Death!”
Placidia remained still, letting only her eyes move over the scene. People shook their fists and screamed obscenities; some threw whatever they could find, the missiles raining down on the field. Several found their mark, but Serena remained standing and unbowed.
The announcer waved his arms for calm, then, when the voices subsided enough he bellowed, “By what means?”
There was no deciphering the responses, since none were the same, but everyone continued to roar.
He waved his arms again. “Stoning?”
Roars.
“Burning?”
Thunderous noise.
“Disemboweling?”
Placidia could hardly hear the man, and there was no way to make sense of what the crowd preferred. He said something else, but his voice was lost in the din, and finally he nodded, then motioned for quiet. As a hush fell over the crowd, he suddenly turned with a flourish and faced Placidia.
The brusqueness of the move took her by surprise, and she sat there, cold with dread.
“Stand,” Attalus whispered in her ear.
With difficulty, Placidia shrugged off her cape and rose. “What is the people’s decision?” she asked, her voice sounding strange and throaty, as if it belonged to another.
“Aelia Galla Placidia, Most Noble Princess of Rome and the Empire, the people have chosen beheading, to be carried out immediately!”
Placidia blinked several times, trying to manage her surprise. She hadn’t heard a single voice call out for so humane a method of execution, and she guessed Attalus had something to do with it, although he bore Serena no goodwill.
Placidia focused on her cousin, and Serena stared back with a smirk, unmoving, daring her to pronounce condemnation, mocking her failure to do so.
How she hated evil, loathsome Serena! Placidia reminded herself of all the wrongs this woman had committed in her lifetime, reminded herself she was every bit the craven monster Honorius was, reminded herself this woman was uncaring, vengeful, and utterly without compassion.
Compassion.
Placidia tried to calm her breathing as she looked into eyes that would soon be without life. Whatever Serena’s faults, Placidia fervently wished she could show her compassion, even now, but that was not an option.
Instead, she drew in a deep breath and raised her fist with an extended thumb, drawing a line over her throat in the pollice verso , the death signal, final, so very final.
“Let the people’s decision be carried out!” she ordered.
The noise throbbed in Placidia’s ears, pulsated across the arena, as two legionnaires grasped Serena’s arms and forced her to her knees. A third took hold of the ends of her hair from the front, pulling it all forward, forcing her face down and exposing the nape of her neck.
Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder ripped through the heavens. A storm was upon them. Huge raindrops began to pelt the arena.
Another flash of light, this time daylight on blade, and the stroke descended with a terrible force.
Placidia’s legs gave way and she almost fell, but Attalus caught her in time, holding her up before the people, to witness this last, Serena’s end, for the sake of the Eternal City, for Rome, her Rome.
Chapter 6
Three days without rain — it was like heaven. Wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, Gigi walked through the lanes between tents, choosing her footing carefully. The morning had dawned overcast and bitterly cold. Frost coated everything, and the puddles had all iced over. If this chill stayed around, and the rains came back, they would be knee-deep in snow in no time. And what would that mean for Rome? For Placidia?
Damn this weather! Damn obstinate men! Triple damn that bastard Honorius for ignoring everything that’s going on!
She made her way to a rise topped with a lone cypress, her breath making little clouds before it disappeared. Gigi looked at the vista, Rome, so beautiful as it sparkled in the morning light — so terrible, too, and in such agony.
Gigi put her flute to her lips and
Placidia remained still, letting only her eyes move over the scene. People shook their fists and screamed obscenities; some threw whatever they could find, the missiles raining down on the field. Several found their mark, but Serena remained standing and unbowed.
The announcer waved his arms for calm, then, when the voices subsided enough he bellowed, “By what means?”
There was no deciphering the responses, since none were the same, but everyone continued to roar.
He waved his arms again. “Stoning?”
Roars.
“Burning?”
Thunderous noise.
“Disemboweling?”
Placidia could hardly hear the man, and there was no way to make sense of what the crowd preferred. He said something else, but his voice was lost in the din, and finally he nodded, then motioned for quiet. As a hush fell over the crowd, he suddenly turned with a flourish and faced Placidia.
The brusqueness of the move took her by surprise, and she sat there, cold with dread.
“Stand,” Attalus whispered in her ear.
With difficulty, Placidia shrugged off her cape and rose. “What is the people’s decision?” she asked, her voice sounding strange and throaty, as if it belonged to another.
“Aelia Galla Placidia, Most Noble Princess of Rome and the Empire, the people have chosen beheading, to be carried out immediately!”
Placidia blinked several times, trying to manage her surprise. She hadn’t heard a single voice call out for so humane a method of execution, and she guessed Attalus had something to do with it, although he bore Serena no goodwill.
Placidia focused on her cousin, and Serena stared back with a smirk, unmoving, daring her to pronounce condemnation, mocking her failure to do so.
How she hated evil, loathsome Serena! Placidia reminded herself of all the wrongs this woman had committed in her lifetime, reminded herself she was every bit the craven monster Honorius was, reminded herself this woman was uncaring, vengeful, and utterly without compassion.
Compassion.
Placidia tried to calm her breathing as she looked into eyes that would soon be without life. Whatever Serena’s faults, Placidia fervently wished she could show her compassion, even now, but that was not an option.
Instead, she drew in a deep breath and raised her fist with an extended thumb, drawing a line over her throat in the pollice verso , the death signal, final, so very final.
“Let the people’s decision be carried out!” she ordered.
The noise throbbed in Placidia’s ears, pulsated across the arena, as two legionnaires grasped Serena’s arms and forced her to her knees. A third took hold of the ends of her hair from the front, pulling it all forward, forcing her face down and exposing the nape of her neck.
Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder ripped through the heavens. A storm was upon them. Huge raindrops began to pelt the arena.
Another flash of light, this time daylight on blade, and the stroke descended with a terrible force.
Placidia’s legs gave way and she almost fell, but Attalus caught her in time, holding her up before the people, to witness this last, Serena’s end, for the sake of the Eternal City, for Rome, her Rome.
Chapter 6
Three days without rain — it was like heaven. Wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, Gigi walked through the lanes between tents, choosing her footing carefully. The morning had dawned overcast and bitterly cold. Frost coated everything, and the puddles had all iced over. If this chill stayed around, and the rains came back, they would be knee-deep in snow in no time. And what would that mean for Rome? For Placidia?
Damn this weather! Damn obstinate men! Triple damn that bastard Honorius for ignoring everything that’s going on!
She made her way to a rise topped with a lone cypress, her breath making little clouds before it disappeared. Gigi looked at the vista, Rome, so beautiful as it sparkled in the morning light — so terrible, too, and in such agony.
Gigi put her flute to her lips and
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