Chapter Two

…a man of imposing beauty and great spirit; for though not tall of stature, he was distinguished for beauty of face and form.

—Jordanes, Getica (XXX), describing Athaulf

P lacidia lay awake in the darkened tent, listening to the steady breathing of her captor and tent-mate. Her mind turned over and over the events of the past few hours. Images flashed behind her eyes. Bodies in the streets. Buildings aflame. The terrified masses huddled in the doorways of the churches. The moment she'd come face to face with the Goths. The first time she'd locked eyes with Athaulf. An echo of the strange sensation she'd felt then passed over her in a shiver.

All in all, the Goths were not as she expected. Their leader quoted Homer, laughed at her obscure quip about Agamemnon, and preserved the sanctity of churches. Their second-in-command was honorable enough not to violate her, even if it was only to secure the best possible ransom. He hadn't even so much as groped her.

It was a low standard to hold a man to, but her expectations of the Goths had been even lower.

Gradually, the walls of the tent turned from black to gray as night faded. Placidia gave up on sleep and turned her attention to her hair. She extricated the pins, which were now tangled in her curls, and combed her fingers through the locks as well as she could. She bound her hair into a long braid, then pinned it up at the back of her head.

As the light in the tent increased, she allowed herself to glance over the face of her sleeping captor. The vicious beauty of his refined features begged her eyes to linger, as if trying to decode how a rough, uncivilized warrior could be so inexplicably handsome.

Soon, Athaulf woke. He glanced at her as he rose, as if to make sure she was still there, but didn't bother greeting her as he threw a tunic over his bare chest.

A female voice sounded outside the tent, speaking rapidly in the Gothic language, and a moment later the tent flap opened, revealing a pretty brown-haired woman closely followed by Alaric.

The woman's hazel eyes snapped to Placidia with an expression of delighted curiosity. Athaulf bent to kiss her forehead with a greeting.

"My sister, Eurica," he explained to Placidia. "It seems she is eager to meet you."

To gawk, more likely. Placidia rose to her feet, shaking the folds from her horribly wrinkled silk dress and mantle, and inclined her head respectfully to the Gothic queen.

Eurica stared at her for a moment, then returned the gesture. She wore a loose dress of light green linen, belted at the waist with an elaborately tooled girdle of gold inlaid with gemstones. She shared a strong sibling resemblance with Athaulf, though her coloring was slightly lighter, with hair the brown of an autumn leaf and eyes that sparkled hazel.

Alaric wrapped an arm around his wife's waist. "Do our accommodations suit you, princess?" His words had a sarcastic edge, and she sensed he was trying to rankle her.

She summoned a genteel smile, as if responding to an inquiry from an aristocrat hosting her at a coastal villa. "They suit me very well."

Alaric murmured in his wife's ear, possibly translating Placidia's response. Athaulf picked up the pouch full of jewelry that he'd stripped from her last night, and handed it to Eurica. He spoke a few words, likely telling her of its origins, for the woman glanced at Placidia before opening the pouch and sifting through the jewelry. She made several exclamations of delight as she examined the pieces. Alaric helped fasten the necklace around her throat, surveying his wife with unmistakable pride.

Though Placidia strove to retain her cool demeanor, her lips pressed together at the sight of the Gothic queen bedecked in her mother's jewelry. She had one day imagined passing those pieces down to her own daughter, and now they were lost to her forever.

At least Eurica seemed to appreciate the items, holding her hands out before her to admire the way the morning sunlight flashed on the gemstones.

"Please tell her…" Placidia cleared her throat, her voice suddenly raspy. "Please tell her she looks very fine." She was determined to show these Goths that she would not be distressed by something so inconsequential as the loss of some jewels. Not when many in her city had lost everything last night, and the survivors were left to scrape a future from a city of ash and ruin.

Alaric relayed the message. Eurica's gaze returned to Placidia, and sympathy softened her eyes. She twisted one ring, a large emerald set in gold, from her finger and handed it out to Placidia.

Placidia hesitated, unsure if she was sincere. Eurica spoke, proffering the ring once more.

"She wants you to have it," Athaulf said quietly.

Placidia stepped forward and took the ring. "Thank you," she murmured as she slid it onto her middle finger. The unexpected kindness, after the upheaval of the last day, almost undid her composure. Her eyes stung, and a sob welled up in the back of her throat. She forced it down. There would be time to cry later, but she would not do it in front of them.

Alaric wrapped his arms around his wife's middle from behind, resting his chin atop her head. "See how kind-hearted my wife is? She would never murder me in a bathtub." He chuckled.

Placidia allowed herself a small smile, though she felt as if she should glance away from the close way Alaric was holding his wife. Such displays of affection were unseemly, especially from a king.

But Eurica didn't seem to mind. She relaxed into her husband's embrace, smiling up at him.

Alaric and Athaulf exchanged a few words in their language, and then Alaric and his queen left. Placidia stared after them, twisting the emerald ring.

Now that she had survived her first night among the Goths, her mind turned to what came next. Already, she was learning that the Goths weren't the unreasonable monsters she had expected. Placidia calculated that she had at least a few weeks to spend as their hostage while ransom negotiations took place. She could wait idly to be rescued, or she could find a way to turn this time to her own ends.

Being this close to the leaders of their enemy could become an invaluable asset. If she could prove to her brother and his advisors that the Goths could be reasoned with, she could potentially lay the groundwork for a peace treaty, and stop any further destruction or bloodshed.

Such a feat would also bolster her own standing as a viable heir to the imperial throne. Neither of her brother's two marriages had produced children, and though he was only four years older than her, illness or accident could strike at any time.

In the event that he died with no heirs, Placidia intended to position herself as the rightful empress. It was why she'd stayed in Rome during the siege, to prove herself a capable leader. A future empress would not squander this opportunity to learn the inner workings of their enemies, so she would put her captivity to good use.

*

After three days, the Gothic army prepared to leave Rome. Placidia had expected them to stay and enjoy the spoils of victory longer, but there was no food to be had in the city, and as Athaulf succinctly put it, "we can't eat gold."

There certainly was plenty of that—the army departed Rome with wagon after wagon stuffed with plunder. Placidia was installed in one of those wagons, wedged between trunks filled with coins, jewelry, and some unfortunate family's silver dinnerware. The message was clear—Placidia was as much a part of their spoils as the silver plates clattering around in a corner of the wagon.

A rope around her ankle secured her to a slat of the wagon, but it was long enough to allow her to move around freely inside the cart. A man walked in front of the wagon, leading the horse that pulled it.

Athaulf rode next to her on a large brown horse, which afforded Placidia too many opportunities to catch glimpses of his trouser-clad thighs wrapped around the horse's middle. She had gotten used to his near-constant presence over the last few days but hadn't become accustomed to his disconcerting effect on her. Her only explanation was that her mind had somehow become addled after the shock of the city's conquest. Never before had a man caught her attention this way, and she didn't like it.

Placidia looked over her shoulder for a last glimpse of the city walls retreating in the distance. Thin tendrils of smoke still curled into the air from stubborn fires. Her heart clenched for the people left behind, grieving the loss of their homes and loved ones.

As she took in her last sight of the city, something occurred to her. They seemed to be heading south, not north to Ravenna where her brother could ransom her.

She clambered over a trunk to the edge of the wagon closest to Athaulf. "Why are we heading south?" she demanded.

"The south has food," Athaulf replied, glancing over to her.

"But Ravenna is in the north."

"I'm aware."

She pressed her lips together in frustration. "I thought Alaric wished to ransom me. Surely he needs to take me to Ravenna in order to do that."

"The emperor's emissaries will come to us," Athaulf said. "It takes no more than six days to reach Ravenna from Rome on a fast horse. Word of your capture will shortly reach your brother, and he'll no doubt send someone south in haste. We won't be hard to find."

Placidia exhaled through her teeth. "I see." She tried to think of where the army could be heading. "Are we bound for Naples? Are you going to try to capture it as well?"

"Yes and no. Alaric wishes to purchase ships at Naples, and sail to Africa before winter sets in."

"Africa!" she exclaimed.

"We've been starving for nearly as long as you have, princess. Africa has food."

He was right—the majority of Rome's grain came from Egypt and northern Africa. Her meals for the past few days had consisted of nothing more than a watery broth with some unidentifiable plants stewed in it, likely weeds. The Goths numbered but almost 200,000 people, between the warriors and their families, and the train of people and wagons stretched for miles. It would take more than hunting and foraging to feed a horde of this magnitude.

"Don't worry, princess," Athaulf said. "You'll be back among your Romans before autumn."

"I shall hold you to that." She gazed out over the ranks of riders and people on foot before her. At the very head of the column, she spotted Alaric's broad back and mane of golden hair. Eurica rode next to him, and from their movements, Placidia could tell they were chatting amiably. "Did you arrange the marriage between your sister and Alaric?"

He gave a short chuckle. "Hardly. Eurica decided he was the only man for her. I joined his cause after their marriage to make sure he didn't get himself killed and leave my sister a widow." He swept an arm over the miles-long train of marchers. "One third of these men are mine."

Interesting . Athaulf's men would have swelled Alaric's ranks significantly. His alliance with Alaric—due to his sister falling in love—might have made the difference between success or failure for the Gothic king.

As he spoke, Athaulf followed her gaze to where Eurica and Alaric rode together, and unmistakable fondness warmed his dark eyes. A sudden flare of jealousy twisted in her gut. Her half-brother had never looked at her with anything more than distaste, if not outright hostility. His dislike stemmed from jealousy; even as children, she had shown him up in their lessons and now, his ineptitude was whispered about throughout the empire.

Unfortunately, her fate was now in Honorius's hands, and she would have to hope that he summoned enough competence to ransom her from the Goths.