After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  She sighed. What grief was Attalus going to add to her heart tonight? By his dour looks, it was something momentous and grim.

  Placidia lifted her chin and looked directly into his eyes. “Attalus, what news?”

  He bowed. “I am sorry to have to tell you, but this afternoon Serena was arrested while sneaking in through the Quirinalis Gate. It is not the first time this was observed. She has been watched since the murder of her son, although at first we did it for protective measures. However, soon we observed her frequent comings and goings. It is said she brought in contraband — food to be precise. We are not sure how she acquires it. But it is either through the, er, sale of herself, or perhaps she is giving the Visigoths information. At any rate, she is having extensive dealings with them.”

  “With King Alaric?” Placidia paused, then blurted, “Not Athaulf!”

  “No. The tents of the barbarian leaders are not located in the area she frequents,” Attalus replied. “But there is another, one Sergeric by name, who is known to be corrupt, even disloyal, when it serves his purpose. He has often been seen hanging around the gate. We have reason to believe it is with Sergeric that Serena meets and comes by her food.”

  Placidia sat on the closest couch, staring at the floor, on the verge of abandoning all hope, for she feared what was coming. “And what have they decided is to be done with my cousin?”

  “The Senate has decreed Serena be brought before the people at next week’s games,” Attalus said flatly, “where she will be charged as a traitor to Rome. The crowd will also be reminded of what she did at the Temple of Rhea years ago, when she stole the offerings to the goddess, just in case anyone has forgotten that travesty. Then they will ask what sentence they would demand for her crimes.”

  “They will ask the public? Oh, Lord Almighty, I fear they will have no mercy! Will it be stoning, do you think?” Placidia whispered. “To be carried out immediately?”

  “The sentence will be meted out on the spot, certainly, but we must anticipate the plebs will demand much worse than stoning.”

  “Dear God. Might she be burned?”

  Attalus shrugged. “There is one more thing.”

  “What?” she asked weakly. “What more can there possibly be?”

  “The Senate insists on your presence.”

  Placidia groaned.

  “And they want you to publicly give final approval to whatever sentence is demanded. They feel it is the only way for you to remain untarnished by Serena’s guilt, and the only way to keep order.”

  • • •

  The gray skies hung low, and the wind promised more rain. Placidia snuggled into her fur cape. Resigned to the inevitable, she sat in the imperial stands of the Flavian Amphitheater, surrounded by several senators, Attalus behind her. The sweet smoke of stone pine wafted from several huge braziers, set around the grounds of the great coliseum, not for warmth, but to mask the odors of gore and death.

  But on this day, Placidia thought, by my orders none have died, and it is not necessary to cleanse the air, at least not yet. She stared out at the arena floor. Six pairs of gladiators had battled over the course of the afternoon, the winners receiving laudatory palm fronds and pouches of gold. The rain had held off, and she sensed the games were a success, despite the restlessness of the crowd, still seething for blood.

  Now, only one event was left to be played out. Placidia quailed at what she was about to witness, her participation a necessary evil.

  There was a clatter of gates at one of the field entrances, and all eyes sought the reason. Placidia turned toward the disturbance and saw several legionnaires. They stood rigidly at attention, and behind them, two more legionnaires holding one diminutive woman with long, dark tresses falling loose over her shoulders.

  Serena. The moment had come.

  People started to hiss and boo as she was led out and made to stand alone in the center of the arena, her hands bound behind her back. She was clothed in a shift too light for the weather, and despite the cold, her chin was high, Placidia noted, a look of utter disdain her only expression.

  Near the front railing, the announcer rose in full make-up and blond wig, his clothing gaudy and crass, in the theatrical style. He lifted a hand to quiet the crowd, waiting a moment until everyone grew still. “We have before us, Serena, wife of the traitor General Stilicho!” he called, his voice dulcet, yet loud and clear, a wonder of contradictions.

  The crowd roared in blood-thirsty anticipation, and Placidia closed her eyes, feeling shaken and ill. Grabbing the arms of her throne, she took several gulps of air and prayed for strength, for a way out of this madness.

  It grew quiet again, and Placidia opened her eyes.

  “Serena was caught smuggling food into the city,” the announcer continued, “for her private and personal use, which she received through consort with the very enemy that hems us in and starves us these many weeks, and even at this moment, ongoing.” He pointed at Serena, who glared back. “We also deem it prudent to remind you, this woman is the very same who, some years back, made a mockery of the Temple of Rhea, the Goddess of the Old Ways, and still venerated by many among you. Serena desecrated Rhea’s temple and stole such gifts as had been given in tribute.”

  Placidia saw something fly out from the seats behind Serena, striking her cousin on the shoulder with enough force to open the skin and cause bleeding. Cheers rocked the stadium as Serena stumbled, but she managed to keep her footing, haughty, angry, ever defiant.

  The announcer raised his hand again. As silence fell once more, Placidia realized she was still gripping her chair. She let go and sat back, her fingers aching.

  “Citizens of Rome,” the announcer cried out. “Since the guilt of this woman is beyond question, we have decided to ask you, the people against whom this crime was committed, to bring sentence upon her!”

  Jeers and applause. The stands thundered with the stamping of feet.

  “What is your sentence?”

  “Death! Death! Death!”

  Placidia remained still, letting only her eyes move over the scene. People shook their fists and screamed obscenities; some threw whatever they could find, the missiles raining down on the field. Several found their mark, but Serena remained standing and unbowed.

  The announcer waved his arms for calm, then, when the voices subsided enough he bellowed, “By what means?”

  There was no deciphering the responses, since none were the same, but everyone continued to roar.

  He waved his arms again. “Stoning?”

  Roars.

  “Burning?”

  Thunderous noise.

  “Disemboweling?”

  Placidia could hardly hear the man, and there was no way to make sense of what the crowd preferred. He said something else, but his voice was lost in the din, and finally he nodded, then motioned for quiet. As a hush fell over the crowd, he suddenly turned with a flourish and faced Placidia.

  The brusqueness of the move took her by surprise, and she sat there, cold with dread.

  “Stand,” Attalus whispered in her ear.

  With difficulty, Placidia shrugged off her cape and rose. “What is the people’s decision?” she asked, her voice sounding strange and throaty, as if it belonged to another.

  “Aelia Galla Placidia, Most Noble Princess of Rome and the Empire, the people have chosen beheading, to be carried out immediately!”

  Placidia blinked several times, trying to manage her surprise. She hadn’t heard a single voice call out for so humane a method of execution, and she guessed Attalus had something to do with it, although he bore Serena no goodwill.

  Placidia focused on her cousin, and Serena stared back with a smirk, unmoving, daring her to pronounce condemnation, mocking her failure to do so.

  How she hated evil, loathsome Serena! Placidia reminde
d herself of all the wrongs this woman had committed in her lifetime, reminded herself she was every bit the craven monster Honorius was, reminded herself this woman was uncaring, vengeful, and utterly without compassion.

  Compassion.

  Placidia tried to calm her breathing as she looked into eyes that would soon be without life. Whatever Serena’s faults, Placidia fervently wished she could show her compassion, even now, but that was not an option.

  Instead, she drew in a deep breath and raised her fist with an extended thumb, drawing a line over her throat in the pollice verso, the death signal, final, so very final.

  “Let the people’s decision be carried out!” she ordered.

  The noise throbbed in Placidia’s ears, pulsated across the arena, as two legionnaires grasped Serena’s arms and forced her to her knees. A third took hold of the ends of her hair from the front, pulling it all forward, forcing her face down and exposing the nape of her neck.

  Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder ripped through the heavens. A storm was upon them. Huge raindrops began to pelt the arena.

  Another flash of light, this time daylight on blade, and the stroke descended with a terrible force.

  Placidia’s legs gave way and she almost fell, but Attalus caught her in time, holding her up before the people, to witness this last, Serena’s end, for the sake of the Eternal City, for Rome, her Rome.

  Chapter 6

  Three days without rain — it was like heaven. Wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, Gigi walked through the lanes between tents, choosing her footing carefully. The morning had dawned overcast and bitterly cold. Frost coated everything, and the puddles had all iced over. If this chill stayed around, and the rains came back, they would be knee-deep in snow in no time. And what would that mean for Rome? For Placidia?

  Damn this weather! Damn obstinate men! Triple damn that bastard Honorius for ignoring everything that’s going on!

  She made her way to a rise topped with a lone cypress, her breath making little clouds before it disappeared. Gigi looked at the vista, Rome, so beautiful as it sparkled in the morning light — so terrible, too, and in such agony.

  Gigi put her flute to her lips and played some arpeggios to warm up. Then, raising her eyes to the great cityscape, she played an original piece she had developed over the past weeks. She thought of it as her “Ode to Rome” and hoped it could be heard all the way into the city, to encourage and give hope, to let them know they were not forgotten.

  Then, almost as soon as she’d begun, something caught her eye and the notes faltered, then stopped. Standard flags bobbed in the distance. People and wagons were traveling up the road. There was a delegation coming from the city!

  Gigi started down the hill, slipping, stumbling, but managing to stay up. When she finally got to the flats, she ran full out, heedless of the ruts and frozen puddles. Trying to catch her breath, she arrived at Alaric’s tent with many others, just as the delegation came into view.

  King Alaric was already standing beside the great central fire pit, the official meeting place. Alaric’s elderly foster-mother, Randegund, stood on his left, her birth children, Queen Verica and Athaulf, on her right, while Magnus, Sergeric and several of the other captains waited farther off. The welcoming committee.

  Just then, Randegund’s gaze strayed toward Gigi, who shivered beneath the woman’s icy-blue glare. The old witch hated all things Roman, and marrying Magnus had put Gigi squarely in the enemy camp. She had tried to stay away from Randegund, but the woman was frequently in Alaric’s company and avoiding her proved impossible. At first Gigi hadn’t understood why Alaric kept Randegund so close, but then she’d pieced together the complicated relationship between the two; not only had Randegund taken him in when he was orphaned as a child, she’d given him her only daughter’s hand in marriage. It was still hard for Gigi to believe sweet Verica and noble Athaulf were scary Randegund’s biological children.

  With a last, defiant look at the witch, Gigi edged her way along the fringes of the crowd. She found a decent spot to one side, where she could see all the faces, and hopefully hear something.

  “Jolie! Jolie!” a little voice cried out.

  Gigi looked down, surprised to see Berga, Alaric and Verica’s youngest, hopping up and down. She grinned at Berga’s continued use of the alias Gigi had first given the Visigoths — Angelina Jolie. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision so Honorius’s spies would never make the connection with the fugitive slave they knew as Gigiperrin.

  “Help me up, Jolie.”

  “Shhh, Berga.” Gigi rumpled the girl’s hair. “This is very important. Your parents are going to have an important meeting. We must be quiet.”

  “We told her that!” two insistent voices said in unison.

  Gigi looked behind her. The twin boys were there, looking annoyed with their sister. She knelt down and motioned for Berga to climb on her back, then glanced at the twins. “Go to the front to watch, but come right back here afterward to get your sister.”

  They started to complain, but when Gigi threw them a look, they quickly wriggled past onlookers to a prime location.

  A murmur of astonishment swept the crowd and Gigi rose with Berga, straining to see.

  Berga pointed and started to giggle. “They’re funny looking. Those men have naked faces. They must get cold as girls in the wintertime.”

  Gigi drew in her breath at the sight of Priscus Attalus and several other Romans. Although dressed in their finest senatorial regalia, they looked haggard and thin. Attalus was in the worst shape, his face ashen and pinched, the fringe of hair around his bald pate now snow-white. She could see the nubs of his shoulder bones poking up against his toga.

  What was this about? She struggled through the mass of people, straining for a better spot. “Berga, you absolutely cannot say a word, no giggling, not one sound. Promise?”

  “Promise,” Berga breathed in her tiniest voice, right next to Gigi’s ear.

  “Good girl.”

  Once at the front, Gigi stood in amazement. Behind the cluster of Roman senators came dozens of large wagons, each pulled by legionnaires and guarded by others marching three deep on both sides, and running the entire length of the convoy.

  “ … all the worldly riches left to Rome,” Attalus was saying, his tone low and shaded with desperation. “They avail us not, since they cannot sustain life, so we give them freely, in exchange for a lifting of the siege. Rome asks you, noble King Alaric of the Visigoths, please, allow us to purchase our freedom, our very lives, but know that we ask this as citizens only, and do not speak for the Empire, since the Empire has chosen to ignore our plight.”

  Do it, Alaric, Gigi tried to force her thoughts into his. Accept the offer.

  “Tell me, Senator Attalus,” the king responded calmly, “what have you brought? All the riches of Rome, you say, but I have no need of statues and fancy paintings. You Romans owe me gold and land, and if I don’t receive my due, my men shall — ”

  “What? Your men shall what?” Another senator, a tall, unfamiliar man with a hooked nose, stepped forward. “You forget,” he said, frowning, “that the people of Rome are well trained and ready to fight.”

  Alaric laughed. “And I would remind you that handfuls of wheat are easier to cut than individual stalks. If you dare test us — and I would strongly advise against it! — then we shall have no choice; Visigoth scythes shall reap your Roman blades in one fell swoop.”

  “Please, please, King Alaric,” Attalus said, raising his hands, “we have brought you all we have.”

  “Bah!” Alaric exclaimed. “I will not give up the siege unless we get all of your gold and silver, as well as all worthy movable property and the barbarian slaves.”

  “But, but,” the hook-nosed senator was stammering now, “what will you leave the citizens of Rome?”

  Th
e smile faded from Alaric’s face. “Their lives.”

  A hush descended on the crowd, and Gigi held her breath.

  Attalus broke the quiet. “Please, let me show you but a token of the wealth,” his hand shook as he motioned to his men, “and I will stay as surety, while you verify the contents of the wagons, if that is what you wish.”

  Five trunks were placed at Alaric’s feet.

  “The first ingots in this box are but a hint of what our wagons hold,” Attalus said, opening the lid of the nearest one. “There are five thousand libres of gold, plus thirty thousand libres of silver.”

  Gigi gasped as excited chatter ran through the people watching, but Alaric’s sober expression never wavered.

  Attalus opened the next two trunks. “Here are rare silks and spices out of Persia, the lands of the Indus and beyond. In total, four thousand costly tunics and chests filled with every delight of the Orient.” He drew a shimmering, red swath of fabric across his arm, his tremors now even more pronounced. “In every hue and texture, the silks will please your women, and so too, your men, while the spices will not only enhance food, they will also cure many ills and afflictions. I have brought you cinnamon, nutmeg — and pepper, over three thousand — ”

  “Bah! Pepper?” Sergeric scoffed, pretending to sneeze as several of his friends laughed, clearly finding the senator’s anxiety highly amusing.

  With sympathy, Gigi watched Attalus glance at Magnus, who showed no expression. Then she noticed Randegund glaring at the senator in disdain.

  As if sensing her stare, Randegund turned and looked right at Gigi again. Another shiver raced down her spine, for the woman’s evil blue eyes seemed paler than before, her gaze colder and more deadly, if that were possible.

  “You there,” Attalus’s voice rose up, and Gigi shifted her gaze, “show them what else we have brought.” The senator motioned to the legionnaires of the second and third wagons, who threw back their tarps, revealing heaps of skins and hides, most dyed scarlet.

  “In addition to the fine crimson hides for everyday use, we also offer wonderful treasures from Egypt, Namibia, and Nubia: the furs of striped and spotted cats, crocodile hides, all exotic and very expensive,” Attalus went on as he held up a gleaming leopard skin. “Their patterns and colors are fantastical and beyond imagining. Use the leather for making boots and shoes, the fur for warmth and decoration.”