After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  Standing beside Placidia, Gigi watched Theodoric and Berga idle in the palace’s main atrium. Happily sprinkling food into an ornate, marble fishpond, the children were carefree, with no idea why they’d been summoned.

  She, on the other hand, trembled with nerves. They had just received news the Visigoths had ridden on Rome, furious over Honorius’s ongoing deceit. They’d made a point of not harming the city this time, but they had demanded an audience with Placidia without any of the usual back and forth of envoys, so neither party had any idea what or who awaited them.

  Glancing toward the entry, Gigi hoped with all her heart Magnus would be among the delegation. Placidia was silent, her gaze fixed on the doorway, and Gigi knew she was nearly faint at the possibility of seeing Athaulf again.

  In an effort to steady herself, Gigi took several deep breaths. It was certain the Visigoths would find unexpected joy today. Would Placidia? Would she?

  Leontius entered the atrium and bowed. “They have arrived.”

  Placidia lifted her chin. “Show them in.”

  “Children,” Gigi called. “Come and stand by me — now — hurry!”

  They scrambled to obey, taking her hands, and waiting. Footsteps approached, and Gigi’s breathing grew shallow, tears of anticipation pricking at her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please — ”

  “Mama! Papa!” the children suddenly screamed in unison, rushing across the hallway as their parents cried out in disbelief.

  Beside her, Placidia remained motionless, breathless, as she and Athaulf gazed at one another. Gigi didn’t move, either, not even to brush away her tears.

  Magnus wasn’t with them.

  • • •

  Darkness was falling. Placidia paced the study, clasping and unclasping her hands as Persis and Elpidia hovered nearby, lighting candles.

  Frowning, Placidia knew what she was about to do could seal her fate forever, cutting her off from everything she’d ever known. But she didn’t care, at least not enough to change her mind.

  After the delays brought on by the joyous reunion, King Alaric had pronounced his terms. He declared his control over the Western Empire. He appointed Senator Attalus “Augustus” over Rome. As for Honorius, his status was undecided, and Placidia didn’t know whether he would be allowed to rule as a co-emperor, or be deposed. His future, everyone’s future, and the fate of the Empire, were now in the king’s hands.

  Attalus would run everything, with Alaric’s direction. Meanwhile, Alaric had taken the title of magister militum, something he’d sought ever since Stilicho’s death, and there was also talk of land grants. But, for now, Rome’s grain supply in Africa had to be secured for the new government. The Visigoths would still have to wait for their land.

  And Magnus — such horror! After the briefest moment of relief at the news of his survival, Gigi was devastated by the tales that had sent him abroad on a fruitless quest. Placidia knew she was heartsick, knew she should go to her friend, but she was compelled, for the moment, to follow another path.

  Standing near the door, one eyebrow cocked in disapproval, Elpidia cleared her throat and opened the door to Athaulf when he arrived. She bowed and left the room, dragging a staring Persis with her.

  He was here at last! Placidia swallowed, then gazed at Athaulf for several moments. Standing in his presence, she was amazed anew, for he was the embodiment of male beauty, his features sheer perfection, his stance noble, his shoulders broad. And his eyes! They were mesmerizing, flickering golden brown, then green, dazzling in the candlelight.

  Athaulf dipped his head, very formal. “Princess, you requested my presence?”

  Placidia’s heart pounded, and she found it hard to speak. “You … Athaulf, you brought us food. I knew it was you from the first, because of the, the … your scent was on the satchel.”

  He looked taken aback, unmasked as he was.

  “Tell me,” she asked, breathless, trying to focus and remain calm, “why did you endanger yourself for … for us?”

  “I did it for you alone, Placidia.”

  She stood without responding, his beautiful eyes boring into hers, and she longed to rush into his arms.

  “I couldn’t bear to think you were suffering,” he added. His hand moved slightly, and for the first time, Placidia noticed he held a silk bag. “I return this to you with the gratitude of a people and with my heartfelt thanks.”

  Placidia approached him, her knees wobbly, her steps slow and uncertain. She felt small and vulnerable when she finally reached his side, for he was almost a head taller than she.

  He pressed the bag into her hand, then stood back. “We shall never forget your generosity, but this is yours, must always be yours. You wore it when first we met.”

  She smiled, feeling the weight of emeralds and gold, her necklace returned, the gesture so touching. “Thank you,” she said, then impulsively added, “I owe you my life, and I would bestow a kiss of gratitude upon you, but you must kneel, for I cannot reach so high.”

  Athaulf went down on one knee, still keeping to protocol, and Placidia breathed in his scent. Leather. Lavender. She leaned in and touched her lips to his right cheek. Closing her eyes, she lingered against the warmth of his skin, then moved back slightly to kiss his other cheek, but her will gave way to desire and she brushed her lips against his instead.

  “Athaulf,” she whispered.

  He returned her gentle kisses, his fingers touching her arms in a light caress. The heat of him sent a pulse of desire straight to her core.

  “Take me in your arms, Athaulf.”

  She felt his hands at her waist, drawing her down, and she moaned as he grasped her to him, as his mouth covered hers. She wrapped her arms around him. The sensations were overwhelming, and she pressed her body against his, feeling his desire, willing him to keep going, to demand more.

  “Placidia,” he held her face and stared at her, his breathing heavy.

  “Take me with you,” she pleaded, looking into his wonderful eyes. “Take me away from here, take me … take me — ”

  “Don’t speak like that! You don’t know what you’re asking,” Athaulf said, his voice ragged and low. “You are a princess of Rome.”

  “Then you don’t feel as I do?” Placidia asked, desperate, searching his expression for an answer. “I was so certain you loved me.”

  “Of course you have my heart, but it is impossible what you ask. Impossible,” he said wretchedly, holding her close. “You would be hunted mercilessly for having abandoned the Empire in such a manner. And I could never impose exile on you. It is too harsh, too bitter to live without a homeland, condemned to wandering.”

  “You are all the homeland I will ever need, Athaulf. I know it. I can’t breathe without thinking of you, day and night, every night … all night.” Placidia reached up and touched his cheek, then kissed him again. “If you can’t take me with you, then stay tonight at least, make love to me … Athaulf, please … we will make a bond, seal our love forever.”

  “Stop, Placidia! Say no more. I love you too much to inflict such a fate upon you.”

  “But it is a fate of my own choosing,” she insisted, trying to kiss him again, but he tilted his head away. “Athaulf, don’t fight this. Make love to me.”

  “No, you do not understand. You are a maid — ”

  “I am fully aware — ”

  “No! I swear if I so much as kiss you again, I will take you here, now, on the floor, and it would be no fitting thing for a princess, I assure you!”

  The brutality of his words stunned, but also stirred her, and she imagined feeling the weight of him upon her and yearned for the act.

  “Athaulf … ”

  “Placidia, do not ask more of me than I can bear. You would hate me for it afterward.”

  Crushed and ashamed, Placid
ia turned her face away. She’d made her bid, uttered words, begged him. She had admitted to feelings she thought could never be possible for her, yet he’d refused, placing honor above all else.

  “Politics dog our every move, whether we would have it so or not,” he said, his voice still ragged, but calmer. “We are each pawns in this game.”

  “Go.”

  “Placidia!”

  She pulled away from his grasp, rose, and walked to a table, her back turned so she could not see his beautiful eyes any longer, so he could not see her tears.

  She squared her shoulders. “That is all. Vale, Athaulf.”

  There was a moment of hesitation, then she heard his footsteps receding, and the click of the door as it closed behind him.

  Placidia gazed at the silken bag, proof he had thought of her, too, day after day, night after night, over these many long months of separation. He loved her, yet he’d refused her utterly.

  She dropped to her knees and opened the bag. Her necklace slid out, glittering with the same green fire she’d seen in Athaulf’s eyes.

  Placidia put her hands over her face and sobbed.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 9

  Spring, A.D. 410, Constantinople

  Magnus stood on the great wall of Constantinople, looking out over the Golden Horn. Cloaked in purple, the boy-emperor Theodosius and his older sister, Aelia Pulcheria, were just visible in the distance, faint shapes on the prow of the royal galley as it rowed up the great bay. The day was fair and windy, yet the Horn was smooth as glass, its protected waters mirroring the blue of the sky with its tracery of clouds.

  Tall for his age, the young emperor of the East was near to manhood and therefore desirous of finding his future empress. The coming ceremony made Magnus’s heart quake, his whole body shudder, as he stood with a contingent of nobles, waiting for the docking of Theodosius’s ship. Would Gigi be led to the parade grounds among the horde of candidate brides? Would he see her soon? Was it possible?

  Magnus had searched far and wide these many months, riding the length and breadth of the eastern territories with nothing but rumor to go on, and the conviction Gigi was alive out there, somewhere, for the moment beyond his reach — but alive. When he’d heard Theodosius was about to choose from among the most comely unmarried women in the land, he’d rushed back to Constantinople, hoping and praying Gigi would be included in the procession of beauties.

  He knew it did not matter if the girl were a slave or peasant, or even if she were over a decade older than Theodosius. Candidates were chosen not by rank or age, nor by family wealth or title, but for beauty alone, specific requirements regarding perfection of face and form, measurements of bust, waist, and feet a must.

  And Gigi was truly a vision for all ages. Magnus shut his eyes, seeing her golden-haired beauty, his thoughts a jumble of contradictions both good and ill: if she were here, it would mean he had found her at last; yet if she were among those selected, Theodosius might seize upon her looks, choosing her above the rest.

  “Nephew, they are being led forward. Is she among them?”

  Magnus shielded his face against the bright sunshine. He strained to see past the troops drawn up to meet the royal galley: two sets of imperial guards, the scholarii in red tunics and bearing long swords, and just beyond, the hetairia, their gilded shields glittering in the sun like a spray of stars. He looked past them to the imperial contingent that accompanied the emperor and his sister on the galley — oiled and bejeweled courtiers, bald eunuchs, gray-bearded advisors — and then focused farther on, studying the cluster of women and girls. Varying degrees of prettiness greeted his eyes, but none of them could match Gigi in sheer beauty or grace.

  Sweet Gigi.

  He swallowed and fought back his emotions, then tried to see all the way down the line of women, but he could not distinguish much from this distance. They were too far away, too blasted far.

  “I must get closer, Uncle,” Magnus said tersely.

  Britannicus nodded. He was his father’s youngest brother, a great war hero, who closely resembled Magnus in looks.

  “Nephew,” Britannicus warned, “do not get too near, or tarry by the women. If someone dares question you, just pretend you are me and leave quickly. If Gigi is there, I will take care of it later.”

  Magnus smiled. Britannicus was an influential man at court, married as he was to the first cousin of Emperor Theodosius’s mother.

  Of all the members of his family, Magnus realized he was now deemed the only failure. He had no real place in Constantinople any more — and he was considered a traitor in the west — his existence now utterly dependent on the charity and forbearance of his powerful kin.

  But it did not matter. Nothing did. Not if he found Gigi.

  He set off for the nearest stairwell.

  • • •

  Inching forward, Magnus took care not to step on toes as he moved toward the forefront of the crowd. Theodosius had disembarked from his galley only moments before. His personal Guards of the Purple, his flaxen-haired Germani thugs, held their great axes before them, forming a formidable knot around the smiling boy-emperor and his elegant sister.

  There was an apple in Theodosius’s hand. Like Paris, Prince of Troy, it would be given to the woman of his choice. Magnus’s gaze flew down the line, scanning the aspirants’ features; coal-black curls framed a winsome face, followed by a blur of other girls and women, all beautiful brunettes and redheads, another girl with raven-dark hair, and then, and then …

  A young woman stood near the middle of the line, her figure slight, almost too slender, yet proud, her blond tresses barely visible beneath a gossamer veil of green silk.

  Magnus willed her to turn. Look at me! he wanted to shout. Look here! Let me see your face!

  He waited, hoping, praying to the gods for mercy at last.

  To his horror, Theodosius stopped before her, Pulcheria at his elbow. The crowd grew silent, expectant.

  “Alas, it was through a woman that evil entered the world,” the young emperor said, smiling at the blonde. He raised his hand, hefting the apple for effect, then glanced at his sister, her face calm, a vision of neutrality. “And,” Theodosius went on, “it is said Eve — ”

  “My lord,” the blond girl interrupted, “it is also through a woman that One who is greater than evil entered the world, for a young woman, the Virgin, gave birth to Jesus Christ.”

  Gasps erupted from the crowd, and Theodosius’s mouth dropped open, while Princess Pulcheria flushed red as the apple.

  Magnus shook his head in wonder, for here was a girl who certainly had Gigi’s spirit, someone with enough daring to challenge an emperor. Although this girl’s voice was not nearly as strong, there was something familiar, a spirited timbre, which caused him to take a step forward in hope his memory had somehow dimmed, that it was really she.

  One of the guards turned and looked directly into Magnus’s eyes, then raised his axe ever so slightly.

  Magnus fell back, disappearing into the chattering crowd, and took another position, one less conspicuous, but nearer the girl. Meanwhile, Theodosius had strolled on, still searching for his bride. Magnus guessed he would choose a shy one now, for it was clear his brush with the bold girl in green had thoroughly rattled him.

  Suddenly, she turned and stared in Magnus’s direction, as if to challenge the yammering crowd, as if to say, I am not ashamed.

  He sighed. Her eyes were as beautiful as Gigi’s, sparkling with life, but they were blue as the sky, not green, not green.

  O, ye gods! Why have you forsaken me? Magnus sadly thought. Victoria, where are you? Where is my wife?

  “Gigi, will I ever find you?” he whispered to no one. Listlessly, he glanced at Theodosius and saw Pulcheria take his arm. She directed him toward another group of several young women, dressed alike in
silver gowns.

  Someone in the crowd called out, “The emperor now considers the princess’s ladies-in-waiting,” just as Theodosius stopped. He suddenly grinned, then handed his apple to a beautiful girl, a slim blonde with big eyes and a gracious smile.

  So, he had found the one. Grim, bitter, Magnus turned away, determined to drown his sorrows, and ran straight into his uncle.

  “She is not here?” Britannicus asked the question, but clearly he already knew the answer. “I am sorry. Come,” he added, placing his arm around Magnus’s shoulder. “Your aunt awaits us.”

  “Forgive me, Uncle, but I would dine alone this night.”

  Britannicus frowned. “No, this is not a night to dine alone, dwelling on dark thoughts. You need your family. Come home with me.”

  Magnus shrugged. “As you wish.” But he had no intention of staying overlong at his uncle’s house, not on this night, perhaps not ever again.

  • • •

  Magnus awakened from a dream of the olden days, of golden places and distant times. He could not stop thinking of his grandmother. He closed his eyes again, willing himself to sleep some more. He drifted off a little, seeing her again, her hair pure white, her eyes warm and brown. He was twelve when she died, but he always remembered how she looked at him one moment during her final year, how her gaze went to his face and lingered. He could not comprehend why her eyes welled, but later his father told him the reason; she felt as if she were young again and staring into the face of his paternal grandfather, the love of her life, whom she had first met during childhood.

  Love. It was powerful — uplifting, poignant, and powerful, so powerful. An image of Gigi rose in his mind, and Magnus smiled. My sweet, my dearest wife.

  He rolled over and opened his eyes, not fully comprehending, for a stranger lay there, not a finger’s width away, someone coarse and bloated, ugly. Her blond wig was askew, her lips painted, smeared, and much too red. What in Hades was he doing here? How long had he — where was Gigi?

  He shook his head, addle-brained from too much cheap wine, from months of drunkenness. The room spun, and he groaned in pain, his head splitting. The whore opened her eyes and belched. Her breath smelled of vomit.