After the Fall (12 page)

Magnus had searched far and wide these many months, riding the length and breadth of the eastern territories with nothing but rumor to go on, and the conviction Gigi was alive out there, somewhere, for the moment beyond his reach — but alive. When he’d heard Theodosius was about to choose from among the most comely unmarried women in the land, he’d rushed back to Constantinople, hoping and praying Gigi would be included in the procession of beauties.

He knew it did not matter if the girl were a slave or peasant, or even if she were over a decade older than Theodosius. Candidates were chosen not by rank or age, nor by family wealth or title, but for beauty alone, specific requirements regarding perfection of face and form, measurements of bust, waist, and feet a must.

And Gigi was truly a vision for all ages. Magnus shut his eyes, seeing her golden-haired beauty, his thoughts a jumble of contradictions both good and ill: if she were here, it would mean he had found her at last; yet if she were among those selected, Theodosius might seize upon her looks, choosing her above the rest.

“Nephew, they are being led forward. Is she among them?”

Magnus shielded his face against the bright sunshine. He strained to see past the troops drawn up to meet the royal galley: two sets of imperial guards, the
scholarii
in red tunics and bearing long swords, and just beyond, the
hetairia
, their gilded shields glittering in the sun like a spray of stars. He looked past them to the imperial contingent that accompanied the emperor and his sister on the galley — oiled and bejeweled courtiers, bald eunuchs, gray-bearded advisors — and then focused farther on, studying the cluster of women and girls. Varying degrees of prettiness greeted his eyes, but none of them could match Gigi in sheer beauty or grace.

Sweet Gigi.

He swallowed and fought back his emotions, then tried to see all the way down the line of women, but he could not distinguish much from this distance. They were too far away, too blasted far.

“I must get closer, Uncle,” Magnus said tersely.

Britannicus nodded. He was his father’s youngest brother, a great war hero, who closely resembled Magnus in looks.

“Nephew,” Britannicus warned, “do not get too near, or tarry by the women. If someone dares question you, just pretend you are me and leave quickly. If Gigi is there, I will take care of it later.”

Magnus smiled. Britannicus was an influential man at court, married as he was to the first cousin of Emperor Theodosius’s mother.

Of all the members of his family, Magnus realized he was now deemed the only failure. He had no real place in Constantinople any more — and he was considered a traitor in the west — his existence now utterly dependent on the charity and forbearance of his powerful kin.

But it did not matter. Nothing did. Not if he found Gigi.

He set off for the nearest stairwell.

• • •

Inching forward, Magnus took care not to step on toes as he moved toward the forefront of the crowd. Theodosius had disembarked from his galley only moments before. His personal Guards of the Purple, his flaxen-haired
Germani
thugs, held their great axes before them, forming a formidable knot around the smiling boy-emperor and his elegant sister.

There was an apple in Theodosius’s hand. Like Paris, Prince of Troy, it would be given to the woman of his choice. Magnus’s gaze flew down the line, scanning the aspirants’ features; coal-black curls framed a winsome face, followed by a blur of other girls and women, all beautiful brunettes and redheads, another girl with raven-dark hair, and then, and then …

A young woman stood near the middle of the line, her figure slight, almost too slender, yet proud, her blond tresses barely visible beneath a gossamer veil of green silk.

Magnus willed her to turn.
Look at me!
he wanted to shout.
Look here! Let me see your face!

He waited, hoping, praying to the gods for mercy at last.

To his horror, Theodosius stopped before her, Pulcheria at his elbow. The crowd grew silent, expectant.

“Alas, it was through a woman that evil entered the world,” the young emperor said, smiling at the blonde. He raised his hand, hefting the apple for effect, then glanced at his sister, her face calm, a vision of neutrality. “And,” Theodosius went on, “it is said Eve — ”

“My lord,” the blond girl interrupted, “it is also through a woman that One who is greater than evil entered the world, for a young woman, the Virgin, gave birth to Jesus Christ.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd, and Theodosius’s mouth dropped open, while Princess Pulcheria flushed red as the apple.

Magnus shook his head in wonder, for here was a girl who certainly had Gigi’s spirit, someone with enough daring to challenge an emperor. Although this girl’s voice was not nearly as strong, there was something familiar, a spirited timbre, which caused him to take a step forward in hope his memory had somehow dimmed, that it was really she.

One of the guards turned and looked directly into Magnus’s eyes, then raised his axe ever so slightly.

Magnus fell back, disappearing into the chattering crowd, and took another position, one less conspicuous, but nearer the girl. Meanwhile, Theodosius had strolled on, still searching for his bride. Magnus guessed he would choose a shy one now, for it was clear his brush with the bold girl in green had thoroughly rattled him.

Suddenly, she turned and stared in Magnus’s direction, as if to challenge the yammering crowd, as if to say,
I am not ashamed.

He sighed. Her eyes were as beautiful as Gigi’s, sparkling with life, but they were blue as the sky, not green, not green.

O, ye gods! Why have you forsaken me?
Magnus sadly thought.
Victoria, where are you? Where is my wife?

“Gigi, will I ever find you?” he whispered to no one. Listlessly, he glanced at Theodosius and saw Pulcheria take his arm. She directed him toward another group of several young women, dressed alike in silver gowns.

Someone in the crowd called out, “The emperor now considers the princess’s ladies-in-waiting,” just as Theodosius stopped. He suddenly grinned, then handed his apple to a beautiful girl, a slim blonde with big eyes and a gracious smile.

So, he had found the one. Grim, bitter, Magnus turned away, determined to drown his sorrows, and ran straight into his uncle.

“She is not here?” Britannicus asked the question, but clearly he already knew the answer. “I am sorry. Come,” he added, placing his arm around Magnus’s shoulder. “Your aunt awaits us.”

“Forgive me, Uncle, but I would dine alone this night.”

Britannicus frowned. “No, this is not a night to dine alone, dwelling on dark thoughts. You need your family. Come home with me.”

Magnus shrugged. “As you wish.” But he had no intention of staying overlong at his uncle’s house, not on this night, perhaps not ever again.

• • •

Magnus awakened from a dream of the olden days, of golden places and distant times. He could not stop thinking of his grandmother. He closed his eyes again, willing himself to sleep some more. He drifted off a little, seeing her again, her hair pure white, her eyes warm and brown. He was twelve when she died, but he always remembered how she looked at him one moment during her final year, how her gaze went to his face and lingered. He could not comprehend why her eyes welled, but later his father told him the reason; she felt as if she were young again and staring into the face of his paternal grandfather, the love of her life, whom she had first met during childhood.

Love. It was powerful — uplifting, poignant, and powerful, so powerful. An image of Gigi rose in his mind, and Magnus smiled.
My sweet, my dearest wife.

He rolled over and opened his eyes, not fully comprehending, for a stranger lay there, not a finger’s width away, someone coarse and bloated, ugly. Her blond wig was askew, her lips painted, smeared, and much too red. What in Hades was he doing here? How long had he — where was Gigi?

He shook his head, addle-brained from too much cheap wine, from months of drunkenness. The room spun, and he groaned in pain, his head splitting. The whore opened her eyes and belched. Her breath smelled of vomit.

“Do you want another taste of this?” she asked, spreading her legs. “Half price.”

Repulsed, he bolted from the bed, ignoring his pain, and then scrounged in his clothes for a coin. When he found one, he tossed it without looking, not caring what it was worth. “No,” he said, dressing on the run. “No, no!”

He raced for the door.

• • •

“May the gods pity me!”

Magnus wept, not trying to hide his tears from the passengers and crew of the galley.
Where is Agrippa?
he wondered for the hundredth time.
What have I done to my horse?

He couldn’t recall. Had he sold him while in one of his drunken stupors? Was that what happened?

May the gods have mercy upon my noble steed. Victoria, keep him safe from harm. I beseech thee!

Wiping his eyes, Magnus looked out at the receding walls surrounding the Harbor of Eleutherius, the great city of Constantinople fast fading into the mists. Oars moved in their oarlocks, lapping in the Sea of Marmara, soft, echoing sounds.

Magnus turned to face the west and gripped the ship’s handrail. Only one person could help him now, only one.

Placidia.

Rome. It was all he could think about. What was left of his life, of normal, of good and decent, resided there. Magnus was determined, if he had to live, that his remaining time on Earth would not be wasted in fruitless politics or endless searching, but given to one who was worthy of honor, his friend, that good and noble lady, Placidia.

But he was weary. Weary of walking along the Via Salaria, weary of dust and grime. The vermin that had taken up residence on his body nearly drove him mad, and his need for drink was worse.
Soon
, he thought.
Soon I shall be clean, have a bed and decent clothes, and wine, fine wine to slake my thirst. Rome is not too distant, not any more.

Magnus passed a milestone, but he did not need to check the distance to Rome’s Forum. He knew he was close, so very near, but coming over the crest of a hillock, a scene met his eyes he hadn’t expected.

Tents covered in crimson hides, banners boldly displayed, the smoke of hundreds of individual campfires filled his view. The Visigoths.

“By the gods,” he muttered, “they have done it again.” Another siege.
How dare they!
Angry, he decided to begin his service to Placidia there and then.

Sentries shouted his name as he passed, but Magnus waved them off as he stomped past row after row of tents. He moved with a single-minded determination, ignoring the others who called out, until he reached the king’s tent.

He threw open the flap. “Alaric!” he yelled. But when his eyes adjusted he saw only Randegund. “Bitch!” he said, then paused, noting how she cowered. He’d never seen her cower, not in battle, not before men, never, so why … ?

He let the thought pass, for she wasn’t worth his trouble. “Where are your sons?” he demanded.

Her eyes were wide with fear, her voice barely audible. “Hunting, until dusk.”

It was mid-August. Dusk wouldn’t come until well into the evening, and it was barely past midday. “I’ll wait,” he said flatly. “See that I’m brought food and beer. Lots of both, and be quick about it.”

Magnus sat near the fire pit, scratching, grumbling and waiting. Finally, a young woman brought a platter of cold meat, dark bread, and cheese, plus a cup and flagon of beer.

Magnus considered the fare hungrily, then smiled. “I have a long wait ahead of me, child. Roll out the barrel so I can serve myself, then be on your way. I’ll have no more need of you.”

“As you will, my lord,” she said meekly, and quickly did his bidding.

His hands trembling with anticipation, Magnus grabbed the flagon and sloshed drink into the cup, then emptied it in one, long swill. Little rivulets ran down each side of his mouth, but he didn’t bother to swipe at them as he poured himself another, and then a third.

• • •

Stunned, Alaric stood over the inert, nearly unrecognizable body, and then looked at Athaulf and Verica. “And you say Magnus arrived on foot?”

“There is no sign of his horse,” Athaulf muttered. “What shall we do with him?”

“Let him sleep it off right where he is,” Verica said. “Give him a blanket and leave the food, but I won’t have him inside. He’s covered in lice. We can get him cleaned up once he’s awake.”

“What about Jolie?” Athaulf asked.

“Gigi,” Verica reminded him. “She asked us to start using her real name.”

“Ah, of course. We must tell him about her at once,” Alaric said, bringing the conversation back to what mattered.

“Certainly, wake him up,” Athaulf agreed.

“No! He’s in no state to know just yet,” Verica said. “He would never forgive us if we sent him off in such a decrepit state, filthy and drunk, and he will certainly leave the moment we tell him.”

• • •

Bathed and dressed in fresh clothing, his hangover nearly dissipated, Magnus felt good as he walked back toward the campfire, and smiled as he recalled Verica’s scolding, and insistence he get clean. By the height of the sun, he knew it was nearly noon, and he expected Alaric would be joining him for the midday meal.

He recalled how angry he had been when he first reached the Visigoth camp, but now he felt more relaxed, more forgiving. He would question Alaric about his intentions and then help with the diplomatic negotiations, serving as Placidia’s go-between.

Without fail, he must serve Placidia.

Alaric, Athaulf, and Verica were all waiting for him. They looked nervous but pleased, and ready to welcome him. Embracing each in turn, he gave Verica an extra hug.

“I’m sorry for how you found me, truly. It won’t happen again. You see — ”

Alaric raised his hand, cutting him off. “Magnus,” he said. “Let’s not speak of it.”