Love, Eternally (3 page)

Gigi held the flute to her lips, her eyes closing as the first evocative notes surrounded her, echoing back and dancing around the walls like magic. She was transported to another realm, and for the few minutes the song lasted, she felt blissful.

Then, as the final notes faded, she smiled, replaced her flute, and decided to head back outside to find Jack. She opened the door to a glorious pink sunset and was surprised by at least two dozen people in formal dress, who broke into applause.

“Oh, thank you,” Gigi said. “
Grazie, grazie
.” The birthday party for the mayor’s wife had certainly turned into an event.

Jack approached and spoke in her ear, “Damn, I should have expected this. I ought to have a camera and recording crew here.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t always think of everything?” she teased.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Here’s the mayor now.”

Gigi turned to see a short, balding man with a friendly smile. A petite woman stood beside him, her white hair soft and framing lovely, coal-dark eyes.

When the mayor moved to greet them, Jack turned on his official game face, glad-handing and schmoozing his way into the crowd. “
Buongiorno.
How are you?”

Gigi followed in his wake, shaking a few hands, and for several minutes everyone chatted. Understanding very little Italian, she kept to the basics —
ciao
and
grazie
— while she signed autographs.

Finally, it was time for her to play and the mayor, his wife, and their guests went inside. Gigi took up position at the pulpit. “I am honored to be here with you for this special occasion.”

Several people nodded, but most studied her with quizzical expressions. Their English was, apparently, no better than her Italian.

“Okay. Well.” She smiled at the mayor’s wife and repeated the words she’d been practicing, “
Buon compleanno, Signora
.”

Looking pleased, the lady thanked her and the mayor beamed.

Gigi set up her flute once more, then touched her grandfather’s ring through the bodice of her gown. It was perfect, wearing this old Roman ring, in this old Roman setting. She placed her lips against the cool metal of her instrument, enjoying the way her yellow diamond glittered in the candlelight. Her two rings. The past and the present, together. Perfect.

She blew softly. Musical notes lifted, filling the baptistery, and time passed without notice. Any thoughts about the location or audience were forgotten as she transitioned from one piece to the next. Feeling her way through each song, Gigi let the moment speak to her, telling her what to play.

When the last, passionate notes of “Time to Say Goodbye” echoed back to her, she felt a shiver of pleasure course down her spine. A man called out, “
Magnifico!
” and she looked up, surprised to see that sunset had faded into night. Except for the candlelit pulpit, the baptistery was dark, the frescoes obscured by shadow.

Gigi curtseyed to enthusiastic applause. Someone turned on the lights, and, taking this as their cue, the audience stood. Conversation filled the air. Waiters appeared with trays laden with flutes of champagne.

Gigi took a glass and everyone grew quiet. Was she supposed to make a toast? Drawing a blank at the appropriate Italian, she decided French was okay. “
À votre santé
,” she said, raising her glass.

“
Sì, sì
,” the mayor jumped in. “
Salute!
”

A little crush of guests formed around Gigi. Some heaped praise on her in charmingly broken English, but most spoke in breakneck Italian. The bubbles danced on her tongue as she sipped and nodded. Smiling broadly, the mayor and his wife approached, thanking her once more, then headed for the door.

Jack winked at her. “Great show, kiddo. I’ll be waiting outside.” He steered the last guests toward the exit.

“Thanks.” Gigi sighed, finally catching her breath. Jack knew she liked to be alone for a few moments after a performance.

She turned to put her flute away, recalling the piece she had intended to play as an encore: Chopin’s “Minute Waltz.”

“It would have been so perfect,” she said. “Ah, do it anyway.”

Grinning, she took up her instrument as the groundskeeper appeared at the door. “Just a sec,” she said, holding up her flute. Shutting her eyes, she placed it to her lips and blew, imagining the notes tumbling out, like musical popcorn. Time flew, the ending sparkled.
There. Done. Perfect!

Gigi laughed and bowed to the air, then heard a distant cacophony, a really badly done version of the “Minute Waltz.” Another flutist? But where? The baptistery was empty. Probably someone outside, a bystander. Funny. She raised her flute and played along, appreciating the musician’s struggle, wanting to help. Finally, she heard pure tone, matching hers note for note.
Yes, that’s it —

A
whoosh
of air, a faraway cry. Gigi’s eyes flew open to inexplicable images, wavy, ghostly shapes: men in togas, women in Grecian-style gowns. The scene flickered in and out, like a broken TV set, and a weird roar filled her ears, like a freight train inside her head. The room suddenly spun, the floor opened wide, and she grasped for the pulpit — but fell headlong into a whirlwind of stars.

Spring,
A.D.
408, Ravenna

Senator Magnus glanced down the steps to the entry, fighting the urge to make some excuse and leave the baptistery. He stared at the hairy toes of Rutilius Namatianus, the heathen Gaul who served as Master Poet for the royal court. Golden sandals did nothing to hide the man’s coarseness. It was said all roads led to Rome, but that had changed. Ravenna was now the political center, the place where the Roman Emperor of the West, Flavius Honorius Augustus, preened and schemed with his sycophants and lowborn advisors.

And dithered with his damnable birds!

Magnus sniffed in derision and Honorius turned, his brown eyes blazing from the pulpit.

Take care,
Magnus chided himself. The Gaul beside him turned, too, but Magnus kept his gaze fixed on Honorius, forcing a neutral expression. A ghost of a smile played across the emperor’s lips as he glanced at Magnus, his gaze contemptuous. Those hated eyes reminded Magnus of his ignoble ransoming from King Alaric.

Honorius was forever seeking ways to put Magnus in his place. For years, he had publicly questioned whether the temporary paralysis Magnus suffered in battle was a ruse to avoid combat and an honorable death. But his attempt at branding Magnus a coward had fallen on deaf ears. Even so, new lies were being spread at court, rumors of a sexual liaison between Magnus and Alaric’s stepmother, the Witch of Rocesthes. Honorius had seized upon them, calling Magnus “the witch’s phallus” — but never to his face. The emperor’s slur was vulgar and juvenile, but designed to intimidate, nonetheless.

Magnus was not intimidated, though, merely filled with loathing.
Victoria,
his mind called out
, I still serve you faithfully, although you have turned your eyes from me. Emperor Theodosius was blind to his son’s base and cruel nature, else he would not have asked me to protect the lout. Hear me now! Release me from this insufferable bondage to such an unworthy emperor.

A moment passed, then another, yet he felt nothing, no tingling of anticipation alerting him to Victoria’s presence.

Meanwhile, Honorius had stepped away from the pulpit, expectantly watching the door.

Magnus frowned. Even now, Ravenna buzzed with gossip about the emperor’s most recent affront to decency — his shockingly cavalier behavior following two recent deaths in the royal family: his young wife, Empress Maria, and his brother, Emperor Arcadius, who had ruled the Eastern Roman Empire from Constantinople. It was too soon for Honorius to give self-indulgent baptismal ceremonies, let alone the drunken palace orgies known to have taken place since the funerals.

All men bore shame, but Honorius reveled in his. He had mocked Magnus for not falling on his sword after the ransoming, as was expected of any defeated commander. The depraved spawn of Hades had demanded it of Magnus, hounded him for months, but Magnus could not, would not commit suicide for him. He would rather sacrifice his honor than sacrifice himself for such a man.

But now, Honorius used him in his dealings with the Visigoths and Magnus played the part, ever mindful of his oath to Theodosius. His life was a sham of falsity and insincere devotion, flattering Honorius with the same eagerness as the worst of the sycophants.

Asinus asinum fricat
… the ass rubs the ass.

Magnus suddenly realized everyone had grown deadly quiet. He glanced at several of the emperor’s
palatini
guards, but the huge, hairy
Germani
brutes were watching Honorius, not him. To his dismay, the emperor walked toward the knot of people standing by Magnus and then crooked his finger.

Honorius clapped Namatianus on the shoulder. “Come, my pagan friend, and you, too, Magnus, come. You shall both help. Perhaps you will see the light and convert.”

O, ye gods!

Magnus looked beyond the men and women awaiting baptism and saw the angry scowls of the bishop and priests, who stood ready in the marble font. He reminded himself the ceremony had already degenerated into blasphemy for them, not only because Honorius wanted two pagans to participate without first converting, but also because the emperor wished his favorite chickens to be given baptismal rites. Upon learning the plans, the bishop’s face had flushed as purple as Honorius’s robes, while all others cast down their eyes, for none save a fool would question the emperor’s desires.

The door to the baptistery suddenly opened wide, and four screeching hens were brought inside, wings beating the air, feathers flying.

The emperor threw out his arms. “Fulvia, Rome, Octavia, Livia! Our dear girls, how we have missed you!”

• • •

It was stifling inside the baptistery. Thank the gods the wine was cool and delicious, a ruby-red
caecubum
. Magnus let it linger on his tongue as he eyed the absurd chickens, strutting about with golden baptismal bows tied around their necks. The emperor’s ceremony had lasted a grueling hour, and now an air of relief and celebration descended on the crowd.

He spotted the
magister utriusque militiae
, Flavius Stilicho, and carefully stepped over a hen, wanting to speak with him. The general was the Western Empire’s supreme military commander, the second most powerful man, after Honorius. But now, it seemed, Stilicho was failing physically, and Magnus noticed how much older he seemed since his daughter’s funeral, his beard shot through with gray, his face lined with grief for Maria.

Magnus intended to express his condolences for the late empress, but a raven-haired beauty moved in and whispered something to Stilicho. Serena seemed not to share her husband’s pain over their daughter’s passing. Spoiled and haughty, she never let anyone forget she was a cousin to the emperor and of imperial lineage in her own right. She and Honorius were ruled by twin hearts: cold, calculating, and evil.

Magnus turned away, keen to avoid Serena, vowing to express his condolences to Stilicho at another time. He concentrated instead on a flutist standing nearby, playing from the pulpit. The man was small, mean looking, yet he possessed elegant hands. His fingers were long and slender, moving deftly on the silver flute he held, as if the gods had breathed into them a divine fire.

Magnus took another sip of his wine, then heard, “Greetings, O most excellent Magnus.”

It was the sweet voice of the emperor’s sister, the princess Galla Placidia. Ah, here was someone to drive away the foul stench wrought by Honorius and Serena.

“Greetings, O most gracious Placidia,” he said, as he faced her and bowed. She was dressed in emerald-green silk embroidered with golden thread, a hint of powdered malachite on her eyelids — quite the young lady.

Smiling, Magnus studied her eyes, inky-dark, yet sparkling with life. Her old nurse, Elpidia, nodded to him, then moved off, giving them privacy.

“Would that I could play like Horace,” Placidia said, glancing at the flute player.

“Indeed, he is wonderful.”

“And so pampered for his talents. My brother dotes on him. Tell me, Magnus, when last we met, you said perhaps you might start searching for … er, have you found a wife?”

He laughed as a blue-black curl escaped from beneath her golden headdress. This girl was so fine and true, utterly different from her loathsome brother.

“I have been waiting for you to grow up.” When she pouted, he teased, “The girl is nearly a woman, eh?”

She grinned. “Nearly. Your dark looks favor your Greek ancestors, my dear Magnus, and your blue eyes, well, you see, they are quite wonderful, but I must admit I have dreamt of someone …”

“Younger? Tell me you wouldn’t be so cruel.” He pulled a long face. “Alas, I see it in your eyes. Ah, well, I knew I was out of the running, for it is well known you will have none save a Catholic Christian to wed.”

“True,” she grinned, playing along, “for not only are you a stubborn pagan, but you are also too tall for me — and twice my age.”

Aha! Honest to a fault
. Smiling, Magnus was again reminded of why he was so fond of this girl. “You are indeed grown up, for you are merciless in your candor.”

Placidia giggled, the lone curl dancing prettily. “And, as to my question?”

“Which one?”

“Have you found a lady to wed?”

He was about to answer when the music stopped and the flutist gaped, staring into space.

Placidia’s eyes grew wide and she looked up at the dome. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” As Magnus glanced around, a flurry of notes echoed from a great distance, the tune fast, lively, and unlike anything he had ever heard.

“A marvelous melody,” Emperor Honorius called out from across the room. “Horace,” he commanded with a wave of his hand, “go and see who steals your glory.”

Magnus watched as a pair of guards set off to join Horace, but Honorius called them back to stand at his side. Horace headed alone for the stairs.