Chapter Eight

They bestowed the kingdom of the Visigoths on Athaulf, his kinsman, a man of imposing beauty and great spirit.

—Jordanes, Getica (XXX)

B y morning, Alaric was dead. He had been fading all night, and Placidia couldn't bring herself to leave Eurica until it was over. She spent the night mopping his forehead with a damp cloth, trying to cool the raging fever, but the effect was like spitting into a campfire.

Now, she blotted the last of the sweat from Alaric's brow and gently closed his eyes as Eurica fell into Athaulf's arms with a keening cry. The queen sounded as if she were being torn in two. Athaulf's face, though stoic, was stricken, and he held his sister in a rocking embrace as she sobbed.

Tears pricked at Placidia's eyes, and she slipped from the tent, not wanting to intrude on their grief.

She swiped roughly at her eyes as she returned to the tent she shared with Athaulf. She should not be crying over the death of the man who had sacked her city, made her a captive, and just yesterday threatened to mutilate her.

But she wasn't crying for Alaric himself. Instead, she grieved for Eurica, losing a beloved husband, and Athaulf, bereft of his closest friend. Somehow, their pain had become hers, and she couldn't help but let the tears fall.

The funeral took place a few days later. Placidia dressed in the silken clothes she'd been wearing when first taken captive. As she draped the mantle of imperial purple around her shoulders, the garments seemed like a relic of another life.

Athaulf, too, dressed more formally than usual, wearing one of the tunics Placidia had embroidered paired with a sweeping cloak of rich emerald green. Once Alaric was buried, Athaulf would be formally proclaimed king, and he looked every bit a ruler.

Placidia adjusted the folds of her mantle as they prepared to leave the tent. "Are you ready?" she asked.

Athaulf drew an ivory comb through his dark hair. "Nearly."

"I didn't mean just for the funeral. Are you ready for what comes next?"

He glanced at her, a brief, humorless smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Nearly," he repeated. He set the comb down. "I knew this day would come, but I did not anticipate it so soon. Barely two months after the greatest triumph of his life."

"Fate cannot be escaped."

"Alaric always used to say something like that." His gaze grew distant for a moment. "No one, man or woman, coward or brave, can escape their fate. That's what he used to say."

"He was quoting Homer." Placidia repeated the line from the Iliad in Greek, her tongue lingering on the rhythm of the poetry. Her mind went back to the first time she'd met Alaric, in the imperial palace the night of the sack. One of the first things out of his mouth had been a line from Homer. At the time, she'd been too overwhelmed to be shocked at a barbarian—as she'd thought of them then—speaking Greek.

So much had changed since that night. Was she trying to circumvent her fate by staying with the Goths? Or had fate, with all its twists and turns, led her here?

"It's time." Athaulf held out a hand. She took it, and they left the tent.

*

Alaric's funeral was one of the most extraordinary things Placidia had ever seen. The Gothic people gathered on the banks of a river, where it forked into two streams. Since Alaric's death, men had been working day and night to dam up one fork of the river, forcing it to divert down the other side. Cut into the muddy riverbed, a deep and wide grave yawned.

Placidia stood at the front of the assemblage with Eurica. Today, wearing her imperial purple, she felt less like a hostage and more like a foreign emissary come to pay respects to a departed leader.

Eurica was dignified and still, no trace of emotion on her pale face. Placidia admired her composure; if she should ever face such a loss, she hoped to meet it with as much poise.

Athaulf headed the procession of six men who carried Alaric's shrouded body to the riverbank. Silence reigned; the only sounds were the men's footsteps and the rush of river water on the other side of the dam.

More men followed behind the body, hauling a cart laden with gleaming treasure, which Placidia recognized as some of the plunder from Rome.

The men gently lowered Alaric's body into the grave. Eurica drew in a deep, shuddering breath as her husband's body disappeared, and Placidia reached out to squeeze her arm.

Then, the Roman treasure followed, placed piece by piece into the grave. Though Placidia still considered the plunder to be wrongfully taken, she couldn't deny that it seemed fitting for Alaric to be buried with the spoils of his greatest triumph.

After all of the gold and silver disappeared, the men shoveled earth back into the grave. Placidia watched Athaulf's face as he buried his friend. He was outwardly sober, but she could see the grief etched in the lines around his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes.

Finally, a few swings of a hefty axe broke the dam which held back the river. Water rushed forth, covering the spot where Alaric lay buried. The river hid his grave, ensuring that he would rest in peace forever.

The Goths were silent for a moment, listening to the surge and flow of the waters as the river refilled itself. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a low, rhythmic thudding began. A wooden shield, or the butt of a spear, pounding against the earth. The sound was picked up, until it echoed through the entire assemblage. The ground beneath Placidia's feet trembled with the force of it.

They began to chant Athaulf's name in rhythm with the pounding, and Placidia sensed they were formally acclaiming him as king. Next to her, Eurica stamped her foot, joining the noise.

Placidia gazed at Athaulf as he stood on the riverbank, resplendent in his green cloak. On his face she saw resolve, determination, but nothing that suggested he relished the power which he inherited. He was not the sort of man who thirsted for power, but she knew he would do his duty by his people with care and diligence.

Pride swelled unbidden in her chest. For a moment, she itched to stamp her foot along with Eurica to show her support.

But she was a Roman, not a Goth, so instead, she extended her right arm toward him in a salute. He met her gaze, and gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. Then, he bowed his head to the Goths, accepting the responsibility and honor they offered. Around her, the rhythmic chanting merged into a deafening roar. Athaulf was king.

*

That evening, Placidia unbraided her hair as she waited for Athaulf to return to their tent. He had gone back to the riverbank with Eurica to pay their private respects to Alaric.

He returned after sunset, and Placidia rose to greet him. "Hail, Caesar," she greeted him with a tentative smile. It was the first time they'd spoken since the ceremony earlier, as Athaulf had been busy all day with the business of being king.

He raised his eyebrows at her as he unclasped his heavy green cloak. "I'm no Caesar."

You could be . A sudden vision overwhelmed her, of Athaulf in the purple and gold finery of an emperor. And herself at his side, wearing the jewels of an empress.

If the Goths ever were to truly topple Rome—not just sack the city itself—Athaulf would become emperor. Would there be a place for Placidia at his side?

She chided herself for such thoughts. It was one thing to nurture a traitorous affection for Athaulf. It was entirely another to contemplate a future in which her own brother was deposed and put to death so her paramour could assume the throne. Besides, Athaulf had no wish to conquer Rome.

"No," she agreed. She helped him unfasten the leather jerkin he wore under the cloak. "Do you know yet what you will do with your people?"

He glanced at her as he sat and pulled off his boots. "By asking that, I suspect you have opinions."

"I may have suggestions," she admitted. "Do you intend to follow Alaric's plan and try again for Africa in the spring?"

He sighed, stretching his legs before him. "That would require purchasing another fleet of ships, and we've seen already how fickle the weather can be. But we need a sustainable source of food, and homes. We've been migrants for many years. Alaric was the one who enjoyed the conquest, the excitement of taking new lands. I'm tired of it. All I want is a home to call our own."

"Do you mean to settle in Italy?" Placidia asked. "You would have to take Ravenna to be granted any measure of peace, and my brother's court is well-fortified. Better than Rome. It will not be easy."

She held her breath as she waited to hear his answer. If he did intend to take Italy once and for all, to depose her brother, would she try to dissuade him? Or call it fate and see how the dice would fall?

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Of course you do not wish me to attack Ravenna, princess."

She averted her gaze, worried her internal struggles, her shifting loyalties would show in her eyes. "I fear it would be unwise."

"What would you have me do instead?"

"I think you should continue west. To Hispania. It's a plentiful land. There are rich mines and fertile fields. Vineyards as far as you can see. It's still part of the empire, of course, but far enough from Rome that you could take it with reasonable ease. I expect Honorius would consider it a worthwhile bargain. Peace in Italy in exchange for your people settling in Hispania."

He considered her words for several long moments. His face remained impassive, and she couldn't tell what he thought of her proposal. Then, he rose, unfolding his body from the chair, and came to stand in front of her. He extended a finger beneath her chin, tilting it gently toward him. "I wonder, princess…"

Warmth rushed through her at his touch. In the grief and distraction of the past few days, they had not shared any outward affection, and had certainly not repeated their activities of the night before Alaric had been taken ill. Her body had missed his touch, and now the simple brush of his finger on her chin made her heart race.

"Yes?" she breathed, her face a handsbreadth from his.

"Are you suggesting that we leave Italy because it is truly the best choice for my people, or because you want to spare yours?"

She swallowed hard. "Can it not be both?" she finally answered.

He stroked the back of his fingers over her cheek. "If you are to remain here, as you chose to do, I must have your loyalty."

This conversation was a difficult one to have when she was breathless and weak kneed from his proximity and touch, but she strove to keep her head. "I may have no familial love for my brother, but I am still a daughter of Rome. I chose to remain your hostage, not to abandon all loyalty to my people." She dared to meet his gaze, finding his dark eyes inscrutable. "But in this instance, you have my word that I believe settling in Hispania is the best strategic choice for your people. Can you trust me?"

His hand trailed down her neck, coming to rest lightly at the base of her throat, fingers splayed on her collarbone. His hand could nearly encircle her entire neck.

In any other situation, with any other man, she would be playing a dangerous game, treading a hair-thin line between opposing loyalties. Athaulf, after all, had complete and utter power over her.

But for some incomprehensible reason, she had chosen to remain in his power, to trust him. She'd made a gamble that remaining the Goths' hostage would offer her more than going to Ravenna and becoming her brother's pawn. Now, if Athaulf followed her advice and took Hispania, he would need a queen by his side.

"Yes," Athaulf finally murmured. "I trust you, princess." His hand tightened on her collarbone just enough to draw her forward. He leaned close, and she smiled as he pressed his lips to hers.