Return to Me (24 page)

It had been a perfect day.

Magnus dumped some driftwood near the fire. “It is good to be on dry land,” he said.

She smiled at him. He sat beside her and took up a stick, poking at the flames and sending embers into the air, toward the stars. She glanced up and spotted the Pleiades, glorious and twinkling with cold, blue fire.

“We made it here safely,” she said, “but I’m still worried. We need to escape completely, Magnus. We need to go to Ravenna and get back to my world, but it would be so dangerous, for all of us.”

Magnus nodded. “Honorius will never relent in his search for us. If Africanus survived his wounds, neither will he, but I think we must find a way to make it happen. Also, I will not forget the promise we made to your parents.”

Mom and Dad.
Gigi recalled the last, tearful moments with them, knowing they would await her return until they drew their last breath. She couldn’t let them down.

She glanced toward the east, imagining Ravenna as it slumbered beneath the same night sky. It was so far away, and yet the dangers were still so great. How could they possibly manage to get the kids into the baptistery and safely to her time, right from under Honorius’s nose — ?

She sucked in her breath and gripped Magnus’s arm.

He turned and stared, his eyes wide. “What?”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, rising to her knees and taking Magnus’s face in her hands. “Honorius dies in the year 423! That’s only seven years from now! All this time I was thinking we had to get them out of here right away, but we can hide here, and then, after he’s gone, Placidia will be queen regent for her son. It will be clear sailing after that.”

Nodding, Magnus took her in his arms, and Gigi felt her worries slip away. The answer had been right there all the time. Only seven years and the coast would be clear.

Yes, clear sailing.

A.D.
423, The Pinetum, Ravenna, Italy

No one knew they were coming to the villa.

Nervous, Gigi walked with Magnus and the ten-year-old girl who had never wavered in her beliefs, who had refused to follow any other path.

Gigi hoped they were making the right decision, yet in her heart she knew there was no alternative. Athaulf’s daughter was as stubborn and determined as he’d ever been. The thought brought a grim smile to Gigi’s face.

“I will go inside and find Leontius,” Magnus said, leaving them outside to wait.

Gigi glanced down at the remarkable child, whose gaze burned bright with hope, a pure blue fire.

“I’m so scared, Gigi, but I’m glad I’m here.”

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, sweetheart,” she replied. “It’s what
she
always wanted.” Tears filled her eyes, but she brushed them aside. “We’ll see each other again, I just know it.”

The girl nodded and held up the flute she was carrying, a smaller version of Gigi’s, but made of gleaming silver.

Gigi touched her own golden flute, still safe within the leather case slung on her side.

The gate squeaked, and Gigi turned to see Magnus helping Elpidia hobble out, Leontius following behind. The old servants cried upon seeing the girl — two dear, doddering souls gushing over their new charge as they enfolded her in their arms. With a final glance and wave, the girl disappeared inside.

Magnus wrapped his arms around Gigi and together they watched the villa for a long and poignant moment.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Gigi finally whispered.

“She isn’t gone, my sweet,” Magnus said. “She’s finally home. Placidia will be arriving from Constantinople soon, and their reunion will be wonderful.”

“Yes, I know it will,” Gigi whispered, “but still I’ll miss her.”

They turned and walked away, holding hands, bound by love and determined to take a different path. Gigi had always known this day would come, had tried to prepare for it, but she found herself fighting her emotions, wanting to cry out for what had been lost, yet seeking solace in the reunion yet to come.

She and Magnus entered the great plaza, searching for those who waited there. They stood by the baptistery, a gorgeous group of young people.

Gigi touched her flute, then her mother’s gold wedding band.

Soon
, she sent her thoughts out and across time.

There was just one more thing to do. And then, they’d all be home.

Present Day, Arles, France

The evening was glorious, the sky clear and moonlit. The beautiful old Roman amphitheater of Arles was filled to capacity, the entire audience on their feet, wildly cheering and clapping.

Beneath the spotlight, Gigi stood on the center stage, surrounded by her fans. Dressed in a gorgeous, Grecian-style gown of blue silk, she smiled and curtsied. Horace, clad in a toga, bowed to the crowd, then turned to Gigi and went down on one knee, his hand to his chest in the ancient Roman way. The audience erupted with approval.

The air wafted over them, warm and pure, hinting of ancient stone and thyme. Gigi reached out to Horace, loving the way her ruby and diamond wedding ring glittered in the light. He grasped her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as he rose to stand beside her.

Horace grinned his crooked grin and said to her in Latin, “Remember, sister, we must never do this together in the baptistery in Ravenna.”

She laughed as the lights dimmed and moonlight glinted off their flutes: hers golden, his silver. The audience grew silent, their anticipation palpable.

It was time for their encore, their new, chart-topping duet, the magical “Ode to Lovers.”

Gigi’s mood shifted and tears sprang to her eyes, as they always did when she played this tune. Placidia and Athaulf. The memory of their love would be preserved for all time in this glorious, soaring melody.

She looked out and spotted Magnus and their children in the first row. Six beautiful young adults and their very own three-year-old, Galla Augusta. Dark curls and beautiful, blue eyes, the image of her father. Galla rested in the lap of Gigi’s mom. Her dad, Lucius, Vana, and Jack sat beside them. Her heart lifted. All had come here to share this moment, everyone with her, safe and happy.

Gigi smiled to them and then moved toward a metal bowl near the edge of the stage. She placed a piece of paper in it — the score of “Ode to Lovers,” signed by her entire family — then struck a match and lit it.

She stepped back, and as she and Horace began to play, the smoke rose before them, up to the stars.

She locked eyes with Galla’s daddy, her Roman, her love for all time.

Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus.

And she felt the world in his returning gaze, the whole world, and the promise of what was to come.

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.

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.