After the Fall (8 page)

“I cannot eat while Rome starves.” He pushed the plate and mug away with trembling fingers.

“Senator Attalus,” Gigi said, taking his bony hand in hers, “are you well? How is Placidia? She’s not ill, is she?”

“She is weak, as are we all. It is strange, what starvation does to a body, but women do better than men, and the princess is young and strong.” Attalus sighed. “We have tried to convince Alaric this was not Rome’s fault. We know he feels this is his last, best hope to get satisfaction from that horse’s ass in Ravenna.”

Gigi smiled in agreement.

Attalus spread his hands. “Unfortunately for Rome, the policy is sound. In his place, I would do the same.”

A sentry poked his head into the tent. “The king has called for you, Priscus Attalus.”

“So soon?” Attalus said, nervously wiping his hands.

Gigi wondered what the hurried summons could mean. Had the Visigoths rejected Rome’s offer out of hand?

Within moments, she and Attalus stood at the fire pit again, facing Alaric, Athaulf, Magnus, and the other chieftains, with only Verica and Randegund absent. The crowds had also vanished, the people now going about their daily chores.

Magnus motioned for Gigi to join him. She took his hand and waited, his skin warm, the little squeeze to her fingers his way of telling her it was going to be okay.

She felt her nerves fall away, a sense of calm enveloping her.

The king stepped toward Attalus. “Senator, the siege is lifted. I have already ordered the storage houses opened, and deliveries of food should be on their way as we speak.”

“
Yes!
” Gigi exclaimed in English, but only Magnus grinned at her response.

Attalus grasped the king’s proffered forearm, tears in his eyes. “May the gods bless you, King Alaric the Wise!”

“May God bless us all,” Alaric said.

Athaulf stepped forward with a small item, wrapped in golden silk. “I would have you return this to Galla Placidia,” he said to Attalus.

Gigi watched as Athaulf pulled back the edges, revealing the emerald necklace, which he pressed into Attalus’s hands.

“No, no,” Attalus protested. “Placidia’s sacrifice was voluntary, and she insisted you have it.”

“But — ”

“No! Placidia told me someday she hoped it would be returned to her, but not now.” Attalus gave the necklace back to Athaulf and lowered his voice, looking awkward. “She told me … ”

Gigi strained to hear the senator’s next words.

“ … she awaits the day when you might return this bauble to her neck. She told me she is ever patient, like
Roma aeterna
herself, and she will wait for a new future. She will wait.”

• • •

The curtain rose on the final act, and Honorius smiled. He touched his hair, adjusting his new pearl diadem, knowing he looked magnificent, the pride of the Empire. His smile broadened as he peered at the audience, pleased to see their expressions of awe and rapture.

He raised his sword, flexing his bared muscles, wearing but a loincloth and cloak, like the Greeks of old. Behind him, the stage of his theater had been transformed into a seascape; the air howled with a wind conjured by his court magicians, while an ocean appeared to heave and roar with pounding waves. Britomartis was chained to a column, the marble hidden by layers of plaster, making it look like the famous Siren’s Rock off the coast of Sicilia. Honorius gazed at the girl’s windblown tresses, her blond hair already damp and clinging to her white skin, which peeked deliciously through the carefully crafted rips in her golden gown.

“Ahhh,” he sighed as he winked at her. “Perfection is ours to behold, ours to hold.”

She closed her eyes against the great sprays of water now pelting her face. Honorius wished he could rush forward to spread her pale legs in front of everyone and take her there, wet, wild, unrelenting, but he forced himself into a statue pose, for he must play his role, he must be heroic Perseus to her Andromeda enchained.

He threw back his head and began to recite his beloved Ovid:

“Chained to a rock she stood!

Young Perseus stayed his rapid flight,

To view the beauteous maid.

So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine,

She seemed a statue by a hand divine,

Had not the wind her waving tresses showed,

And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flowed.

Her faultless form the hero’s bosom fires;

The more he looks, the more he still admires …

The beauteous bride moves on, now loosed from chains,

The cause, and sweet reward of all the hero’s pains.”

He rushed across the stage until he reached Britomartis, dramatically breaking her chains with his sword. He swept her into his arms and away from her rocky prison. The drama was nearly over, and he, Perseus, had prevailed.

The audience erupted in applause and shouts of triumph, showering the stage with roses. Honorius grinned, glorying in the adulation.

Then he saw General Sarus out of the corner of his eye, standing just offstage.
Damn him to Hades!
He sighed and placed Britomartis on her feet. Picking up a rose, Honorius bowed to the audience, then walked over to Sarus.

He breathed in the flower’s sweet scent. “What is it now, General?”

“
Venerabilis
, forgive the intrusion, but I have important news of Rome.”

The rose fell from Honorius’s fingers. An icy-cold surge tore through his gut, for Rome, his dear, sweet bird, had not been eating, and he feared she had taken ill. “Wh — what happened to her?” he croaked.

Suddenly, there was thunderous applause, and Honorius glanced at the finale, a mock sea battle raging across the stage. He felt faint. Tears filled his eyes.

“The siege is lifted, O Great Emperor Honorius. King Alaric … ”

Honorius could barely hear General Sarus.
Alaric? What has Alaric got to do with my beautiful Rome?

He tried to listen, but the noise was still too great. Finally, Sarus leaned in, saying into his ear, “Alaric has taken the treasure. The siege of Rome has been lifted, and, my lord, there is other news — ”

This last was drowned out by laughter and shouts, but Honorius cared not. Giddy with relief, he wiped his eyes. Rome was alive! He pushed past General Sarus and started for his chambers, for he wished to hold his chicken, his pretty, pretty bird.

“Honorius,
Serenissimus
, please, you must listen to me. Do you not wish to hear what I’ve learned about the traitor Magnus and his bride, the flute-playing whore?”

Startled, Honorius spun on his heel. “What? The bitch Gigiperrin has been found? They’re married?”

The general nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but the uproar in the theater was now insufferable. Frowning, Honorius crooked his finger at Sarus and then led him toward the royal apartments.

• • •

Honorius stroked Rome, who clucked at him in joy. His heart was full as he fed her little tidbits of apple, her favorite food.

General Sarus cleared his throat. “My lord, Constantinople may yet send reinforcements, but I fear we must give in to Alaric for now, in case — ”

Honorius waved him off. “We shall handle Constantinople. You must arrange a meeting with the Visigoth king. Although it greatly pains us, we’ll have to give in to Alaric the Uncouth, but Sarus,” he stared hard at the general, “you make certain Magnus is killed as soon as possible. We would prefer you use a poison that causes a lingering, painful death, but a swift knife to the gut would do the job just as well. Whatever the case, make sure he suffers. Then find Gigiperrin and bring her here, for we have some unfinished business with her.”

Sarus bowed and moved off, not turning his back to Honorius until he reached the door.

Honorius lovingly touched Rome’s feathers, for in her he had the world, he had everything he desired.

Except …

He saw Gigiperrin again. Her lips in a fulsome pout. Her green eyes sparkling with tears. Her breasts high and heaving in fear.

He grew hard and glanced at Rome, then called for Britomartis.

Magnus squinted at the pale winter sun, then glanced away, eyeing the group of fifteen Visigoth noblemen and chieftains who had accompanied him and King Alaric. He pondered how far they had come since the lifting of the siege, some three months past. They had left Rome far behind, and now, as they advanced on Ravenna, Honorius had panicked and agreed to negotiations. With the realization of their goals before them, Alaric’s mood was jubilant.

There was not a breath of air as Magnus sat atop his stallion, gazing at the emperor’s magnificent royal tent, dyed with bands of red and purple and embroidered with gold. Despite the season, the sun felt warm on his face, and a trace of sweat trickled down his brow. He swallowed, wishing for some beer to quench his parched throat, waiting for some movement from within the tent.

Honorius had spared no expense for this auspicious meeting, rendering the location as opulent and impressive as he could. Even the royal standard had been gilded anew, its top crowned by the requisite golden eagle and the acronym
SPQR
. Magnus snorted to himself. As if “
the Senate and the People of Rome
” actually mattered to that vainglorious ass of an emperor! The standard bore a large, purple flag with an image of Honorius holding the imperial regalia, underscored by the Christian cross. Yet, in the still air, as if bespeaking his impotence before the Visigoths, the flag hung still above the tent, limp, lifeless.

Magnus hid his smile, eyeing the two long rows of axe-wielding guards, who stood at attention outside the entryway. The emperor was no doubt waiting inside the tent, but his refusal to greet them spoke volumes, for Magnus guessed Honorius was probably soiling his gilded throne. Despite the show of wealth and power, Honorius must be aware Rome’s preeminence was fading, its future uncertain before the coming barbarian hordes.

A breeze swept in from the north. Magnus closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of coolness on his brow. When he looked out, he saw the flag unfurl and lift. To his surprise, he noticed something different, something that made his heart race in anger, for another image had been added: Victoria crowning the emperor with a wreath of laurel leaves.

He shook his head and glanced at King Alaric, who looked amused. Aside from the last bit of audacity, all this grandeur was a foolhardy waste of time and expense, for Alaric hated ostentation. With the exception of greedy Sergeric, it was probably lost on the rest of the Visigoths as well.

The king gave a signal and everyone dismounted. Aside from Athaulf, Sergeric, and Magnus, several of Alaric’s other top advisors and military commanders were also part of the delegation. They made a formidable group, rough perhaps, but noble. Magnus stood tall, proud to be counted among them, and prouder yet to serve as their spokesman at the coming reception.

The tent flap opened and the wiry Praetorian Prefect, Jovius, stepped out, flanked by the tall figure of Sergeric’s brother, General Sarus, and General Constantius, who stared straight ahead and didn’t make eye contact. Magnus frowned. Even from this distance, the ill-disguised sneer on Sarus’s face was plain to see.

Magnus stepped forward and said pointedly, “Jovius, Constantius, well met.”

“Quintus Pontius Flavus,” Sarus responded, tilting his head and smiling scornfully, “we had thought you dead.”

Unflinching, Magnus didn’t even glance at him. The man’s effort at a slight, by dropping the use of his honorific name and senatorial rank, was not worthy of his time.

“Jovius, King Alaric of the Visigoths stands prepared to receive the titles and lands as requested and which are due him,” Magnus said with a strong, clear voice. “
Magister utriusque militiae,
the title once carried by another honorable man, General Stilicho; as well as the regions of Dalmatia, Venetia, and Noricum for the settling of his people. In return, and as agreed, King Alaric and his armies will continue, as they have ever done, to defend the Empire from her enemies, whether they be Huns or Gauls or any other. I ask you, Jovius, is the emperor ready to receive our embassy?”

Jovius’s smile was lopsided, and he shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Magnus’s gaze. “Well now, as to that, I have a proclamation here,” he pulled out a scroll and cleared his throat, “which deals precisely with those matters you mention, and our Great Emperor Honorius would have me read it before you all, prior to your entry into his magnificent presence.”

Magnus frowned and glanced at Alaric, whose expression had grown hard. Jovius’s demeanor was not one of confidence, and his insecurity was not lost on either of them.

“Flavius Honorius Augustus,” Jovius said, “Emperor of Rome, categorically refuses to give any such lofty titles of the Empire, or lands therein, to a motley, craven, unclean race of barbarians such as yourselves, as it would be a blot, a stain upon Rome’s prestige, her great nobility and long history.”

Shouts of outrage erupted from the Visigoth delegation, and Athaulf had to be restrained against attacking Jovius on the spot. The
Palatini
guards threateningly raised their axes, and Magnus shouted for quiet, but his voice was drowned out.

When an angry calm was finally restored, Magnus stepped toward Jovius, seething. “What is the meaning of this? We reached an agreement weeks ago — you said yourself you thought the demands were well within reason. How can he turn us away with the Gauls marauding on his northern flanks? Who will hold them at bay better than the Visigoths? This is insanity, Jovius.” He repeated the word deliberately, “
Insanity
.”

The prefect was sweating profusely, and simply raised his shoulders and shrugged. “Honorius is willing to speak with the barbarian king on these matters, but only under certain circumstances.”

Magnus glowered. “Those being?”

“The Visigoths must lay down their weapons, all of their weapons, and unsaddle their horses,” Jovius said. “When they enter the tent, they, you all, are to enter on knee, heads bowed.”