After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  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.”

  Incensed at the outrageous request, Magnus looked to Alaric for his response.

  “Tell your emperor,” Alaric said loudly, speaking perfect Latin, “he may dine on my shit, and no Visigoth shall ever take a knee before him, for he does not deserve such respect.”

  Jovius blanched at the coarse response, and General Sarus grew red with anger. However, Constantius, who had been sullen throughout the proceeding, looked straight into Magnus’s eyes and smiled.

  Before anyone could say another word, Alaric gave a signal, and the delegation mounted up. The horses, sensing the tension in the air, shied and pranced, but Alaric kept his under control as he paused to glare at the Romans.

  “Honorius is a fool,” the king said, “and you are worse fools for following him. Hispania is in upheaval, as is Gaul and Britannia. The Huns salivate across the Danubius, and I heard their loathsome leader yearns for the day when he may swill his beer from a cup made from Honorius’s skull. Will you be able to stop him? I say Rome has neither the army nor the will to defend herself. Yet you scorn us, your only and last hope of defense, and you deny us what is rightfully ours.” His horse reared up, fretful, but Alaric controlled him with a firm hand. “Your worst enemy is not those trying to invade your land. Your emperor is your doom!”

  King Alaric turned his horse sharply and left.

  Cantering behind the king, Magnus watched Alaric, considering what had just taken place. As a fighter, as an angry man, he approved the prideful outburst; as a diplomat who would have to try to patch up the wounds inflicted today, he wondered if the Visigoths would ever achieve the homeland and respect they deserved.

  They rode hard for over a mile, until Alaric slowed to a walk and the others followed suit.

  “Magnus,” Alaric motioned to him, “ride beside me. Athaulf, you, too.”

  When the three were riding abreast, Alaric shook his head, frowning. “I was wrong to explode as I did,” he admitted. “The things Jovius said in Honorius’s name, and reading such demeaning tripe in front of everyone, I could have torn both their throats out! I was justified in what I said, but I know well enough our future homeland must, must weigh more heavily than pride, and for that I am sorry.”

  “Do you wish me to go back?” Magnus asked dubiously. “I would suggest waiting a few days. I’m sure they are every bit as angry with you as you are with them, especially since your words actually held more than a little truth in them.”

  “Perhaps we need to ask for less,” Athaulf suggested. “Forget the title for now. If we can get some agreement, some amount of land for our people, that will give us time, and then perhaps we may add more in the months and years to follow.”

  “Give Honorius a week to cool off,” Magnus offered. “He will be getting new reports from the northern provinces soon, and he may yet come to realize how badly he needs you on his side. Then we can send a request for another meeting. We might ask if he has a counter-proposal he is willing to put forth.”

  Alaric nodded. “What is the least land we can tolerate? Noricum and Dalmatia? Noricum alone?”

  Athaulf shrugged. “Noricum would do for now — ”

  The sound of drumming hoof beats broke through their conversation, and the small group reined in, alert.

  A Visigoth horseman cleared a rise in front of them at full gallop, and then wrenched his lathered horse to a halt. His eyes were wild and his leather breastplate slashed and bloody.

  “King Alaric, hurry! Queen Verica sent me — we’ve come under attack — Roman troops — they ambushed our people while you parleyed — slaughtering women and children! Hurry!”

  Gigi!

  “Yah!” Magnus shouted and his horse, Agrippa, sprang forward with the others. Galloping toward camp, everyone was jostling for position, trying to find room along the narrow roadway. Three times Sergeric’s mount crashed into his, and Magnus had to fight to keep his horse from losing his footing. The fourth time, Sergeric’s horse leapt into his, hooves thrashing, as though it were trying to jump over Agrippa, forcing his stallion to stumble violently.

  The world spun as Magnus crashed to the ground and rolled, trying to avoid his mount’s flailing hooves. He scrambled to get up as the rest of his group galloped away.

  O, ye gods, Gigi! He had to reach her, to make certain she was safe, to protect her with his sword. Victoria, please, I beg you, keep her alive and unharmed!

  Magnus whistled for Agrippa, but the beast was nervous, shying away from him. He heard thundering from behind and quickly drew his sword. Five legionnaires were coming straight at him.

  Magnus dodged and swung at the first rider, their swords clashing, brutally jarring his arms. As they turned to face him again, Magnus tried to reach Agrippa, but the horse was too far away. The horsemen charged again and he swung his sword, clipping the nearest rider. A great howl of pain was heard as the man’s knee opened up. A blade flashed and Magnus ducked too late, feeling fire in his cheek, blood spraying. He swung once more, then spun, thrusting, opening a gash on the flank of the wounded rider’s horse, causing it to scream and re
ar, before carrying the man away.

  Magnus saw an opportunity and dashed for Agrippa, grabbing the reins and mounting in one bound. He charged the nearest rider, but the man got his shield raised in time and fended off the blow. Spinning Agrippa on his haunches, Magnus crashed into two of the horsemen, unseating one. He slashed first right, to ward off a strike, then left — another howl, and this time the rider fell back, his neck open and gushing blood. Magnus pivoted again, ready to attack, but the remaining three hesitated.

  Magnus seized the opportunity. “Victoria strengthens this arm!” he shouted. He charged the soldier on the ground directly, Agrippa trampling him, then brought his sword up, then down in a great arc, opening the shoulder and chest of the next rider.

  Sweat streaked Magnus’s face, blinding him. He swiped at his eyes and turned Agrippa toward the last man. He was young and very pale, holding his horse several paces away.

  “Will you die with your comrades this day, boy,” Magnus asked, “for the sake of your misbegotten emperor? Think on it — he sends you to ambush a solitary statesman, and your friends to murder women and children who have ever been Rome’s allies. Is that why you joined the legion?”

  The boy-soldier licked his lips, his eyes wide with fright, then he kicked his horse and galloped away.

  Magnus! In his mind, he heard Gigi’s voice as if from a great distance. Horror gripped his gut, and he raced away, frantic to reach his wife.

  • • •

  “Alert!” “Alert!”

  Startled, Gigi looked up from tending the fire, hearing shouts and thundering hooves. She saw flames erupt near the far edge of camp and heard screams. Warriors — legionnaires — surged into view, some on horseback, most on foot, slaughtering people she knew, people she loved.

  A Roman soldier ran toward her, sword raised, and she grasped a burning branch from the flames, swiping at his face. He ducked and she swung again, striking him across the unprotected skin of his neck. His flesh sizzled and the air reeked of burned pork. Roaring, the Roman lunged and knocked the firebrand from her hand, then stumbled on the rocks ringing the fire pit and dropped face-first onto a jagged edge. His body went still as blood flowed, soaking the ground beneath him.

  Gigi ran to her tent. Diving inside, she grabbed for the leather scabbard, which held the dagger Magnus had insisted she wear at all times, cursing herself for not heeding his request. Her flute hung beside the blade in its own leather cover, but she didn’t bother to separate the two, flinging both over her head and shoulder.

  Panting, she glanced outside. In the distance, she saw two small children lying on the ground and she screamed in defiance. When she got to them, she cried out in agony. Two little girls. Throats slashed. She recognized them as playmates of Berga’s. Oh, God, where is she?

  She heard a great cry rise over the din of battle, and turned to see Randegund drive a spear through a Roman’s heart, her silver hair loose and whipping in every direction. She was covered with blood, but Gigi couldn’t tell whether it belonged to her or someone else.

  Sounds of anguish and terror filled the air. Intent on reaching the children’s tent, Gigi dashed down an alleyway, but the swirling smoke was so thick, so dark and acrid, she couldn’t see a thing, and stumbled over something. The mutilated body of an elderly man lay grotesquely contorted on the ground, staring out with lifeless eyes. She coughed hard, fighting nausea and the smoke, and then moved on, gagging, groping, feeling her way.

  Gigi stopped when she heard some noises — grunts, groans — as horrible as they were familiar. Rage engulfed her, and she thrust her dagger through the wall of the tent, rending it to the ground. Inside, a Roman looked up, startled at the interruption of the rape he was committing on a woman.

  Gigi roared her fury, and thrust her blade into his right side, then wrenched up as hard as she could, opening a deep gash. The man simply stared at her in astonishment.

  “Bastard!” she spat at him, but his eyes were already blank, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Gigi took the woman in her arms. “Laita? Can you talk? You take care of Verica’s children, don’t you?”

  The woman was weeping and incoherent, but there was no time for that.

  Desperate, Gigi shook her. “Laita! Where are they? Does the queen have them with her?”

  “She … I think she has the twins, but Berga and Theodoric are with me,” she replied, sobbing.

  Gigi frantically looked around. “Where? Where are they?”

  “Th — there,” Laita pointed to a pile of blankets in the corner.

  Gigi raced over and started pulling the covers away. Soon, Theodoric stared up at Gigi, and then Berga’s head popped out beside her brother’s.

  “I could have fought!” Theo told Gigi, his eyes brimming with angry tears.

  “No!” Laita hissed. “The Roman would have murdered all of us if we had fought. This way … it was my job to protect you — this was the only way you could hope to survive.”

  “We can talk about it later,” Gigi insisted. “We have to get out of here. The soldiers are everywhere, and everything is burning. Grab a blanket — one for each and — hold on.” Gigi looked outside and saw little through the roiling black smoke, except a vinegar barrel, a mandatory fire-fighting tool kept within reach of every communal cluster.

  Gigi took Laita by the shoulders. “Can I count on you?”

  The woman nodded, grim resolve replacing her tears.

  “All right,” Gigi said. “There’s nobody out there right now. Dunk the blankets in the vinegar. Don’t ring them out too much, then we’ll put them over our heads.”

  Laita rushed out.

  “Okay,” Gigi said in English, then caught herself. She turned to the children. “It’s getting very hard to see and breathe, so we’ll go single-file and stay low. Hold on to the person in front of you and cover your mouths. I don’t care if the blankets stink, just cover up.”

  Laita came back with the sodden blankets, and together they draped them over the children and themselves.

  “Good. Berga, you hold onto my skirt — tight! Theo, you hold on to Berga’s, and Laita, you bring up the rear.” Eyes wide with fright, their heads bobbed dutifully. “Nobody let go, not for a moment. Follow me.”

  Looking outside once more, Gigi listened. The fighting had moved to a different part of camp, but the fires surrounded them. Which was the best way to go? Holding a corner of the soaked blanket over her mouth with one hand, and her knife in the other, Gigi made a decision and started forward.

  They crossed the open area and reached the tents on the far side, but the choking blackness made progress almost impossible, except by touch. The wind gusted, and Gigi knew it was the hunger of the flames, sucking in the air around them.

  They were all coughing hard, and Berga seemed especially bothered, but her grip was still strong. Good girl! Gigi realized they had to move faster, because her skin was feeling scorched, the fire close, too close. She spun around, dropped to her knees, and screamed over the roar of the inferno. “Berga, get on my back and hold on, tight as you can. Laita, Theo, get down and keep your heads as low as possible.”

  Scrambling on hands and knees through the caustic, oily, evil darkness, Gigi felt like the smoke was alive, purposefully malevolent, seeking her out, and wanting her dead. Soon, her world was reduced to simply putting one hand in front of the other and moving forward, always forward.

  “Jolie!”

  It was Theodoric. Gigi looked sideways, and the boy’s blackened face loomed close.

  “We are past the camp — we should run now!”

  Gigi looked around. Indeed, they were in weeds, and the ground had started to rise. She nodded and grabbed his hand, then turned, and looked behind him. “Laita?”

  “I don’t know where she is,” Theodoric said. “We had to let go when we started
to crawl, and then, and then she just stopped being there.”

  Lowering her head in sadness, Gigi knew she couldn’t go back for her. She had to get the children to safety. “Come on, run, Theo! Berga, hold on tightly!”

  They stood and stumbled up the hill together, and soon the thick, impenetrable dark turned to gray, then suddenly cleared, almost as abruptly as leaving one room and going into another.

  Gigi took a deep, sweet breath of frosty air, but her chest seized, and she started coughing again. The kids were hacking, too. She dropped to her knees and looked up. The clear winter sky was indescribably, painfully blue. Her eyes streamed tears as she continued to cough. She glanced around and saw no one else. Were they the only ones to make it to safety?

  She looked back at the sprawling camp. Fires blazed in the near ground, and she could still hear the shouts of battle farther away.

  “Berga?” Gigi asked when she finally stopped coughing.

  The girl shifted on her back, but her grip was still tight. “Where’s Mama?”

  “She’s fighting the Romans,” Theodoric piped in.

  Gigi studied the hills. “We need to find a place to hide.”

  “I know a cave,” Theodoric said excitedly. “We’ve played there all week.”

  Gigi nodded, and together they staggered away.

  • • •

  Magnus, where are you? Where are you!

  Gigi awoke with a cough and didn’t recognize her surroundings in the dim light. She lay back, heart racing, remembering her nightmare. Magnus had been there, just beyond her reach — she could hear his shouts — but she couldn’t see him because of the smoke …

  “Mama,” Berga moaned in her sleep.

  Attack. Fire. Berga and Theodoric. Memories, horrible memories, came flooding back. Gigi looked around the cave, recalling how the kids had collapsed on the ground after arriving, sick from smoke and fear. She’d joined them there, her mind a blank as to what happened next. How long had they slept?

  Her throat felt raw and scratchy as she got up and checked on the kids, snug in their blankets and dead to the world. Magnus and the others had surely returned by now and sent the Romans packing. She thought of Verica, who must be beside herself searching for her children, and knew she needed to get them back immediately.