After the Fall(8)
The room was silent, the air pulsating, waiting, and Placidia knew there was something she must say, but she couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even find her voice.
She opened her mouth to speak, blinked, and tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry, and still he held her, caressed her, reached into her very soul with his wondrous eyes.
“A-hem, O most gracious Placidia.” Another man stepped forward and went down on one knee, as did the woman standing beside him.
Athaulf dropped his gaze and Placidia’s wavered, then broke, and she drew a deep breath as she turned to the other two. They knelt before her, their gazes fixed on the floor. Flustered, she realized the man’s voice had sounded familiar, and she stepped closer, trying to see his face.
“Please rise,” Placidia said. “Do I know you?”
The pair got to their feet, the man towering over her.
He smiled through his heavy beard. “I believe you do, under less hairy circumstances.”
Placidia gasped, then abandoned all decorum, launching herself into his arms. “Magnus! Magnus! Oh, how I have missed you!”
Magnus laughed, hugging her tenderly. “And I have missed you, dearest Placidia. Rome is treating you well, I hope?”
“Of course,” she replied, wiping her sudden tears. “We have so much to talk about, so much catching up to do. Oh, Magnus, I am so glad to see you!”
His eyes twinkled mischievously. “There is someone I would like you to meet. May I present my wife?”
“What?” Stunned, Placidia looked at the woman beside Magnus, and as recognition dawned, they fell into each other’s arms, laughing. “Gigi, dear, dear Gigi. I thought you dead, and knew Magnus’s heart would surely die with you. What a blessing this is! What a blessing to see you both again, and married — for love! I knew it! I just knew how strongly you felt about each other!”
Behind her, Placidia heard Attalus clear his throat, and she reluctantly disengaged from her friends and returned to her duties, carefully avoiding the hazel eyes that had so captivated her moments before.
“Please forgive my, er, inattention,” she said to Attalus. “I hadn’t expected such wonderful gifts. I am in your debt, for you have restored my friends to me, but perhaps I can repay it in some small amount, by treating all of you to a banquet.” She sensed Athaulf’s eyes on her, but forced herself to concentrate on her responsibilities as a royal hostess. “For now, let us dine and enjoy each other’s company, and when we have had our fill of good food and fine wine and beer,” her eyes flickered unwittingly to the irresistible Visigoth, “we might be more easily disposed to discuss your king’s concerns, and the reasons that bring you to Rome.”
• • •
Placidia lay in her bed unable to sleep, her head roll clasped tightly to her chest. It was clear: Magnus and Gigi had turned their backs on the Empire forever. They would do everything in their power to protect the city of Rome and her people, and Placidia in particular, but the heavy demands of the Visigoths were not negotiable, and their allegiance was now to them.
Already, she had sent envoys north to Ravenna, to inform Honorius of King Alaric’s demands, to inform him they now held Rome hostage, and to plead for payment, for his intervention in the situation, so the siege might be quickly lifted. It horrified her to be so closely linked to an emperor who had done so much harm to this landless people.
And then, there was the king’s brother-in-law, Athaulf, and it was to him her mind constantly returned, refusing to stay away long, refusing to dwell on mere matters of state. She had never before felt the blood flowing hot and powerful in her veins, like it did every time she looked at him, every time their eyes met.
Placidia moaned and rolled over, unable to remain calm as she recalled his eyes, his smile, the shape of his lips against the goblet of wine.
How she wished everyone else had left the banquet! How she wished to taste those lips, to feel his hands upon her. She could still smell his scent, the heady fragrances of leather and lavender. And she remembered how his gaze had locked with hers again and again, how he looked as if he could devour her with his eyes, as if he too wished they were the only ones in the room.
She sighed. God help me, but I love him. I love Athaulf. A Visigoth! And she knew there was a connection between them that would never be broken, knew he was thinking of her, was certain his night would be just as disrupted as hers, because Athaulf the Barbarian loved her, too!
She clasped her hands together. Lord, give me strength — wisdom! Oh, why must I be tested so?