To Gigi’s relief this gift met with great approval, if the sounds of longing around her were any indication.
Attalus opened the fourth box. The senator took out a golden goblet sparkling with jewels and held it out to King Alaric. “A chalice fit for a king, my lord. We have much more here: gold and silver jewelry with gemstones of every size and color, Persian turquoise, and stings of pearls. It is all we have. We have even scraped the gold leaf off statues, columns, ornate carvings and lettering. As I told you … in all, five thousand libres of gold.”
There was little noise this time. Everyone looked tense as Alaric took the goblet and hefted it in his hand. Attalus lifted his chin and gazed at the other leaders, one by one, lastly at Magnus, before he opened the lid on the final box.
“As a token of goodwill, and a gesture to signify that, indeed, innocent Rome has laid herself bare before the steely determination of the Visigoths, and the callous indifference of our emperor in Ravenna, the Imperial Princess, Aelia Galla Placidia, has, as has all Rome, kept nothing for herself. In the most noble of gestures, she gladly hands over all she possesses, for, she said, ‘its value is as nothing, compared to the lives of my fellow Romans.’”
What was in the box? Gigi strained for a glimpse as Attalus pulled out an emerald-green silk gown with one hand, and held up an emerald and gold necklace with the other.
Gigi immediately recognized Placidia’s things from the night of the dinner. She glanced at Athaulf. He certainly did, too! A noise strangled in his throat, and he started toward Attalus, looking more shaken than angry, but Magnus moved forward and stopped him with a hand on his arm, then whispered something in his ear.
Randegund frowned at Athaulf, while Alaric and Verica looked amazed by his reaction.
Alaric stepped forward, still holding the goblet. “Senator Attalus, I thank you for your generous offerings. Please, take your ease.” He looked around and found Gigi, nodding to her. “Magnus’s wife will entertain you with her flute, and I shall call for some beer and food. For our part, we shall take leave of you, for we have much to discuss.”
As the people dispersed, Athaulf picked up Placidia’s box. “I will have no one meddling with anything inside!”
He stalked off to join the other leaders, while Gigi set down Berga, who scampered off to find the queen.
“Come, Senator Attalus,” Gigi said. “Come with me.”
• • •
The tent was crowded, already stifling from body heat and shared fervor. Magnus watched as Alaric picked up a skein and started to pour wine into the jewel-encrusted goblet.
“Alaric! No!” Randegund shouted.
Startled, Magnus, Alaric, and the others whirled about to face the old woman.
“Poison!” Her eyes were wide, ablaze with a fearsome blue light. “Do not drink from the goblet!”
Alaric shook his head. “Fear not, Mother. Senator Attalus does not seek to harm, and neither does Galla Placidia — ”
“But Honorius does,” Magnus interjected as he motioned for the goblet. “I would trust Attalus and Placidia with my life, but,” he took the cup and gazed at its interior, wondering if anything had been smeared on the gold, “but Randegund is correct. We must never forget Honorius’s arm has a long reach. If you will, I shall take the first drink.”
Randegund scowled at Magnus, but Alaric nodded.
Sweat trickled from Magnus’s forehead as he swirled the liquid, then put the goblet to his lips. He was glad Gigi wasn’t here, in case things went badly.
He took a sip and swallowed, tasting nothing but red, fruity wine.
Heart pounding, Magnus waited a long moment.
Everyone was silent, watching him, until Queen Verica chuckled. “He looks well, does he not — and he got the first drink! I would ask all here to swear an oath of silence regarding his selfless act, else his wife will be quite vexed, and none of us shall ever hear the end of it.”
She gave Magnus a smile, relief shining in her eyes. He handed the goblet back to Alaric.
The king grinned. “Magnus, I am indebted by your audacious act of courage.” He turned to Athaulf and his captains. “Any objections to Attalus’s offer?”
“I should think so!” Sergeric said as he stepped forward. “My lord, you know he lied. The Roman pigs,” he frowned at Magnus, “are holding back. This is Rome, after all. Their treasure hoard must be vast, much more than two score of wagons.”
Alaric turned to Magnus. “What say you to this, my friend?”
Magnus swallowed hard, his thoughts in turmoil, for he knew the truth. Scrambling for an answer, he opened his mouth to speak, but Athaulf stood and blurted, “Enough! There is enough treasure in the Roman wagons to buy us the whole north of Italia, if a homeland is what we truly seek. We should accept the offer and end the siege.”
Surprisingly, the group affirmed this with the banging of swords on shields, and even Verica nodded to Alaric. Only Sergeric scowled.
Alaric raised his hand. “No more discussion? This is it?” he asked. “Well then, I declare the siege over, and our next move shall be to the north. The noose is around Honorius’s neck now, so let us ride to Ravenna and draw it tight.” He turned to one of the sentries. “You there, go and fetch Attalus.”
As people began to file out of the tent, Magnus felt a touch on his sleeve and turned. Randegund stood there. “If the cup had been poisoned,” she said, “you would now be dead.”
He looked straight into her eyes. “Indeed, I would.”
“I thank you for protecting him,” she added and abruptly walked away.
There was something in the way she’d spoken, a spiteful edge in her tone, which made Magnus smile. He knew what it must have cost her, also knew he could not trust her, could never let down his guard.
She had not changed. She was his oldest enemy, and she would never forgive him for the loss of her husband, whom Magnus had fought beside in battle long ago. Although the death was not his fault, Randegund never wavered in her belief he had been negligent. Her hatred was all still there, despite her show of gratitude.
She was his enemy for life.
• • •
Gigi sat down across from Attalus as food and beer were placed before him, and he stared at the fare with longing. When he finally lifted his gaze to Gigi, he looked tormented.
“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.
Chapter 7
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.
After the Fall Page 6