Suddenly, unbidden images of her despicable brother came to mind, and Athaulf found it hard to believe the two could possibly be blood-kin. One, the very essence of stupidity, evil and debauched, and the other, the very essence of kindness, gifted and warm, her heart gentle as a lover’s kiss.
He took another swig, and a tiny movement caught his eye. Lowering the bottle, he swallowed, realizing he could see her palace in the distance. There was someone moving on the balcony, someone in a pale gown. He stepped forward. Could it be? His heart thumped like a battle drum.
The figure turned toward him and stopped, but the distance was too great to be sure if she was returning his gaze.
Placidia! He wanted to call out her name.
Almost immediately she was gone, the balcony empty, and Athaulf stood transfixed, for as she’d turned away, the moonlight had danced off the dark curls cascading down her back, her long tresses swaying as she moved, grazing the lovely curve of her bottom.
• • •
The sculptor was covered in marble dust, chiseling, chiseling. The bust was starting to take shape, already hinting at the man’s genius, but Honorius yawned in boredom. He hated the heavenward gaze of his statue’s cold, marble eyes, but it was necessary, reminding the plebs he was God’s Chosen One.
As the artist tenderly wiped the stone with his fingers, stroking the cold marble as though it were a woman’s flesh, Honorius scoffed and motioned for Britomartis and Adriadne. They hurried forward to do his bidding.
He pulled Adriadne close, kissing her throat, her skin smooth, warm, and scented with rose water. “Massage our neck and shoulders,” he said. He felt Britomartis nestle against him. “And you,” he grabbed hold of her shapely behind, “you little minx, we desire a leg tickle.”
Giggling, the girls playfully struggled away from him, then started to massage. He closed his eyes, their fingers soft upon his body, exactly the way he liked it. He reveled in the ripples of pleasure running up and down his legs, the deeper caresses erasing the tension in his back.
“My lord,” Britomartis whispered, “I think you would purr if you could.”
Honorius laughed. “Where is Rutilius Namatianus?”
“I am here,” he called from the corridor.
Honorius didn’t bother to open his eyes. “We are bored. Recite your most recent poem for us.”
There was silence. Only the tap, tap of the sculptor’s chisel filled the air.
Honorius opened his eyes. Namatianus stood there, gaping like an idiot.
“My lord, it is not yet finished,” the man protested. “Perhaps I — ”
Honorius frowned. “We care not. Recite what you have written so far.”
Namatianus nodded, breathed deeply, and then intoned:
“Hear, O beautiful Queen of the World which is thine,
O Rome now received among the celestial spheres!
Hear, O Mother of Men and Mother of Gods,
Thou who, through thy temples,
Make us feel less distant from the heavens!
We sing of thee and always of thee —
As long as the Fates allow, we sing.
Thou hast created for people of every country a single fatherland;
For lawless peoples it was great fortune to be subjugated by thee.
In offering the vanquished the equality of thy rights,
Thou hast made a city of what once was the world.”
Honorius was suddenly aware the girls’ fingers had stopped, the sculptor’s chisel was still. This pleased him, for he too was enchanted by the words.
“Urbem fecisti quod prius orbis erat,” he said, whispering the final line. Thou hast made a city of what once was the world.
How true it was! If only the cursed Visigoths could understand.
Namatianus cleared his throat. “As I said before, the poem is not yet finished. I plan to honor you in the next stanzas, Venerabilis, for you are the personification of Rome’s glory, come to life.”
Honorius yawned again. As the massage resumed, he realized he was feeling quite tired. He bade the girls cease and started to rise.
“Forgive the intrusion, O most excellent Honorius.”
He turned as the captain of his guards ushered in a stranger carrying a wooden box. The man went down on one knee.
“My lord,” the captain said, “this courier has a gift for you, sent by a citizen of Rome.”
Honorius’s pulse quickened. Those were code words, meaning it was over, done. “Open the box,” he ordered eagerly.
The man looked at the women and hesitated.
Honorius tapped his foot. “Open it!”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He pulled off the lid, reached inside, and brought forth a small head, that of a child.
Honorius ignored the sound of the chisel clattering to the floor, the screams of the girls, the horrified gasp of Rutilius Namatianus. He bent closer, unmoved by the stench of decay, fascinated by what had happened to Eucherius’s face.
The boy looked strange, wizened, like an old monkey. Ah, what to do with such a dreadfully wonderful thing?
Rubbing his chin, Honorius recalled an old saying, If I cannot bend Heaven, I shall move Hell.
Clapping his hands, he said, “Pickle it! If Alaric the Uncouth dares to cause any more trouble, we shall send this to him, reminding him of our power.”
• • •
Placidia gazed at the leaden morning sky, its gloomy promise matching the feel of her heart. She turned to Gigi. “I miss you already. I wish you could stay longer,” she said, hugging her. “Magnus, take good care of her.”
They bowed and moved off, and Athaulf approached. Placidia looked into his eyes and trembled at his masculine beauty.
“My lady,” he spoke quietly, “it was my greatest pleasure to meet you, for you have opened my eyes to what is good and fine about Rome. Would that I could stay longer.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Would that I could stay forever.”
He released her and sighed.
Her skin still tingled with the memory of his touch. “Athaulf,” she whispered, realizing his name was already precious to her. “Athaulf, we cannot leave it here. We must meet again.”
He looked startled and then gazed at her eyes, her lips. Placidia felt the rush of her blood, a deep surge of desire. Her hand moved toward him. She wanted to touch his face, but he checked her move with his eyes and pulled back.
“We shall meet again, if God wills it. Farewell, sweet Placidia.”
She watched him leave with the others, her throat tight with emotion. It was the first time he had spoken her name. She prayed to all the saints in Heaven it would not be the last.
Chapter 5
Accompanied by her maid, Persis, and her few remaining bodyguards, Placidia trudged back up the Scalae Caci leading to her palace, pushing at dripping curls escaping from beneath her palla. It had been raining for days, and the weather was unseasonably cold. What were they going to do? When was Honorius going to pay the city’s ransom? She wrapped the sodden cloak closer about her shoulders and shook her head, miserable. She was a fool! Her brother hadn’t even bothered to respond to her pleas, other than to say it was none of his doing, and Rome would have to find her own way out of this disaster.
Between the two of them, she and Attalus had managed to browbeat the Senate into gradually doling out what was left of the grain supply. Alaric had cut off all deliveries into Rome, rationing the food allowance by half, then by two-thirds when he learned some amount of grain was still to be found within the walls. Every Friday for the past month, Placidia had gone to different storage facilities, begging the people there to share what they were given, share what little they had stashed away with their families, their neighbors, those most vulnerable. And Placidia was adamant her house
hold should receive no more food or fuel for heating and cooking than any other.
But despite careful planning, strict rationing, and city-wide cooperation, everything was running dangerously short, and no amount of money could buy what wasn’t there to be had. Where once meat and fish had been plentiful, now none could be found, and it was becoming apparent dogs, cats, even rodents, were disappearing from the streets and homes.
Many men had already escaped, singly and stealthily, abandoning wives and children. Some people left openly, throwing their lot in with the Visigoths, either for survival or out of ideological reasoning, and many slaves had vanished as well.
When she reached home, there were three pitiful old women sitting outside the gates. When they saw her, their thin arms rose up as one, their weak, crackly voices begging for food.
“Placidia, please.” “Domina, help us.” “We have been left to die.” “Nobilissima Puella, please help us.”
Placidia crouched down, taking their feeble hands in hers. “I haven’t much to offer, only some olives, cheese, and stale bread. But we will divvy up what little we have, and at least you may come in out of the rain and sit by our fire,” she smiled apologetically, “although we have but a small amount of wood left. Please, you are welcome at our hearth.” She glanced at her bodyguards, who looked angry and disinclined to assist. Even Persis hung back.
Placidia frowned. “If you don’t care to share your portions with these women, then they may take mine, but I insist you bring them inside!”
Their expressions were petulant, but they all helped, and soon everyone was settled and the doors were closed against the frigid, damp air.
• • •
The rain drummed loudly against the roof tiles, keeping Placidia awake. It was late, and she was so very tired. Hunger hurt more than just her body, it hurt her mind with its ceaseless torments, the wretched cravings. When would this be over? When?
Suddenly, a loud thump on the balcony jolted her upright in bed.
Her ladies hurried in. “What was that?” Elpidia asked.
“Perhaps a bird has crashed into the side of the palace?” Placidia suggested. She got up and followed the women to the balcony. Together, they pulled open the heavy curtains and peeked out. A large burlap sack was lying against the wall.
“Stay here,” Elpidia told them. “Let me take a look.”
Placidia sent Persis to help when Elpidia struggled to lift and carry the sack by herself. They dragged it inside and closed the curtains.
“The balcony is so high. How could someone throw such a heavy thing?” Placidia asked. She reached out to untie the knot securing the sack.
“No, don’t!” Elpidia grabbed her arm. “Someone climbed up and left it here, then fled. What if it holds something horrible?”
“Dear Lord!” Placidia backed away, suddenly fearful of what they might find.
Elpidia’s mouth was tight as she gazed at the curtains. “We have fewer guards on duty these days. They must have stopped patrolling the grounds. I will go out directly and talk to them about this.” She started for the door. “Do not open the sack, Placidia. Please! I shall call for a guard.”
Placidia was about to nod when she detected an aroma, something sweet and wonderful. She looked down at the sack, suddenly unafraid. “Elpidia, wait. Can’t you smell them?”
Both Persis and Elpidia stared at her.
“Smell what?” the nurse asked.
“Figs and dates! The bag must be full of — ”
“No, my lady, stop!” Elpidia yelled. “Leave it be until I return with help.”
Ignoring her, Placidia tore open the sack. “Oh, look!” Excitedly, she plunged her hand inside and drew out kernels of spelt, wanting to devour it raw. “There is grain and also dates, nuts and figs, even cheese. Oh, my God, food, someone has brought us food.”
“But who … ?” Persis reached out, then pulled back. “What if it contains poison?”
Before she could stop herself, Placidia popped some nuts and a dried fig into her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring the explosion of nearly forgotten flavors. She waited a moment, then smiled. No convulsions or loss of sight. No stomach pains.
Elpidia crossed herself and nibbled at a date, while Persis wolfed down some cheese, but after Placidia swallowed a second helping of nuts, she looked around guiltily. “We cannot do this. We cannot hoard such a gift. It would be selfish and terribly un-Christian, unforgivable.”
Persis’s faced reddened as she reluctantly put the cheese back into the sack. “You are right, my lady.”
Elpidia swallowed and hung her head. “What should we do?”
Placidia grabbed the sack of spelt and hoisted it, testing its weight. “There must be fifteen libres of grain, not counting the other food. We have enough to make many, many bowls of hot puls with this amount.” Her mouth watered at the memory of porridge laced with honey, despite the fact there was no honey to be found in Rome these days.
Placidia, be grateful for what has been given!
Then something made her pause, something in the air, something so transient, so faint, but compelling and unforgettable.
Astonished, she put her hands to her face. Leather and lavender. Unblinking, mouth open in surprise, she looked at the women. “I know who brought this.”
• • •
Placidia felt hungry and tired, her hands cold, her heart colder still. Six weeks and counting since she’d sent word to Honorius, since he’d refused to become involved. Four weeks since Athaulf had first smuggled in food, but the deliveries had tapered off, and it was ten days since the last one.
Why? Where was he? Her eyes misted, and she feared he no longer cared.
She walked to the balcony, parted the heavy curtains and gazed out. The weather was wet and miserable, winter’s fury come early, and innumerable diseases ran rampant in the city, killing more than they ought, because of everyone’s deteriorating strength.
Shivering, she hurried back inside. Warming her hands over a brazier, she breathed in the heady, sweet scent given off by her last, precious hoard of stone pine, then went to her mirror and studied her wavy reflection in the polished bronze. Placidia could make out the dark circles under her eyes, the sharp prominence of her cheekbones matching the increasingly skeletal look of her body. Despite Athaulf’s gifts, she was losing weight. They were all losing weight.
She’d shared his bounty as best she could with her servants and Attalus, and gave out bits and morsels amongst the weakest beggars in the street. But she had to be careful, knowing if it got out the palace was hoarding food, they would be overrun, and possibly killed.
Her mind flitted toward a memory of hazel eyes flecked with green. Passionate eyes. But she reminded herself she could not abandon her people and run to him. No, she had to stay in Rome, even die, if that was God’s will, if that was how hard Honorius’s heart remained, despite her pleas.
“My lady?” Persis asked, as she and Elpidia entered, bringing in Placidia’s warmest night shift and blankets. “How were the gladiatorial contests? Did they amuse? Were the people happy to have something else to think about, beyond finding food?”
Elpidia grumbled at this, and Placidia looked at her for a moment before raising her arms to be undressed. “It was a disaster, and yet the Senate wants to do it again next week.” She paused as Elpidia slipped the shift over her head. “I cannot abide such violence, but I was overruled by Attalus and the other senators. I closed my eyes to the blood.” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard, willing away the images of sodden, red sand, of bodies cut to pieces. “And, do you know, with each death the crowds chanted, ‘Food, food, food,’ and we tried to ignore them, pretending we didn’t understand what they were saying. By the end, though, it … it was horrible … they were howling, insisting the dead be handed over as part of the food rationing.”
Persis recoiled. “No, they didn’t!”
As Placidia’s eyes welled, Elpidia patted her arm, trying to comfort her.
“Heaven help us,” Placidia said, “but the whispers of cannibalism are true! They didn’t even care that such evil desires were given voice so publicly. Everyone was clamoring for the bodies. If not for the guards, I think they would have started tearing at each other.”
Someone knocked at the door.
“Senator Attalus has just come in, Domina,” Leontius spoke from behind the closed door. “He begs your forgiveness and wishes to speak with you.”
“Tell him I will meet him in my study immediately.” Placidia sighed and stood, squaring her shoulders. “I am sorry, Elpidia. I don’t care if I’m being indecent, but I haven’t the strength of body or will to get redressed.”
“Here, put on your palla. With this and your heavy shift you’ll be fine, my dear. You are always a proper lady. Go ahead.”
The hallways echoed with their footsteps as Placidia followed her steward. The palace seemed so empty these days. Many had deserted her or died. Even the three old women she’d brought in were dead, each having lasted less than a week. Since then, dozens in her household had succumbed, and many more had simply vanished. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to look as defeated as she felt, not even to Attalus.
Leontius opened the door to her study, and she went inside. With one look at Attalus’s haggard expression, she wished she’d never come to Rome, wished she’d never been born a princess, wished all these burdens and worries had never been placed at her doorstep. She was only seventeen, after all. She started. No, she was eighteen! Her birthday had been missed, not celebrated or even remembered. God in Heaven, what more could she possibly —
Placidia checked herself. Even now, the spoiled princess lurked within.
After the Fall Page 4