After the Fall (6 page)

Shivering, she hurried back inside. Warming her hands over a brazier, she breathed in the heady, sweet scent given off by her last, precious hoard of stone pine, then went to her mirror and studied her wavy reflection in the polished bronze. Placidia could make out the dark circles under her eyes, the sharp prominence of her cheekbones matching the increasingly skeletal look of her body. Despite Athaulf’s gifts, she was losing weight. They were all losing weight.

She’d shared his bounty as best she could with her servants and Attalus, and gave out bits and morsels amongst the weakest beggars in the street. But she had to be careful, knowing if it got out the palace was hoarding food, they would be overrun, and possibly killed.

Her mind flitted toward a memory of hazel eyes flecked with green. Passionate eyes. But she reminded herself she could not abandon her people and run to him. No, she had to stay in Rome, even die, if that was God’s will, if that was how hard Honorius’s heart remained, despite her pleas.

“My lady?” Persis asked, as she and Elpidia entered, bringing in Placidia’s warmest night shift and blankets. “How were the gladiatorial contests? Did they amuse? Were the people happy to have something else to think about, beyond finding food?”

Elpidia grumbled at this, and Placidia looked at her for a moment before raising her arms to be undressed. “It was a disaster, and yet the Senate wants to do it again next week.” She paused as Elpidia slipped the shift over her head. “I cannot abide such violence, but I was overruled by Attalus and the other senators. I closed my eyes to the blood.” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard, willing away the images of sodden, red sand, of bodies cut to pieces. “And, do you know, with each death the crowds chanted, ‘Food, food, food,’ and we tried to ignore them, pretending we didn’t understand what they were saying. By the end, though, it … it was horrible … they were howling, insisting the dead be handed over as part of the food rationing.”

Persis recoiled. “No, they didn’t!”

As Placidia’s eyes welled, Elpidia patted her arm, trying to comfort her.

“Heaven help us,” Placidia said, “but the whispers of cannibalism are true! They didn’t even care that such evil desires were given voice so publicly. Everyone was clamoring for the bodies. If not for the guards, I think they would have started tearing at each other.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Senator Attalus has just come in,
Domina
,” Leontius spoke from behind the closed door. “He begs your forgiveness and wishes to speak with you.”

“Tell him I will meet him in my study immediately.” Placidia sighed and stood, squaring her shoulders. “I am sorry, Elpidia. I don’t care if I’m being indecent, but I haven’t the strength of body or will to get redressed.”

“Here, put on your
palla
. With this and your heavy shift you’ll be fine, my dear. You are always a proper lady. Go ahead.”

The hallways echoed with their footsteps as Placidia followed her steward. The palace seemed so empty these days. Many had deserted her or died. Even the three old women she’d brought in were dead, each having lasted less than a week. Since then, dozens in her household had succumbed, and many more had simply vanished. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to look as defeated as she felt, not even to Attalus.

Leontius opened the door to her study, and she went inside. With one look at Attalus’s haggard expression, she wished she’d never come to Rome, wished she’d never been born a princess, wished all these burdens and worries had never been placed at her doorstep. She was only seventeen, after all. She started. No, she was eighteen! Her birthday had been missed, not celebrated or even remembered. God in Heaven, what more could she possibly —

Placidia checked herself. Even now, the spoiled princess lurked within.

She sighed. What grief was Attalus going to add to her heart tonight? By his dour looks, it was something momentous and grim.

Placidia lifted her chin and looked directly into his eyes. “Attalus, what news?”

He bowed. “I am sorry to have to tell you, but this afternoon Serena was arrested while sneaking in through the Quirinalis Gate. It is not the first time this was observed. She has been watched since the murder of her son, although at first we did it for protective measures. However, soon we observed her frequent comings and goings. It is said she brought in contraband — food to be precise. We are not sure how she acquires it. But it is either through the, er, sale of herself, or perhaps she is giving the Visigoths information. At any rate, she is having extensive dealings with them.”

“With King Alaric?” Placidia paused, then blurted, “Not Athaulf!”

“No. The tents of the barbarian leaders are not located in the area she frequents,” Attalus replied. “But there is another, one Sergeric by name, who is known to be corrupt, even disloyal, when it serves his purpose. He has often been seen hanging around the gate. We have reason to believe it is with Sergeric that Serena meets and comes by her food.”

Placidia sat on the closest couch, staring at the floor, on the verge of abandoning all hope, for she feared what was coming. “And what have they decided is to be done with my cousin?”

“The Senate has decreed Serena be brought before the people at next week’s games,” Attalus said flatly, “where she will be charged as a traitor to Rome. The crowd will also be reminded of what she did at the Temple of Rhea years ago, when she stole the offerings to the goddess, just in case anyone has forgotten that travesty. Then they will ask what sentence they would demand for her crimes.”

“They will ask the public? Oh, Lord Almighty, I fear they will have no mercy! Will it be stoning, do you think?” Placidia whispered. “To be carried out immediately?”

“The sentence will be meted out on the spot, certainly, but we must anticipate the plebs will demand much worse than stoning.”

“Dear God. Might she be burned?”

Attalus shrugged. “There is one more thing.”

“What?” she asked weakly. “What more can there possibly be?”

“The Senate insists on your presence.”

Placidia groaned.

“And they want you to publicly give final approval to whatever sentence is demanded. They feel it is the only way for you to remain untarnished by Serena’s guilt, and the only way to keep order.”

• • •

The gray skies hung low, and the wind promised more rain. Placidia snuggled into her fur cape. Resigned to the inevitable, she sat in the imperial stands of the Flavian Amphitheater, surrounded by several senators, Attalus behind her. The sweet smoke of stone pine wafted from several huge braziers, set around the grounds of the great coliseum, not for warmth, but to mask the odors of gore and death.

But on this day
, Placidia thought,
by my orders none have died, and it is not necessary to cleanse the air, at least not yet.
She stared out at the arena floor. Six pairs of gladiators had battled over the course of the afternoon, the winners receiving laudatory palm fronds and pouches of gold. The rain had held off, and she sensed the games were a success, despite the restlessness of the crowd, still seething for blood.

Now, only one event was left to be played out. Placidia quailed at what she was about to witness, her participation a necessary evil.

There was a clatter of gates at one of the field entrances, and all eyes sought the reason. Placidia turned toward the disturbance and saw several legionnaires. They stood rigidly at attention, and behind them, two more legionnaires holding one diminutive woman with long, dark tresses falling loose over her shoulders.

Serena. The moment had come.

People started to hiss and boo as she was led out and made to stand alone in the center of the arena, her hands bound behind her back. She was clothed in a shift too light for the weather, and despite the cold, her chin was high, Placidia noted, a look of utter disdain her only expression.

Near the front railing, the announcer rose in full make-up and blond wig, his clothing gaudy and crass, in the theatrical style. He lifted a hand to quiet the crowd, waiting a moment until everyone grew still. “We have before us, Serena, wife of the traitor General Stilicho!” he called, his voice dulcet, yet loud and clear, a wonder of contradictions.

The crowd roared in blood-thirsty anticipation, and Placidia closed her eyes, feeling shaken and ill. Grabbing the arms of her throne, she took several gulps of air and prayed for strength, for a way out of this madness.

It grew quiet again, and Placidia opened her eyes.

“Serena was caught smuggling food into the city,” the announcer continued, “for her private and personal use, which she received through consort with the very enemy that hems us in and starves us these many weeks, and even at this moment, ongoing.” He pointed at Serena, who glared back. “We also deem it prudent to remind you, this woman is the very same who, some years back, made a mockery of the Temple of Rhea, the Goddess of the Old Ways, and still venerated by many among you. Serena desecrated Rhea’s temple and stole such gifts as had been given in tribute.”

Placidia saw something fly out from the seats behind Serena, striking her cousin on the shoulder with enough force to open the skin and cause bleeding. Cheers rocked the stadium as Serena stumbled, but she managed to keep her footing, haughty, angry, ever defiant.

The announcer raised his hand again. As silence fell once more, Placidia realized she was still gripping her chair. She let go and sat back, her fingers aching.

“Citizens of Rome,” the announcer cried out. “Since the guilt of this woman is beyond question, we have decided to ask you, the people against whom this crime was committed, to bring sentence upon her!”

Jeers and applause. The stands thundered with the stamping of feet.

“What is your sentence?”

“Death! Death! Death!”

Placidia remained still, letting only her eyes move over the scene. People shook their fists and screamed obscenities; some threw whatever they could find, the missiles raining down on the field. Several found their mark, but Serena remained standing and unbowed.

The announcer waved his arms for calm, then, when the voices subsided enough he bellowed, “By what means?”

There was no deciphering the responses, since none were the same, but everyone continued to roar.

He waved his arms again. “Stoning?”

Roars.

“Burning?”

Thunderous noise.

“Disemboweling?”

Placidia could hardly hear the man, and there was no way to make sense of what the crowd preferred. He said something else, but his voice was lost in the din, and finally he nodded, then motioned for quiet. As a hush fell over the crowd, he suddenly turned with a flourish and faced Placidia.

The brusqueness of the move took her by surprise, and she sat there, cold with dread.

“Stand,” Attalus whispered in her ear.

With difficulty, Placidia shrugged off her cape and rose. “What is the people’s decision?” she asked, her voice sounding strange and throaty, as if it belonged to another.

“Aelia Galla Placidia, Most Noble Princess of Rome and the Empire, the people have chosen beheading, to be carried out immediately!”

Placidia blinked several times, trying to manage her surprise. She hadn’t heard a single voice call out for so humane a method of execution, and she guessed Attalus had something to do with it, although he bore Serena no goodwill.

Placidia focused on her cousin, and Serena stared back with a smirk, unmoving, daring her to pronounce condemnation, mocking her failure to do so.

How she hated evil, loathsome Serena! Placidia reminded herself of all the wrongs this woman had committed in her lifetime, reminded herself she was every bit the craven monster Honorius was, reminded herself this woman was uncaring, vengeful, and utterly without compassion.

Compassion.

Placidia tried to calm her breathing as she looked into eyes that would soon be without life. Whatever Serena’s faults, Placidia fervently wished she could show her compassion, even now, but that was not an option.

Instead, she drew in a deep breath and raised her fist with an extended thumb, drawing a line over her throat in the
pollice verso
, the death signal, final, so very final.

“Let the people’s decision be carried out!” she ordered.

The noise throbbed in Placidia’s ears, pulsated across the arena, as two legionnaires grasped Serena’s arms and forced her to her knees. A third took hold of the ends of her hair from the front, pulling it all forward, forcing her face down and exposing the nape of her neck.

Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder ripped through the heavens. A storm was upon them. Huge raindrops began to pelt the arena.

Another flash of light, this time daylight on blade, and the stroke descended with a terrible force.

Placidia’s legs gave way and she almost fell, but Attalus caught her in time, holding her up before the people, to witness this last, Serena’s end, for the sake of the Eternal City, for Rome, her Rome.

Three days without rain — it was like heaven. Wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, Gigi walked through the lanes between tents, choosing her footing carefully. The morning had dawned overcast and bitterly cold. Frost coated everything, and the puddles had all iced over. If this chill stayed around, and the rains came back, they would be knee-deep in snow in no time. And what would that mean for Rome? For Placidia?

Damn this weather! Damn obstinate men! Triple damn that bastard Honorius for ignoring everything that’s going on!

She made her way to a rise topped with a lone cypress, her breath making little clouds before it disappeared. Gigi looked at the vista, Rome, so beautiful as it sparkled in the morning light — so terrible, too, and in such agony.

Gigi put her flute to her lips and played some arpeggios to warm up. Then, raising her eyes to the great cityscape, she played an original piece she had developed over the past weeks. She thought of it as her “Ode to Rome” and hoped it could be heard all the way into the city, to encourage and give hope, to let them know they were not forgotten.