Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,45

and well-muscled, and obviously cunning, but emitted a sense of self-control that was palpable. Sergeric could tell he was not a man to be flustered, or let his emotions get the best of him.

Sergeric then turned to look at the small group gathered at the other side of the bonfire. Filthy Huns, here to negotiate some sort of treaty with Constantius. Their brethren lurked in the lands beyond the Danubius, the very lands once belonging to Sergeric’s forefathers. Miserable Huns. Horse-fuckers, if the rumors were true. He stared at their heads, shaved but for top-knots of hair, long as their horses’ tails. The Huns were bare-chested and covered with tattoos. He half expected to see them drinking from the skulls of their enemies, as they were wont to do. He spat to rid himself of their foulness. A villainous lot, they held no allegiance except to the silver and gold they craved. Equally as cunning as any Roman, they tended to disparage self-control, and were far more apt to let their emotions embolden their ferocity. Thankfully, he need not worry about them, since he’d also made an alliance with Constantius.

Grinning, Sergeric felt such a surge of pride he could hardly contain himself. Thinking back to the meeting, he’d instantly known, by the look of shock, avarice, and lust on the Roman general’s face, that he had offered a plan more audacious, more cunning, than Constantius could ever have dreamt up on his own. It was the first salvo, the first victory in his grand plan.

He knew Athaulf, and more importantly his wife, the filthy Roman bitch, Placidia, would be delighted to welcome him home, only too willing to believe he was ever their loyal captain. As ever, their gullibility would be their downfall. Once he was allowed access back into Athaulf’s inner circle, he would kill the king, and then go after the children, making sure to leave no vestige of Athaulf’s hated bloodline alive. Then he would reclaim that which Alaric and Athaulf had stolen so long ago — his family’s crown, for he and his kin were the true leaders of the Visigoths, not the foul little bastards springing from Alaric or Athaulf’s stinking loins.

Watching the fun, Sergeric furrowed his brow, recalling with surprise that Constantius had insisted, on pain of death, that Placidia be spared and turned over to him immediately, without the least hair on her head out of place.

He chuckled as Eberwolf, still blinded by the cap, stumbled over the ring of rocks surrounding the fire, tumbled to the ground, and had to be batted about by several men, before the flames on his clothing were tamped out.

It would be no hardship to hand over Placidia, Sergeric mused. Let the Roman general do with her what he would. It was not his concern.

With a laugh, Sergeric got up and joined in the revelry.

• • •

Two days later, Constantius and Africanus watched the pair of Visigoths ride out of camp. Constantius waited until the dust kicked up by their departure cleared, then turned to look at Africanus.

“I’ve no doubt the pact Sergeric made with us is sincere, but it does not go far enough.”

Africanus bowed, and then returned the steady gaze. “I am yours to command. What would you have me do?”

“Gather the men with whom you came. You will ride out today for Barcino, but do not follow the same path. Do not let yourself be seen by Sergeric. When he makes his move on Athaulf, I want you to be there. You have two objectives. The first is to fulfill the emperor’s command: capture Magnus and his wife, or if you cannot, then kill them and bring back their bodies. The second command is mine, and it will cost you your life if you bungle it: protect Placidia and bring her to me unscathed.” He looked squarely at Africanus. “There can be no failure of the second command.”

Africanus returned his gaze without flinching, but a telltale swallow let Constantius know he had made his point.

Chapter 13

Placidia stood on her balcony overlooking the pine-covered hills. In the distance, majestic Mons serratus, with its dramatically jagged peaks, stood guard over Barcino. It was a beautiful, warm day, with a breeze puffing in from the sea. How she wished she could spend a carefree afternoon up there, exploring the nooks and rises, with nothing on her mind more pressing than getting back before dark.

She stretched and yawned, recalling yesterday’s happy events. Verica’s wedding to Frideger had been