After the Fall

by Morgan O'Neill

  The Otherworld! My Alaric! The sudden realization he was truly and forever gone struck hard and her arms dropped to her side. Randegund cried for him and for herself, feeling as she always had, that he was her blood son, her own flesh, sinew, and bone. In truth, he had been more important to her than anyone in the world.

  And now he was gone, and she knew her life was over, the agony tearing through her, unbearable.

  Weeping, she kissed Alaric’s lifeless hand, carefully positioning it with the other, folding them both on his chest, over his heart. With a final kiss to his brow, she closed his eyes. Rising, she looked around to see her wailing daughter, a widow too soon, the others sobbing in grief, and her heart filled with an icy, silent intent. She shivered, then wiped her eyes and shook herself free from fear, feeling curiously renewed, as if a divine power had entered her body.

  There was but one thing left to do in her life, a final act of vengeance, and she knew Nemesis was with her, deep inside her breast, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  • • •

  It was a fine day in winter’s depth, the sky clear, cold, and blue, achingly blue.

  Gigi stood with Placidia at a bend in the river Busentinus, overlooking the burial site of King Alaric. She was bundled in a heavy wool cloak; the princess decked out in sumptuous furs and her imperial regalia, including a delicate golden crown glittering with sapphires, called the Crown of Livia, she’d said. They held hands and listened to the eerie caterwauls of the women closest to Alaric, their grief echoing off the surrounding rocks, cries of doom.

  Hundreds of slaves had toiled for the past week to build a huge log dam to divert the river, so Alaric’s corpse and a vast amount of treasure could be interred beneath the riverbed. The tomb had been dug into solid bedrock and would be covered with slabs of purest white marble. Afterward, the waters would be channeled back to their original course, and the grave would be inviolate, hidden from Honorius’s desire to despoil, from Catholic avengers, and from pagans still livid over the Visigoth desecrations during the sack of Rome.

  Both Gigi and Placidia wept as they watched a slow procession of Alaric’s male relatives and friends, Athaulf and Magnus chief among them, convey the body to the tomb. The dead king had been regally dressed in purple brocade, the fabulous gem-encrusted goblet folded within the stillness of his hands.

  Holding a large gold cross before him, the Arian bishop waited by the funeral bier, as the pallbearers carefully lowered the body, then stood in silence.

  The bishop raised his voice, “King of the Visigoths! Long may you dwell in the sight of the Heavenly Throne of our Lord God, the Unbegotten One, and his son, Jesus, the Begotten!”

  Mournful cries swelled to a crescendo as Randegund led the women in the cutting of their braids and maidenly tresses. Keening and weeping, they flung their shorn hair toward the riverbed, to rest as tribute at the base of Alaric’s tomb.

  Gigi wiped away tears as Verica cut Berga’s hair, and then motioned for the child to take it to her father’s side. The girl looked frightened as she approached the bier, her hands shaking as she halted and glanced at her mother for reassurance. When Verica nodded, Berga turned and flung her hair high, the pale blond wisps catching on Alaric’s cup-laden hands, curling around them. Verica dropped to her knees, holding Berga in a silent, tearful vigil.

  “Cruel, cruel fate,” Placidia sadly whispered, and Gigi wondered if she were speaking of Athaulf as well. The princess’s handsome husband was now de facto ruler of the Visigoths, and from the abounding gossip in the camp, Gigi guessed almost everyone was going to vote for him, giving him the kingship. His fate was sealed, his coming responsibilities huge and grave. Gigi knew Placidia realized this as well.

  “I understand,” Gigi whispered back as she clung to the princess’s trembling hand, wishing she had listened more carefully to her grandfather’s tales of Rome. If somehow, some way she had been able to replay his stories in her mind, then she might have warned Alaric of the sea disaster, perhaps averting his premature death. And she would know her friends’ fates, Placidia and Athaulf’s future.

  More tears rolled down her cheeks. Why didn’t I listen? It would have made Grand-père so happy, and now, what’s going to happen now?

  • • •

  Placidia studied Athaulf, seeing his grief, feeling her own. She watched her husband and the other men walk back to the riverbank to retrieve more gold and silver treasure.

  These were her people now, and the weight of her crown suddenly seemed overwhelming, her long hair heavy, almost too much to bear.

  “Do you carry your dagger?” Placidia asked Gigi.

  Gigi turned, a troubled crease on her brow. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “As wife to Athaulf, I was granted leave to watch the funeral, just as you and Magnus were granted permission to attend, as the king’s close friends. But my participation was not deemed necessary, nor was it encouraged by some, since I am Roman by birth. Yet now, I believe I must join fully with the others and pay homage to my dead brother-in-law, the king. I shall also cut my hair and, in this way, I shall bind my husband’s people to Rome and Rome to them.”

  “Are you certain?” Gigi asked.

  Nodding, Placidia remained insistent, and Gigi reached into her cloak to produce the weapon.

  “Thank you, Gigi.” She hurried down the embankment to Verica. Her sister-in-law was now tearing at the remains of her own locks, leading the women and girls in ritual grief.

  Placidia took her place beside them. Just then, Athaulf appeared on the rise, supervising a host of slaves hauling a huge silver and gold fastigium. The ornate awning had been kept in the Basilica of St. John in Lateran, but it had been sacked, as had so many other sacred places, despite Alaric’s wishes, despite her own husband’s efforts to stem the tide of pillage.

  She looked into Athaulf’s eyes and caught a flicker of shame, knowing full well he had set aside his hatred of treasure-lust for the moment, because his people were determined to send their king to the Afterlife with a host of riches. They believed as they believed, their ancestors’ pagan rites mingling with their Arian faith, a blending of Christian liturgy and ritualized keening, of solemn prayers to the Lord God and the heathen cutting of hair.

  Facing the funeral bier, Placidia removed Livia’s crown and placed it near Alaric’s feet. As sunlight dappled and danced, she admired the crown’s jacinth gems a final time, her favorite jewels glittering violet-blue. Beguiling as the stars of the Seven Sisters, they were a near match in hue to Alaric’s regal funeral robes.

  Placidia raised Gigi’s dagger and sawed at her hair, flinging the dark tresses toward the crown. Once done, she bowed to the corpse, then faced the queen. “My lady,” she called out to Verica, “I join you this day in mourning a great man and your beloved husband, King Alaric, a man whom I shall ever honor and whom I counted among my friends,” she exchanged a long look with Athaulf, “and now among my kinsmen. May God bless him and keep him, forever and ever. Amen.”

  The crowd answered, “Amen,” as Verica rose and hugged Placidia.

  But the weight Placidia had felt plagued her still, for she caught the baleful stare of her mother-in-law, Randegund. The old woman glowered, and Placidia reminded herself of Randegund’s abhorrence of all things Roman. This was not about her.

  Or … was it?

  Unable to turn away, Placidia stared back. To her astonishment, Randegund’s pale eyes grew suddenly, inexplicably darker, until they seemed to match the color of the gems in her crown.

  Inwardly, Placidia quailed, but she forced herself to give away no hint of her fear. Deliberately keeping her gaze locked on Randegund, she straightened to her full height, raised her chin, and glared back.

  She felt miserable in her decision, but at that moment, she vowed never again to wear anything the color of those hate-filled eyes.
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br />   Chapter 15

  Even though it was only late afternoon, Gigi fell into bed, exhausted from grief and the funeral. She glanced at Magnus, who stood by the table and fingered the hilt of his sword.

  She lifted the furs beside her. “Come to bed,” she said, yearning for his comfort.

  He sighed. “No, Gigi. I must go.”

  “Go? But you look so tired. Whatever it is can wait, can’t it?”

  His face suddenly flushed and she frowned. Something was wrong.

  “By the Styx,” his voice was hushed, so low it was almost inaudible, “I know this will strike you hard, and I would do anything to spare you pain.”

  Fear mounting, she rose and went to his side. “Magnus, what’s the matter?”

  “All of the slaves, the ones who labored at the river … they are to be put to death.”

  Stunned, she asked, “Why?”

  “Because no outsiders must know where King Alaric is buried.”

  “But that’s … that’s … no!” she cried out. “Just because they’re outsiders? Then, then you and I — and Placidia, too — should also be killed. It doesn’t make any sense. What monster ordered this?”

  “Athaulf,” Magnus said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Gigi grabbed Magnus’s arm, intent on pulling him along. “Come on. We’ve got to stop this. He’ll listen to us.”

  “No.” He stood his ground. “You don’t understand. It is done.”

  Her hand went limp and she let go. “What do you mean? They’re already dead?”

  He shook his head. “If all went as planned, the dam has been dismantled and Alaric’s tomb is submerged. The killing will commence at sundown.”

  “Then there’s still time. Athaulf can’t possibly — ”

  “Gigi, the decision has been made.” He looked away. “It is done and we must accept it. There can be no talking him out of anything. It will be done.”

  She wouldn’t give up — she couldn’t. “Magnus, stop saying that. Does Placidia know?”

  “Absolutely not!” Magnus grasped her by the shoulders. “Athaulf has forbidden those who attend the killing to ever speak of it. You must never, never breathe a word of this to the princess.”

  “Is he insane? Things like this get out, Magnus. They always do! How in the world does he expect to keep it from her?”

  He released her. “Gigi, I must go.”

  She felt sick to her stomach. “Magnus, please, tell me you’re not going to be a part of this. If you are … if you do this … don’t come back. Not tonight. I don’t know when I could face you again, but not tonight.”

  “Athaulf commanded that I attend, but I will not participate in the executions, for they are Romans, and I could not do such a thing, not even for him,” he desperately searched her gaze, as if willing her to understand. “Gigi, know this … I am as appalled by this plan as you, but Athaulf is determined to keep Alaric’s tomb safe from dishonor. So, I will do my part and make certain the slaves get clean deaths. It is what we do for a soldier with a mortal wound, a merciful stab to the back of the neck.”

  “Oh, God, Magnus, we can’t let this happen. I’m going to Placidia.”

  “You will not!” He took hold of her arms, his grip unbearably strong. “In this I stand firm. Do not tell her, else I’ll be forced to — ”

  “What?” she screamed at him in fury, struggling against him. “What will you do?”

  He pulled her close, his muscles rock-solid. Breathing hard, she tried to wriggle free, but it was futile. “Magnus, let go of me!”

  “I love you, but … ” His voice was low, implacable. “As your husband, I demand your obedience in this. Do not tell anyone, certainly not her. Ever.”

  He released her. Blinded by tears, she fell sobbing onto the bed. Later, she could not recall how long it was before he left, or if he’d said anything more.

  • • •

  Night, that great dark beast, crept over the land. In the shadows, Randegund sat in her tent, stirring sleeping powder into a cup of blood-red wine.

  Black thoughts hit her like wind gusts, tearing at her soul. O, Despoiler Romans, Most Hated Ones! You who stood amongst us when my beloved foster-son, Alaric, was laid to rest. Magnus! Gigi! Placidia!

  She saw it all again, unbidden memories, the travesty of this day. How dare you act the Visigoth and carry his body, Magnus! Defiler! And you, Gigi, how dare you give Placidia your dagger, so the princess-whore could pollute my precious son’s grave with her filthy Roman hair! How dare you take Verica in your arms, Placidia, and declare yourself one of us! Athaulf’s true wife rests in her grave in Noricum. In my eyes, you are nothing compared to her. Nothing!

  She balled her fists, squeezing them until the nails bit into her skin and she bled. But how could she get to them? Those three were too well protected by their guile, and by her foolish, misguided children, Athaulf and Verica.

  By the Furies, she had to find a way to rid her people of the Roman infiltrators. Would that they were included with the slaves at the river and butchered this day. How she would have loved to do it herself!

  Hands shaking, Randegund took up the wine potion, cursing as she spilt some on herself. Her daughter would have need of it in the coming nights and none must be wasted, for Verica was bereft, sick with grief.

  As are we all, Randegund bitterly thought. Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes, and she let them course down her face, watching as they fell into the potion and mingled with its secrets.

  What would you do? she asked, touching her breast.

  But Nemesis did not stir.

  Randegund almost flung the cup in outrage, but fought with herself for patience. The goddess would answer in her own time.

  She took the potion and carefully placed it on a table. Verica, only daughter of my womb, who does not easily thank me or care for my regard any more. These days, you have other concerns, other loves.

  And Alaric’s love was no more. He was gone. Dead.

  All because of them!

  Sitting in the gloom, Randegund placed her hands over her ears, rocking to and fro, repeating the names, hating the names. Roman filth! Magnus! Gigi! Placidia! Her anger redoubled, and she leapt up, her fury imparting a strength she hadn’t felt in years. A blood sacrifice would serve as a balm both to her and Nemesis.

  With a cry, she reached for her knife and stormed outside.

  • • •

  Sergeric wiped his sweaty hands on his tunic, hating the creepy darkness of these southern woods, hating even more the Romans with whom he had been ordered to meet. Imperial spies — shit-eating Roman dogs!

  He slipped unnoticed past the outermost ring of sentries, heading for an ancient oak, the meeting place according to his elder brother’s secret missive. Sarus must know what he is doing, he told himself, even if I do not understand why he would ask me to risk so much.

  Eyes straining against the dark, Sergeric crept forward until he spotted the silhouette of a great tree, bare branches twisting toward the star-filled sky. He halted and looked around. Unnerved, he felt as if the eyes of his people were watching his deeds, waiting to strike. Treason would bring a horrible end, mutilation first, the removal of the eyes, nose, ears, and tongue, then death by strangulation.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, berating himself for allowing fear to rule his heart, and for questioning his elder brother’s intentions. His loyalty to Sarus superseded all else, yet he was plagued with doubt just the same. What was his brother thinking? After all, time was on their side. Alaric was dead, and Sergeric was about to make a move for the kingship. Many said they would vote for him, for there was a groundswell of ill feeling toward Athaulf, because of Placidia.

  Suddenly, there was a rustling of leaves, the faintest sound.

  Wary, Sergeric touche
d his sword hilt as two shadowy figures appeared from the deeper gloom of the forest.

  “Sarus is our general,” one of the men whispered to him.

  “Sarus is my brother,” Sergeric answered back.

  • • •

  Randegund stood in the dark, gripping her knife. She could smell the Romans in her midst, the sweet stink of their fish sauce, the repulsive garum, filling the air.

  She glanced at the goat she had ritually slaughtered. It lay in the shadows near the mighty, sacred oak, her pleas and prayers at its killing a silent testament to the power of the gods. Smiling, she thanked them again, for she knew her sacrifice had brought forth these Romans, who now huddled together, the scum.

  They were speaking in whispers, but she cared not what they said. She would get her revenge on them this night, a poor substitute for her real enemies, but a substitute nonetheless.

  Raising her knife, she inched forward, about to strike, when one voice rose above the whisperings, “The general’s instructions were exactly as stated, Sergeric. By whatever means possible, capture Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus and his wife. Bring them to us for transport to Ravenna.”

  “But how?” Sergeric asked in confusion.

  “By whatever means possible,” came the angry reply. “The emperor has special need of them, as entertainment for games he will hold in celebration of Alaric’s death.”

  Randegund froze. Bastard of Rome! she wanted to scream. Would that I could slit your throat and bathe in your blood, Honorius. I would gladly feed your eyes, tongue, and cock to the crows!

  She used all her strength to control her rage, for the gods were kind, and they would strike the foul emperor in time. As for Magnus and his bitch-wife, they were to be taken to him. Oh, would that she could see with her own eyes what he had in store for them. This was the answer to her prayers.

  But the stupid oaf, Sergeric, must be assisted in this, otherwise he would surely spoil the plan. She stared at the three black figures, hating them all, but most especially the miserable traitor. Yet now she would use him for her own ends, her mind awhirl.