After the Fall

chapter 8


“I refuse to believe you are dead, Gigi. By the gods, it is not possible.”

Anguish prevailed, the emptiness in Magnus’s heart so deep and black he feared he could not abide by her wishes — he must escape this agony and join her. But no! He could not! On his wedding day, he had sworn an oath to Gigi that he must never kill himself, as he had been trained to do as a Roman military commander, as he was expected to do if he suffered loss or defeat. He had kissed Victoria’s image on the ring and vowed to choose life, no matter how dark things seemed, for Gigi had told him in living there was hope, still hope, and he must honor her by doing just that.

He stood alone on the mountainous crags facing north, imagining he could see beyond the mists, to the place where he last held his beloved wife.

Yet now — O, ye gods — now, their tent was a smoldering wreck, perhaps her body, too, like so many others, burned beyond recognition, lost among the charred remains in the burial pit, gone, gone.

He gripped the silver ring she had given him, fell to his knees, and kissed the band. “Oh, my sweet,” he whispered, “where are you? I cannot believe the gods would be so cruel. Victoria, give me a sign.”

Tasting his tears, he remembered the first time he saw Gigi at the baptistery in Ravenna, when the air seemed to sparkle with briny splendor, when she appeared from the mists of time.

Magnus touched his chest, fingering the locket with Gigi’s hair and then he flinched, hearing the soft swish of parting grass.

He held his breath and listened, perceiving light footsteps on the path, the barest of sounds.

He let out his breath slowly, then reached for his sword.

• • •

Randegund crept forward. She felt a bitter wrath watching the despicable Roman holding his sword. Suicide was too easy. He must be made to endure all the torments of the world like her Verica, who was wasting away, inconsolable over the loss of her children.

“Magnus!” she shouted.

He turned, eyes widening as he beheld her face. But his gaze dulled quickly, his features the image of suffering.

She drew herself up. “Do not kill yourself, fool, else you will never find your wife.”

Randegund waited. He was still filled with pain, but truly — there it was, a look of confusion. She had his attention.

“She is alive, Roman. I saw her. She ran from your tent, knife in hand. But I fear — ”

He roared to life, leaping from the crags, running at her, grabbing her. “Why have you said nothing of this? Where is she, Witch of Rocesthes? Tell me!”

She felt shaken to hear her old name, the one used when she was young and vital, when she rode with the warriors, when she was truly alive.

Magnus pulled her close, until they were nose to nose. “Where is my wife?” he growled.

Cursed Roman! His strength shocked her, her body withering beneath his might. He had her under his power, and she knew she must regain control. Yet still, she could not find her voice, suddenly fearing he would hurl her against the rocks.

Randegund took a deep breath, then another, finally whimpering, “Release me! Do you wish to find her? Let me go!”

She looked into his eyes and saw his pupils, dark pinpricks, his hatred bared, but there was something else there, a spark of hope. It was no consolation that she should give him such a gift, however false, but it would buy her time. Her thoughts raced, scrambling for something to say. But what? What could she tell him?

And then she recalled a tale of old, and in it she found her answer. Send him away on an unending quest like Odysseus, keeping his hope alive, eternal, only to be dashed again and again, his suffering equal to his hope, and both without end.

She glared at Magnus as she shook herself free. “She was taken by the Romans as a slave. I saw her carried away on horseback. Someone said she would fetch a great price in Constantinople.”

Even in his hope he looked shattered, and she gloated in victory. He stared into her eyes, searching for the truth in her words, then turned his back on her and raced down the hill.

She looked up at the sky, thanking the gods for the gift of vengeance.

• • •

It was nearly sundown. Alaric had watched Magnus ride away from camp earlier that day, heading east, and still he was troubled by the whole situation.

“I do not trust my mother,” Athaulf said from over his shoulder. “Why did she not bother to tell us about Jolie, er, Gigi’s fate before this?”

Alaric felt uneasy. Athaulf had put voice to the very crux of his concerns, and deep within he agreed with his brother-in-law’s disquiet. He feared Randegund’s hatred for the Roman had finally steered her soul toward the dark pit of damnation and eternal hellfire.

He had to find her, to question her, for he knew a way to guarantee she was telling the truth, the only way.

Alaric walked away and was relieved when Athaulf did not follow. He spotted Randegund by the campfire, stirring something in a pot.

“Mother,” he called out, “we must talk.”

He saw the way she looked askance, as if seeking escape. His heart felt cold as he reached her side and noticed her face was already a mask of calm.

“Mother, come.”

He walked slowly, leading her away from camp, well past the last posts of his sentries. The men started to follow, but he bade them stay, for he needed privacy.

Alaric halted by the river. Randegund had fallen several paces behind, and he waited for her to reach his side.

“There shall be a full moon tonight, a blue moon,” she said, staring at the eastern horizon.

He ignored her flight of fancy. “I shall ask this but once, Mother. Did you tell Magnus the truth? Was his wife taken by the Romans, to be sold in the slave markets of Constantinople?”

She turned to him. Alaric studied her pale eyes, which reflected the violet cast of the sky. He saw for the first time a rheumy trace, the harbinger of old age.

“Mother, answer me,” he deliberately made his voice a shade gentler, “and swear you told the truth. Swear it — on my life.”

Randegund’s gaze did not waver. “My son,” she said, “on your life, I do swear I saw her alive, although I cannot say what happened to her once she was out of my sight.”

He frowned and she walked away.

Alaric realized his fists were tightly clenched, and he purposely flexed his hands. Once more, he looked toward the east, but Magnus had long since vanished on his quest, lost in the distance, and doomed to failure.

He stood for a time alone, watching the coming night, until the moon rose cold and blue, a witch’s moon.

• • •

Shaking with fatigue and relief, Gigi grasped the children’s hands as they made the last, weary ascent up the Palatine Hill. Their clothing was filthy, stiff with their sweat. By her count it was nearly a month since the Roman soldiers had ambushed the camp, a month since they’d been left behind to find their way alone, unaided, to the only refuge she could think of after they’d lost all trace of the Visigoths: Placidia.

Gigi kept her gaze on the ground. The people of Rome stared openly, even malevolently at them — barbarian beggars. It was mid-spring and the weather was growing pleasant, the days longer. The siege had been lifted only four months earlier, and Rome was still, understandably, seething with hatred for the Visigoths. But they kept their anger in their eyes, letting a bedraggled woman and children pass without persecution.

Arriving at the palace gates, Gigi forced herself to stand tall and speak with determination. “I must see the princess,” she told one of the guards. “Call the steward Leontius. Tell him I am the one who bears the ring of Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, Senator of Rome, so that he may vouch for my identity.”

The gatekeeper’s expression passed from condescension, through indignation to uncertainty as she spoke, and he hurried off when she finished. Moments later, Leontius came forward, his eyes lighting up as he drew near.

“Open the gates!” he ordered the guards as he hustled to greet Gigi and the children, escorting them inside. “I will be but a moment,” he said as he rushed off to find Placidia.

Waiting in the audience chamber of the grand palace, the kids clung to her, terrified by their majestic surroundings. Berga buried her face in Gigi’s skirt, hugging her as if she’d never let go.

“Look,” Gigi said, seeking to distract them, “if you look at the pretty floor, you will see your reflection.”

Theodoric hazarded a glance at the highly polished green marble, then gaped. “Berga, look,” he said. “See that? It’s better than any mirror!”

The little girl peeked out and stared. “I look dirty,” she said with a pout.

“Gigi!” Placidia cried, her footsteps echoing as she ran toward them, her arms outstretched, Elpidia following close behind.

The princess enveloped Gigi in her arms. “How — why are you here? Oh, I have worried you were dead — what — who are these little ones? Where is Magnus? Tell me, you must tell me everything.”

“Placidia,” Gigi responded. “Please, can the children have something to eat first? Some soup or porridge? We haven’t had much, and they have been very brave, but they’re suffering.”

“Right away, and baths afterward,” Elpidia said, and rushed off toward the kitchens.

Placidia crouched down, eye to eye with the children, and took their hands. “My name is Placidia. I have met some of your leaders and hold your people in great esteem. What are your names?”

“This is Theodoric and Berga, prince and princess of the Visigoths,” Gigi responded quietly. “They are King Alaric and Queen Verica’s children.”

Placidia gazed up at her, mouth open. “Why are they with you? What has happened?”

“There was a battle at our camp near Ravenna a month ago. I think your bro … er, the emperor set up the ambush, because it happened while Magnus and Alaric were meeting with him about a treaty,” Gigi said. “The camp was burned out, we escaped, and so did many others, although we don’t know who survived, for sure. They left before we could find them. We’ve come to you because we had nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, my dear Gigi, how you and these lovely children have suffered!” The princess took a moment to gather her thoughts, then squeezed the children’s hands reassuringly. “We’ve heard some news of your people within the last week, and I want to reassure you your parents are very much alive and causing the emperor no end of problems.” Theo grinned at this, to which Placidia added, “I shall do whatever I can to find them and reunite you. I’ll take good care of you until then. You may trust me in that.”

The children looked relieved, then gratefully followed Elpidia when she returned with a servant carrying a tray of food.

Placidia rose and stared at Gigi. “Where is Magnus?” she asked, her tone hushed, as if she feared hearing the worst.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.” Gigi’s resolve started to crumble, her shoulders to tremble. A huge lump formed in her throat, threatening to burst. “If he’s alive — oh, God, I don’t even know that much — he surely thinks — they all must think — we died in the fire.”

Placidia held her close, letting her cry at last.

• • •

Standing beside Placidia, Gigi watched Theodoric and Berga idle in the palace’s main atrium. Happily sprinkling food into an ornate, marble fishpond, the children were carefree, with no idea why they’d been summoned.

She, on the other hand, trembled with nerves. They had just received news the Visigoths had ridden on Rome, furious over Honorius’s ongoing deceit. They’d made a point of not harming the city this time, but they had demanded an audience with Placidia without any of the usual back and forth of envoys, so neither party had any idea what or who awaited them.

Glancing toward the entry, Gigi hoped with all her heart Magnus would be among the delegation. Placidia was silent, her gaze fixed on the doorway, and Gigi knew she was nearly faint at the possibility of seeing Athaulf again.

In an effort to steady herself, Gigi took several deep breaths. It was certain the Visigoths would find unexpected joy today. Would Placidia? Would she?

Leontius entered the atrium and bowed. “They have arrived.”

Placidia lifted her chin. “Show them in.”

“Children,” Gigi called. “Come and stand by me — now — hurry!”

They scrambled to obey, taking her hands, and waiting. Footsteps approached, and Gigi’s breathing grew shallow, tears of anticipation pricking at her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please — ”

“Mama! Papa!” the children suddenly screamed in unison, rushing across the hallway as their parents cried out in disbelief.

Beside her, Placidia remained motionless, breathless, as she and Athaulf gazed at one another. Gigi didn’t move, either, not even to brush away her tears.

Magnus wasn’t with them.

• • •

Darkness was falling. Placidia paced the study, clasping and unclasping her hands as Persis and Elpidia hovered nearby, lighting candles.

Frowning, Placidia knew what she was about to do could seal her fate forever, cutting her off from everything she’d ever known. But she didn’t care, at least not enough to change her mind.

After the delays brought on by the joyous reunion, King Alaric had pronounced his terms. He declared his control over the Western Empire. He appointed Senator Attalus “Augustus” over Rome. As for Honorius, his status was undecided, and Placidia didn’t know whether he would be allowed to rule as a co-emperor, or be deposed. His future, everyone’s future, and the fate of the Empire, were now in the king’s hands.

Attalus would run everything, with Alaric’s direction. Meanwhile, Alaric had taken the title of magister militum, something he’d sought ever since Stilicho’s death, and there was also talk of land grants. But, for now, Rome’s grain supply in Africa had to be secured for the new government. The Visigoths would still have to wait for their land.

And Magnus — such horror! After the briefest moment of relief at the news of his survival, Gigi was devastated by the tales that had sent him abroad on a fruitless quest. Placidia knew she was heartsick, knew she should go to her friend, but she was compelled, for the moment, to follow another path.

Standing near the door, one eyebrow cocked in disapproval, Elpidia cleared her throat and opened the door to Athaulf when he arrived. She bowed and left the room, dragging a staring Persis with her.

He was here at last! Placidia swallowed, then gazed at Athaulf for several moments. Standing in his presence, she was amazed anew, for he was the embodiment of male beauty, his features sheer perfection, his stance noble, his shoulders broad. And his eyes! They were mesmerizing, flickering golden brown, then green, dazzling in the candlelight.

Athaulf dipped his head, very formal. “Princess, you requested my presence?”

Placidia’s heart pounded, and she found it hard to speak. “You … Athaulf, you brought us food. I knew it was you from the first, because of the, the … your scent was on the satchel.”

He looked taken aback, unmasked as he was.

“Tell me,” she asked, breathless, trying to focus and remain calm, “why did you endanger yourself for … for us?”

“I did it for you alone, Placidia.”

She stood without responding, his beautiful eyes boring into hers, and she longed to rush into his arms.

“I couldn’t bear to think you were suffering,” he added. His hand moved slightly, and for the first time, Placidia noticed he held a silk bag. “I return this to you with the gratitude of a people and with my heartfelt thanks.”

Placidia approached him, her knees wobbly, her steps slow and uncertain. She felt small and vulnerable when she finally reached his side, for he was almost a head taller than she.

He pressed the bag into her hand, then stood back. “We shall never forget your generosity, but this is yours, must always be yours. You wore it when first we met.”

She smiled, feeling the weight of emeralds and gold, her necklace returned, the gesture so touching. “Thank you,” she said, then impulsively added, “I owe you my life, and I would bestow a kiss of gratitude upon you, but you must kneel, for I cannot reach so high.”

Athaulf went down on one knee, still keeping to protocol, and Placidia breathed in his scent. Leather. Lavender. She leaned in and touched her lips to his right cheek. Closing her eyes, she lingered against the warmth of his skin, then moved back slightly to kiss his other cheek, but her will gave way to desire and she brushed her lips against his instead.

“Athaulf,” she whispered.

He returned her gentle kisses, his fingers touching her arms in a light caress. The heat of him sent a pulse of desire straight to her core.

“Take me in your arms, Athaulf.”

She felt his hands at her waist, drawing her down, and she moaned as he grasped her to him, as his mouth covered hers. She wrapped her arms around him. The sensations were overwhelming, and she pressed her body against his, feeling his desire, willing him to keep going, to demand more.

“Placidia,” he held her face and stared at her, his breathing heavy.

“Take me with you,” she pleaded, looking into his wonderful eyes. “Take me away from here, take me … take me — ”

“Don’t speak like that! You don’t know what you’re asking,” Athaulf said, his voice ragged and low. “You are a princess of Rome.”

“Then you don’t feel as I do?” Placidia asked, desperate, searching his expression for an answer. “I was so certain you loved me.”

“Of course you have my heart, but it is impossible what you ask. Impossible,” he said wretchedly, holding her close. “You would be hunted mercilessly for having abandoned the Empire in such a manner. And I could never impose exile on you. It is too harsh, too bitter to live without a homeland, condemned to wandering.”

“You are all the homeland I will ever need, Athaulf. I know it. I can’t breathe without thinking of you, day and night, every night … all night.” Placidia reached up and touched his cheek, then kissed him again. “If you can’t take me with you, then stay tonight at least, make love to me … Athaulf, please … we will make a bond, seal our love forever.”

“Stop, Placidia! Say no more. I love you too much to inflict such a fate upon you.”

“But it is a fate of my own choosing,” she insisted, trying to kiss him again, but he tilted his head away. “Athaulf, don’t fight this. Make love to me.”

“No, you do not understand. You are a maid — ”

“I am fully aware — ”

“No! I swear if I so much as kiss you again, I will take you here, now, on the floor, and it would be no fitting thing for a princess, I assure you!”

The brutality of his words stunned, but also stirred her, and she imagined feeling the weight of him upon her and yearned for the act.

“Athaulf … ”

“Placidia, do not ask more of me than I can bear. You would hate me for it afterward.”

Crushed and ashamed, Placidia turned her face away. She’d made her bid, uttered words, begged him. She had admitted to feelings she thought could never be possible for her, yet he’d refused, placing honor above all else.

“Politics dog our every move, whether we would have it so or not,” he said, his voice still ragged, but calmer. “We are each pawns in this game.”

“Go.”

“Placidia!”

She pulled away from his grasp, rose, and walked to a table, her back turned so she could not see his beautiful eyes any longer, so he could not see her tears.

She squared her shoulders. “That is all. Vale, Athaulf.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then she heard his footsteps receding, and the click of the door as it closed behind him.

Placidia gazed at the silken bag, proof he had thought of her, too, day after day, night after night, over these many long months of separation. He loved her, yet he’d refused her utterly.

She dropped to her knees and opened the bag. Her necklace slid out, glittering with the same green fire she’d seen in Athaulf’s eyes.

Placidia put her hands over her face and sobbed.