by
Faith L. Justice
Rome, August 410
Princess Placidia read the lists, lines of concentration marring her forehead. With the Visigoths at the gates of Rome for the third time in three years, the city lay exhausted-little food, few defenders, and no hope. Salvation lay in negotiating with King Alaric and they had little to bargain with.
God's blood, but I'm tired. She put the lists down, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in a futile attempt to eliminate a headache. She had had little sleep the night before and less to eat as she worked with the city elders to avert this most recent crisis. At twenty-two she should have been safely married, raising children; not picking up the pieces of an empire dropped from the careless hands of her brother Emperor Honorius.
"Treason and betrayal, Mistress!"
The urgency in Paulus' gruff voice drove all tiredness from her body. Nothing chilled her blood as much as the cry of "treason." The word summoned unwanted images of Stilicho's head on a pike and her Cousin Serena struggling against the executioner's garrote. The unwarranted death of the two people who raised her had precipitated her flight from the Ravenna court and her estrangement from her brother.
Placidia took a deep breath and steadied her hands.
"What treason?" She managed a calm voice despite her racing heart.
"Someone opened the Salarian Gate. The barbarians are in the streets. We must flee to safety."
Placidia chewed her lower lip, rapidly forming and discarding options to save her household. There were rules to sacking a city and Placidia hoped Alaric would abide by them. One of those rules involved sanctuary in Christian churches. The Gothic King was purportedly a devout Christian, if of the Arian heresy.
"What are your orders, Mistress?" The light of battle gleamed in Paulus' eyes. A Vandal soldier wounded in Stilicho's service, he had been with her since she was a child.
"Deploy my personal guards at the bottom of the hill. Take the rest of the servants to the Church of St. John Lateran immediately and claim sanctuary. I'll come with the guards as soon as I destroy these documents."
Placidia grabbed the nearest of several piles of parchment-letters of support; reports on food and supplies throughout the empire-and laid them in an unlit bronze brazier. She would give the enemy no helpful information. Her hands trembled as she poured oil on the papers and lit them from her lamp. Smoke curled from the parchment, irritating her eyes.
"I'll send the servants away, Princess, but don't ask me to leave you alone. I've seen my share of sacked cities."
"I want you to go with the servants, Paulus."
His face set in a familiar stubborn cast.
"I don't have time to argue with you. What can a crippled old soldier do here?"
The stubborn look gave way to one of hurt pride.
Placidia softened her tone. "I have lost all whom I love in the past two years. The man and woman who were more to me than father and mother, my cousins, my…betrothed." Her voice caught. "I have no wish to lose the one person left to me from my past. I care for you, my friend, and want to see you safe."
"Do you think I care less for you?" Paulus' eyes glittered with unshed tears. "You are the last of my lord's household. I am bound to you by oath and blood."
Screams echoed down the colonnade, accompanied by the sounds of splintering wood and crashing crockery. Placidia started and shook like a rabbit before a snake. My people are lost. The raiders must have ridden hard and fast from the Salarian Gate to get to the palace so soon.
Paulus grabbed the small knife she used to open her letters and rushed toward the door. "Come, Princess, we will go to the oratory. Perhaps they will honor sanctuary there."
Placidia shook her head. "If King Alaric wants me dead, the chapel won't shelter me. If he wants me alive, perhaps I can extend that privilege to my household by being bold rather than timid."
A scream, choked off in the middle, sent Paulus through the door at a limping run. Placidia piled the rest of the papers into the brazier and dashed out after him.
She faltered at the scene. Normally, the central garden with its splashing nymphaeum was a soothing refuge from the heat of the August sun. Now a cadre of at least fifty Gothic warriors systematically herded the palace servants into the leafy refuge, releasing the scent of lavender and rosemary as their leather-clad feet trampled herbs and flowers. They used the flats of their swords, sometimes striking a lagging slave, to push them into a tight knot of gibbering humanity.
Unlike the wildly varying dress and armor of most barbarian warriors, these wore more or less matching knee-length green tunics trimmed with scarlet at the neck and hem. Most wore mail shirts and Roman style helmets-rare, these days, even among Roman troops.
At least King Alaric sent an elite corps to take me.
One warrior spied her under the colonnade and rushed forward, grinning.
Paulus jumped in front of the man, threatening him with the letter knife. "Don't touch her! She's the…"
The barbarian brushed the knife aside with a sweep of his arm and struck Paulus with the silvered hilt of his sword.
The old man sank to the ground, senseless or dead, a large gash bleeding profusely on his forehead.
Placidia stalked into the garden, back rigid, face pale.
"Stop at once!" Her voice pierced the scene, turning it momentarily into a tableau.
The advancing warrior bared his teeth and said in execrable Latin, "Roman woman not a mouse-more my liking."
"I am Princess Galla Placidia, sister of Emperor Honorius, daughter of Emperor Theodosius the Great, Granddaughter of Emperor Valentinian. On pain of death, I demand you leave us in peace."
The barbarian hesitated, confusion clouding his eyes.
Placidia suppressed an inappropriate smile. Her impressive list of relationships didn't square with her ink-stained fingers, plain blue linen gown, and unadorned brown curly hair.
"Leave her, Berig." A commanding voice rose from among the warriors.
A red-haired barbarian muscled his way through the pack. She had not seen him because he stood half a head shorter than most of his towering companions. He looked her over speculatively.
"You have the bearing of a royal, if not the accouterments." He motioned to the slaves on the edge of the pack nearest them. "Is this your mistress?"
To their credit, they all looked to Placidia before answering. She gave them a brief nod of permission.
Watching the by-play, the red-headed warrior said, "I commend you on your servants, Princess. They are most loyal."
He took off his helmet, revealing a smooth high brow and a line where his helmet shaded his pale skin from the Italian sun. He stood at attention, then bowed. "I am Ataulf, General and Master of King Alaric's cavalry."
The Gothic king honors me by sending his heir and second-in-command. "General." Placidia drew her slender form into a commanding pose. "Have these…men…vacate my residence at once."
"We will leave shortly, Princess. King Alaric sent me to escort you to our camp. You are to be the guest of the king and the Gothic people."
"Do not pretty the package, sir. I am a hostage. For what other reason would you force me from my home?" She waved her right arm in a sweeping arc. "You strip Rome and seek to squeeze additional treasure from my brother."
"King Alaric recognizes your value in gold and…other ways."
His hesitation hinted at deeper motives for her detainment. Perhaps Alaric wished more than gold from her estranged brother. And little will he get-gold or otherwise-from that lack-wit.
Ataulf donned his helmet. "Come, Princess." He took her arm.
Placidia sniffed. He reeked of horses, smoke, and sweat. In many ways a comforting scent, evoking her martial father and, later, her guardian Stilicho. But she shook off his hand. "Not until we have medical care for Paulus." She indicated her fallen chamberlain.
Berig brandished his sword and said. "Bugger that. Let me finish him."
"No!" Placidia strode forward, blocking Berig with her body. "He is mine! You will not harm him."
Berig looked at Ataulf, who shook his head. The twice-disappointed warrior shrugged and backed down.
Ataulf touched her shoulder. She flinched.
"Your man will be tended at our camp."
"And the rest of my people?" She indicated the crowd of servants, some weeping, some stiff with anger or fear, others standing in slack-jawed bewilderment. "I cannot travel without servants."
The skin tightened around Ataulf's mouth and his eyes narrowed. "The contents of this city are ours. Any slave from our tribes will be freed. We claim the rest as booty."
"But…"
Ataulf raised a hand. "You may take three personal maids and a cook."
"And Paulus. He is a free man and has pledged his service to me."
"I doubt he would bring much on the slave market." The hint of a smile played about his lips. "You may keep him."
Choosing her attendants was not the first hard decision Placidia had to make, and it wouldn't be her last, but that knowledge brought little comfort. She chose three of the youngest girls, hoping to shelter them from the horrors she imagined the rest would face, and a matronly cook to look after them.
Ataulf chose ten of his men for escort and dismissed the rest to loot the palace. "Berig, you carry the old one."
Berig slung Paulus over his shoulder like a sack of turnips.
Placidia's heart lightened when she heard Paulus moan. She turned to her four servants. "Stay close to our escort. Don't try to escape. We have the word of General Ataulf we will not be harmed, but he cannot speak for the rest of the army if you are captured by someone else."
The cook nodded and gathered the girls together in a tighter knot. "You heard the Mistress, now. Stay close and you'll be safe. Don't go running off like stupid donkeys."
They walked down the north face of the Palatine Hill, their escort grumbling about the time wasted when they could be pillaging.
"You'll share with all the others," Ataulf assured them.
At the bottom of the hill, several more warriors guarded a picket line of horses. Shields, spears, and a few bows hung from the four high horns at the corners of the saddles.
Placidia drew a sharp breath. Does he plan to parade me through Rome before his horse, like a conquering general in a triumph?
At the picket line, Ataulf swung up on a skittish bay. One of the warriors brought a mounting block for Placidia.
Ataulf held out his hand. "I'm afraid we have no litter for you, Princess. You will have to ride with me."
Knowing the royal litter or chariot would be a rallying point for resistance-if any-Placidia suspected Ataulf of duplicity.
"Can I not have a mount of my own? I am a capable rider." The thought of dashing through the streets of Rome in the arms of the barbarian chief was almost as repugnant as the thought of pacing before his horse as a prisoner.
"No. Especially if you are a capable rider." He held out his hand again. "Come."
She swung up, settling with a knee around one of the horns for balance. The bay stepped nervously to the side. Ataulf pulled sharply on the reins and it snorted to a stop, trembling.
"You!" Ataulf pointed to a warrior, not in his troop, leading a donkey and cart half filled with bolts of cloth. "I need that cart." The man looked startled, but recognizing Ataulf, he meekly turned over the loot.
Berig tied Paulus' limp body over the donkey's back and installed the substantial form of Cook among the treasure.
The cavalcade started north on the Via Imperialia, through the monumental heart of Rome. Placidia never tired of gazing down on the majestic buildings and memorials from her vantage on the Palatine hill. Now she held back tears as the empty spaces echoed the clopping of the horses' hooves. No colorful crowds cheered their passing. No self-important clerks strolled along the stoa. No vendors hawked their wares in voices gone harsh with use. Placidia had never seen such desolation. It matched the growing emptiness in her soul.
They hurried through the various fora, past Titus' arch celebrating his triumph over the Jews, Caesar's temple to Venus and Rome, Trajan's markets-shuttered and silent. As they passed Marcus Aurelius' triumphal column, showing his victories over the barbarian tribes of the north, the warriors laughed and spat.
They left the silence of the fora behind and slipped into the chaos of a dying city. Now the tears came, blurring her vision. But they could not dampen the smell of roasted human flesh or wash away the howls of men freed from any civilizing impulse. Rats and flies infested the bodies-animal and human-strewn about the streets. Placidia trembled and swallowed convulsively to keep down her bile.
Barbarians ran past them heaped with portable booty-jewelry, costly tunics, decorative armor. Many pushed or pulled two-wheeled carts piled high with larger pieces-statues, furniture, carpets, gold and silver feasting services. What they could not carry or did not value, the invaders despoiled. Bonfires frequented the open spaces. The barbarians howled as they tossed on books, paintings, clothes, and broken furniture. Smoke gathered over the city and blood streamed in the gutters.
Honorius, you should see what you have wrought. This didn't have to happen.
Her father and Stilicho had told Placidia of the horrors of the battlefield, but she saw shopkeepers, seamstresses, school children-none who should know war-their torn bodies littered the streets like so much refuse. Only the will not to disgrace herself kept Placidia on horseback. She wanted to bury her face in the horse's mane-not look, not smell, not hear, nor feel-but she couldn't turn her face away. Placidia needed to brand these images in her mind and on her soul. She needed to remember.
"This isn't a sight I would have you see, Princess, but my people hate the Romans for slaughtering their comrades, wives and children-some in the churches where they fled for sanctuary."
"Don't make excuses. What my brother ordered was despicable, but is this any better?" She pointed to the bloody body of a woman clutching a dead infant. "You rightly chide us, but what of your Christianity?"
"It is our nature to return insult for insult, blood for blood. You cannot turn a wolf into a lap dog by dipping it in a basin and mumbling some words over it."
Raucous laughter burst from a small square to their left. A group of soldiers called advice and crude comments to a comrade raping a girl, urging him to hurry, so they could have their turn. The girl lay naked and whimpering, the bruises and dried blood on the battered left side of her face forming a grotesque mirror to the untouched right side. Blood from shallow cuts on her hands and breasts smudged her body.
The need to do something spurred Placidia. She gripped Ataulf's arm. "Stop them! She's just a child."
"As you command, Princess."
Ataulf slid her to the ground. With a bellow, he rode through the knot of men, knocking them aside with his spear till he came on the one rutting with pleasure-a good-looking youth, only a few years older than the girl he raped. Ataulf leaped from his horse and yanked the boy off his whimpering victim. "King Alaric forbade rape. Don't you obey orders, boy?"
The lad's eyes widened in recognition. "B-b-but she's just a prostitute, Sir!"
Ataulf pointed at the battered girl, now curled up, knees and head pressed close to her chest, trembling. "That's no excuse."
The young soldier grew sullen. "'Tis our right. We took this city."
Ataulf struck the boy with his fist, splitting his lip and bloodying his nose.
"No army can function without discipline. Your king gave you a direct order." He glared at every face in the square. "All of you understand? No rape. No burning churches. Sanctuary will be honored. Is that clear?" he roared.
"Yes, Lord," several, but not all, called out.
"You!" He pointed to one of the attackers draped in an elaborate silk cape. "Cover her. Filimer," he addressed one of his own guards. "Pick up the girl. She's coming with us."
Filimer, a broad-shouldered barbarian, wrapped the girl in the silk cloak. She cried out when he picked her up, out of pain or fear.
Placidia accompanied the girl to the cart. "You'll be safe with us." The girl turned vacant eyes on her and whimpered. "Cook, look after her. When we reach camp, make sure she sees a doctor."
The matronly woman clucked at the girl, making nonsense sounds between assurances of safety. The servant girls clung to their protectors, fearful eyes darting to the despoiling soldiers.
Ataulf mounted his horse, and reached for Placidia.
The darkness creeping into her soul felt some small measure lighter. Taking his callused palm she looked up and said, "Thank you, General."
"I hold no illusions, and neither should you, Princess. As soon as we are out of sight, they will find another. This scene is played out all over the city with thousands of women."
"I know." Placidia glanced back at the battered girl. "At least we saved one child from an ugly death."
His shoulders slumped slightly and concern shadowed his green eyes-concern for her or for the girl? "Will she thank you for a life filled with the memory of this day?"
"I do not know."
Placidia was exhausted. They had left the ineffectual walls of Rome over an hour ago and the horror she felt had turned to numbness. Just as she thought she might fall off Ataulf's horse, he announced they were near the camp. She looked up to see a vast wooden-walled city. Herds of cattle and horses grazed in fenced meadows. Women and children gathered a late summer harvest of cabbage, beans, olives, apples, and grapes.
Closer, Placidia realized the walls were made of a circle of wagons with portable wooden fences filling the gaps underneath and between. Armed Goths guarded gates spaced in regular intervals. Inside, a second circle of wagon sported leather tents attached to the sides for shelter. Communal fire pits and portable ovens for baking bread dotted the interior. Her agents had told her Alaric mustered over 30,000 men under arms. With what was left of their families after the massacre, the camp probably held over 100,000 souls.
Ataulf escorted her to the hub of the camp, a sumptuous country villa-the owners fled or perished. They entered the atrium, its walls decorated with realistic paintings of peacocks, grapes, and pears and continued through to the roofed colonnade that surrounded the inner garden and provided access to all its rooms. Men with a military bearing ducked in and out of a door on the left.
Ataulf motioned his men to remain outside and went to the door. He talked briefly with a guard, then returned to escort Placidia into the military headquarters of the Gothic King.
"The Princess Galla Placidia, Sister to the Emperor Honorius," the guard announced as she entered.
The room-formerly the dining and entertaining area known as the triclinium-exuded controlled chaos. Several leather-bound trunks stood against one wall decorated in rural hunting scenes. Cloaks, mail shirts, and helmets littered the trunks and the floor. Maps and lists covered a massive table inlaid with ivory, its legs carved into lion's paws. Seven men stood around the table, studying Placidia. She was suddenly reminded of her less-than-noble appearance-dusty clothes, disheveled hair-her sole adornment her signet ring, which she twisted around her index finger. She stilled her hands and raised her chin, returning the men's looks, glare for glare.
A man with golden hair, and slightly darker beard and mustache, approached and bowed briefly. The beard failed to hide the scar that ran from a notch in the top of his left ear across his cheek to his mouth, drawing the corner up into a permanent half smile. He, like Ataulf, wore a well-made tunic, but his was scarlet, bordered with yellow. Dark blue and yellow wrappings crisscrossed over tight-fitting trousers to make a colorful fishbone pattern up to his knees.
"Welcome, Princess Placidia," he spoke in heavily accented Latin. "I'm King Alaric. I hope you find your stay comfortable. I've arranged for you to guest with my wife and her ladies."
"Guests have the choice of staying or leaving."
Color rose in his cheeks and sweat donned his brow, but Alaric's blue eyes sparkled. "For now, Princess, you are under our protection. Of course, we wish to return you to your brother as soon as possible."
"There is no need to involve the emperor. I have property and income of my own. My father was quite generous. Perhaps we can reach some agreement?"
"Do you think this is about ransom?" His low voice held a steely quality. "This is about honor and recognition. We are fellow citizens of your great empire. I fought for your father at Frigidus and lost two out of every three of my men. We shed our blood time and again to keep this empire safe."
"And you were well rewarded." Placidia gazed steadily back. "But instead of returning to the land my father gave you in Thrace, you turned your armies against Greece. You devastated that land until General Stilicho stopped you, and stopped you again when you invaded Italy."
"When Stilicho was alive, we were able to negotiate but the anti-barbarian faction is now too strong in the Roman court. Your brother is a weak-minded fool, under the influence of whoever has his ear." Alaric spread his arms wide. "If we had had more time, Stilicho's plans might have forestalled all this."
Placidia felt the blood drain from her face. "What plans?"
"Stilicho knew he could never become emperor, but he was married to royalty, your cousin. By marrying his daughter to Honorius and his son to you, Stilicho ensured his grandchild would rule. And he would rule the grandchild. Who could guarantee your brother's health after an heir was born?"
"No," she whispered. "Stilicho would never have betrayed my brother. He swore service to my father and served the empire faithfully for over twenty years."
"Your father and the empire, yes. But Honorius?" Alaric gave an expressive shrug. "You know your brother. Is he fit to rule?"
"You slander a good man!"
"Your brother?"
"Stilicho." Placidia's stomach clenched. "You have no proof. After he had Uncle executed, Honorius interrogated all those associated with him. They found nothing. Stilicho was innocent of treason."
"Perhaps. But Stilicho was a shrewd man. His actions spoke louder than words and his enemies listened. Which leaves the emperor's councilors in a predicament. Honorius has no wife and no heir. That leaves the honor of providing for the future to you."
"So you plan to force me into a marriage…of your choosing?" Placidia struggled to control the quaver in her voice. She had fled Ravenna and the imperial court partly to remove herself as a tempting marriage target for ambitious nobles.
The unaffected side of Alaric's mouth pulled into a suggestive grin. "We will talk later." He flicked a hand at Ataulf. "Take her and her people to my wife, then report back."
Placidia, dazed and furious, followed Ataulf from the triclinium-turned-headquarters to a part of the central garden shaded by trees. Leafy branches gave relief from the afternoon sun. A fountain provided a tinkling accompaniment to the low chatter of women. Ataulf led her to a woman with the same red hair and piercing green eyes as his own. She worked at an upright loom. Several other women sat nearby, spinning wool on drop spindles or embroidering. All talk stopped at their approach.
"Princess Galla Placidia, may I present Alaric's wife and my sister, Queen Gaatha?"
Gaatha held out her hand to Placidia. "Come. Sit. My Latin not good." She turned to Ataulf and said, in Gothic, "Brother, tell her we mean her no harm, that we hope her stay will be pleasant and short."
"I suspect Princess Placidia understands you perfectly. She was raised in a household speaking many languages."
"Is this true?" Gaatha's face brightened as she turned to Placidia. "It would be much easier if you chose to speak Gothic, even if it is a barbarian tongue. You have a reputation for being a practical, as well as learned, lady. Did you learn in Stilicho's house?"
"Yes. I speak three Germanic languages as well as Latin and Greek."
A small army of children ran screaming through the garden, chasing a dog. Seeing Ataulf, several broke off and swarmed to him, crying, "Father, what did you bring me from Rome?" Ataulf laughed and gave each a gold coin from his purse. They screeched in delight until a stern word from Gaatha sent them scurrying.
"Forgive them, Princess." Ataulf smiled after them. "Their mother died but a year ago, and I have had the raising of them. I'm afraid I let them have their way too often."
The normalcy of the domestic scene contrasted against the horrors of the day. The thought of sitting here making small talk while Rome burned made Placidia's head pound like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil. She swayed, hand to brow. Her vision grayed. Voices became unintelligible…
"Try this." A firm hand supported her back while another held a cup to her lips.
She sipped and choked on the strong, unwatered wine. Her eyes focused on Ataulf's concerned face as he held the cup.
"Th-Thank you. I feel better now. It's just the shock…" She felt heat rise to her cheeks and silently cursed the pale skin that betrayed her emotion.
Ataulf turned to his sister. "Perhaps the princess should lie down. She's had a difficult day and the weather is quite oppressive."
Gaatha nodded toward a dark room. Ataulf gathered Placidia into his arms. "Paulus and the girl…" she protested.
"I will see they are cared for."
She relaxed when she saw Gaatha rise to follow. It was cooler in the dimness, but stuffy. Ataulf deposited her on a low couch covered with yellow silks and pillows.
Drained by the heat and the day's tensions, Placidia yawned, then clapped a hand over her mouth. The wine must have gone straight to her head.
"I'll leave you in Gaatha's care." Ataulf smiled, rose, and kissed his sister on the cheek.
Placidia fell into a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of fire and blood.
Ataulf strode back to the triclinium. Acquiring the princess had been easier than he thought. Her personal guard had scattered at the first sight of his men. Ataulf snorted at the memory. Such dogs deserved to be spitted. No one pledged to his service would show such cowardice.
Placidia surprised him. He had met her brother Honorius at the last negotiations; a thoroughly unprepossessing person with thin hair and wispy beard, his mud-colored eyes heavy lidded as if he were perpetually sleepy. The princess, on the other hand, was vibrant. Not a classic beauty-her form was too thin and face too sharp. Most men liked a more voluptuous figure, a soft oval face with bow-like lips. But something about her doe-soft eyes and the way she stood up to Alaric appealed to him. She had spirit-or typical Roman arrogance. He had yet to decide which.
Ataulf entered the triclinium to find Alaric flushed with victory, wine and fever. Some illness had dogged his king since they first laid their siege.
"Rome, brother, Rome! That great whore of the West has opened her legs to me." The king clapped him hard on the back. "Come. Drink." A slave handed Ataulf a large gold goblet, crusted with rubies. "Only the first of our spoils. How goes the sack?"
"You should be there, my brother."
Alaric wiped the sweat off his brow. "As soon as I recover my strength, I'll parade through the city in triumph."
"The men are doing a thorough job. For the most part your commands about not burning or violating church sanctuary are being carried out." Ataulf took a gulp of the rough red wine. "The loot and slaves are being gathered outside the city walls and brought here as wagons and carts come available."
"Excellent. And our tame senators?"
"Valia has two ready to ride to Ravenna to negotiate for the return of the princess."
"Bring them in."
Ataulf went to the door to talk to a messenger.
Within a few minutes a large warrior, with gray-shot beard and a broken nose, herded two men into the room. Their dust-streaked tunics stank of fear and smoke. They prostrated themselves before Alaric, as if before the Roman Emperor, shrieking, "Be merciful, O Great One! Take pity on our poor souls!"
"Stop that caterwauling." Alaric kicked the pudgy one closest to him. "I have a commission for you."
They both looked up, a ray of hope in their faces.
"I want you to take a message to Emperor Honorius. Tell him what you have seen of Rome's pain and our mighty forces. I no longer want only the paltry province and tiny measure of grain he offered last time. If he wants Princess Placidia, he must guarantee our safe passage to Noricum, provide sufficient grain for my army for a year, and make me supreme commander of his armies. Only then will I return his sister."
The hope vanished from their faces, replaced by horror. The pudgy one spoke. "You want us to make demands on your behalf to the Emperor? He'll strike our heads from our necks."
"If you don't, I will do the same, not only to you, but your wives and children. They will stand surety for your success." Alaric took a sharp knife from his belt and began trimming the nails on his left hand. "Will you take this commission?"
"Of course, Great One." They prostrated themselves again.
Alaric tossed them a sealed packet. "Give these papers to the Emperor and bring back an answer. If you are successful in that, I will free you and your families."
Ataulf motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. Valia hauled the two senators from the floor.
"Come with me. I'll get you outfitted. You can use post horses and be in Ravenna in less than two days."
"Do you think Honorius will comply?" Ataulf asked as the three left.
"We've tried everything else." Alaric's face suddenly looked older than his middle thirty years. "Honorius is as inconstant as the weather; first sunny and obliging, then dark and threatening. If only that traitorous snake Sarus had not cocked up the last negotiations."
Alaric threw his goblet at the wall, bathing the hunting scene with blood-red wine.