Chapter Seven

P lacidia woke to her hands and feet feeling warm for the first time since the season had turned. A feeling of strange coolness, however, bathed her upper body. She squinted her eyes open—and started when she realized she was lying next to Athaulf, the blanket pushed down to her waist.

He was awake too, his gaze roving over her bare torso with unmistakable lust.

"Oh!" Placidia grabbed for the blanket and yanked it up to cover her. She had only shed her clothes last night because he'd convinced her that he couldn't see her. And if he couldn't see her body, then there was no modesty to guard.

But being naked in broad daylight—being in his bed like this—was another matter entirely.

"What's the matter?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Cold again?"

"You weren't supposed to see me," she protested. "It's not decent. You're not my husband."

"You don't have a husband."

"Exactly!" She drew another handful of the blanket closer, which had the disconcerting effect of revealing his own body. Her eyes lingered on the muscles of his chest; how deliciously warm that flesh had felt against her palms last night. The top of his hip was just barely visible above the fraying hem of the blanket, and below that…

"Do you even want a husband?" he asked.

She tore her gaze away, focusing instead on the blank wall of the tent. Less pleasurable matters intruded. "You ask as if I have a choice. The only reason I've remained unmarried this long is because my brother is holding out for the best offer. The highest bidder."

Athaulf grimaced. "You Romans treat women worse than animals. Even a mare may refuse a stallion, after all."

She lifted an eyebrow. "The future of an empire does not rest on the shoulders of any mares that I know."

"The future of your empire is bleak," Athaulf said. "I would not stake much on that, if I were you."

She shook her hair out over her back, the urge to defend her people rising in her chest. "You may have taken Rome, but the empire is much more than one city. Alaric will not topple it so easily."

Athaulf sat up, bringing the magnificence of his upper body into even sharper relief. "Alaric will not rest until there are no more Romans. Only Goths who used to call themselves Roman."

"And you?" Placidia asked, reaching for her discarded dress of last night while holding the blanket firmly to her chest with her other hand.

"I have no quarrel with Rome. I only want land for my people, a safe and fruitful place to call home."

And yet you've thrown your lot in with Alaric, all for your sister's sake. Placidia was about to voice this thought aloud when a soldier called from outside their tent, speaking rapidly in the Gothic language. Placidia had picked up a few words, and she thought she heard Alaric's name.

Athaulf listened, shouted a reply, then turned to her. "Alaric wishes to see us. We must dress."

She gave him her most imperious look. "You will turn your back."

He shot her a crooked smile. "If you insist, princess." He rose to his feet in a fluid movement, briefly revealing all of him to her shocked gaze, then turned around, presenting her with a full view of his sinewy back, corded thighs, and equally muscular rear.

She stared open mouthed for a hungry moment before she remembered herself, and fumbled her dress over her head.

*

As soon as she stepped into Alaric's tent, Placidia realized that whatever reason the king had summoned them for was not good news. A ceramic pitcher lay smashed on the ground, its contents seeping into the woven rug, and the stools that usually clustered around Alaric's desk were overturned. Eurica, often at her husband's side, was nowhere to be seen.

The king himself was red faced and pacing, a piece of parchment clutched half-crumpled in his big hand. Upon their entrance, Alaric shot a murderous glare at Placidia and then shoved the parchment into Athaulf's chest. "Read that."

Athaulf raised an eyebrow as he took the paper. His eyes skimmed over it quickly. As he read, Alaric continued to glower at Placidia with such menace she half-expected him to leap for her throat right then and there.

Though a shiver of fear ran down her spine, Placidia met his gaze with calmness, as if she noticed nothing amiss. She used to do the same during her brother's childhood tantrums, though most of the time it only served to infuriate him further.

Beneath Alaric's anger, he looked rather unwell. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and there was a glassiness to his eyes that made Placidia think he might be ill. Even if he were, an illness was doing nothing to temper his rage.

"Safe passage," Athaulf said as he finished reading. His dark eyes flicked to Placidia. "Honorius Augustus offers safe passage from Italy to the Gothic army upon the return of his beloved sister."

Placidia drew in a sharp breath. So the ransom offer had finally come, and it was…less than satisfactory.

"Safe. Passage," Alaric snarled. He advanced on Placidia. "Is your brother truly such an imbecile? Does he not realize we are currently the strongest military force in Italy? We do not need safe passage ," he spat. "Can he not comprehend that I hold the fate of his closest blood relation in my hands?"

Placidia swallowed hard. She mentally cast a brief, bitter curse on Honorius's name. What was he playing at? Was he actually trying to get her killed with such an insulting ransom offer? "My brother can be…imprudent." She strove to keep her voice from shaking. "If you were to return a counteroffer, I'm sure it would be well-considered."

"Yes, a counteroffer," Alaric said, and for a foolish moment Placidia thought he was actually pondering it. Then he snatched Placidia's right wrist in a crushing grip, the heat of his hand almost burning. "My counteroffer will be sending you back to him in pieces ."

"Alaric." From behind her, Athaulf's voice was low, a warning.

The king dragged her over to the desk and slammed her hand down onto it. He drew a short, wickedly sharp knife from the sheath at his hip. "Which of your fingers are you least fond of, princess?"

Placidia met his enraged gaze. Beneath the fury swirling in his eyes, she saw that he was deadly serious, not bluffing or posturing. Her mouth went dry as icy cold settled over her.

"Alaric," Athaulf said again, louder this time.

The king paid no attention to his brother-in-law. Placidia steeled herself as he adjusted his grip on the hilt of the knife. She didn't bother trying to beg or plead. Alaric was going to do this, was going to cut off her finger, and she was powerless to stop him.

The knife slashed down. Placidia squeezed her eyes shut.

An impact knocked Placidia to the floor. Her eyes flew open to see that Athaulf had tackled Alaric, crashing into the desk. The knife clattered out of Alaric's grip. The desk toppled, and the two men wrestled viciously on the floor. Fists thudded against flesh. For a moment it seemed like Athaulf had the upper hand, but Alaric, with his broader reach, managed to flip him onto his back, pinning him.

"How dare you defy me," Alaric snarled. "I should kill her now, just to free you from whatever hold she has on you."

"She's done nothing," Athaulf grunted, still trying to escape Alaric's hold. "Don't punish her for her brother's stupidity."

Alaric drew back his fist, preparing to land a savage punch to Athaulf's face. Placidia clapped a hand to her mouth, choking back a cry. But something seemed to come over Alaric, and he faltered. A pallor encroached beneath his ruddy skin, and the fury in his eyes turned hazy. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his clenched fist began to shake.

Athaulf also seemed to notice the change, for he stopped struggling. "Alaric?"

The king crumpled to the ground, falling to the side of Athaulf.

Athaulf sprang up, grabbing Alaric's shoulders and shaking him with no effect. He pressed a hand to Alaric's face and uttered a low curse. "He's on fire." He turned to Placidia, face grave. His lip was split from the fight, and blood oozed down his chin, but he paid it no mind. "Fetch Eurica. I fear it may be the Roman fever."

*

Athaulf paced outside Alaric's tent as night fell. Inside, Eurica was tending to her husband, with Placidia's help. When Athaulf had tried to lurk, Eurica had made it clear his presence was unhelpful and unnecessary, so he'd removed himself to wait outside until there was news.

He knew, deep down, that any news that came would be devastating. Alaric's condition had only worsened since morning. Eurica, knowledgeable in the healing arts, had brought a variety of herbs and medicines, but nothing had been successful in easing his fever or the spasms that wracked his large body.

This illness, called Roman fever, plagued the southernmost reaches of Italy, and others in the Gothic army had fallen victim to it in the last few weeks. It didn't seem to be contagious, but it could fell a strong man within days, sometimes hours. Athaulf didn't know of anyone who had survived it.

News had spread through the army quickly of their leader's illness, and the whole camp seemed unnaturally quiet. There were none of the usual noises that filled the twilight, the talking and laughing around campfires, the everyday cooking noises, the clatter of dice on a wooden board.

The tent flap opened, and Placidia emerged, her eyes serious. He went to her immediately, heart leaping into his throat. "Is he…" He couldn't finish the sentence.

"He's asking for you," she murmured, and stood aside from the entrance.

Still alive . Athaulf entered the tent. Eurica knelt on one side of Alaric, clasping his limp hand in hers. Athaulf lowered himself to the ground on the other side. "Placidia said he was asking for me?"

Eurica reached out to stroke Alaric's forehead. "My love? Athaulf is here."

Alaric's eyes slid open, unfocused until they latched onto Athaulf. "Brother," he whispered.

Athaulf's heart clenched painfully. He didn't know how to do this. With Alaric, he knew how to argue, to plan, to laugh. Even to fight, as that morning proved. But he didn't know how to behave when his closest friend was dying before his eyes.

"Are you feeling any better?" It was a hopeless, pointless question, but he didn't know what else to say.

Alaric gave a short, hoarse chuckle. "I think we all know where this is heading."

Eurica gripped his hand even tighter, her face stricken, as if her hold on him could prevent his spirit from slipping away.

"You know what you must do, after I am gone," Alaric continued, his bleary gaze searching Athaulf's face.

Athaulf nodded, bowing his head. "I will lead." Already, he could feel the weight of kingship pressing down upon him. He had never sought power for its own sake, but fate had led him here, and he would do his duty to his people.

The thought of duty made his mind jump to Placidia, and Alaric's accusations during their fight earlier. "I must ask your forgiveness for something." Before it's too late .

Alaric's sweaty brow furrowed slightly. "For Galla Placidia."

Athaulf couldn't tell if that was a statement or a question. "You were right about her. She has a hold on me. I fear I have betrayed our cause."

"You've betrayed nothing. You were right to defy me earlier. I was not myself." He closed his eyes for a moment. "There are worse women to lose your head over than Galla Placidia."

"But she's a Roman. You hate Romans."

"You don't," Alaric pointed out with a shadow of wry humor. "And you're the one falling in love with her, not me."

"I'm not—I don't—" Athaulf stammered.

"I don't have time to argue this." Alaric fixed him with a stern, steady gaze. "The world may not allow you much time with her, so you may as well enjoy what you can."

Athaulf let out a long breath. Alaric's blessing, such as it was, eased a knot of guilt that had been gathering deep inside him. "Thank you."

Alaric closed his eyes. His face relaxed, and Eurica reached out to stroke his hair. "He's asleep," she murmured. "You should leave him to rest."

Athaulf nodded. "Do you need anything? Have you eaten?" He didn't bother trying to persuade her to sleep or leave Alaric's side.

"I have no appetite."

He rose to his feet, then bent and kissed the top of her head. "I will send Placidia to sit with you in a moment." First, there were some things he needed to say to Placidia.

Alaric had absolved him for the moment, but the fact remained that he had been willing to defy his king for her sake. This infatuation was dangerous. She was dangerous. If he were going to assume the mantle of kingship, he needed to do so with a clear head.

*

Placidia lingered outside Alaric's tent while Athaulf was inside. She didn't want to go too far in case Eurica needed something, but her cramped knees appreciated the chance to stand after hours of kneeling on the ground. Despite the fact that Alaric was her enemy, her heart broke for Eurica, and she couldn't bear to leave her to face this alone.

Athaulf emerged from the tent a few minutes later. Bruises had bloomed around his eye since the fight that morning, and his lip was still puffy. Beneath the injuries, his face was drawn with preemptive grief.

"May we speak?" he asked.

She nodded. He beckoned her several paces away from the tent. "It's kind of you to sit with Eurica."

"I would want someone with me if my husband were dying."

He flinched at the final word, and Placidia regretted her too-frank language. Alaric was not only Athaulf's king; they were kinsmen and friends besides. She was overwhelmed with a sudden urge to fold him into her arms and give him what comfort she could, but she held back from such an indecorous display.

"While Alaric is ailing, I hold his power," Athaulf said. "I will accept the ransom offer on his behalf. You may return to your people."

She blinked at him, hardly able to comprehend his words. "You—you would send me back? For nothing in return?"

He nodded, face grave.

Her mind whirled. This was what she had been waiting for. She should be rejoicing at the chance to resume her place in Roman society. She should be racing to Ravenna without a backward glance.

But now that the moment had arrived, she found herself questioning what sort of future her brother's court held for her. She would be subjected to months or years of waiting around for her brother to marry her off to the highest bidder. She would certainly not be granted any influence or responsibility. She would just be the disliked half-sister of a weak emperor, valued only for her bloodline and breeding potential.

Furthermore, she couldn't decipher what induced Athaulf to make this turnabout. She searched for an explanation. "Surely you don't mean to give up the promise of a better ransom just because we…" She had no words for what they had done last night. "Is it guilt? Some sort of misplaced nobility, because I'm your hostage? There's no need for that. I make my own decisions."

"It's because Alaric was right." He stepped closer to her, until she could smell the campfire smoke clinging to his tunic. "You have a hold on me, Placidia, and I can't account for it. If I let you go now—if I send you back to the Romans—I may have a chance of shaking it."

"So you want to get rid of me?"

He grunted a curse in his language. "No, blast it. I long for you every waking moment, and most of my sleeping ones as well. Look at me—my closest friend, my king lies dying and all I can think of is what will make you happy. So if you want to go back to your brother, go." His voice was almost a snarl. "Your escort will leave at dawn."

She swallowed hard, envisioning mounting a horse tomorrow morning that would lead her away from Athaulf, back to the Roman society where she belonged.

But did she belong there? Yes, she hoped one day to be named heir to her brother's throne, but was that likely to happen? Perhaps she had been deluding herself with that aspiration. Honorius only saw her as a tool; he would barter her future with no thought for what she wanted or deserved.

Besides the bleakness and lack of purpose that returning to the Romans would hold, there was also Athaulf to consider. Somehow, attachment had grown between them, and the thought of a future as some stranger's wife filled her with distaste.

"And if I don't wish to go?" she breathed.

He blinked, a furrow appearing between his dark brows. He fixed her with a hard, searching stare, as if trying to decode foreign writing. She held her breath as he surveyed her. Would he force her to leave, to sever their connection?

"Then you remain a hostage," he finally said.

Placidia understood; he was not offering her unconditional freedom, but he was offering her a choice. A rarity in her life, especially the past few months.

She couldn't know what fate had planned for her. Life was perilous, especially in times like these. Honorius could die unexpectedly, freeing her to make a bid for his throne. If she managed the situation correctly, she could even attain the Goths' support for such a feat. She could be the one who turned Rome's greatest enemies to allies.

Or, Honorius could present a new, better ransom offer that the Goths wouldn't refuse so easily, and she could find herself sent back regardless of what she wanted.

But for the moment, she was ready to chance that remaining with the Goths—with Athaulf—was a better choice than returning to the Romans.

"Refuse the offer." Her voice wavered, and she had to clear her throat. "Ravenna has nothing for me. I want to stay here. With you."

The furrow between his brows deepened. "You choose remaining in captivity over returning to your people?"

"I know the life that awaits me at my brother's court. It would be a different kind of captivity. I choose to gamble on the unknown."

He swept an arm out and encircled her waist, pulling her roughly to him. His fingers clutched her spine through her linen dress, his grip hard and unyielding. "Don't toy with me, princess. This life is not easy. We still have no home, no reliable source of food. If you're going to stay, you must be ready for that."

"I know." She had become well-acquainted with all-consuming hunger during the siege of Rome, and even though the rations had improved with the Goths, her belly had not been full once yet. The constant traveling, spending all day on horseback, was exhausting, and sometimes she longed for a real bed and a warm bath.

But the price of those comforts would mean consigning herself to a joyless, aimless future, and she already knew it was not worth it.

"You are still a hostage," he warned her. "Regardless of this, and regardless of…" He cleared his throat. "What happened last night. Or what may happen in the future."

The future . She blushed. If she was to stay, there would doubtless be more nights like last night. More pleasure, more discovery, more Athaulf. "I understand."

"And if a more favorable ransom offer should arrive, one that would benefit my people, I cannot promise the outcome."

"Your duty is to your people." Besides, she doubted Honorius would trouble himself to ransom her again, given how careless his first attempt had been.

Athaulf's hold on her gentled, becoming an embrace rather than a stricture. "Then you will stay." He brushed a kiss onto her forehead.

She closed her eyes at the touch of his lips . Then I will stay .