After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  Emerging from the cave, she squinted at the sun, bright and high in the sky. Oh God, had they slept right through the night? What day was this? Panicked, Gigi ran to a vantage point, looked down on the camp and gaped at the smoldering remains. Had … had everyone been killed?

  Magnus!

  “Oh, no, no,” Gigi moaned. She ran down the slope, searching for people, for clues, for him. Everything was burned, in ruins. The smell of smoke clung to the air.

  A large mound of freshly dug earth rose from the far side of the devastation. Gigi raced toward it, hoping someone was still nearby, perhaps on the other side. As she got closer, she could see it was surrounded by branches tied together to form crosses, many hung with little trinkets and mementos: a woven bracelet, one of the silken wraps given as payment for the lifting of the siege, a tiny charred sandal. It was a Visigoth grave, a mass burial site. Obviously some had survived to perform this final task for their loved ones, but there was no one here now. In the grass beyond, debris was scattered everywhere, holes remained where tent stakes had been pulled out, and wheel tracks crisscrossed the ground. Gigi followed the ruts for a little while and then looked about. The land was flat, her view unobstructed for several miles. They were gone. The Visigoths had left.

  She touched her ring with trembling fingers and looked up at the sky. It was clear, blazing blue, the same shade as Magnus’s eyes. Where are you? Where are you?

  It took her a few moments to gather herself. She had to get the kids up and moving, if they were to have any chance of catching up with the others. Gigi hurried back to the children and roused them from sleep. “Berga, Theo, you have to wake up. We need to talk. Wake up.”

  They opened their sleepy eyes and gazed at her, then pulled the blankets back up. The soot on their faces made them look clownish, like raccoons with vertical stripes. But Gigi couldn’t smile, having a better understanding of what had happened. Yesterday, when they’d first gotten to the cave, she had tried to wipe away the grime on their faces, but it had been futile. After that, they must’ve slept for fifteen, twenty hours. If anyone had been nearby, searching, the three of them were too far gone to hear or respond.

  They didn’t know about the cave, she thought in torment. It was the kids’ special, secret place, and now they think we’re dead, along with all the others! Magnus thinks I’m dead! A crushing dread overwhelmed her.

  “Children?” She shook them again. “We need to leave now.”

  • • •

  Gigi warmed her hands, still nervous about the fire, but it was needed. They hadn’t seen anyone in days, and the kids were so hungry and cold.

  “Here,” Theodoric said in a matter-of-fact tone, dumping an armload of bracken, dried moss, and leaves on the ground near the fire pit he’d prepared. “Once I get these bits going better, we can add the branches. I’m sure we have enough now to last the night.”

  Berga stood wrapped in her blanket and pouted. “I hate fire. I don’t want to see a fire ever again.”

  “But you’re freezing. We all are,” Gigi said, pulling the little girl onto her lap. “And we need to eat, too, and squirrel doesn’t taste good if it’s not cooked.”

  “Squirrel doesn’t taste good any time,” Berga grumbled and stuck out her lower lip. “Theo should have gotten us a rabbit. I like those.”

  “Catch your own, then,” he shot back. “You don’t even know how.”

  “Enough, both of you,” Gigi said. “Theo did a great job today. And when we catch up with your parents, I’m going to tell them how terrific you’ve both been. Brave, strong, full of good ideas, and if you quit squawking at each other, I won’t even mention the grumpy parts.”

  Theo smiled, then added sticks to the fire. Berga buried her head against Gigi’s shoulder.

  “I want Mama,” she said.

  There was the threat of tears in the little girl’s voice, and Gigi started to rock the child, watching the flames. This should be comforting, she thought. It’s nothing like the inferno. She looked away, hating her memories, and tried to focus on the days they’d spent together.

  Both children had been stoic and tireless. Before leaving the burned-out camp, they’d grabbed what they could from the wreckage, trying to find usable odds and ends. Theo had found coals and a metal tin to keep them in, so they’d be able to carry embers as they traveled. He’d also found an iron pot for cooking, and today he’d rigged a snare, then caught and dressed two squirrels for dinner. After that, he fashioned a tripod to hang the pot over the fire. He was an amazing kid. How many ten-year-olds back home could have done all that? They were brought up differently here, so very differently.

  But Berga had found the best treasure of all — two chunks of soap. When they were well away from camp, they’d found a stream and scrubbed their hair and every inch of exposed skin to rid themselves of the oily soot.

  Later on, Gigi and Berga dug up edible roots and even managed to find wild garlic and thyme. Everything was in the pot now, and the bubbling squirrel soup smelled wonderful.

  Gigi sighed. She had provided little but encouragement this whole time, and wished she could play her flute to cheer everyone up, but she didn’t dare. How was she going to do this? Would she be able to hold it together, keep them safe, and travel fast enough to catch up? She figured they were at least a day behind the Visigoths. She hoped they would soon see scouts at the rear, looking for survivors.

  And what about Magnus? She could feel his sorrow, his grief reaching across the distance to her. He’d thought he’d lost her once before. Now, since he wasn’t here still searching, she knew this time he was certain she was dead. Tears ran down her face, and she put her cheek against Berga’s hair, so Theo wouldn’t notice.

  Don’t fall on your sword, Magnus. You promised me! We’ll find each other, no matter how long it takes.

  Muffled against her blanket, the sound of Berga’s tiny voice drew Gigi’s attention away from her pain:

  Atta unsar thu in Himinam weihnai namo thein,

  Qumai thiudinassus theins wairthai wilja theins

  Swe in Himina jah ana airthai …

  Our Father, Who art in Heaven …

  Berga was praying. Gigi’s tears fell unchecked.

  Chapter 8

  “I refuse to believe you are dead, Gigi. By the gods, it is not possible.”

  Anguish prevailed, the emptiness in Magnus’s heart so deep and black he feared he could not abide by her wishes — he must escape this agony and join her. But no! He could not! On his wedding day, he had sworn an oath to Gigi that he must never kill himself, as he had been trained to do as a Roman military commander, as he was expected to do if he suffered loss or defeat. He had kissed Victoria’s image on the ring and vowed to choose life, no matter how dark things seemed, for Gigi had told him in living there was hope, still hope, and he must honor her by doing just that.

  He stood alone on the mountainous crags facing north, imagining he could see beyond the mists, to the place where he last held his beloved wife.

  Yet now — O, ye gods — now, their tent was a smoldering wreck, perhaps her body, too, like so many others, burned beyond recognition, lost among the charred remains in the burial pit, gone, gone.

  He gripped the silver ring she had given him, fell to his knees, and kissed the band. “Oh, my sweet,” he whispered, “where are you? I cannot believe the gods would be so cruel. Victoria, give me a sign.”

  Tasting his tears, he remembered the first time he saw Gigi at the baptistery in Ravenna, when the air seemed to sparkle with briny splendor, when she appeared from the mists of time.

  Magnus touched his chest, fingering the locket with Gigi’s hair and then he flinched, hearing the soft swish of parting grass.

  He held his breath and listened, perceiving light footsteps on the path, the barest of sounds.

  He let out his b
reath slowly, then reached for his sword.

  • • •

  Randegund crept forward. She felt a bitter wrath watching the despicable Roman holding his sword. Suicide was too easy. He must be made to endure all the torments of the world like her Verica, who was wasting away, inconsolable over the loss of her children.

  “Magnus!” she shouted.

  He turned, eyes widening as he beheld her face. But his gaze dulled quickly, his features the image of suffering.

  She drew herself up. “Do not kill yourself, fool, else you will never find your wife.”

  Randegund waited. He was still filled with pain, but truly — there it was, a look of confusion. She had his attention.

  “She is alive, Roman. I saw her. She ran from your tent, knife in hand. But I fear — ”

  He roared to life, leaping from the crags, running at her, grabbing her. “Why have you said nothing of this? Where is she, Witch of Rocesthes? Tell me!”

  She felt shaken to hear her old name, the one used when she was young and vital, when she rode with the warriors, when she was truly alive.

  Magnus pulled her close, until they were nose to nose. “Where is my wife?” he growled.

  Cursed Roman! His strength shocked her, her body withering beneath his might. He had her under his power, and she knew she must regain control. Yet still, she could not find her voice, suddenly fearing he would hurl her against the rocks.

  Randegund took a deep breath, then another, finally whimpering, “Release me! Do you wish to find her? Let me go!”

  She looked into his eyes and saw his pupils, dark pinpricks, his hatred bared, but there was something else there, a spark of hope. It was no consolation that she should give him such a gift, however false, but it would buy her time. Her thoughts raced, scrambling for something to say. But what? What could she tell him?

  And then she recalled a tale of old, and in it she found her answer. Send him away on an unending quest like Odysseus, keeping his hope alive, eternal, only to be dashed again and again, his suffering equal to his hope, and both without end.

  She glared at Magnus as she shook herself free. “She was taken by the Romans as a slave. I saw her carried away on horseback. Someone said she would fetch a great price in Constantinople.”

  Even in his hope he looked shattered, and she gloated in victory. He stared into her eyes, searching for the truth in her words, then turned his back on her and raced down the hill.

  She looked up at the sky, thanking the gods for the gift of vengeance.

  • • •

  It was nearly sundown. Alaric had watched Magnus ride away from camp earlier that day, heading east, and still he was troubled by the whole situation.

  “I do not trust my mother,” Athaulf said from over his shoulder. “Why did she not bother to tell us about Jolie, er, Gigi’s fate before this?”

  Alaric felt uneasy. Athaulf had put voice to the very crux of his concerns, and deep within he agreed with his brother-in-law’s disquiet. He feared Randegund’s hatred for the Roman had finally steered her soul toward the dark pit of damnation and eternal hellfire.

  He had to find her, to question her, for he knew a way to guarantee she was telling the truth, the only way.

  Alaric walked away and was relieved when Athaulf did not follow. He spotted Randegund by the campfire, stirring something in a pot.

  “Mother,” he called out, “we must talk.”

  He saw the way she looked askance, as if seeking escape. His heart felt cold as he reached her side and noticed her face was already a mask of calm.

  “Mother, come.”

  He walked slowly, leading her away from camp, well past the last posts of his sentries. The men started to follow, but he bade them stay, for he needed privacy.

  Alaric halted by the river. Randegund had fallen several paces behind, and he waited for her to reach his side.

  “There shall be a full moon tonight, a blue moon,” she said, staring at the eastern horizon.

  He ignored her flight of fancy. “I shall ask this but once, Mother. Did you tell Magnus the truth? Was his wife taken by the Romans, to be sold in the slave markets of Constantinople?”

  She turned to him. Alaric studied her pale eyes, which reflected the violet cast of the sky. He saw for the first time a rheumy trace, the harbinger of old age.

  “Mother, answer me,” he deliberately made his voice a shade gentler, “and swear you told the truth. Swear it — on my life.”

  Randegund’s gaze did not waver. “My son,” she said, “on your life, I do swear I saw her alive, although I cannot say what happened to her once she was out of my sight.”

  He frowned and she walked away.

  Alaric realized his fists were tightly clenched, and he purposely flexed his hands. Once more, he looked toward the east, but Magnus had long since vanished on his quest, lost in the distance, and doomed to failure.

  He stood for a time alone, watching the coming night, until the moon rose cold and blue, a witch’s moon.

  • • •

  Shaking with fatigue and relief, Gigi grasped the children’s hands as they made the last, weary ascent up the Palatine Hill. Their clothing was filthy, stiff with their sweat. By her count it was nearly a month since the Roman soldiers had ambushed the camp, a month since they’d been left behind to find their way alone, unaided, to the only refuge she could think of after they’d lost all trace of the Visigoths: Placidia.

  Gigi kept her gaze on the ground. The people of Rome stared openly, even malevolently at them — barbarian beggars. It was mid-spring and the weather was growing pleasant, the days longer. The siege had been lifted only four months earlier, and Rome was still, understandably, seething with hatred for the Visigoths. But they kept their anger in their eyes, letting a bedraggled woman and children pass without persecution.

  Arriving at the palace gates, Gigi forced herself to stand tall and speak with determination. “I must see the princess,” she told one of the guards. “Call the steward Leontius. Tell him I am the one who bears the ring of Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, Senator of Rome, so that he may vouch for my identity.”

  The gatekeeper’s expression passed from condescension, through indignation to uncertainty as she spoke, and he hurried off when she finished. Moments later, Leontius came forward, his eyes lighting up as he drew near.

  “Open the gates!” he ordered the guards as he hustled to greet Gigi and the children, escorting them inside. “I will be but a moment,” he said as he rushed off to find Placidia.

  Waiting in the audience chamber of the grand palace, the kids clung to her, terrified by their majestic surroundings. Berga buried her face in Gigi’s skirt, hugging her as if she’d never let go.

  “Look,” Gigi said, seeking to distract them, “if you look at the pretty floor, you will see your reflection.”

  Theodoric hazarded a glance at the highly polished green marble, then gaped. “Berga, look,” he said. “See that? It’s better than any mirror!”

  The little girl peeked out and stared. “I look dirty,” she said with a pout.

  “Gigi!” Placidia cried, her footsteps echoing as she ran toward them, her arms outstretched, Elpidia following close behind.

  The princess enveloped Gigi in her arms. “How — why are you here? Oh, I have worried you were dead — what — who are these little ones? Where is Magnus? Tell me, you must tell me everything.”

  “Placidia,” Gigi responded. “Please, can the children have something to eat first? Some soup or porridge? We haven’t had much, and they have been very brave, but they’re suffering.”

  “Right away, and baths afterward,” Elpidia said, and rushed off toward the kitchens.

  Placidia crouched down, eye to eye with the children, and took their hands. “My name is Placidia. I have met some of your lead
ers and hold your people in great esteem. What are your names?”

  “This is Theodoric and Berga, prince and princess of the Visigoths,” Gigi responded quietly. “They are King Alaric and Queen Verica’s children.”

  Placidia gazed up at her, mouth open. “Why are they with you? What has happened?”

  “There was a battle at our camp near Ravenna a month ago. I think your bro … er, the emperor set up the ambush, because it happened while Magnus and Alaric were meeting with him about a treaty,” Gigi said. “The camp was burned out, we escaped, and so did many others, although we don’t know who survived, for sure. They left before we could find them. We’ve come to you because we had nowhere else to go.”

  “Oh, my dear Gigi, how you and these lovely children have suffered!” The princess took a moment to gather her thoughts, then squeezed the children’s hands reassuringly. “We’ve heard some news of your people within the last week, and I want to reassure you your parents are very much alive and causing the emperor no end of problems.” Theo grinned at this, to which Placidia added, “I shall do whatever I can to find them and reunite you. I’ll take good care of you until then. You may trust me in that.”

  The children looked relieved, then gratefully followed Elpidia when she returned with a servant carrying a tray of food.

  Placidia rose and stared at Gigi. “Where is Magnus?” she asked, her tone hushed, as if she feared hearing the worst.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.” Gigi’s resolve started to crumble, her shoulders to tremble. A huge lump formed in her throat, threatening to burst. “If he’s alive — oh, God, I don’t even know that much — he surely thinks — they all must think — we died in the fire.”

  Placidia held her close, letting her cry at last.

  • • •