Chapter Ten

P lacidia did not speak a word to Athaulf for the rest of that day. At night, she moved her bedding to the opposite side of the tent, as it had been when she first came to the Goths as a captive. He made no protest, but from the sound of his breathing, she could tell he lay awake long into the night.

In the morning, Athaulf was gone when she woke, along with the majority of the warriors, leaving the camp nearly empty. They had gone to besiege Massilia, needing to control a shipping port for winter supplies. She knew Athaulf hoped to take the city without bloodshed or a lengthy siege. Other cities they'd passed through had opened their gates without a fight and negotiated terms, not wanting to risk a similar fate as Rome.

Eurica joined Placidia in her tent as they awaited the return of the warriors, and they chatted as they worked on mending. Over the past year, Eurica had become the closest thing Placidia had to a friend, especially as she learned the Gothic language and became able to speak with the former queen.

Today, Eurica's eyes flicked between the two separate sleeping areas in the tent as she knotted off her thread. "Has my brother displeased you?"

Placidia grimaced. One night of icy silence had done nothing to calm her anger or pain. "Why do you not ask if I have displeased him?"

Eurica smirked. "Because I know he is besotted with you."

"Clearly not enough," Placidia said, her voice as sharp as her bone needle. In a few words, she told Eurica of Constantius's offer and Athaulf's disappointing reaction.

Eurica listened carefully. "He did say he had made no decision," she pointed out when Placidia had finished. "His duty burdens him, but I know he would not part from you lightly."

"He had better not." Placidia ground her teeth. "And it's not just about me. The offer from Constantius would make your people vassals of Rome. I can't imagine that's what Alaric would have wanted."

A shadow crossed Eurica's face at the mention of her dead husband. Placidia immediately regretted bringing him up, and opened her mouth to apologize.

A hubbub outside the tent cut off her words—the pounding of feet and agitated shouts. Eurica leaped to her feet, her needlework falling to the floor. "Have they returned already?" She rushed to the entrance of the tent, and Placidia followed.

Such a quick return could only mean that the Goths had taken Massilia with exceptional speed—but the harried shouting did not seem to signal a triumphant return.

When the warriors came into view around the closest row of tents, Eurica gasped and lifted a hand to make the sign of the cross over her forehead. "God have mercy."

Placidia would have done the same, but she was frozen, rooted to the spot in horror.

Several warriors carried a makeshift stretcher between them, upon which rested the blood-covered body of Athaulf.

Placidia's vision swam. Dead. He's dead. And the last words I spoke to him were in anger.

But the warriors were moving with too much urgency for him to be dead. They hastened toward the tent, and Eurica pulled Placidia aside and held the tent flap open for them.

"What happened?" Eurica demanded, rushing in after them as they laid Athaulf on the ground. The gray pallor of his skin sent a sickening pang through Placidia.

"A javelin, thrown from the walls," one of the warriors said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Struck him in the shoulder. We bound the wound as best we could."

"It will need to be cleaned." Eurica dropped to her knees next to her brother. "Fetch hot water and more bandages."

The warrior nodded, barked an order to the others, and then they all departed.

Eurica laid a palm on Athaulf's cheek, and bent her head close to her mouth.

"Is he…" Placidia couldn't finish the sentence.

"I fear he's lost a great deal of blood." Eurica's jaw tensed as she looked over the blood-soaked bandage that bound Athaulf's shoulder. "I must go fetch my supplies. Remove the bandage and staunch any bleeding until I get back."

Eurica ran from the tent. Legs shaking, Placidia lowered herself to the ground next to Athaulf. She withdrew the small blade she wore at her belt for daily tasks. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to touch Athaulf's bloodied body, but she had no choice. Laying a hand atop his shoulder, she slid the blade of the knife underneath the bandage.

He let out a small, barely audible groan as the movement jostled him. She froze. It was the first sign of life he had shown. "Athaulf?" she whispered, voice trembling. "Can you hear me?"

He did not respond. As gently as she could, she sawed the knife back and forth until the linen bandage split. It revealed a mangled hole in the front of Athaulf's shoulder, still oozing blood. Placidia's stomach roiled when she saw it, and she had to swallow hard to steady herself.

The tent flap burst open as Eurica returned, lugging a leather bag. Since Alaric died, she had devoted herself to mastering the healing arts, determined to make up for being unable to save her husband.

Behind her, men carted a vat of steaming water, which they set in the middle of the tent, and several stacks of clean cloth. They left after depositing the items, each one crossing their foreheads as they beheld their wounded king.

Eurica knelt on the other side of Athaulf and examined his wound, her face grave.

"Do you think…we can save him?" Placidia asked, feeling as if all the air had been driven from her lungs.

Eurica met her gaze. "I will not lose them both," she said fiercely.

From her bag, she withdrew a lump of soap, which she rubbed against a damp cloth until it became sudsy. Then, she dabbed it against the wound. Athaulf let out another low groan, but Eurica didn't stop.

"Clean the blood from his skin," Eurica ordered. "I will make sure the wound is clean."

Placidia nodded, and dampened another cloth with water and soap. She smoothed the cloth over Athaulf's bloody torso. The fabric immediately turned a livid red, and the water Placidia used to rinse out the cloth quickly became scarlet. She paused when she got to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart—light but steady—beneath her hand. She prayed that heartbeat would never cease.

While Placidia bathed him, Eurica finished cleaning the wound, then packed it with a mixture of herbs and bound it tightly in a clean bandage. She sat back on her heels, surveying her brother's body.

"Now what?" Placidia asked. There had to be something else they could do for him; it would be impossible just to sit here and—

"We wait," Eurica said. "We must pray that he hasn't lost too much blood, and that if he takes a fever, it will be mild." She rose to her feet to gather up the bloody cloths and old bandages. "I'll be back in a moment." She left the tent.

Placidia let out a long, shuddering breath as she gazed down at Athaulf's face. She reached for his hand, finding it cold and clammy. His fingers twitched in hers, and she squeezed, as if she could send her life force into him from their joined hands.

"You are forbidden from dying, do you understand me?" she said through gritted teeth. "We have an argument to finish." His eyelids flickered, but he did not awaken. She bent her head to drop a kiss onto his forehead. "And if you think I'll let it go just because you've been speared by a javelin, you're sorely mistaken."

*

Placidia and Eurica sat by Athaulf's side for the rest of that day. Soon, a fever simmered under his skin, and Placidia bathed his forehead and hands in cool water. Eurica changed his bandages, repacking the wound with fresh herbs. He opened his eyes several times, and though he did not speak or seem to recognize them, they were able to get him to swallow a few spoonsful of broth.

Night fell, and Eurica slipped into a doze. Placidia didn't wake her, even though the other woman would be furious for letting her sleep. Soon enough, Placidia too succumbed to weariness, and closed her eyes.

She woke to a hand stroking her hair. She jerked upright with a start, fearing that Eurica was trying to rouse her.

But it was Athaulf's large hand cupping her head. His eyes were open, and he was gazing at her with a small smile on his lips. In the flickering lamplight, she could tell that some color had returned to his face.

"You're awake!" Relief and exultation flooded through her. She had feared she would never see him smile at her again, never feel the spark that flared when his gaze met hers.

"It was a pleasant nap." His voice was scratchy, and he winced as he tried to sit up.

She took hold of his unwounded shoulder and pushed him back down onto the pillows. "Don't you dare move." She reached for the nearby pot of broth which they'd been feeding him in his moments of wakefulness, and poured some into a cup. She handed it to him with a scowl. "That was no nap, you idiot. You could have died."

"From what? That toothpick they tried to stick me with?" He took a ginger sip of broth, and she could tell he was trying not to jostle his shoulder despite his bluster.

She glowered at him. "Don't make light of it. You're lucky to have a sister so skilled in healing."

He glanced over to where Eurica still slumbered on the other side of him, knees tucked into her chest, and his gaze softened. "Truly, there was a moment when I worried I wouldn't come home to you. To either of you."

Her lips pressed together as a warm ache welled up in her chest—an altogether too sympathetic feeling. She could not yet set aside his betrayal, and part of her longed to snap, If you feared not returning to me then why are you willing to sell me in marriage to another?

But now was not the time for reckonings or harsh words, so she merely clasped his hand and sent up a prayer of thankfulness that, for the moment at least, they were together. For now, that was enough.