After the Fall(6)
“Bring him here,” Alaric said.
Magnus exchanged a look with Gigi. She glanced at his hands, so steady, no hint of nerves. She gripped her mug, striving to match his calm. Who was coming? What was going to happen now? She turned as several Visigoth scouts walked forward, escorting a lone, balding man with a fringe of graying hair, wearing a white toga bordered with purple.
“Attalus, you old dog,” Magnus exclaimed, leaping to his feet.
“Magnus?” The man looked stunned. “Well, damn me straight to Hades! We were all wondering what had happened to you.”
The two Romans clasped forearms, then embraced.
Attalus glanced at Gigi. “I see you found your beautiful flute player.”
Magnus grinned. “Indeed. My Gigiperrin. And now she is my wife.”
“My sincerest felicitations,” Attalus said, slapping Magnus on the back before turning to Gigi. “It is about time someone tamed this grizzled warrior.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Gigi laughed.
Alaric broke in, “Priscus Attalus, welcome. What brings you here?”
Attalus bowed. “O most excellent King Alaric,” he intoned, “I am here to extend an invitation on behalf of the Nobilissima Puella, Aelia Galla Placidia. She desires to meet tomorrow eve with ambassadors of your own choosing to discuss our mutual concerns. She plans a banquet in their honor and ensures their safety within the walls of Rome — and their safe return.”
Hearing this, Gigi felt her heart race with anticipation. Magnus must have felt the same, because he quickly said, “King Alaric, if I might be so bold, sending Gigi and me would be seen as a gesture of friendship.”
“I concur,” Alaric agreed. “The two of you shall go to Rome, to sup with Galla Placidia. And Athaulf shall accompany you. He can speak for us and shall benefit from a look at the city, to see her full splendor, before … ”
The king let his voice trail off, and Gigi saw Attalus pale ever so slightly, as if he understood, as if he knew what was coming.
• • •
The next day, Gigi, Magnus, Athaulf, and Senator Attalus and his bodyguards rode their horses along the Via Salaria toward Rome. As they drew closer, the city’s massive walls and then the Salarian Gate came into view. It was a solid, rather plain archway of squared stones, with a gallery above flanked by two brick towers. They were manned by soldiers wearing the Roman-style, bristle-topped helmets. People streamed through the gate, while hundreds of wagons and carts congested the road.
“I never imagined it would be so crowded,” she said to herself, wishing she could share this with her grandfather, her dear Grand-père, who had loved studying the ancient world, especially Rome.
Senator Attalus moved his horse alongside. “Within the walls, there are perhaps one million people. Far too many, if you ask me. We patricians are few; the rest are the plebecula, the masses who even now care for little else than bread and circuses.” He shrugged. “And, because of the overcrowding, we must leave our horses here and proceed inside on foot. We shall have a contingent of imperial guards protecting us from the plebs.”
Honorius’s thugs? With a shiver, Gigi handed off her horse and strained to see beyond the gate, looking for big, hairy German-types with axes. She shot Magnus a glance, glad he was less recognizable these days, then adjusted her palla, attempting to hide her face.
Before they passed through the gate, the men stopped and urinated in urns provided by the guild of fullers, to facilitate the bleaching and dying of their cloth. Gigi turned her head away, embarrassed to watch a bunch of men peeing, and wondered where she might go. Magnus assured her public latrines were placed at regular and convenient intervals throughout the city.
They continued on, pushing their way through the throng, to where the Palatini guards stood waiting. Their leader saluted Attalus, then briefly eyed Magnus and Athaulf. Gigi hazarded a glance at the man, but there was nothing telling in his gaze, no hint of interest or recognition. The other soldiers stood at attention, carefully training their eyes on the distance. She felt a small measure of relief as the party set off, although her palla was still close about her face.
The chaos of the Roman streets was astounding compared to Ravenna, the noises every bit as loud as any modern metropolis, but the smells were different — a combination of wood smoke, fish, and garlic, loads of garlic.
Roma, Caput Mundi — the capital of the world. How different the city looked, how ancient and splendid. Gigi gawked at the throng, multiethnic and mostly young, all moving in a swirl of tunics and gowns. The Roman Empire’s reach was vast, but she was still surprised to see the occasional person with jet-black hair and slanted eyes, clearly someone from central Asia or beyond; some were richly dressed merchants, but others wore simple tunics and had pierced ears, the mark of slaves coming from the Far East. The Empire’s connections with the northern realms was evident, too, in that many of the younger Roman women had blue streaks in their hair, a new style copied from the barbarians of Britain.