After the Fall(68)

As she rambled on, he tried to answer back, but all he could manage were gasps and moans. Working furiously, she finished binding his arms, then started on his chest and back, trying to ignore his tortured breaths, all the while cursing Honorius and berating herself for not killing him when she had the chance.

Tying off the final bandage for Magnus, she took a moment to study her handiwork. No seepage showed. Maybe he’d be okay for now. She glanced at her arm. The bleeding had stopped, but she wrapped a last strip around the cut just to be safe. Looking down at the cloak, she realized she’d made a mess of it. There wasn’t enough whole cloth left to wear as a cover.

She was sweating with her efforts, but the air was cold, and Magnus’s skin was freezing and damp to the touch. “Magnus, here,” she said, fumbling with her wool palla, “you must wear this. You need to stay warm.”

“Th — the statue,” he stammered, “has a niche behind … with my clothes.”

She stared at Venus, pale in the moonlight, catching the goddess’s little smile, as if she held a deep secret.

“Before I … left with Attalus,” Magnus’s teeth chattered, “I hid my robes.”

Elated, Gigi nodded and carefully made her way across the ice. She ran her hands over the frozen, mossy wall behind the statue and found a crevice. Reaching inside, her fingers touched cloth; it was still there and thankfully only cold, not stiff with frost. She hurried back, draping the garment over Magnus as best she could.

His eyes were closed again, his body swaying as she said, “Magnus, we need to go. I’ll help you over the wall. It isn’t very high. I want to be miles away from Ravenna by sunrise. Here, take my arm.”

He opened his eyes and nodded. With her assistance, he struggled to his feet. “Gigi,” he said with a deep shiver. She was suddenly aware of how weak his voice seemed. “Gigi,” he repeated, then licked his lips. “Get my robes, Gigi, and we’ll leave. We’ve got to leave. Agrippa can carry us both.”

He’s delirious! Terrified, Gigi somehow managed to find the strength to get Magnus over the wall and on the horse. She got up behind him, encircled him with her arms and held him close as she coaxed their mount forward. “Magnus,” she whispered, “I love you.”

He managed to respond with a halting, “I … love you, too,” but then his head rolled, and Gigi grasped him even tighter. She forced her attention on the road ahead. They were past the last stretch of garden wall, leaving the palace complex behind. Before them, the Via di Roma stood empty. Avoiding the light cast by street lanterns, Gigi nudged her horse onward. Moving through the shadows as much as possible, she was grateful for the late hour and frigid temperatures keeping the curious indoors.

As they moved into a big square, Gigi guessed it was the parade grounds where Magnus had witnessed General Stilicho’s execution. She took a deep breath, recalling her husband’s bleak expression when he’d told her about that day, so long ago. She wondered if this was where Honorius would kill them, given the chance.

She looked around, but felt no impending threat. Still, she could not let down her guard. The horse kept a steady pace, ears relaxed. He wasn’t sensing anything, either. If they could just get past the gates and out of the city.

But then what? Gigi felt Magnus shivering through his clothes. She tried to recall what else she could do to counteract shock, other than keeping him warm, but had no idea. The possibility she’d gotten this far only to have him die from shock was inconceivable.

As his body continued to shudder, they rode toward an area just off the plaza. With its scattering of churches, wide streets with plane trees, it was a familiar-looking place.

She was suddenly consumed with a desperate thought, so crazy she knew she had to push it aside, and yet she’d considered it before. Instantly, she found herself looking down the street, urgently searching, until she spotted it — a tall, octagonal structure. Could it be their only hope?

No, Gigi told herself. If we go inside, we’d be trapped. No! You can’t pin Magnus’s life on something so insane.

• • •

A shock of sound ripped through Sarus’s dream. Heart pounding, he awakened with a start, instinctively pulling out his dagger, ready to strike the intruder in his room.

“A-hem.” The tall centurion, Titus Africanus, stood several paces away, holding an oil lamp.

Shielding his eyes against the glare, Sarus lowered his dagger. “Iésus, Africanus, what is this about?” he muttered.