter and early spring of the emperor’s … let me see,” her fingers tapped four more times, then she continued, “we are in the emperor’s nineteenth year, so they have been gone nearly four years. They were not physically forced out by anyone. Our emperor let them depart unmolested, but it was well known at the time it was Attalus who bid them leave and go into Gaul, so I presume they are there.”

A.D. 414! Appalled, Gigi sat back and looked at Magnus. When they’d left ancient Rome and time traveled, it had been A.D. 410.

Magnus’s jaw clenched, but he showed no other sign of stress.

“Sister,” Gigi asked, “we have journeyed in the mountains for a long while. What month are we in? Is it October? November?”

“We are well into late November,” Cretia answered. “The Nones of December will soon be upon us.”

Gigi sat rigidly, thinking how little time they had. Placidia and Athaulf’s infant son was said to have died during the winter of 415 in Barcelona. That meant she and Magnus might have, at most, a few months to save the baby, and it would take weeks and weeks to get to Spain. Would the medicine they brought be useless, the child already gone? She bit her lip, striving for optimism, but she couldn’t overcome her rising panic.

“Thank you, sister,” Magnus said, getting up, “you have been most helpful.”

“Will you not stay and sup with us?” Cretia asked. “We would love to share what little we have in exchange for news of the wider world. You are welcome to stay the night.”

“Thank you. We will sup with you, but we cannot stay the night,” Magnus said. “I’m afraid we must keep moving. We are expected in Rome, and the rain has delayed us overmuch already.”

After a surprisingly hearty meal of venison stew, Gigi and Magnus thanked the woman and left. Outside, the sun, weak and pale, lost its battle with threatening clouds, and the world grew dark and cold once again. As they gathered their reins and mounted, Gigi couldn’t shake the sense of doom enveloping her heart.

They turned their horses onto the main road that would lead them toward Rome. “It’s late autumn, A.D. 414,” she said to Magnus when they were out of earshot. “Are we too late?”

“No, my sweet,” he grimly replied, “but we must hurry. They are in Hispania by now. I think we should go to Portus and see about boarding the next ship. It would be quicker than going by land, and I fear the time we’ve lost.”

“Portus?” Gigi asked, worried. It was Rome’s port city, a busy center of commerce where someone was bound to recognize Magnus. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous for you.”

He reined in his horse and looked at her, his expression grave. “Perhaps, but I fear the risk must be taken. We’ve lost nearly a week in coming here, coming the wrong direction. We must pray Victoria will guide our path.”

Gigi gazed at him a moment, then took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, Portus it is,” she said in English.

“Okay,” he replied.

They rode out of the hills, toward Portus.

• • •

Pushing themselves and their horses hard, Gigi and Magnus spent only one night on the road to Portus. They skirted the walls of Rome, catching glimpses of familiar sites. They kept their heads down and their cloaks close about them. After nightfall, they slept in a rough taberna, hopefully well away from anyone who might recognize Magnus.

The morning greeted them bright and crisply clear, a gentle breeze ruffling their hair. As the sun rose, it got warm, and Gigi rolled up her cloak and tied it behind her. Magnus kept his on, preferring to reveal his legatus uniform only when they got to the docks of Portus.

They rode along the Via Portuense. The city’s outlying area looked like any industrial zone, with low, uninteresting warehouses and a multitude of smithy shops, pottery and glass factories, and granaries surrounded by shacks. The Via led them to Portus’s great wall. Gigi noticed places in the wall where the stonework looked different, lighter in color, and obviously newer. It had been four years since King Alaric and his Visigoths had sacked Rome, and she’d heard Portus had also been badly damaged by unruly bands under the command of Sergeric, who at the time was one of Alaric’s captains.

The statue of a woman with what appeared to be a tower on her head loomed above the main gate. “Who is the goddess, and what in the world is that thing on her head?” Gigi asked as they passed beneath.

“That is not a goddess, but merely imagery depicting the city of Portus,” Magnus explained. “The tower is the lighthouse of Claudius, which we will be seeing when we get to the harbor.”

Beyond the gate, the city bustled with all manner of commerce. There were food stalls lining the road, wagonloads of amphorae of every shape, wooden crates, and hundreds of people. They hollered at each other, haggled with merchants, ate, and gossiped. When Gigi and Magnus came to a roadblock caused by a cart with a broken wheel, she realized rush-hour headaches were nothing modern.

“We are nearly at the docks, Gigi. Stay very close,” Magnus advised.

As they circumvented the wrecked cart, a chilly breeze blew by, and Gigi could smell the sea. Breathing deeply, she guessed the wind was strong enough to raise a few white caps out in open water — a good sign. The sun warmed her upturned face. It was a beautiful day for a sail.

In moments, the embracing arms of Portus’s vast, inner harbor opened before them. The lighthouse of Claudius rose in the distance, while to Gigi’s immediate right a tall column loomed, topped with a statue of the goddess Victoria, who kept watch over sea and shore.

Magnus gazed up at the statue for a long moment. Dismounting, he threw off his travel cloak and went down on one knee in tribute. He kissed the image of Victoria on his garnet ring, remounted, and grinned at Gigi. “It is good to be home, my sweet.”

She smiled and nodded, then noticed how many people were eyeing Magnus. As they moved their horses forward, the crowd parted and several bowed. She heard someone say, “Make way for the legatus!”

Nervous, she relaxed her grip on her reins, but didn’t see anyone they knew, or even a hint of recognition toward her husband. Nevertheless, she fervently hoped no one here remembered Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, former legatus and senator of Rome.

Before them, ships bobbed at mooring blocks, but to Gigi’s modern eye they all looked leaky and unstable, obviously not a fiberglass hull in sight. Unbidden memories filled her mind, images of the sea disaster at Messina, where so many ships had been lost and dozens of Visigoths had drowned. She worried over the possibility of surviving a storm aboard a similar wooden vessel.

Uneasy, she glanced again at the blue sky, then pushed aside her pessimistic thoughts and followed Magnus to a nearby dock. He soon found someone in charge, who pointed toward another dock farther along. Once there, Magnus began haggling, and before long money changed hands, and Magnus came back, smiling broadly.

“Victoria blesses us. There is a ship bound for Barcino with room for us and the horses,” Magnus said eagerly. “The ship will leave with the first good tide and favorable wind, and the way the weather is shaping up, they feel tomorrow, mid-morning, they will be able to weigh anchor. We are to be at the wharf at dawn.”

“How long does it take to get to Barcelona … er, Barcino from here?” Gigi asked, scanning the ships nearest them. “Which one are we taking?”

Magnus mounted and pointed to one of the larger cargo ships. “It’s the one with the eagle’s head at the prow, which I take as a very good sign. With decent winds, the voyage should take no more than a week.”

As Gigi gazed at the ship, her resolve faltered once more. It was an ancient wooden vessel — no radar, no sonar, no GPS, and no radio to call the Coast Guard. Crap. She felt like she had one of the mooring blocks tied around her neck. But we have no choice, she told herself. There is no other option. Think of Placidia’s family.

They headed toward one of the more prosperous inns along the quay, and Magnus went in to book a room. Gigi dismounted and removed their gear, then turned the horses over to a stable boy, who took them to the barn.

Magnus returned and gathered their things. “The innkeeper says there is a shop around the corner that sells sturdy travel clothes. I suggest we both get breeches for riding, but you should wear yours beneath your skirt, so as not to draw unwanted attention.”

“Good idea,” Gigi replied, following him up the stairs. “And maybe we can get a meal while we’re out. I’m exhausted, but I’m hungry, too.”

Their third-story room had a large window that overlooked the harbor, and Gigi gazed out, admiring the scene. It was beautiful, and her spirits lifted. “Maybe they’ll let me help sail.”

Beside her, Magnus frowned as he took in the scene. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “Bear with me. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Gigi watched him leave the room, unsure why he’d changed his mind. The room wasn’t luxurious, but it was clean and the view couldn’t be beat. Magnus soon returned with a large, balding man, who carried a satchel.

“This fellow has agreed to switch rooms with us, wife,” Magnus explained. “He does not suffer from vertigo, as you do. I already have his key, so help me gather our things, and we will be out of here right away.”

Understanding something was afoot, Gigi thanked the stranger, who looked unbelievably pleased. She hurried down the stairs after Magnus, to the floor below and on the opposite side of the building.

Once inside the decidedly less expensive room, Gigi nervously put down her things. “What’s going on? Has someone spotted us?”

Magnus drew back the curtains a bit and peeked out. “No, I don’t believe so. Nevertheless, we are too near Rome and should be taking precautions. We aren’t on holiday. Had there been any danger, we couldn’t have gotten out of the other room without risking injury. Here,” he motioned outside, “we are on the second floor and the stable’s roof is right under our window. Easy access to the ground and to our horses, should something come up. We’ll sleep fully clothed, bags packed, weapons at the ready.” He bent and pulled the walkie-talkies out of his bag and handed one to Gigi. “And we must keep these on us at all times, in case we become separated.”

She nodded and clipped her walkie-talkie onto the leather strap holding her Bowie knife and flute, then drew her palla over it.

• • •

Bassa the Thracian stood at the entrance of the dark alley, watching the taberna and waiting. The innkeeper had turned out to be quite useful, providing Bassa with the location of his quarry’s room — third floor, harbor side — while also promising to keep the inn’s main door unlocked. The man had been bought off cheaply, content with only the barest haggling. An offer of ten silver coins had settled the deal, and Bassa was quite happy to pocket the rest of the allotment he’d been given by a Roman soldier, which was already nestled in the pouch he kept within his loincloth.

The night was cold and he blew on his hands. Would that he had brought a heavier cloak! He stamped the ground, cursed, and shivered, but kept his gaze on the front door and continued to wait.

He hazarded a glance at the shimmering stars, glad of the deep, moonless night, then looked at the inn’s third story. A few shuttered windows still had light coming through the slats, and the waiting dragged on. More moments, endless moments, and he imagined the occupants undressing, snuffing out their oil lamps, taking to their beds, and … perhaps f*cking. He’d seen a whore enter the inn earlier, the last person to go inside, and, since she hadn’t reappeared, he assumed she was spending the night. That would certainly be costly play! He smiled to himself, then scratched his balls and felt for his coin pouch. When this night’s work was done, he vowed to do the same and hire his favorite meretrix for some all-night play of his own.

Eventually, the remaining lights went out, and the inn lay shadowed in the night’s black depths. Several heartbeats passed and then Bassa heard the squeak of door hinges. Through the gloom, he could see a darker crack appear, the door open, his invitation.

He withdrew his knife and crept forward.

• • •

Gigi snuggled against Magnus, seeking his warmth. The window was heavily curtained and shuttered, but the night air seeped in nonetheless, the brazier by their bed banked and low. She pulled the blanket up and over her head, until it covered everything but her nose, and listened to Magnus’s soft snoring. She was glad he could sleep, wishing she could do the same.

Tomorrow they would set sail for Spain. If they could just reach Placidia and Athaulf in time, if they could just save their baby, if …

No! No ifs. They would succeed.

She opened her eyes and searched the darkness, the world quiet and peaceful, then whispered to the air, “We’re coming, Placidia.”

• • •

Bassa slipped through the front door. The innkeeper had made himself scarce, wanting no further part in the night’s events.

He climbed the steps, satisfied in the way things had turned out. The innkeeper had also agreed to drug his quarry’s wine, so the man and his wife were certainly sound asleep by now.

Easy pickings, he thought.

Bassa reached the third-floor landing and searched the hall, getting his bearings. Harbor side. The door to the room stood ajar. He treaded softly. The brazier’s coals gave off a feeble glow; just enough to see two forms nestled beneath the covers. They were still, their breathing deep, even. He closed the door, moved to the bed, and stared down at the larger figure.

Bassa raised his blade, made sure of his angle, and plunged it into the man’s flesh. Luck was with him and it hit true, causing instant death.

He pulled out the knife and raised it once more, but the woman suddenly thrashed to life and let out a shriek. Bassa leapt upon her, covering her mouth with one hand, his knife piercing her eye and brain with the other.

Her body went limp. He threw the blanket over the corpses and raced out the door. The coins banged against his balls as he left the inn and headed for the whorehouse.

• • •

Gigi held Placidia’s infant son. He was so sweet, a little peanut with big, blue eyes and a smile that reminded her of Athaulf’s youngest daughter, Rosenda …

A scream of terror rent the air and was cut short.

Awakening with a start, Gigi sat upright, breathing hard, and tried to make sense of the sound.

Magnus yanked her out of bed. “That was meant for us. The window — open the window!”

Gigi threw back the curtains and opened the shutters as Magnus grabbed their gear and leaned out, letting their leather knapsacks and cloaks drop onto the stable roof.

Damn! The .45 was in her bag, so was the stun gun. They would do her no good for the moment. Thank goodness they’d kept their blades in their belts!

Magnus held onto the window ledge and lowered himself outside, then dropped the few feet to the tiled roof below. Gigi did the same, easing into his outstretched arms before her feet touched down. They sat and slipped to the edge, then repeated what they’d done at the window.

The stable boy opened the door a crack and hoarsely whispered, “Who’s there?”

Magnus wedged his foot into the doorway before the boy could shut himself in, and spoke softly, “There has been a murder inside tonight, and I hope to the gods you did not forget to keep our horses saddled.”

“They are ready, sir,” the boy said, his voice squeaking with fright. “I, I heard the scream. I am most grateful it wasn’t you, sir.”

Gigi hurried past him and headed for their horses. Taking their leads, she brought them to the main door as her husband pressed a pouch of coins into the boy’s hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” she urgently whispered, desperate to get away.

“You must leave this place, lad,” Magnus warned. “They’ll torture you to find out where we’ve gone, whether you know or not.”

“But his family … they’ll go after his family, too,” Gigi said.

Wide-eyed, the boy stared at the pouch. “I have no family.”

“Then go now and never return,” Magnus ordered.

As he dashed off, Gigi and Magnus mounted their horses and raced away. She hoped the stable boy would escape. She didn’t want him to suffer for helping them, like the bald man certainly had.

Gigi closed her mind to dark thoughts and concentrated on staying on her horse. Portus to Barcelona by land. It had to be a thousand miles, maybe more. How long would that take in the best of circumstances? How long would it take in the worst? She entwined her fingers through her mare’s mane and bent over its neck. They were flying through town, making enough noise to raise the dead, but thankfully it was very late and no one seemed to care.

Soon, the gate and Portus lay behind them, open country and myriad back roads before them. They made less noise out here, hooves beating against packed dirt, two shadow figures riding low as they galloped into the moonless night.

• • •

Africanus was livid. They were dead! He’d given strict orders Magnus and his wife were to be captured and brought alive to Ravenna, to suffer and die at Honorius’s whim. But a lone, idiot assassin had killed them in their sleep, and now, he, Africanus, would pay for the bungler’s mistake!

Bassa, you f*cking Thracian, may you be cursed to the deepest pit of Hades! Africanus had strangled him that morning. Would Honorius mete out the same punishment to him when he delivered the news of this colossal failure?

It had taken Africanus a day to be notified, another to reach Portus. Wretched fate! His fury only increased as he strode toward the inn, a troop of legionnaires marching behind. Leaving his men on the street, he and his second-in-command entered. The owner and his staff nervously waited inside.

“Where are the bodies?” Africanus bellowed.

The innkeeper blanched, then turned and sprinted up the stairs. Africanus and his officer followed him to a third-story room.

The bodies lay on the bed, hidden by a bloody blanket, the open windows doing nothing to alleviate the stench of death. Africanus tried to lift the blanket, but it stuck to the remains. He signaled to his officer for help, and together they peeled back the covers. The corpses had already started to darken and bloat. They were twisted into grotesque poses, the woman’s mouth frozen in a silent scream.

The innkeeper gagged and ran from the room.

Africanus stood and stared. Praise all the gods; it was not Quintus Magnus or his wife! Smiling at his second-in-command, he left the room.

The innkeeper waited in the hall, visibly shaking. “Sir?”

“What is it?” Africanus bluntly asked.

“Did you find those you sought?”

Africanus exchanged a glance with his officer. “No. The dead are not the legatus and his wife.”

The innkeeper pursed his lips. “Then I have something to show you, sir.”

Africanus and his second-in-command followed the man downstairs, to a second-story room. Inside, lay an abandoned legatus uniform.

“I was baffled to find this here, and you might also be interested to know my stable boy has disappeared,” the innkeeper said. “I believe — ”

“They switched rooms,” Africanus finished for him. He looked at the open window. “Was the murder noisy?”

“Very much so. The woman screamed.”

“Then they left by the window as soon as they heard the commotion. They probably got horses from your missing stable boy, and are certainly long gone by now.”

Africanus stared at the window, thinking. He would find out exactly where they were heading. It wouldn’t be difficult. Tongues were probably already wagging in this town. Soon they would be wagging for him, spilling the truth by means of bribery or force — the method mattered not.

He grinned and good naturedly smacked the innkeeper on the shoulder. He had his life back. From now on, he would personally hunt Magnus and his wife. He would never let the task fall to anyone else, not ever again.