The barbarian was so handsome! Placidia could hardly breathe and labored to keep her expression calm and welcoming.
“O, most noble Placidia,” she heard Attalus intoning, “may I introduce Athaulf, brother-in-law to King Alaric and second-in-command of the Visigoths.”
Placidia stared. Athaulf’s beautiful eyes were hazel with flecks of emerald-green, so radiant, so full of life and humor and, and … passion! Tremors, like little shock waves, tore through her body, leaving her flushed and weak. He looked as surprised as she, and his gaze bore into her, holding her fast, refusing to let go.
The room was silent, the air pulsating, waiting, and Placidia knew there was something she must say, but she couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even find her voice.
She opened her mouth to speak, blinked, and tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry, and still he held her, caressed her, reached into her very soul with his wondrous eyes.
“A-hem, O most gracious Placidia.” Another man stepped forward and went down on one knee, as did the woman standing beside him.
Athaulf dropped his gaze and Placidia’s wavered, then broke, and she drew a deep breath as she turned to the other two. They knelt before her, their gazes fixed on the floor. Flustered, she realized the man’s voice had sounded familiar, and she stepped closer, trying to see his face.
“Please rise,” Placidia said. “Do I know you?”
The pair got to their feet, the man towering over her.
He smiled through his heavy beard. “I believe you do, under less hairy circumstances.”
Placidia gasped, then abandoned all decorum, launching herself into his arms. “Magnus! Magnus! Oh, how I have missed you!”
Magnus laughed, hugging her tenderly. “And I have missed you, dearest Placidia. Rome is treating you well, I hope?”
“Of course,” she replied, wiping her sudden tears. “We have so much to talk about, so much catching up to do. Oh, Magnus, I am so glad to see you!”
His eyes twinkled mischievously. “There is someone I would like you to meet. May I present my wife?”
“What?” Stunned, Placidia looked at the woman beside Magnus, and as recognition dawned, they fell into each other’s arms, laughing. “Gigi, dear, dear Gigi. I thought you dead, and knew Magnus’s heart would surely die with you. What a blessing this is! What a blessing to see you both again, and married — for love! I knew it! I just knew how strongly you felt about each other!”
Behind her, Placidia heard Attalus clear his throat, and she reluctantly disengaged from her friends and returned to her duties, carefully avoiding the hazel eyes that had so captivated her moments before.
“Please forgive my, er, inattention,” she said to Attalus. “I hadn’t expected such wonderful gifts. I am in your debt, for you have restored my friends to me, but perhaps I can repay it in some small amount, by treating all of you to a banquet.” She sensed Athaulf’s eyes on her, but forced herself to concentrate on her responsibilities as a royal hostess. “For now, let us dine and enjoy each other’s company, and when we have had our fill of good food and fine wine and beer,” her eyes flickered unwittingly to the irresistible Visigoth, “we might be more easily disposed to discuss your king’s concerns, and the reasons that bring you to Rome.”
• • •
Placidia lay in her bed unable to sleep, her head roll clasped tightly to her chest. It was clear: Magnus and Gigi had turned their backs on the Empire forever. They would do everything in their power to protect the city of Rome and her people, and Placidia in particular, but the heavy demands of the Visigoths were not negotiable, and their allegiance was now to them.
Already, she had sent envoys north to Ravenna, to inform Honorius of King Alaric’s demands, to inform him they now held Rome hostage, and to plead for payment, for his intervention in the situation, so the siege might be quickly lifted. It horrified her to be so closely linked to an emperor who had done so much harm to this landless people.
And then, there was the king’s brother-in-law, Athaulf, and it was to him her mind constantly returned, refusing to stay away long, refusing to dwell on mere matters of state. She had never before felt the blood flowing hot and powerful in her veins, like it did every time she looked at him, every time their eyes met.
Placidia moaned and rolled over, unable to remain calm as she recalled his eyes, his smile, the shape of his lips against the goblet of wine.
How she wished everyone else had left the banquet! How she wished to taste those lips, to feel his hands upon her. She could still smell his scent, the heady fragrances of leather and lavender. And she remembered how his gaze had locked with hers again and again, how he looked as if he could devour her with his eyes, as if he too wished they were the only ones in the room.
She sighed. God help me, but I love him. I love Athaulf. A Visigoth! And she knew there was a connection between them that would never be broken, knew he was thinking of her, was certain his night would be just as disrupted as hers, because Athaulf the Barbarian loved her, too!
She clasped her hands together. Lord, give me strength — wisdom! Oh, why must I be tested so?
Silence. There was no sign, no answer here.
She took a deep breath and rose from her bed, heading for the balcony, intent on gazing at God’s glory, the starry night sky.
• • •
Holding a glass of wine, Gigi stood in the middle of their bedroom and studied the gorgeous frescoes, which reminded her of the art she’d seen in Pompeii. Every inch of wall was painted with scenes from antiquity, as if one were looking through windows at gods and nymphs, ladies in Grecian gowns and athletes at their games.
Magnus came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Careful, don’t spill my wine,” she laughed.
He kissed her neck and took the glass, one arm still around her. “There,” he said, placing it on a table, then pulling her tight.
She snuggled against him. “You’re so good to me.”
“You deserve it.”
“So does Placidia. Did you see how she and Athaulf looked at each other?” she asked. “Could it possibly be? Could it possibly happen? She talked of running away before leaving Ravenna. What if she came with us? It would be so perfect.”
Magnus disengaged his arms and walked under the arches leading to the balcony. “It can’t happen.”
Gigi was surprised by this curt remark. “Why not?”
He spun around and faced her. “Because she is a Roman princess, Gigi. A Roman lady.”
Stunned, Gigi stared at her husband. “I thought you admired the Visigoths. I thought you felt they were equals.”
“Not if they plan on rutting with our women!”
“Is that what we do, then?” Gigi fumed. “I thought we made love, but now you’re telling me when we barbarians mingle with you Romans it can only mean rutting. Is that so?”
“That’s not what I said. You’re not a barbarian.”
“Well, I’m no Roman! And it is what you implied. Athaulf is a decent, honorable, and, might I add, desperately lonely man. His wife died years ago, and he’s shouldered the responsibility of raising their six children alone. I’ve never seen him running after skirts. That’s not what he cares about. He didn’t look at her like he wanted to rut. He looked like he wanted to fold Placidia into his arms and care for her for the rest of his days.”
Magnus sat down, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.
Gigi touched his cheek, then put a hand on his shoulder. “He looked at her, Magnus, like you look at me — like you looked at me that day in the garden — like you looked at me when you first arrived in the Visigoth camp — overwhelmed, deeply in love, yet unfailingly honorable.”
His head dropped, and he nodded. “You’re right. He’s as good a man as any Roman.”
She lightly ran her fingers through his hair. “You know, you still look at me like that, and it takes my breath away every time. Just before Placidia left the banquet tonight, they both looked like I feel when we have to be apart — like they were being stabbed through the heart with a molten knife.”
“I was wrong to say what I did. Forgive me, but I claimed her as my special charge, watched over her, loved her as a brother since she was barely old enough to talk.”
“Little sisters grow up, Magnus,” Gigi said softly, “and if they’re lucky, one day they fall in love with a wonderful man, and you have to let them go.”
He smiled. “So wise, for one so beautiful. Did you have a meddling big brother?”
The words struck hard, and Gigi rose and moved to the balcony, looking out over the darkened city. Her other life was so remote, so very far away.
“No. No brother. Just my parents and my grandfather,” she murmured. “I still miss them, every day.”
“I know.” Magnus picked her up in his arms and carried her to bed. Lying beside her, he brushed away her hair, tracing her chin, her nose, her mouth. “You are Victoria’s greatest gift to me. You are my greatest strength. We are each other’s family now.”
“Making new memories together.” She smiled and started undoing his clothes. “All day I have been looking forward to making love to you in this beautiful room, with all these luxurious things,” she said as she wriggled out of her robe.
“You are.” He kissed her again.
“That may be so, but I find the room means nothing to me,” she whispered, and their gazes locked. “You are all that matters.”
“My sentiment exactly, but let’s not overlook such an opportunity. There is the tub, and the fires are lit to heat the water whenever we desire to use it. For now,” he reached over and picked up Gigi’s glass of wine, “I will concentrate on how I might create a need for the bath.”
He trickled some of the wine between her breasts, then leaned in and licked away the rivulet that had run down and pooled in her navel. He tipped the glass again and a few more drops fell on her mound, tickling and lighting a fire between her legs. When his head lowered again, Gigi moaned with pleasure.
Magnus set the glass aside and opened a tiny carafe he’d tucked within the folds of the bed, and pulled out the stopper.
Gigi reached for him, but he shook his head. “Not yet. It is time you had another massage.” He drizzled oil scented with lavender and camphor on each breast, then across her stomach and hips. Putting the carafe aside, he spread the oil in slow, firm circles, rubbing his thumbs across her nipples, then kissing them when they rose, fanning her flames down below.
He turned his attention to her hips, spreading and kneading the oil into every fold and crevice, exploring, touching, tasting. The camphor created a heat of its own, and Gigi couldn’t help but writhe beneath his attentions.
When at last he rose over her, she reached for the oil and poured some into the palm of her hand. As he hovered, watching, she spread oil on him, working it in with both hands, cupping him, gently pulling, then pumping up and down, faster and faster.
With a strangled groan, he whisked her hands aside and plunged into her, both of them gasping at the impact. Time and luxury lost all meaning as they moved together, finding their rhythm, seeking their bliss.
Sensing her peak was near, Gigi thrust her hips against his, again and again, wanting all of him inside her, hard, pummeling. They cried out together, a sustained, searing explosion of release.
Magnus collapsed beside her, but after only a few minutes of rest, he took her chin and turned her face to his. “You are all that matters,” he softly repeated. “I have been truly blessed to find one such as you. And if Placidia can also find such happiness, then who am I to question her choice? I will celebrate their union, should it come to that, no matter his bloodline.”
“I love you, Magnus.” Gigi moved over him, kissing him, taking her time, making him beg for more.
The embers had died, and the bath water was cool by the time they used it, but, after the heat of that night, they didn’t mind.
• • •
Athaulf stood in the wine cellar of the House of Livia and scanned the selection. He picked an amphora painted in the Greek style of black and orange, depicting beautiful women dancing amid grape vines. He turned to go, but the servant who’d followed him in, and bobbed and shifted while he’d made his choice, seemed ready to expire from a nervous condition.
“Have I taken a special vintage?” Athaulf asked pleasantly. “I would not want anything too valuable, as I am no expert in wine.”
“No, no, my lord. It is a white wine called Tears of Christ. This vintage is good, but not extraordinary,” he squeaked.
“Tears of Christ?”
“It is said Our Lord wept for the wickedness of Pompeii and grape vines sprang forth in the region.”
Athaulf wanted to scoff at this Catholic notion of Jesus’s divinity, but he was too tired to argue on the side of his Arian Christian faith, and besides, he thought, each to his own.
“My lord, is there something else you desire?”
“No.”
The man shrugged. “It is my duty to serve you. Let me open it, and I’ll bring it to your room with something savory, which will bring out its greatest attributes. Does that please?”
“Fine.” Athaulf handed the amphora over. “But make it quick, and no fancy goblets. An ordinary mug will do me well enough.”
“Indeed, indeed. Most assuredly, my lord. Ordinary, as you say. I shall be back straight away.”
The little man scampered off, and Athaulf returned to his room. Several oil lamps lit the interior, and he took a moment to look at the brightly painted walls, the deeply padded bed and its silk draping, the pair of lemon trees in pots, and the multitude of other luxurious tidbits. He felt awkward here, gritty and uncouth. He’d never considered himself that way before, never thought about it at all, until now.
Until her.
A tap at the door broke his train of thought. “Enter.”
The man bobbed in, all smiles and bows, and set an alabaster tray on the table. Varieties of cheese and sliced peaches were artfully arranged on a plate beside an open flask and mug, the set made of beautiful blue glass. Athaulf guessed the ordinary crockery was actually quite costly. And the peaches! He had tasted them but a few times in his life. They were exotic and very expensive, the food of foreign kings.
The servant poured the wine. “Will you be requiring anything else, my lord?”
Athaulf took a sip. It was dry, pleasing enough, like every other wine. “Fine, no, nothing more. That will be it for the evening.”
“Ah,” the servant said, holding a finger up, “before I forget. Sometimes we must point out, I should say, you may well, er, as to one’s normal functions, I would be remiss if I did not make you aware of some of the modern conveniences that have been installed in the House of Livia. Quite different, I should imagine, than living in the wild, in a tent.”
Athaulf frowned and watched the servant bustle toward a door he’d not previously noticed, since its outline was incorporated into the wall’s design.
“Here, my lord, is the indoor latrine, and here,” he held up a stick with a small sea sponge affixed to one end, “this is your swab — for cleansing. The vinegar bucket for rinsing is just below, and there is a small fountain of running water for your needs. Please press the lever here by the sink, and water will issue from the fish’s mouth.”
Athaulf looked at the golden fish faucet and frowned at the ridiculous waste of treasure. “Did you think I’d planned on using one of the potted trees?” he asked irritably.
The servant stopped moving and looked terrified, perhaps realizing he’d stepped over his bounds. “No, my lord, no. Of course not. Not in the least
.”
“That will be all,” Athaulf said, and the man hurried out the door.
Athaulf stared after him for a moment, then took off his tunic, balled it up, and threw it against the wall, admitting to himself he might well have used the potted trees had he found nothing else. The likelihood of his searching the room for a hidden privy would have been slight. Think, idiot! If you are but a crass barbarian to a Roman slave, what then to a princess of the Empire?
He grabbed the flask and sloshed some wine into the mug. He drank the contents in one swallow, willing Placidia’s image from his mind, but found it an impossible task. Her dark eyes had crinkled at the corners when she smiled at him. Her hair, bound up in a knot on her head, so curly and lustrous-black, bounced when she argued her point.
How long was it? If unbound, would her locks fall between her shoulder blades, or perhaps to the small of her back? Might they fall even farther?
“Stop it!” he grumbled, then poured out more wine, wishing it were beer. He recalled her slender fingers gracefully holding her glass, bringing food to her lips. He squeezed his eyes shut. Great God, he could see them so clearly, those lips! How they moved when she spoke, when she smiled and laughed, or how they closed around a morsel.
Gasts! he cursed to himself in Visigoth, then threw the mug and it crashed against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. He watched as the wine trickled down the face of a fancy-painted flowering tree filled with birds. It was a mess. Perfect. Now the oaf-barbarian had ruined her wall. Coming here was nothing short of torture!
Athaulf took up the flask and went onto the balcony with its row of columns, gazing up at their ornate carvings. Such splendor. He looked out over the vista of the ancient, imperial city. Taking a swig, he leaned against a column, his eyes wandering across the intricate geometrical pattern on the mosaic floor, over the marble balustrade, then out again, drinking in the wine and the view.
This was her world. This was her. Beautiful beyond measure. An agony of desire, worlds beyond his reach. How she had looked at him! He tilted his head back, banging it lightly against the stone. As though no one else lived. That was how she looked at him. He could tell. He could feel her desire reaching out to him from across the table. It had taken all of his self-control not to throw everyone out and embrace her the moment they’d first been introduced.
After the Fall Page 3