After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  “Do you want another taste of this?” she asked, spreading her legs. “Half price.”

  Repulsed, he bolted from the bed, ignoring his pain, and then scrounged in his clothes for a coin. When he found one, he tossed it without looking, not caring what it was worth. “No,” he said, dressing on the run. “No, no!”

  He raced for the door.

  • • •

  “May the gods pity me!”

  Magnus wept, not trying to hide his tears from the passengers and crew of the galley. Where is Agrippa? he wondered for the hundredth time. What have I done to my horse?

  He couldn’t recall. Had he sold him while in one of his drunken stupors? Was that what happened?

  May the gods have mercy upon my noble steed. Victoria, keep him safe from harm. I beseech thee!

  Wiping his eyes, Magnus looked out at the receding walls surrounding the Harbor of Eleutherius, the great city of Constantinople fast fading into the mists. Oars moved in their oarlocks, lapping in the Sea of Marmara, soft, echoing sounds.

  Magnus turned to face the west and gripped the ship’s handrail. Only one person could help him now, only one.

  Placidia.

  Chapter 10

  Rome. It was all he could think about. What was left of his life, of normal, of good and decent, resided there. Magnus was determined, if he had to live, that his remaining time on Earth would not be wasted in fruitless politics or endless searching, but given to one who was worthy of honor, his friend, that good and noble lady, Placidia.

  But he was weary. Weary of walking along the Via Salaria, weary of dust and grime. The vermin that had taken up residence on his body nearly drove him mad, and his need for drink was worse. Soon, he thought. Soon I shall be clean, have a bed and decent clothes, and wine, fine wine to slake my thirst. Rome is not too distant, not any more.

  Magnus passed a milestone, but he did not need to check the distance to Rome’s Forum. He knew he was close, so very near, but coming over the crest of a hillock, a scene met his eyes he hadn’t expected.

  Tents covered in crimson hides, banners boldly displayed, the smoke of hundreds of individual campfires filled his view. The Visigoths.

  “By the gods,” he muttered, “they have done it again.” Another siege. How dare they! Angry, he decided to begin his service to Placidia there and then.

  Sentries shouted his name as he passed, but Magnus waved them off as he stomped past row after row of tents. He moved with a single-minded determination, ignoring the others who called out, until he reached the king’s tent.

  He threw open the flap. “Alaric!” he yelled. But when his eyes adjusted he saw only Randegund. “Bitch!” he said, then paused, noting how she cowered. He’d never seen her cower, not in battle, not before men, never, so why … ?

  He let the thought pass, for she wasn’t worth his trouble. “Where are your sons?” he demanded.

  Her eyes were wide with fear, her voice barely audible. “Hunting, until dusk.”

  It was mid-August. Dusk wouldn’t come until well into the evening, and it was barely past midday. “I’ll wait,” he said flatly. “See that I’m brought food and beer. Lots of both, and be quick about it.”

  Magnus sat near the fire pit, scratching, grumbling and waiting. Finally, a young woman brought a platter of cold meat, dark bread, and cheese, plus a cup and flagon of beer.

  Magnus considered the fare hungrily, then smiled. “I have a long wait ahead of me, child. Roll out the barrel so I can serve myself, then be on your way. I’ll have no more need of you.”

  “As you will, my lord,” she said meekly, and quickly did his bidding.

  His hands trembling with anticipation, Magnus grabbed the flagon and sloshed drink into the cup, then emptied it in one, long swill. Little rivulets ran down each side of his mouth, but he didn’t bother to swipe at them as he poured himself another, and then a third.

  • • •

  Stunned, Alaric stood over the inert, nearly unrecognizable body, and then looked at Athaulf and Verica. “And you say Magnus arrived on foot?”

  “There is no sign of his horse,” Athaulf muttered. “What shall we do with him?”

  “Let him sleep it off right where he is,” Verica said. “Give him a blanket and leave the food, but I won’t have him inside. He’s covered in lice. We can get him cleaned up once he’s awake.”

  “What about Jolie?” Athaulf asked.

  “Gigi,” Verica reminded him. “She asked us to start using her real name.”

  “Ah, of course. We must tell him about her at once,” Alaric said, bringing the conversation back to what mattered.

  “Certainly, wake him up,” Athaulf agreed.

  “No! He’s in no state to know just yet,” Verica said. “He would never forgive us if we sent him off in such a decrepit state, filthy and drunk, and he will certainly leave the moment we tell him.”

  • • •

  Bathed and dressed in fresh clothing, his hangover nearly dissipated, Magnus felt good as he walked back toward the campfire, and smiled as he recalled Verica’s scolding, and insistence he get clean. By the height of the sun, he knew it was nearly noon, and he expected Alaric would be joining him for the midday meal.

  He recalled how angry he had been when he first reached the Visigoth camp, but now he felt more relaxed, more forgiving. He would question Alaric about his intentions and then help with the diplomatic negotiations, serving as Placidia’s go-between.

  Without fail, he must serve Placidia.

  Alaric, Athaulf, and Verica were all waiting for him. They looked nervous but pleased, and ready to welcome him. Embracing each in turn, he gave Verica an extra hug.

  “I’m sorry for how you found me, truly. It won’t happen again. You see — ”

  Alaric raised his hand, cutting him off. “Magnus,” he said. “Let’s not speak of it.”

  Magnus bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You must know, old friend, I’ve no intention of staying here. My place is with Placidia, and it is for her I returned from Constantinople.”

  “We understand completely.” Alaric clapped him on the shoulder and then frowned at Verica. “At least take a few moments to sup with us before you go.”

  After the king and queen were seated, Magnus took the chair next to Athaulf. Alaric clapped his hands, and three servants appeared. One poured beer into Alaric’s gem-encrusted goblet, while another filled drinking horns for everyone else. The third set forth a platter of roasted meat and flatbread.

  The servants departed, and Magnus studied the platter. Feeling queasy, the effects of his hangover were resurrected by the smell of food. Tasting his beer, he sought to quiet his churning stomach, but the drink was bitter and not to his liking.

  Verica exchanged another long look with Alaric. “Magnus, please, take your ease before us. There is goat and mutton — ”

  He felt the bile rise in his throat. “No, no, I cannot stay.” He glanced around for somewhere to place his horn, then remembered a refusal to drink with them would be seen as an insult. “I’ve lived with a single purpose long enough — to serve the princess,” he took a sip, “but I would ask a hard question, if you don’t mind.”

  Alaric’s eyebrows shot up, and he made a gesture toward Athaulf, who nodded and dashed off. “As you wish, Magnus,” Alaric said smoothly.

  They were behaving strangely, Magnus realized. Was it guilt? And why in Hades had the king sent Athaulf away? “I wonder why you besiege Rome, yet again. More booty? You surely must still have enough to satisfy even a Visigoth appetite.”

  Alaric glanced at his goblet, then shrugged. “I must fill you in on what has transpired in the past, what, year and a half?”

  “But — ”

  “Magnus, we must talk before you depart.”

  Alaric’s deep frown caug
ht Magnus by surprise. He had gotten some news through his family while in Constantinople, but as he listened to the details of what had transpired since the ambush, since the fire, since the day his life ended, he could hardly believe his ears.

  There had been another march on Rome that first spring, and Alaric proclaimed Senator Attalus to be the emperor. Alaric and Attalus then moved north and threatened Ravenna. With his back to the sea, Honorius agreed to split but not cede the Western Empire, yet he ultimately reneged when Constantinople sent four thousand troops to his aid. Alaric was forced to retreat to Rome once more, only to find the city on the verge of starvation because the grain supply in Africa was in the hands of Honorius’s supporters. Because Attalus refused to attack Africa, Alaric was forced to strip him of all titles and power, and now the Visigoths were back where they had been, at Rome’s very gates.

  What a debacle! Gazing at the king, Magnus realized he didn’t care about any of it. Not anymore. He drained the last of his beer and said, “You will do as you feel you must, I suppose. As for me, I will serve Placidia.”

  “Uncle Magnus!”

  A shock of recognition hit Magnus hard as he jumped up and spun around. “Berga!” He pulled the child close. After hugging him with all her might, Berga squirmed away, and he shook his head in amazement. “She — she survived!”

  Smiling self-consciously, Verica nodded. “She did, Magnus, and Theodoric, also. We were so surprised. Blessed God answered all our prayers.”

  “All?” Magnus searched her face, the familiar pain redoubling as the furies of hope tore at him. “But, have you ever, was there ever any news?”

  Verica’s eyes filled with tears as she rose and cupped his face in her trembling hands. “Dear Magnus, Gigi is with Placidia, awaiting your return.”

  Hardly able to breathe, Magnus could only stare at Verica and wonder at the truth in her eyes. “Alive? Here?”

  Verica nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Indeed,” she whispered. “Indeed.”

  “Athaulf has brought a horse for you,” Alaric said.

  Magnus took him in a bear hug, then, rushing headlong, he leapt on the horse and dug in his heels.

  The walls of Rome called to him, beckoned, like never before.

  • • •

  Magnus arrived at the palace gates and handed off his horse to a guard, just as Leontius hurried into view.

  “Magnus!” he declared, his shock plain to see.

  Crossing the courtyard at a run, Magnus burst through the doors, scattering terrified servants in his wake. None tried to stop his passage as he ran through the public rooms, opening doors and leaving them ajar as he raced to the next.

  “Gigi!” he bellowed. “Gigi!”

  He checked more rooms, but all were empty of anyone but servants. Stop, think, he finally told himself. The place is enormous — think — where would she be on a hot afternoon?

  The sounds of a flute drifted to his ears, and suddenly he knew. Thanks be to all the gods! Rushing on through the less formal rooms, he made for a particular corridor and out onto the principal balcony overlooking the Tiber River, then he stopped, staring in disbelief.

  Placidia was seated, looking out, and Gigi stood beside her, playing her flute, the breeze moving across her gossamer gown, just as it had in so many of his dreams.

  It took him a moment to find his voice. “Gigi,” he said, sounding gruff to his own ears, a rasp of emotions.

  Placidia gasped just as the music faltered, and Gigi lowered her hands slightly, then looked around with a frown.

  Magnus took only a single step forward before Gigi was in his arms.

  “You didn’t — you’re alive! Oh, Magnus,” she sobbed, “you came back!”

  Staggered beyond words, Magnus could only hold her, drink in her honeyed scent and wonder if he were dreaming again … but the dreams had never been like this; never had he been able to find her, hold her again, and feel the warmth of her. His unbearable pain started to ease at last, the frost encasing his heart finally melting.

  “I had no idea — I thought … ” he said, kissing her. “Sweet Victoria has delivered me from Hades.”

  • • •

  Gigi sat on the couch in her room — their room — still dressed in her gauzy amber gown, her bare feet tucked beneath her. She sipped her wine and wondered if the food she’d had delivered while Magnus shaved would be touched before morning.

  She felt ill at ease, shy, and was glad for the sense of calm the wine would bring. It had been well over a year, after all, since she’d last seen her husband. She loved him dearly, but it would take time for them to get reacquainted.

  Magnus came out wiping his clean-shaven face, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He’d lost a lot of weight, and his eyes had the same troubled look he had when she first met him. Knowing he’d been through a terrible ordeal, Gigi wondered how she could help him heal. She smiled nervously.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, leaning against the door. “I can hardly believe you’re sitting before me, waiting for me, as you did all this time.”

  “I never gave up hope. Placidia had her people searching everywhere, but no one could find you. But I had no doubt you’d come back, Magnus,” she said, putting her wine down.

  With a last swipe of his face, he tossed the cloth on the floor and took her hands. She stood and he kissed the ring on her finger, then her brow. “Victoria watched over me when you could not. I know it.”

  “We both did what we could.” She searched his eyes, trying to convey her feelings, then reached out and touched the thin line of a scar on his cheek. “This is new.”

  “I got it before the fire, during the ambush. We nearly died that day, you and I.”

  “But we didn’t, and now you’re back.” Gigi dropped her gaze and nodded toward the wine. “May I pour you a glass?”

  Magnus glanced at the amphora and then shook his head. “No. No wine. You are all I need … will ever need.”

  Again, there was a pause, this time more awkward, and their eyes met and held.

  Magnus shifted, uncomfortable. “Gigi,” he said, “I know it’s been a long time. I can’t assume … ”

  “Intimacy will come when we’re ready. I just need you to hold me.”

  He took her into his arms and she nestled against him, breathing deeply. Olive oil, hints of pine and spice, new fragrances, but there was more, something she’d dreamt about these long months, the scent of his skin, his essence.

  “I am home,” he murmured, “at last, I am home.”

  “Magnus,” she whispered back, “I love you.”

  “It goes far beyond love, my sweet,” he said. “You are my life.”

  They clung one to the other, the ache of their separation still keenly felt, never to be forgotten.

  Chapter 11

  24 August, A.D. 410, Rome

  Sergeric sat on a log near the campfire, close to Alaric’s chair. He looked around, confident he was out of earshot of the other chieftains.

  Settling in, he studied the king’s face, seeing lines where none had been before, his hair now streaked with gray. He mulled these tidbits, then tucked them away, guessing they would be of interest to his brother, Sarus.

  “Alaric, have you considered what we discussed at supper?” Sergeric asked.

  “I have, but I am not yet convinced.”

  “I tell you,” Sergeric insisted, keeping his voice low, “the Roman woman — Proba — is as sick of this siege as we, and she will command her servants to go to the gate, overpower the guards, and let us in tonight.”

  “We’ve been camped outside of Rome barely two weeks,” Alaric argued. “Food can’t have run short already, not in the summer. I mistrust this woman.”

  Sergeric shrugged. “You are correct — she is not hungry, e
xcept for my cock. She may be rich, of the merchant class, but she has a taste for earthier things. She has come to me many times already, and does not seek our downfall, I can assure you. In fact, she will do just about anything I ask of her. Truth be told, she fears those who tasted human flesh during the first siege far more than she fears us. She worries they will use our presence outside the city as an excuse to revisit their old ways.”

  Sergeric watched Alaric study the ground between his feet. He waited patiently, guessing it would not take long for the king’s response — and certain of the outcome.

  Alaric looked up, a familiar glint in his gaze. “We must have firm rules. Sanctuary is to be granted without exception, and no rape or setting the city to flames. The palaces on the Palatine must remain intact, as must the churches. Athaulf will want to go to the princess immediately, I am sure. Also, Magnus and his wife are to be allowed quarter. They are to be left unharmed.”

  Sergeric smiled and nodded. “Agreed.”

  He saw a softening in Alaric’s expression, the look of trust. That was his weakness, his great failing. The king did not suspect he and Sarus would never forgive him for the deaths of Sarus’s wife and children, or for the loss of their father’s kingship. They were simply biding their time.

  “Good. Send word then,” Alaric said, standing, “so our armies will be ready, for this night Rome will belong to the Visigoths.”

  • • •

  “Mother,” Alaric said, entering Randegund’s tent, “the decision has been made. Tonight, we will enter Rome.”

  Randegund bade him sit by her side. “My son,” she said as he settled beside her, “this day I consulted the runes, and it is a fortuitous time for our people. You know, even-numbered days bode ill for the Roman scum.” She smiled. “But did you also know today is a cursed anniversary for them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Their great mountain, Vesuvius, erupted on this day over three centuries ago, killing many Roman citizens. I think tonight we shall kill many Romans, too.”