Chapter Three
When the Emperor Honorius in Ravenna received the message from one of his eunuchs that Rome had perished, he cried out and said, ‘And yet it has just eaten from my hands!’ For he had a very large rooster, Rome by name; and the eunuch comprehending his words said that it was the city of Rome which had perished at the hands of Alaric, and the emperor with a sigh of relief answered quickly: ‘But I thought that my fowl Rome had perished.’ So great, they say, was the folly with which this emperor was possessed.
—Procopius, The Vandalic War (III.2.25–26)
Southern Italy
Mid-September
P lacidia wove a bone needle in and out of thick fabric. It took a great deal of concentration to keep the line of stitching straight while sitting in the back of an unsteady wagon, but at least the bright sunlight helped her see.
Nearly three weeks of travel had passed as the Gothic army approached Naples, and boredom set in quickly. Placidia had asked for something to do, and Athaulf had only been too happy to volunteer items of clothing in need of mending. Eurica lent her a needle and thread, so she’d spent the past several weeks stitching up rips and reinforcing seams in the clothing of her captor. When there was no more mending to be done, she took the liberty of embroidering patterns around the neckline and sleeve hems. It was an oddly intimate task, the sort of thing a wife might do for her husband.
A flush rose to her cheeks as she tied off a piece of thread. In many ways, they were living like husband and wife. Sharing sleeping quarters, though not a bed, of course. Eating together, the little food that could be found. She learned how to read his facial expressions, which had previously looked inscrutable to her. Boredom, contentment, irritation, amusement. The way his shoulders tensed if they encountered a delay. The quirk of his mouth if someone said something humorous. The lift of his eyebrows when he beheld the intricate patterns she was embroidering on his shirts. By Placidia’s calculations, it was well within the timeframe that Honorius’s emissary should have reached them. Each morning, as she awoke in the tent she shared with Athaulf, she wondered if this would be the last day she’d spend among the Goths.
But no messenger arrived, and Placidia settled into a routine. She spent her days clattering along in the wagon full of plunder, Athaulf riding next to her, her ankle still secured to it. She now wore a long-sleeved dress of rust-colored linen, procured from one of the warriors’ wives. Her silk garments were not suitable for traveling, especially as the weather would soon turn cold, and were packed away among Athaulf’s belongings.
At first, she had tried to ignore her captor as much as possible, to behave with the icy dignity befitting an imperial hostage. But she caught her gaze lingering on him unbidden, whether as he rode next to her or sat across a campfire. Something about him was difficult to ignore.
Soon the boredom of travel persuaded her to give up trying. She started talking to him as they traversed the miles. Gathering information was a useful pursuit, if it could benefit Rome later. She had no interest in him personally , of course.
Placidia filed away every detail he shared. She learned that Alaric had actually served in the Roman army as a young man, and had even been instrumental in defeating a usurper to her father’s throne. After being denied an appropriate reward, he’d turned on Rome and begun a campaign of pillage and conquest. He was determined to topple the empire that had scorned him. Athaulf, for his part, had no motivation for revenge against Rome, but wanted a stable home and good land for his people.
For the decades that the Goths had plagued the empire, Placidia had always assumed they wanted to destroy the empire purely out of greed and bloodlust. Now, she wondered if they could be placated—if Rome could grant them legitimacy and land, perhaps the Goths could be turned to allies.
She glanced over at Athaulf, setting her work down for a moment. He sat his horse with a relaxed posture, allowing the movement of the horse to roll through his hips. He looked as comfortable as if seated on a pillowed couch, which she envied; her bottom had grown to hate the unforgiving wood of the wagon.
As if sensing her gaze on him, he looked over, eyes skimming the work in her lap. “I hope you’re not doing flowers again, princess.”
She bit her lip against a smile. Last week, he had chastised her for embroidering large poppies on one of his shirts, feeling they were unmanly. Her attempts to convince him that the red color complemented his complexion were fruitless. “I have learned my lesson.”
“Make sure you can finish it before you leave us,” he said. “I can’t wear a half-embroidered tunic.”
“Alaric will have to make that a condition of my return,” she said. As soon as the quip left her mouth, she regretted it; what was she thinking, joking about finding a reason to stay with the Goths longer than she had to? “I’m jesting, of course,” she said hurriedly. “I don’t intend to remain here one moment longer than necessary.”
“I’m sure you have many important things to do,” he said with a dry half-smile.
She bristled at the sarcasm in his tone. Likely he thought she was just some spoiled lady whose only interest was being waited on hand and foot. “My place is in Ravenna with my brother, not here.”
If she were going to convince Honorius and his advisors that she should succeed him on the throne, she had to be at court, especially while the memory of her bravery and dedication in Rome’s darkest hour was still fresh.
“Do you actually care for your brother, after he abandoned you?”
“He didn’t abandon me,” she shot back. “I chose to stay. One of us had to show the people some mettle.” And it certainly wasn’t going to be Honorius.
He surveyed her, something new entering his gaze. “It was brave of you. You couldn’t save your people, but you stood with them until the end.”
An unexpected warmth spread within her at his acknowledgment. She turned her focus back to the work in her lap. “It was a strategic choice, not entirely self-sacrificing.”
“How was letting yourself be captured strategic?”
“I won’t be a captive forever.” She made another stitch, pulling the needle through the fabric. “It’s possible my brother may never produce an heir. I calculated that if I did survive the sack, the benefit to my standing in the empire would be significant. I hope it will be difficult to ignore me as a viable choice to succeed him.”
Athaulf’s dark eyebrows lifted. “You aspire to be empress?”
She nodded. “I do.” She had never spoken her ambitions aloud, and the feel of the words on her tongue sent a thrill through her . I want to rule.
She had tasted power briefly in Rome before the sack, after Honorius had fled and left the city in her charge. Despite the stress and fear, it had felt so right to lead, to be respected and listened to. And she had helped, as well; though she couldn’t banish the Goths from outside the gates, she had done her best to keep order in the city and make their supplies stretch as long as possible.
Athaulf said nothing to her admission at first. Placidia completed another stitch and then glanced at him. She found his gaze on her, his dark eyes appraising. She waited for him to scoff or chuckle at her delusion.
Instead, he nodded. “It’s good for one who seeks to lead to know what it’s like to lose everything. You should be thanking us.”
Now she was the one to scoff, though she knew he was right. The siege of Rome had given her the opportunity to show leadership in a period of extreme hardship, and even her captivity was giving her priceless insight into the workings of their enemies.
“I’ll be sure to invite you to my coronation,” she said dryly.
He shot her a quick grin, which made him look so handsome she had to glance away. “Hail, Caesar. Isn’t that what you Romans say?”
She rolled her eyes.
Ahead, the sound of splashing water met her ears. Sunlight sparkled on a wide river, which the men and horses were fording.
When they reached it, Athaulf’s horse stepped confidently into the water, wading across in large strides. The water reached above the horse’s knees at the middle of the river, but the animal didn’t hesitate, and soon Athaulf was across to the other side.
The horse leading Placidia’s wagon hesitated, and the man guiding it on foot had to tug on the lead to get the animal to step into the water. Placidia grabbed the edge of the wagon as it rocked, water sloshing on either side of her. A feeling of unease crept over her. If something should go wrong—if the wagon should overturn and sink—her ankle was still tied to one of the slats in the bottom of the wagon.
At the middle of the river, water splashed high enough to seep through the bottom of the wagon, dampening Placidia’s dress. She tightened her lips in irritation.
A bee buzzed near her ear, and she waved a hand to shoo it away. It flew forward to settle on the horse’s neck. Placidia opened her mouth to say something to the man leading the horse, up to his waist in water.
Before she could, the horse whinnied and tried to rear, yanking the lead out of the man’s hand. The wagon lurched. More water rushed into the bottom of the wagon as the horse’s movements pulled them into deeper water.
Panic seized her chest. She tugged fruitlessly at the rope binding her ankle to the wagon, but the knots were too tight. The wagon now drifted downstream, and the horse’s legs churned as it tried to find its footing in the deep water. The animal shrieked, tossing its head in terror. Shouting rose from men on the riverbanks. The wagon tipped, and water rushed over the side, submerging her up to her hips and rising fast. It would sink in moments, and she’d be pulled down to the riverbed with it.
*
Athaulf jumped off his horse as soon as he heard commotion at the riverbank. He strode through the crowd of men who had just forded the river, but stopped short when he saw what was happening.
Somehow, Placidia’s wagon had been engulfed by the river. Water churned as the horse, still attached to the wagon, struggled to keep its head above water. Placidia floundered in the back of the sinking wagon. For a moment, he wondered why she didn’t just swim to shore.
Then it hit him with a sickening punch: her ankle was tied to the wagon. Which was currently in the process of plunging to the bottom of the river.
“Help!” Placidia cried, and the panicked sound sliced through him like a knife. Her arms flailed fruitlessly at the surface, and her head disappeared beneath the water.
Athaulf dove into the river. Water tugged at his clothing, but he summoned more strength to swim harder, reaching her in moments. She had to fight to keep her head above water. He pulled a knife from his belt, filled his lungs with air, and submerged himself, kicking downward as he sought the rope at her ankle. He grabbed onto her leg, using it to feel for the connection to the wagon. When he found it, he severed the rope in a few vicious strokes of the knife, then kicked upward to return to the surface.
She was gasping, spluttering, but at least her head and shoulders were above water.
“Can you swim?” he asked, reaching to still her thrashing arms.
“Does it look like I can swim?” she panted.
Her sharp-tongued response almost made him smile, despite the circumstances. He turned around, presenting his back. “Hold onto my shoulders.”
Her hands grasped him, clinging to the sodden fabric of his shirt, and he kicked off toward the riverbank.
Once they reached shallower ground, he clambered to his feet and helped her up. “Are you all right?”
She wiped water from her eyes. She was trembling, whether from cold or fear he couldn’t tell, and the sight made his chest feel strangely tight. “I-I think so.”
Water still swirled around their knees, and he kept an arm around her shoulder as he guided her to shore. Their feet stuck in the river mud. Once they were on dry land, he turned her to face him, scanning her for injury.
She seemed in one piece, but her hands caught his attention. He grabbed one, lifting it to inspect her fingers. Her nails were broken and bloodied, likely from her effort to free herself from the rope.
Her injured fingers curled around his. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You saved my life.”
He met her gaze, and a hot bolt of something traveled through him at the vulnerability in her amber eyes. Even the night of the sack, she hadn’t looked like that.
He dropped her hand. “Protecting an investment, princess.”
She tried to step away from him and wring out her soaked hair, but when she moved, he caught sight of the way her waterlogged dress clung to every curve of her body.
A spike of lust stabbed deep in his gut. He kept his arm around her shoulders, nearly pinning her to him. “Don’t.” He turned to a man nearby and barked an order for a blanket to be brought, and the man ran off.
She blinked at him in confusion, then followed his gaze where it traveled down her body. Her cheeks flushed.
“Someone will bring you a blanket,” he said. In the meantime, he would protect her modesty.
At least, that was what he told himself he was doing by keeping her anchored there. Not selfishly keeping her all to himself, only for his gaze.
Look away.
Look. Away.
God, she’s beautiful.
Her dress molded flawlessly to the swell of her breasts. They seemed the perfect size to fill his hands. Breath stuttered in his throat as he saw the way her nipples had tightened in the cold water.
His gaze kept moving down, relishing the way fabric clung to the slender curve of her stomach, the subtle swell of her hips. Her body still showed the effects of months of starvation, and he could only imagine how glorious she’d look if better fed.
A breeze swept over them, and she shivered. Instinctively, his arm tightened around her shoulder. When he managed—with great effort—to tear his gaze from her body back up to her face, he found her eyes on him, watching him. She showed no embarrassment, but she did receive the blanket gratefully when it was brought.
He helped her drape the woolen fabric over her shoulders, bringing the edges to overlap in the front to hide her from his and everyone else’s gaze. She clasped the edges together with her damaged fingers.
An hour later, the wagon and horse had been retrieved. The horse was skittish but unharmed, and the wagon had managed to be pulled out without losing any of the loot, as the boxes and crates had been secured to the wagon just as Placidia had been.
Once the soaked wagon was reattached to the horse, Athaulf gestured at Placidia to get in.
She glared at the wagon. “I am not getting back on that thing.”
He fixed her with a glower, one that usually made disorderly soldiers fall into line without a word. “There are no more rivers to ford. You will get back in.”
“I will not. I would rather walk.”
“You cannot walk.” Annoyance sharpened his tone. This incident had already delayed them enough, and they needed to get back on the road if they were to catch up with the rest of the army by nightfall.
“I can!” She stomped forward, as if demonstrating to him that she was capable of putting one foot in front of the other.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Your shoes are unsuitable, and you’re not accustomed to walking distances. Your feet would be a bloody mess within the hour. Alaric will have my balls if I let you die of an infection.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I will not get back in that wagon of my own free will.”
Their gazes locked. She had to know he was more than capable of physically forcing her into the wagon, and she seemed to be silently daring him to do it.
A muscle in his jaw tensed. He imagined picking her up, throwing her over his shoulder, tossing her into the wagon.
It was a satisfying visual, but something in him balked at handling her roughly. Perhaps it was how small and vulnerable she’d looked when he pulled her from the river. Or perhaps it was because the image of her body beneath the soaked dress was still imprinted on his mind.
“You may ride with me,” he finally growled. “Just for today.”