After the Fall(12)
• • •
The sculptor was covered in marble dust, chiseling, chiseling. The bust was starting to take shape, already hinting at the man’s genius, but Honorius yawned in boredom. He hated the heavenward gaze of his statue’s cold, marble eyes, but it was necessary, reminding the plebs he was God’s Chosen One.
As the artist tenderly wiped the stone with his fingers, stroking the cold marble as though it were a woman’s flesh, Honorius scoffed and motioned for Britomartis and Adriadne. They hurried forward to do his bidding.
He pulled Adriadne close, kissing her throat, her skin smooth, warm, and scented with rose water. “Massage our neck and shoulders,” he said. He felt Britomartis nestle against him. “And you,” he grabbed hold of her shapely behind, “you little minx, we desire a leg tickle.”
Giggling, the girls playfully struggled away from him, then started to massage. He closed his eyes, their fingers soft upon his body, exactly the way he liked it. He reveled in the ripples of pleasure running up and down his legs, the deeper caresses erasing the tension in his back.
“My lord,” Britomartis whispered, “I think you would purr if you could.”
Honorius laughed. “Where is Rutilius Namatianus?”
“I am here,” he called from the corridor.
Honorius didn’t bother to open his eyes. “We are bored. Recite your most recent poem for us.”
There was silence. Only the tap, tap of the sculptor’s chisel filled the air.
Honorius opened his eyes. Namatianus stood there, gaping like an idiot.
“My lord, it is not yet finished,” the man protested. “Perhaps I — ”
Honorius frowned. “We care not. Recite what you have written so far.”
Namatianus nodded, breathed deeply, and then intoned:
“Hear, O beautiful Queen of the World which is thine,
O Rome now received among the celestial spheres!
Hear, O Mother of Men and Mother of Gods,
Thou who, through thy temples,
Make us feel less distant from the heavens!
We sing of thee and always of thee —
As long as the Fates allow, we sing.
Thou hast created for people of every country a single fatherland;
For lawless peoples it was great fortune to be subjugated by thee.
In offering the vanquished the equality of thy rights,
Thou hast made a city of what once was the world.”
Honorius was suddenly aware the girls’ fingers had stopped, the sculptor’s chisel was still. This pleased him, for he too was enchanted by the words.
“Urbem fecisti quod prius orbis erat,” he said, whispering the final line. Thou hast made a city of what once was the world.
How true it was! If only the cursed Visigoths could understand.
Namatianus cleared his throat. “As I said before, the poem is not yet finished. I plan to honor you in the next stanzas, Venerabilis, for you are the personification of Rome’s glory, come to life.”
Honorius yawned again. As the massage resumed, he realized he was feeling quite tired. He bade the girls cease and started to rise.
“Forgive the intrusion, O most excellent Honorius.”
He turned as the captain of his guards ushered in a stranger carrying a wooden box. The man went down on one knee.
“My lord,” the captain said, “this courier has a gift for you, sent by a citizen of Rome.”
Honorius’s pulse quickened. Those were code words, meaning it was over, done. “Open the box,” he ordered eagerly.
The man looked at the women and hesitated.
Honorius tapped his foot. “Open it!”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He pulled off the lid, reached inside, and brought forth a small head, that of a child.
Honorius ignored the sound of the chisel clattering to the floor, the screams of the girls, the horrified gasp of Rutilius Namatianus. He bent closer, unmoved by the stench of decay, fascinated by what had happened to Eucherius’s face.
The boy looked strange, wizened, like an old monkey. Ah, what to do with such a dreadfully wonderful thing?
Rubbing his chin, Honorius recalled an old saying, If I cannot bend Heaven, I shall move Hell.
Clapping his hands, he said, “Pickle it! If Alaric the Uncouth dares to cause any more trouble, we shall send this to him, reminding him of our power.”
• • •
Placidia gazed at the leaden morning sky, its gloomy promise matching the feel of her heart. She turned to Gigi. “I miss you already. I wish you could stay longer,” she said, hugging her. “Magnus, take good care of her.”