After the Fall(55)
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.