After the Fall

chapter 14


The wind blew fierce, smelling of snow, as Gigi said goodbye to Placidia and started for home. After a day spent watching Athaulf’s children, she looked forward to getting back to the quiet of her own tent. The ever-patient princess was proving to be a great stepmother, and Athaulf’s little girls thoroughly enjoyed playing dress-up with her fabulous jewels and silks. As for the boys, Athaulf insisted they get civilized by taking advantage of Gigi’s musical talent. She had fought with them over this for days, finally reaching an uneasy truce — equal hours of music for swordplay — their precondition being that if they had to do her bidding, she had to do theirs. At first, the little demons ran rings around her, constantly whacking her backside with their wooden swords, but now she was finally getting the hang of it, and their butts were just as sore.

Unfortunately, Athaulf’s sons showed little promise of becoming the next great boy band, but she was determined to get them ready to perform at the coming banquet to celebrate Alaric’s survival. Something from the Jonas Brothers? Or maybe Justin Bieber?

Whatever, they’re kids. They’ll be a hit no matter what, she thought with a smile. They would certainly be better than Alaric’s minstrels, who sang nothing but the same bloodthirsty war ballads over and over again. Truly barbarous, she thought with a smile.

Despite their Visigoth heritage, Athaulf had allowed his sons to be “Romanized” to a degree, encouraging their education in the Latin language, Roman history and Greek philosophy, but he had not relented in one thoroughly Roman requirement of childhood: the bulla. It was a locket worn by Roman boys to ward off evil spirits. Gigi had overhead Placidia requesting that he consider bestowing the amulets on his children, to no avail. She wondered if Athaulf would eventually relent. Wait and see, she told herself, knowing how much it would mean to Placidia.

She blew into her hands, picking up her pace. Pushing on her tent flap, she stepped inside, trying to ignore the first twinges of a sinus headache. Rubbing her brow, she wished she could pop into a drugstore and get what she needed. She hadn’t told Verica, not wanting anything to do with the foul tasting, slimy-green potion she usually doled out as a cure-all.

Crawling into bed, she burrowed under the furs and closed her eyes. It was ironic, but people were now coming to her for medical advice, since the strange new role of miracle worker had been foisted on her after Alaric’s CPR. These days, the awestruck Visigoths made way as she walked by, as if she were a life-renewing goddess. They’d even started asking her for favors, such as the blessing of their children. It was weird and unnerving, but nice just the same. Many were reminded of her arrival among them, posing as High Priestess of the Old Ones, and believed it was her true identity.

Yet still, only Magnus knew her truth. She couldn’t risk telling anyone else, although Placidia had asked her point-blank where she’d learned how to bring a drowned man back to life. Gigi smiled, recalling how she’d scrambled for an answer, but then realized the simple truth was good enough, telling her it was a common practice among sailors. She even offered to teach her the method, but Placidia demurred, saying she hoped they would never again travel anywhere by ship. The recent sea disaster had killed many and devastated everyone in the camp, but at least there was one ray of hope: Alaric was getting better day by day, lovingly tended by Verica and Randegund.

Those haunting blue eyes, frightening in their intensity, were always hate-filled and all-consuming. Chained to her memories, Gigi shivered. More than once since Alaric’s near-drowning, she’d caught Randegund staring at her, and she felt it acutely, as if the old bitch wanted to murder her with her gaze.

But why? Why? I saved Alaric’s life, she argued inwardly. You’d think she’d be grateful.

She turned her face into the furs, snuggling deeper, her headache fading, her fears threatening her still. She needed to forget Randegund. Gigi and Magnus had each other, and the bitch couldn’t hurt them anymore. Her children were seeing to that.

Her thoughts roamed on to more pleasant things. She had her music, plus theirs, so many wonderful ancient melodies. And Placidia was going to take them to Hadrian’s Villa for the winter, where plenty of food was stored, and there would be shelter enough for everyone. After that, when Alaric led his people to their new homeland in Africa, then maybe she and Magnus could take a little side trip to Capri, even go to southern France. Or … ?

“Gigi, where are you?”

She roused herself, just as Magnus entered their tent. She smiled at him, stretching luxuriously, but then caught herself, recognizing something in his expression, something she hadn’t wanted to see ever again.

“The king,” his voice was halting, anguished. “Alaric has taken a bad turn.”

She couldn’t believe it. When she’d seen him a few hours earlier, he’d looked so much better. He still had a slight cough, but he was sitting up in bed, and he’d gotten his color back. Verica had just given him a big spoonful of honey, and for the first time in days, he was asking for something hearty to eat, to replace the gruel and soup she’d been feeding him.

“Verica said you must come quickly,” Magnus went on. “Alaric’s lungs have filled with fluid.”

Pneumonia? Shocked, Gigi threw off the covers, wondering what she could do, how in the world she could help.

Magnus took her hand, and together they left on the run.

• • •

Randegund exited the stuffy sick tent and took a deep breath, seeking revival in the cool night air. Overhead, the sky was coal-dark, the stars distant white fire. She felt shriveled, ancient, and weary, a husk of her former self and overwhelmed by uselessness, for Alaric was dying, and she knew not what to do.

Once she was well away from the camp, she halted and prayed to the ancient Goddess of Revenge, whispering to the night sky, “Mighty Nemesis, winged avenger, dark-faced Goddess of Justice! Fly through the night to the tent of my beloved chosen son, Alaric. Witness the evil done him, hear his agony. I ask — I plead — for retribution against Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus and his wife, Gigi, for they alone are responsible for Alaric’s pain, having denied him the nobility of a heroic end.”

Her voice was drowned out by the rising wind, and she swore she heard the deep whoosh of wings. “Implacable Daughter of Vengeance,” she said, raising her voice, howling to the roiling sky, “fly, fly to Alaric’s side! If it be your will, Great Nemesis, save him. But if he is meant to die, then hunt down his killers. Avenge him! Fly, fly!”

Bending into the wind, Randegund fought the weakness of her aged limbs and slowly retraced her steps to Alaric’s tent. Near the entrance, Verica stood with Gigi, Magnus, and the Roman whore, Placidia. The women were huddled together, holding each other, weeping.

Why had Verica called them here? Disgusted, Randegund drew back, hastening to the shadows. How could her daughter be so trusting, so utterly stupid? She shook her head, wondering why Verica loved these Romans — she leaned over and spat — wishing she could hear what they were saying to each other.

I may yet cut out Gigi’s impudent tongue, if she dares make another excuse as to why Alaric was left to flounder so long in the sea, when she and Magnus knew — they knew — he was drowning. And as for the Roman princess-bitch who has bewitched my Athaulf …

There was a sudden commotion from the tent, a deep moan of anguish. The need to be at Alaric’s side superseded her hatred and her aching bones, and Randegund hobbled forward as fast as she could go.

Sweeping past the small group, she pointed to her enemies, and cried out, “You are not wanted here! Go away!”

Entering the tent, Verica fast on her heels, she found Athaulf at the sickbed, his arm around young Theodoric’s trembling shoulders. The other children were huddled in a corner, silent and pale.

Randegund pushed her way to Alaric’s bedside and fell to her knees, taking his hand in her own. Alaric’s face was paler than before, the skin a sickly yellow, his hands and arms mottled, purple. Death was near.

With a great effort, he opened his eyes and whispered, “Athaulf.”

Then his chest was seized with liquid rattles and he struggled, wheezing, “Mother, I see her!”

A convulsion passed through him, then a shudder, and Alaric died, his final breath gurgling away to nothing.

Randegund raised her hands in tribute to the departing soul and began to chant. She could feel eyes on the back of her skull, but she kept her gaze locked on Alaric’s beloved face — his death-face. She knew what they were thinking, knew they’d forsworn such rituals as nonsense years before, but they were wrong. She reveled in the knowledge his death vision hadn’t been of his birth mother or of any other woman. He had seen Nemesis just before he crossed to the darkness of the Otherworld, of that she was certain!

The Otherworld! My Alaric! The sudden realization he was truly and forever gone struck hard and her arms dropped to her side. Randegund cried for him and for herself, feeling as she always had, that he was her blood son, her own flesh, sinew, and bone. In truth, he had been more important to her than anyone in the world.

And now he was gone, and she knew her life was over, the agony tearing through her, unbearable.

Weeping, she kissed Alaric’s lifeless hand, carefully positioning it with the other, folding them both on his chest, over his heart. With a final kiss to his brow, she closed his eyes. Rising, she looked around to see her wailing daughter, a widow too soon, the others sobbing in grief, and her heart filled with an icy, silent intent. She shivered, then wiped her eyes and shook herself free from fear, feeling curiously renewed, as if a divine power had entered her body.

There was but one thing left to do in her life, a final act of vengeance, and she knew Nemesis was with her, deep inside her breast, waiting for the right moment to strike.

• • •

It was a fine day in winter’s depth, the sky clear, cold, and blue, achingly blue.

Gigi stood with Placidia at a bend in the river Busentinus, overlooking the burial site of King Alaric. She was bundled in a heavy wool cloak; the princess decked out in sumptuous furs and her imperial regalia, including a delicate golden crown glittering with sapphires, called the Crown of Livia, she’d said. They held hands and listened to the eerie caterwauls of the women closest to Alaric, their grief echoing off the surrounding rocks, cries of doom.

Hundreds of slaves had toiled for the past week to build a huge log dam to divert the river, so Alaric’s corpse and a vast amount of treasure could be interred beneath the riverbed. The tomb had been dug into solid bedrock and would be covered with slabs of purest white marble. Afterward, the waters would be channeled back to their original course, and the grave would be inviolate, hidden from Honorius’s desire to despoil, from Catholic avengers, and from pagans still livid over the Visigoth desecrations during the sack of Rome.

Both Gigi and Placidia wept as they watched a slow procession of Alaric’s male relatives and friends, Athaulf and Magnus chief among them, convey the body to the tomb. The dead king had been regally dressed in purple brocade, the fabulous gem-encrusted goblet folded within the stillness of his hands.

Holding a large gold cross before him, the Arian bishop waited by the funeral bier, as the pallbearers carefully lowered the body, then stood in silence.

The bishop raised his voice, “King of the Visigoths! Long may you dwell in the sight of the Heavenly Throne of our Lord God, the Unbegotten One, and his son, Jesus, the Begotten!”

Mournful cries swelled to a crescendo as Randegund led the women in the cutting of their braids and maidenly tresses. Keening and weeping, they flung their shorn hair toward the riverbed, to rest as tribute at the base of Alaric’s tomb.

Gigi wiped away tears as Verica cut Berga’s hair, and then motioned for the child to take it to her father’s side. The girl looked frightened as she approached the bier, her hands shaking as she halted and glanced at her mother for reassurance. When Verica nodded, Berga turned and flung her hair high, the pale blond wisps catching on Alaric’s cup-laden hands, curling around them. Verica dropped to her knees, holding Berga in a silent, tearful vigil.

“Cruel, cruel fate,” Placidia sadly whispered, and Gigi wondered if she were speaking of Athaulf as well. The princess’s handsome husband was now de facto ruler of the Visigoths, and from the abounding gossip in the camp, Gigi guessed almost everyone was going to vote for him, giving him the kingship. His fate was sealed, his coming responsibilities huge and grave. Gigi knew Placidia realized this as well.

“I understand,” Gigi whispered back as she clung to the princess’s trembling hand, wishing she had listened more carefully to her grandfather’s tales of Rome. If somehow, some way she had been able to replay his stories in her mind, then she might have warned Alaric of the sea disaster, perhaps averting his premature death. And she would know her friends’ fates, Placidia and Athaulf’s future.

More tears rolled down her cheeks. Why didn’t I listen? It would have made Grand-père so happy, and now, what’s going to happen now?

• • •

Placidia studied Athaulf, seeing his grief, feeling her own. She watched her husband and the other men walk back to the riverbank to retrieve more gold and silver treasure.

These were her people now, and the weight of her crown suddenly seemed overwhelming, her long hair heavy, almost too much to bear.

“Do you carry your dagger?” Placidia asked Gigi.

Gigi turned, a troubled crease on her brow. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“As wife to Athaulf, I was granted leave to watch the funeral, just as you and Magnus were granted permission to attend, as the king’s close friends. But my participation was not deemed necessary, nor was it encouraged by some, since I am Roman by birth. Yet now, I believe I must join fully with the others and pay homage to my dead brother-in-law, the king. I shall also cut my hair and, in this way, I shall bind my husband’s people to Rome and Rome to them.”

“Are you certain?” Gigi asked.

Nodding, Placidia remained insistent, and Gigi reached into her cloak to produce the weapon.

“Thank you, Gigi.” She hurried down the embankment to Verica. Her sister-in-law was now tearing at the remains of her own locks, leading the women and girls in ritual grief.

Placidia took her place beside them. Just then, Athaulf appeared on the rise, supervising a host of slaves hauling a huge silver and gold fastigium. The ornate awning had been kept in the Basilica of St. John in Lateran, but it had been sacked, as had so many other sacred places, despite Alaric’s wishes, despite her own husband’s efforts to stem the tide of pillage.

She looked into Athaulf’s eyes and caught a flicker of shame, knowing full well he had set aside his hatred of treasure-lust for the moment, because his people were determined to send their king to the Afterlife with a host of riches. They believed as they believed, their ancestors’ pagan rites mingling with their Arian faith, a blending of Christian liturgy and ritualized keening, of solemn prayers to the Lord God and the heathen cutting of hair.

Facing the funeral bier, Placidia removed Livia’s crown and placed it near Alaric’s feet. As sunlight dappled and danced, she admired the crown’s jacinth gems a final time, her favorite jewels glittering violet-blue. Beguiling as the stars of the Seven Sisters, they were a near match in hue to Alaric’s regal funeral robes.

Placidia raised Gigi’s dagger and sawed at her hair, flinging the dark tresses toward the crown. Once done, she bowed to the corpse, then faced the queen. “My lady,” she called out to Verica, “I join you this day in mourning a great man and your beloved husband, King Alaric, a man whom I shall ever honor and whom I counted among my friends,” she exchanged a long look with Athaulf, “and now among my kinsmen. May God bless him and keep him, forever and ever. Amen.”

The crowd answered, “Amen,” as Verica rose and hugged Placidia.

But the weight Placidia had felt plagued her still, for she caught the baleful stare of her mother-in-law, Randegund. The old woman glowered, and Placidia reminded herself of Randegund’s abhorrence of all things Roman. This was not about her.

Or … was it?

Unable to turn away, Placidia stared back. To her astonishment, Randegund’s pale eyes grew suddenly, inexplicably darker, until they seemed to match the color of the gems in her crown.

Inwardly, Placidia quailed, but she forced herself to give away no hint of her fear. Deliberately keeping her gaze locked on Randegund, she straightened to her full height, raised her chin, and glared back.

She felt miserable in her decision, but at that moment, she vowed never again to wear anything the color of those hate-filled eyes.