Chapter Thirty-Four
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The next day, they departed early for Noricum.
All day, Julia’s nerves were on edge. Did Alaric have concubines? Would the people hate her? The questions rattled in her mind.
Two weeks after they left the mountains behind, a little town came into view, nestled behind high walls along the coast. Alaric set up his red chieftain’s tent outside the city walls and sent for the magistrates. His brilliant smile dazzled as he bought all their grain out from under them with a bare handful of Julia’s jewels, the magistrates sweating beneath the threatening demeanor of his men.
Their leader was a statuesque middle-aged woman in an elaborate dress made of stiff folds of crimson. “You can’t simply buy up every scrap of grain in our storehouses,” she informed Alaric indignantly. “What will we eat?”
“That isn’t my problem.” The magistrates’ shock at Alaric’s princely Latin was almost audible. “You can sell it to me, at a price you name. Or I can take it.” His eyes fell to the magistrate’s finery. “And I’ll take that dress too.”
The dress was too short, the chest too tight and the shoulders too constricted; Julia could barely raise her arms. The armholes dug painfully into her armpits, and the stiff fabric itched. And red was not her color. But it was a rich dress. Even queenly.
At least Alaric had been amenable to letting her ride into the city by his side, as his queen. She was gratified for that.
* * *
They moved faster after that. The days flew by in a blur of black-and-earth-brown landscape. Julia noticed the burned-down farmsteads, the overgrown fields. The landscape had been ravaged and emptied. Sometimes she saw ragged bands of men in the fields, dressed in animal skins atop swayback nags. Bandits. Riga informed her cheerfully that they’d take everything she owned and leave her bleeding in a ditch if she was alone out here.
During the daytime, she barely saw Alaric. He rode at the head of the column, surrounded by a knot of warriors, Ataulf ever at his side. Sometimes he rode up and down the lines, and when he did, he’d always stop to ask if she was well, to make her laugh. His presence was brief and bright, all-encompassing and all too short.
But at night, they came together. Julia spent each night in hedonistic splendor in his arms.
She knew she should try to get more information from him about what she would be walking into. But she’d tried it the direct way, and he had deflected. She could only gather what information she could from others—and most did not want to speak to her. Even Bromios avoided her now.
She dreaded Noricum.
* * *
Finally, after another week of travel, the city came into sight.
The entire column fell quiet as they rode through a plain strewn with the discarded detritus of battle. Burned husks of overturned war machines lay on the ground, wheels spinning slowly in the wind. Scraps of armor lay rusting in the summer sun. Julia watched a large vulture land on a helmet and lower its pink, wrinkly head to pick at something. It took her a moment to realize the helmet wasn’t empty. Suddenly she and her stomach were at war.
Noricum towered above the plain—sand-colored stone walls and immense black gates. At the top of the wall were ten desiccated corpses tied to stakes. A few scrawny crows perched on their shoulders; one dipped its beak and tugged a piece of tendon from a weathered neck.
Her stomach defeated her. Bile rose hot in her throat. Julia slid off her horse, knelt in the road in her fine dress, and retched, shattering the oppressive silence of the valley. She retched until everything in her stomach lay in a little puddle in the dust.
“Get up, Julia.” Alaric stood before her, golden and terrible, every inch the barbarian king. He raised her to her feet. “Look at me. Everything depends upon you riding through those gates with your back straight and your head held high. Look at me and nothing else.”
Julia took a deep breath and nodded, her throat gone dry as parchment.
Then he was cantering up to the big black gates. Alaric halted before them and called out in his own language, rough and deep and powerful, the echo reverberating.
As his voice fell silent, an eerie stillness filled the valley. The sun pounded down and Julia sweated beneath her brocade. Horses stamped flies off their flanks and men murmured among themselves. Julia wondered if the entire city was empty. If everyone in it was dead.
The whole valley held its breath as they waited for the gates to open.
* * *
“Well. If it isn’t your own vultures, coming home to roost,” Ataulf said drily. “We could have had a triumph. We could have had them at your feet.” He glanced at Alaric, frowning. “Do you really think a few meager wagonfuls of grain will get you into this city?”
“The people are hungry, Ataulf,” Alaric replied, with a quiet certainty he did not feel. “They will let us in.”
Alaric watched the black gates as if he could will them open. This had been his greatest fear—that his city would be barred to his return.
“You know there’s only one way you’ll get into Noricum without the crowd tearing her limb from limb.” Ataulf glanced behind to where Julia nervously sat her horse, swathed in heavy fabric. Alaric held an air of unshakable calm. He must never let his confidence slip, especially not now, with his men at his back, drawing their courage from him.
Even so, he could not stop his own thoughts.
What would his fate be if the gates would not open? Torn to pieces outside his own damn city, no doubt. But it wasn’t his fate that concerned him most. He’d considered sneaking Julia in under cover of dark. But showing weakness was its own mistake. The only way was to swagger up to these gates, with Julia riding proud in his retinue, and tell anyone who objected to take it up with his clenched fist.
A creaking and grinding split the earth. The great doors cracked open. Alaric let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Ahead, a paved road cut through a warren of houses, rich marble crumbling, doors broken and roofs falling in from when Alaric had taken the city months ago. The road went straight before cutting west and climbing the hill to the citadel. A hot wind stirred the dust at his feet like a demon’s exhale. And then—
“Get back,” Ataulf hissed at the sight of the angry crowd that was gathering in the road, hungry and angry and calling for blood. His people. “Get back .”
“No.” Alaric raised an arm, signaling for the grain wagons. “They’re still mine, Ataulf.” He could not have Julia ride in with him now. But he would bring her in as his queen, as soon as he calmed the crowd. “Hold Julia back until my signal. Then send her in under close guard. Keep her absolutely safe.”
Then he spurred his horse forward, into the hot demon wind.
* * *
Julia stood at the city gate, her throat clenched with fear as Alaric rode straight into a raging crowd. A multitude of faces, brown and tanned and sunburned, everyone dressed out of a fevered fantasy—worn animal skins thrown over ragged silk, long Greek stockings made of animal hair, mud-smeared calves flashing under brilliant Egyptian linen. Here a bloodstained peacock-blue veil; there a cloak of Tyrian purple with a deep knife slash in the back. Long, tangled hair adorned with bits of flashing mirror or animal teeth. There was a tense, febrile current beneath everything that set Julia on edge.
The carts had started to roll, overflowing with golden wheat. Alaric was handing loaves into the crowd, his great voice echoing off the ruined walls.
Don’t lose sight of me , he’d said.
Julia glanced up at Ataulf, sitting his gray horse. “We have to go in. Now. ”
His face hardened to a look of flat distaste. “Oh, you’ll go in, Princess.” He gave an order to one of the men behind him—a big, round-shouldered man with a russet beard.
The next instant, she was being lifted out of her saddle. The man stood before her with a length of rope. She held her ground. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Do you honestly think the people want a Roman queen?” Ataulf demanded. “They will rip you to shreds.”
“So I must ride in as a prisoner?” Julia jerked her hands out of the man’s grip. “Alaric will never allow it.”
“Alaric told me to protect you. This is how. And it protects him too. What do you think the people will do to him , once they realize he intends you to rule over them?” The russet-bearded warrior seized Julia’s hands and tied them quickly. Then he handed the other end of the rope to Ataulf.
Outrage choked her throat. “He will have you on the walls for this. I am his wife .”
“Are you sure?” Ataulf’s tone was silken, vicious. “What proof can you offer? Any witnesses? Any grand ceremony? Did he even grant you a dowry?”
“We pledged beneath the sky, with the gods as our witnesses. We did not need a ceremony—”
“Oh, Julia.” Ataulf’s expression turned pitying . “Is that what he told you?”
Fury and fear crashed in on her as she realized what a fool she’d been.
“I’m simply following Alaric’s orders. Take it up with him,” Ataulf said. Then he raised an arm in signal to the column and urged his horse forward.
* * *
Rage and humiliation burned in her throat.
The rope was too taut. It jerked at her wrists with the horse’s every step. The horse cocked his tail and took a shit in the street, and she barely avoided the steaming pile.
Alaric had ordered this. Julia walked with her spine straight and her eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the shouts and curses as Ataulf’s men struggled to hold back the furious crowd.
Did she believe that? It seemed past believing.
She had watched two triumphs in her life, both for generals returning from war. One had a rebel leader in a cage, who had been summarily strangled after the procession. She had never dreamed she would be in his place herself. And now she would never have a chance to prove herself to these people. This memory would remain in their minds each time she appeared before them. Prisoner. Enemy. Whore.
“I don’t like this,” said a voice in her ear.
It was Horsa, walking in the inner circle of her guard. Hengist was on the other side, just beyond the guards, leading Bura, who didn’t like the crowd any more than she did. Her eyes rolled to whites and her feet were light with panic.
“Ataulf says Alaric ordered it,” Julia whispered.
“Alaric has been up my back since Ravenna. I might as well add something else to the pile.” Metal glinted in Horsa’s hand. A dagger. He nodded at Hengist, who walked with one hand flat on Bura’s neck, soothing her. “She’ll run right through this crowd.”
Julia sucked in a breath. If this failed, she’d be ripped apart. But she would not go into this city like a prisoner.
Horsa’s knife flashed and the rope fell from her wrists, and then he turned without warning and shoved the nearest guard. Suddenly there was a brawl in the street.
Hengist reached for her, his hands going around her waist, and the next instant, she was clinging, one leg half-over the mare’s bare back. Bura sidled nervously, ears flat. For a moment it seemed she would slip off and land in a pitiable heap.
“Go!” Hengist roared, slapping Bura’s back. The horse surged forward, hindquarters gathering beneath her, and Julia caught a glimpse of Ataulf’s surprised face before they went barreling past him and through the crowd with a speed born of abject fear. A woman grabbed a child and jerked it out of the way; the horse veered to avoid a barrel of grain spilled in the road. Bura had the bit in her teeth now, and Julia let the reins fall, clinging to the horse’s mane as she clattered down the street, hooves striking sparks off the cobblestones.
Only when they rounded the corner did Julia see a hill rising ahead, a path snaking up a steep outcrop to a walled citadel. Bura lunged up the switchback path, no check on her fear. Now they were through the gate, and rushing toward a marble mansion that rose up gleaming before them at the top of a tower of marble stairs. A deafening roar rose up behind them—a roar that only spurred Bura into a panicked gallop up the steps.
A casual arm threw itself up and caught the horse’s reins as if this had all been planned.
Bura slid to a trembling halt, her lungs heaving like a bellows, and there was Alaric, laying a hand on the horse’s cheek, whispering. Julia felt the horse go calm beneath his touch. Then his pale eyes lighted on her, the crowd’s roar fading into the distance. Her heart was racing, her borrowed dress raked up to her knees. She’d lost a shoe. Alaric lifted her down, beaming with pride. The moment her feet hit the marble paving stones she sank to her knees, the red dress billowing out around her, and the crowd’s roar filled the world.
Alaric raised her to her feet. “You did well,” he murmured.
* * *
Alaric stood on the landing midway up the steps that led to the mansion’s entrance, amidst the snap of banners and the rattling of shields and voices swelling all around him. He would bet his own skin that the chieftains had worked the people up to their earlier furor.
That rage at the gate had been no accident. Noricum was a city of vicious joys and daggers in the dark, and the mobs of Noricum could turn on the edge of a knife. Alaric had a strong feeling the chieftains had warred among each other fiercely before giving the order to open the gates. Wouldn’t it be convenient for them if he was ripped limb from limb before even making it to the citadel.
But the chieftains were playing a losing game. The people of Noricum were many: runaway slaves and farmers and refugees, Sarmatians and Greuthungi, Gauls and Getae and Parthians, Taifals and Alans and Huns. Those pushed to the margins of existence from every corner of the Empire. They walked around in a rage that the Roman aristocracy could only dimly comprehend, and that made them dangerous. That made them his .
Even so. The crowd would need persuading. It was this that made him give the order for Ataulf to hold Julia back. He had meant to shelter her from this; to gentle the crowd first with gifts and grain. But he was also keenly aware that the people needed to see her, to accept her presence as soon as possible. Their love would protect her most from the chieftains’ wrath.
He never would have allowed Julia to go galloping through the city as she’d done, hair loose and streaming like a Gothic queen straight out of legend. But it appeared to be a stroke of brilliance. The people were cheering for her now. Their cheers had not abated even as he lifted Julia down from the horse. The people loved her. And that was a powerful force.
Perfectly attuned to the crowd, Julia gazed up at him with a flawless adoration that he knew damn well was an act. She’s performing , he realized. He felt a fierce, savage surge of pride in her. He had chosen well.
At his raised hand, the cheers fell silent.
“My people. I have brought you gold, and grain, and a chance for victory.” His voice filled the square, ricocheting off the yellow plaster and crumbling wood of the buildings. “With only fifty I walked into the city where the emperor cowers out of fear of us. I put my boot on his neck and my knife to his throat and brought back a great prize. The princess Julia, only child of the Imperator himself.”
Silence fell over the crowd as they turned their attention to Julia. She stood straight, an expression of calm on her face, the mask of her royalty never faltering.
“This woman is my wife.” He said it in his own language; Julia stared out at the crowd as if she were in perfect agreement. “I have their princess now; she’s mine . She will bear me a son who will stand as the first in line for the throne of Rome. Soon we , my people, will have as much right to the Empire as the boy Honorius himself. And when we cross the mountains again, there’ll be no one to stop us from ripping its bloody heart out of its body.”
Around him, the city screamed its assent. He had never lost them. They were his , as they had always been.
The chieftains would be sweating in their boots right now.
Wearing their plaids and rings and great war brooches, they stood at the mansion’s columned entrance, eyeing him the way they might a viper in their path. Behind him, Thorismund mounted the stairs with a dozen men at his back. Alaric glanced behind to give him a wordless order. Hold back unless I signal. Thorismund halted just at the top of the steps, his expression grim.
Alaric turned back to the chieftains with an easy smile, as if he’d come from a pleasant ride rather than having to placate a murderous crowd. “Hello, my brave companions. Have you missed me?”
Sigeric stepped forward first. He had lately taken on Roman ways, trimming his beard like a Roman. “King Alaric, you are well met. We had not had word in months. Some among us thought you dead.”
And some among you would have me dead. Alaric held out a hand to Julia, who stood a few paces behind. “May I present the princess Julia. Daughter of Theodosius, Augustus of the Romans, and my wife.”
A strangled quiet fell over the knot of chieftains.
Julia came forward, her lips lifted in a gentle smile. “It is a great pleasure to meet you all. I hope very much we will be friends.”
“I hope that as well, my queen,” Sigeric responded in kind, his Latin edged with the flavor of the war front.
“You sang another song this morning, Sigeric.” It was Sarus, Sigeric’s younger brother; dumber than a bag of hair. “You may all call that Roman whore a queen. But I never will.”
Alaric stepped forward and drove his fist straight into
Sarus’s face.
The force of the blow skinned his knuckle. Blood sprayed; teeth scattered on the floor.
“You’ll call her queen ,” he said flatly. “And you’ll kneel, if only because you’re gathering your teeth off the ground.” Alaric raked his gaze over the shocked faces of his chieftains. “You’ll all keep a civil tongue in your heads when you talk about my wife.”