Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,44

there would be no complications from Athaulf’s spawn, no possibility of anyone getting in the way of his own heirs, for he planned on begetting many fine and beautiful children on her. Given Honorius’s penchant for chickens and whores, Constantius had every hope he would father the next royal family.

He guided Africanus to his map table, explaining the route he’d laid out. Then, just as he was about to arrange for the bivouacking of Africanus’s men, he spotted legionnaires escorting a pair of Visigoths to his tent. One was short and very slight, his face smooth like a young girl’s, yet he moved as an athlete and was dressed like a warrior. The other was quite familiar.

Sergeric the Visigoth!

Constantius had served with Sergeric’s brother, General Sarus, for years, and although a very able and cunning tactician, Constantius had not trusted Sarus, and was not bereft when the man got his throat slit. Sergeric, however, had never served Rome. Instead, he’d stayed with his Visigoth brethren, even after his brother, Sarus, had been murdered, most probably on the orders of Athaulf.

Whatever Sergeric had to say, this promised to be a most interesting conversation. Constantius let no hint of expectation show on his face as he held out his arm in greeting.

Sergeric clasped arms and nodded curtly, then released his grip. “General Constantius, greetings. I have come to speak with you on an urgent matter. In private.”

Constantius inclined his head and glanced at the slight man, before returning his gaze to Sergeric. “We may talk in my tent, but you will forgive me if I keep my legatus close at hand, for appearance’s sake.”

The Visigoth looked at Africanus and nodded agreement. “This is Eberwolf. A trusted aide.”

Constantius found it hard to suppress a smile. “You may be certain I did not mistake him for a man-at-arms.”

“You are correct, most noble warrior,” Eberwolf replied, then bowed low. “I am not a warrior, but I think none could disparage my intellect.”

“If you are as smart as you are undersized,” Constantius replied, “we shall determine the truth of it soon enough, I’ve no doubt. Africanus, come, and we shall see what these fellows want.”

“General,” Africanus said with a bow.

Constantius called his steward. “Prepare meat, bread, and drink, and inform the clowns to ready themselves. I have a feeling we shall be feasting tonight!”

• • •

Music filled the night air. A great bonfire had been lit, and food and drink flowed in abundance. Sitting in an honored spot beside Africanus, Sergeric followed Constantius with his gaze. He’d met the general before, on missions with King Alaric and Athaulf to parlay with the Romans. Constantius had always struck him as taciturn and sober, moody even. But now, the general laughed at the clowns capering around and making fools of themselves. Then, when Constantius got up and began to dance and cavort in delight alongside his clowns, Sergeric could only stare, drop-jawed.

Suddenly, the general wheeled toward them.

“Come, come little man,” Constantius grabbed Eberwolf’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Make merry! But first, tell me, I think secretly you must be a great warrior. Show us some of your moves. Surely your specialty is poking knives into the feet of your foes, eh? Indeed, you are probably the very weapon any general would dream of, one to turn the tide of battle forever!”

Constantius bellowed with laughter and clapped Eberwolf on the shoulder.

Sergeric closely watched Eberwolf to gauge his response, and noted a clenched jaw. Well, what did he expect?

“Go on, Eberwolf, dance for the Roman dunces. Play their games,” Sergeric said, speaking Visigoth. Laughing for the crowd, he prodded his man toward the dancing. “We have brought them a great gift this night, and when we receive ours, do not forget that you will be handsomely recompensed.”

Eberwolf glanced darkly at Sergeric, then plastered a smile on his face and began to hop about to everyone’s delight. Sergeric shrugged inwardly. The little man should be happy to be taken seriously at all, given the dearth of blessings God had bestowed upon him.

Sergeric watched as Constantius took a brightly colored cap off one of the clowns and shoved it on Eberwolf’s head. It was much too big, and slid down over his eyes, stopping only when it reached his nose. Another roar of laughter, as everyone watched Eberwolf blindly teeter around.

With a feigned grin, Sergeric glanced at Africanus, who looked introspective as he watched his cavorting general. He admitted to a grudging respect for the legatus. He was tall