After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Good,” she dropped her hands and forced a smile, “and please understand, given the circumstances there is nothing to forgive, but I do understand. I really do.”

  Magnus shook his head, then kissed her brow. “I need some fresh air.” Getting up, he slung one of the furs over his shoulders for warmth and headed out of the tent.

  Gigi watched him leave, and when the flap fell back into place, she started to shake, but not because of the cold. Silent tears fell, and she dropped onto the bed, his words and their significance running through her mind.

  With sudden insight, she knew that for now he needed her to be strong for both of them. And he needed her forgiveness, wanted to hear the words, even if she couldn’t listen to what he’d done, who he’d been with …

  Another thought jolted her back to the moment. What is he doing? Could he … ?

  Gigi got up and shoved her feet into her boots, grabbed her cloak and went out into the cold, wet night. Constantly wiping her face clear of pelting rain, she searched the common gathering places, then the alleyways between nearby tents. Running wildly, she splashed through puddles, looking everywhere, growing more frantic with each empty turn. Where was he?

  Gigi halted at the edge of the camp, gasping for air. She saw his silhouette, black against the mist of rain, looking north over the Bay of Naples toward Capri, a place he loved. He must have heard her approach, for he glanced at her, but made no move in her direction.

  “Magnus, why are you out here?” she asked. “Why are you punishing yourself like this? You can’t just say stuff like that and then leave when I get upset. Give me a few moments, at least, before you run off to fall on your sword.”

  He looked at her curiously, then crossed his arms and turned back to the sea. “I did not kill myself when I feared you were lost to me forever, Gigi. I hadn’t planned on killing myself now.”

  “Damn you, Magnus! Are you feeling sorry for yourself? Don’t tell me — you’re mad because I’m not letting you tell me every crude detail?” She got in his face and forced him to look at her. “Go confess your sins to Victoria if you want absolution on specifics, but don’t expect it from me!”

  “I’m not expecting absolution, Gigi. I have hated that you looked at me with such love, love I didn’t deserve.”

  “But … ” She took a deep breath, trying to focus her thoughts, because her next words were critical to their future. “You’re not the one who gets to decide whether you deserve my love or not — that’s my prerogative.” Gigi drew the sodden cloak around her and then reached up to touch his face. “I’m sorry your grief drove you so far. But that doesn’t change how I feel about you. Please, Magnus, I forgive you. I love you.”

  She fell quiet and he gazed at her, then nodded slightly, his expression relaxing into the barest of smiles.

  “As you will,” he said, “but the next time you run after me, all worked up and in a fright, first look to my weapons. Both my blades are still in the tent and plain to see. Besides, I made you a promise never to fall on my sword, and you may rest assured my oath binds me forever.” He took her hand and kissed her ring. “I believe Victoria has guided me from the day you arrived in the baptistery, Gigi. It was my goddess who caused you to have the ring and brought you back in time. It was also Victoria who extricated me from a vile and unworthy emperor, whom I served because of a deathbed promise to his father, a good man who never guessed his young son would grow into a murderer without conscience.”

  “Magnus, I can’t pretend to know why I’m here, but if it freed you from Honorius, then I’m glad.”

  He took her into his arms. “It was more than that, so much more.” He kissed her, a long, lingering kiss that warmed her to her core. “I know now that my mission in life is to protect you. You are my wife, the only woman I have ever loved, and I will always stay by your side, no matter what happens. Shall we escape to the ends of the Earth, to that unknown continent of yours? Victoria will surely help. I shall make sacrifices to her at dawn. I will seek her guidance for a new start, asking the Fates to smile down upon us now and forever.”

  “Whatever happens, I love you, Magnus. I always will.”

  She nestled against him, willing herself to happiness, hoping it would turn out like they wanted, and that fate would be kind.

  • • •

  Honorius held his bird in his lap, cooing into her ear, “Ah, Rome, dearest pet, the city for which you were named has been destroyed. We must ask our astrologers what it portends, for you are precious to us.” Hollow-eyed, he looked up at Sarus. “General, we would ask that you fetch our conjurers on your way out of our chambers.”

  Sarus stood there, feeling the crushing weight of contempt for Honorius, for much still needed to be discussed, including what should be done about King Alaric.

  “Rome sacked!” Honorius started sniffling. “We would blame Olympius for this, but he is dead … dead. Oh, who is to blame? Who failed us?”

  The emperor started blubbering and Sarus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He feared his life teetered on a knife’s edge. Olympius had been cruelly executed on a whim by Honorius, his ears cut off before he was clubbed to death in front of the entire court. Stilicho had been killed, too, as had so many others, too many.

  Am I next? Sarus wondered, knowing full well once Honorius was done with his weeping, he’d lash out, placing blame on …

  He let his breath out slowly, and then lowered himself to one knee, his hand over his chest. It was time to play his hand.

  “O, Great Honorius, I have heard through my brother, Sergeric, that much more has happened in Rome. Prepare yourself, my lord, for the news is dire.”

  Honorius gaped, his fears unmasked. Sarus clung to his hope the little worm would finally give him leave to wreak vengeance against the man he blamed for the death of his wife and children, the one who had stolen the kingship from him, that bastard, Alaric. But would Honorius act against the news, or lash out against the messenger?

  “What more?” the emperor’s voice was a raspy whisper as he placed his bird on the floor and shooed her away. “Tell us, Sarus.”

  “Quintus Magnus returned to Rome just before the sack.”

  “Magnus?” Honorius’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

  Sarus nodded. “You know I had spies tailing him in Constantinople.”

  “Indeed, and we were quite vexed when your men could not find the right moment to slip him poison.”

  “Venerabilis, for that I apologize, but they lost track of Magnus after he sold his stallion to the horse master of the royal court. Magnus disappeared for months after that, only to show up in Rome. He and Gigiperrin were with your sister when she was taken hostage by Alaric’s brother-in-law, Athaulf. It is said Magnus and the bitch flute player engineered your sister’s capture, and Sergeric told me Athaulf and Placidia now share a tent — ”

  With a howl, Honorius grabbed Sarus by the throat. “What did you say? Is she fucking him?” he roared.

  Sarus couldn’t speak, tried to get hold of Honorius’s hands, to push away and free himself. Suddenly, several of the imperial guards rushed into the room, and Sarus was knocked flat to the floor. Axes flashed, swam before his eyes, and he felt icy-cold metal pressing against his neck, the sting of the first cut. He was dead.

  But Honorius blared, “Idiots, stand down! Let him go!”

  Sarus was freed, then pulled to his feet by one of the guards.

  Fingers trembling, he rubbed his neck, wiping away a trickle of blood.

  Honorius was smiling as if nothing untoward had happened. “Come, General,” he said, “we must put our heads together and hatch a plan. We were thwarted once before, but now it is time. We must kill our enemies — all of them — without delay. As for our sister, well, once she’s brought home … in chains, perhaps, indeed, ch
ains would be appropriate, we shall mete out her punishment. And then we’ll hand her over to Constantius for marriage.”

  Honorius nodded, an exultant look in his eyes. “For too long our sister has acted willfully, not keeping to her place, and now she is no longer chaste. We intend to bring her low,” he grinned, “by finding a way to cleanse her of the barbarian seed, perhaps supplanting it with the purity of Rome.”

  The emperor’s gaze grew unfocused, and he touched himself.

  The blame had been passed on to others. Sarus swallowed heavily in relief, but then shame swept over him as he recalled young Placidia’s sweet gaze.

  He closed his eyes, trying to force visions from his mind, depraved visions.

  Heaven help the princess!

  • • •

  Athaulf stood outside his brother-in-law’s tent, listening to him cough. As with so many in camp, it had gone on for weeks, although his fever had abated some time ago. “Alaric, it is Athaulf. I would have a word.”

  “Come — ”

  Another fit of coughing interrupted the king’s words, but Athaulf didn’t wait. Asking leave to enter was only a formality. He found Magnus inside with Alaric, looking contented and thoughtful, but Verica and his mother were elsewhere. Perfect.

  “Take your ease before me, brother.” Clearing his throat, Alaric smiled and raised his golden goblet. “Get something to drink, and then pull up a chair.”

  Athaulf grabbed some beer and sat next to Magnus, then toasted the health of both men.

  They all drank in silence, until Alaric wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “So, how goes the, er, peace negotiations between the noble Visigoth prince and Rome’s fairest, er, maid?”

  “Don’t make light of this,” Athaulf said seriously. “I want to marry her before our next move, and since officially she is our enemy, I feel I need your blessing upon the union, for the good of all. Otherwise, some might take it as an insult, and she might not be welcomed as she should.”

  “Do you refer to our mother?”

  “Among others.”

  Alaric grimaced. “My blessing on your marriage will do nothing to placate Randegund. In truth, I fear nothing will placate her now that her mind is tortured by … demons,” he sighed, “but I — ”

  “King Alaric,” a sentry interrupted from outside, “there is a Roman soldier here with a package, one which must be delivered in person to your brother. May he enter?”

  “If he is unarmed, of course,” Alaric called out, “let him in.”

  Wary, Athaulf stood, wondering who among the Romans might send him something, and Magnus and Alaric rose to stand beside him.

  A common soldier entered, looking haughty and unabashed at being at the very center of his enemy’s encampment. He glanced at the three men, his air of disdain obvious when he recognized Magnus. Then, assessing height differences between Athaulf and Alaric, he turned to Athaulf and held out a small crate, bound with leather straps and sealed with wax.

  “You are the shorter of the two, so I take it you are Athaulf?” he asked.

  Athaulf acknowledged the fact with a slight nod. “Who sends this, and what is it?”

  “As to what it is, I wasn’t informed,” the man said coolly. “The sender is none other than Flavius Honorius Augustus, Emperor of Rome.”

  Troubled, Athaulf glanced at Alaric and Magnus, then took the proffered box. He pulled out his knife and cut the straps, then pried off the lid. The interior held a glass jar, tightly packed in straw.

  Magnus stepped forward. “Leave it, Athaulf. This is some twisted jest.”

  “There is a note,” Athaulf said.

  Magnus reached in, snatched the small piece of parchment, and read it in silence.

  “What does it say?” Alaric asked, stepping toward him.

  Magnus’s lips tightened. “When you fuck Rome, Rome will fuck you.”

  Furious, Athaulf spun around to demand an explanation, but the Roman soldier had already slipped out of the tent.

  Athaulf pulled forth the jar and peered at its contents, then recoiled and cursed in anger. A shriveled, blackened head floated inside, a young boy’s head, and a tag read, “Eucherius, son of Stilicho.”

  Magnus grabbed the jar and quickly put it back in the box.

  Alaric’s gaze was filled with disgust. “Truly, Honorius is deranged.”

  “Eucherius must be buried,” Magnus said emotionally. “It is little enough we can do to honor the poor child.”

  “I shall marry her, Alaric,” Athaulf insisted. “Placidia must never fall into the hands of that monster. Never! I will not allow that beast to have sway over her again. I will protect her with my love, and with my sword.”

  “Say nothing to her about this,” Magnus warned. “Nothing — ever. She must never know.”

  “Tomorrow, brother,” Alaric said quietly. “I will tell Verica to make everything ready. You may wed the girl tomorrow.”

  • • •

  Placidia felt breathless with joy. Athaulf had come in late in the night and held her so closely, so tenderly, as though she might slip away without warning. Then, as dawn lightened the sky, he’d asked her to marry him — without delay — and now, here she was, looking at her bridegroom through an orange veil.

  The Arian bishop had just made the pronouncement, declared them wed. Never again would she be beholden to Honori — no! she scolded herself. She mustn’t even think the name, not on this perfect, perfect day. It was a time for new beginnings.

  Athaulf lifted the veil and smiled at her.

  My husband! To think we found love amid the ashes, after the fall of Rome. Together, we will make a future, together always …

  She smiled back. “I love you, Athaulf. I am so proud to be your wife.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, gently at first, then scooped her into his arms, lifting her off her feet, and kissed her more deeply.

  When he set her back down, everyone was cheering and applauding, Gigi and Magnus most of all. Placidia reached out and took Gigi’s hand.

  “I’m not jealous of your love any longer, Gigi,” she cried out, smiling through tears of joy, trying to make herself heard over the noise. “My heart is so full!”

  Gigi laughed and started to say something, but Athaulf took hold of Placidia’s hand, pulling her toward their tent and the blessing the bishop would pronounce over it.

  She hurried beside her new husband, his big, reassuring hand grasping hers, as though he would never let go. She had always known she would marry a prince of a foreign nation, a non-Roman, and that much was true.

  She had never once thought love would have anything to do with it.

  Chapter 13

  Shielding her eyes against the driving rain, Gigi looked out over the rough sea, the waves wind-whipped and streaming foam. Hundreds of watercraft of every shape and description were still in the bay and getting thrashed by the storm. Some, loaded with soldiers and horses, were already struggling to make it across the Strait of Messina.

  Alaric had made agreements with the people of Rhegium and the surrounding hamlets for anyone owning a boat to help transport the Visigoths to Sicily, where he planned to spend the winter. Southern Italy was played out, and his people faced starvation. In the spring, the king would lead them from Sicily to northern Africa, Italy’s breadbasket. They would take the grain supply by force, thus putting a stranglehold on the Western Roman Empire, driving her once and for all to her knees. There was also talk they might permanently settle in Africa, which was why Rhegium gladly agreed to help, hoping to see the swift departure of the voracious barbarians, who had already picked their fields, vineyards, and flocks down to stubble and bone.

  Farther downhill, pacing, Magnus looked as uneasy as Gigi felt. That morning, he’d asked her what she knew of this plan, if to her knowledge it h
ad worked, but she didn’t have any idea. History was not her thing, after all. She’d only vaguely remembered hearing about the sack of Rome, her grandfather saying it was the beginning of the end of antiquity. But as for details about crossing the strait, she recalled nothing.

  Gigi caught some movement and looked to see Magnus climbing the short rise to join her. His brow was creased with worry when he got to her side.

  “Alaric has left a small contingent of soldiers for the last boat,” he said, “to protect the women and children on this end. For now, the bulk of the force will cross, then provisions and most of the animals, then women, children, and the infirm. It will take most of the day.”

  She looked up at him. “With this weather, and those boats having to do roundtrips, I’d guess it will take a couple of days.”

  “I fear you are right. The king keeps telling himself the wind will hurry the process.” Magnus shook his head. “He’s not in his right mind. I can’t understand this decision, this urgency to get across, especially in these conditions.”

  “He’s been sick for ages.”

  “Everybody’s been sick for ages, and he’s been sick often enough before this. That’s never stopped him from thinking clearly.”

  Gigi shrugged. “I don’t like this. I wouldn’t try this crossing on a day like today in a Beneteau, let alone the rickety stuff he’s got out there.”

  “A Beneteau?” He looked at her with curiosity. “A sailing ship from the future?”

  “Indeed, and a very good one,” Gigi smiled grimly, “but I still wouldn’t go out today.”

  Magnus turned back to the sea. “I have asked to go with the last of the soldiers, to be closer to you and Placidia.”

  Gigi glanced at him, but he was watching the pier where the boats were being loaded. It had been nearly a week since he’d unburdened himself to her, and no matter how much she tried to make him realize it was all in the past, he was still angry with himself.

  But today was different. This was scary, and she couldn’t allow him to go on like this. Reaching out, she put her hand in his and his fingers closed around hers at once.