Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,10
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