After the Fall Read online

  After the Fall

  Book Two of the Roman Time Travel Series

  Morgan O’Neill

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Cary Morgan Frates and Deborah O’Neill Cordes

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-5151-0

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5151-2

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-5131-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5131-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com, istockphoto.com/Juanmonino, Jeff Chiasson.

  For my four “sisters,” S, C, C & K, who’ve been my truest and most steadfast friends since long before any of us realized growing up could be such a challenge.

  —Cary Morgan Frates

  For my mother, who has been with me since the beginning, in life — and in loving support of my literary adventures.

  —Deborah O’Neill Cordes

  I was stunned and stupefied, so much so I could not think about anything else day and night … My voice sticks in my throat, and, as I dictate, sobs choke my utterance. Rome, the city, which had taken the world, was itself taken.

  —Jerome, Scholar and Monk of Bethlehem, A.D. 410

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART TWO

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PART THREE

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Author’s Note

  About the Authors

  Also Available

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Autumn, A.D. 408, near Rome, Italy

  The sailboat rode the chop up and down, steady in the face of chaos.

  Salty mist bathed Gigi Perrin’s face as she kept watch over the bow. The skies overhead were clear and fiercely blue, reminding her of Magnus’s eyes. The wind and waves had just enough kick to make the afternoon perfect, and she sighed with contentment.

  “Gigi! Gigi! Where are you?”

  Gigi frowned. Her mother’s voice was frantic. Hadn’t Magnus let her parents know she was up on deck, manning the helm?

  “Gigi! Where are you?”

  Now her father? He sounded like he was crying! Gigi called out to them, but the wind carried her voice away. She tried to lock the wheel on autopilot, so she could go down below and reassure them everything was okay, but couldn’t find the mechanism.

  A hand clamped over her mouth and a jolt of fear went straight to her gut. She let go of the wheel, wrenched away, and faced her attacker. Honorius! The boat lurched sideways with the waves and Gigi fell, Honorius landing on top of her. She struggled, which made him laugh. She tried to knee him, but he was ready and caught her leg, pinning it to one side.

  No! No!

  He hit her on the jaw and the pain made her mind reel with terror. They were naked, and he was pushing at her, pushing …

  “No!” Gigi screamed, thrashing at her cloak. Opening her eyes, breathing hard, she looked around. Rolling hills. A sea of dying grass gently waving in the breeze. The rough bark of a tree against her back. Emperor Honorius wasn’t here. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t been anywhere near her.

  She wiped her mouth, then ran her hands over her face. Would she ever get him out of her nightmares? Would she ever be able to forgive herself for leaving her parents without a word? It hadn’t been her fault, but …

  She sighed and leaned her head back, a single tear trickling down her cheek.

  Time travel. Sometimes Gigi had difficulty believing it had actually happened to her. She shivered despite the sun’s warmth, wondering what it was going to be like spending a winter in ancient Italy. Living rough with the Visigoths, she’d be without all the things she’d taken for granted: central heating, modern medicine, chocolate.

  But she was here. That was that. She looked at the beautiful hills again, seeking solace in the sight. Slanted sunshine, autumn’s last gift, the air scented with grass and thyme. She held her hand out and her ring caught the light, the image of the goddess Victoria shimmering, dancing.

  Magnus’s ring, lost by him in battle, then found by her grandfather after 1,600 years, hers now, her wedding ring. Time travel had brought Gigi and Magnus together, the how of it unanswerable, the ring the key in some unfathomable way.

  She touched her ring, recalling the past few months. Magnus. Always by her side, the only one sharing the secret of her other life. Their trek south through the rugged Apennines had been long and tiring, but they had persevered together. And now, finally, they were on the outskirts of Rome. What would happen next?

  Getting up, Gigi brushed off her skirt and resettled her cloak. She looked at the jumble of buildings on the horizon. Rome. She was excited and nervous all at once, not only because she hoped to be reunited with her friend, Princess Placidia, but also because this was where the Visigoths would make a stand, perhaps the final stand against the Western Roman Empire. If all went well, they might just get land of their own, land they’d been promised by a string of emperors in return for decades of military service. More Romanized than the other so-called barbarian hordes, the Visigoths had fought with and eventually become part of the imperial legions, only to be spit upon and further abused by the Empire, until they supported open rebellion against its tyranny.

  Gigi’s mind returned to that coward, Honorius, and she was relieved he was far away, hiding behind the walls of Ravenna. Nevertheless, he still lurked in her nightmares, but she would fight him there, too, determined to put an end to her bad dreams forever.

  Would she be able to succeed? Gigi took a deep breath and hoped so as she walked back to the Visigoth tents. She held her hands before a campfire, enjoying the play of warmth against her fingers, her ring softly glowing. Some women sat nearby, humming as they sewed and knitted. She greeted them, and they smiled back in welcome.

  There was a sudden rise in conversation and Gigi turned just as a group of six men and one woman exited King Alaric’s tent. With a gentle yet noble bearing, Queen Verica nodded to her husband and left to attend her own business. Gigi found it interesting Verica had equal standing among the men, something the Romans and their emperor disparaged as barbaric. Recalling how Honorius delighted in abusing women, Gigi knew without a shred of doubt the identity of the real barbarian.

  She considered King Alaric and the other men standing by the tent. They looked serious and proud, especially the king and his second-in-command, Verica’s brother, Athaulf. Gigi found confidence in their strength, and gratification in the way they’d offered their protection.

  Her husband came out of the tent, an upstart Roman who had also
thrown in his lot with the Visigoths. Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus. His name reflected great heritage and high honors. Gigi felt a burst of pride when she recalled how he had bravely defended her after she was enslaved by Honorius, how he had engineered her escape. Then, with a death warrant on his own head, he had barely made it out of Ravenna. But they were now free!

  She almost laughed as she envisioned him riding a white horse. Magnus had his back to her, bending an ear to Athaulf, who considered him an equal. He was valued here, and she could see how much he had changed, his confidence reborn, now that he was out of the emperor’s evil shadow.

  Sunshine lit her husband’s dark brown hair, now almost long enough to start a braid in the Visigoth style. Gigi loved how he looked, loved even more all the little things he did to show how much he cared: making certain she got the first taste of whatever was served; letting her ride his horse, Agrippa, for hours as they traveled, and when she walked, placing himself between her and the jumble of wagons for safety’s sake.

  Gigi smiled, her will to succeed, to embrace this life, fully restored, and she marveled at how everything had changed since she’d met him. Magnus, I adore you.

  Just then, he turned, searching the camp as if sensing her presence and the intensity of her thoughts. His gaze found hers, and he gave her a long look back. Soon, he told her, love lighting his blue eyes. Very soon.

  She entered their tent and dropped onto the bed. Home. Not much considering what she’d had in her other life, but it was everything she needed here. She picked up her flute and idly played scales, wondering what Magnus would say if she could snap her fingers and show him what she used to have: her new digs in LA, and the charming, centuries-old family farmhouse she was having restored outside Avignon. Considering he was a Roman, she’d make sure he saw the big Jacuzzi tub in her LaLaLand abode, surrounded by vanilla candles, a bucket of champagne, and some luscious chocolate truffles.

  Gigi laughed. That stuff might be necessary to enhance the mood with another guy, but she didn’t need it with Magnus. He just had to show up in this tent and …

  Magic happened.

  She played a tune that had been running through her head, “That Old Black Magic.”

  The tent flap opened, and Magnus walked in. His face broke into a wide grin, and Gigi put down her flute. It didn’t matter where she lived — he was her life.

  “Oh, yeah, my Magnus,” she smiled, “pure magic.”

  Chapter 2

  Rome, Italy

  Placidia stood on a balcony of the Domus Augustana, on the side of the palace overlooking the Circus Maximus. She breathed deeply of the crisp, fall air and caught a hint of the distant sea. Persia. India. Exotic places, so far away, yet were they truly beyond her brother’s reach?

  She had no answer. Honorius had the right, the duty, even, to use her marriage to shore up his alliances in this ever-changing world. But his choice of General Constantius did nothing in this regard. The general derived what power he had from Honorius, so her brother was treating her as nothing more than common booty, to be drooled over and played with, and, ultimately, caged like a dainty bird.

  Constantius. Placidia cringed at the memory of his bulging eyes, balding pate, and thin smile. Fifty-odd years of fighting and court intrigue and military regimens. Set in his ways and much too old. God Almighty, she was only seventeen!

  Would she be brave enough to seek her freedom when it came time to marry Constantius? Freedom. What did it actually mean? Slaves longed for it, of course, and debtors wanted to be free of their debts, but didn’t everyone desire something other than what they had? She sighed, feeling guilty for worrying so selfishly about her own situation.

  “Placidia?” Elpidia said, coming outside. “Priscus Attalus has arrived.”

  Placidia nodded to her old nurse and smoothed her gown, her thoughts in turmoil even as she strove for calm. What was happening in Ravenna? After Honorius murdered General Stilicho, two senators, Attalus and Magnus, had abandoned the city and her brother, each escaping a fate identical to Stilicho’s, if the rumors were true.

  And now her cousin Serena, Stilicho’s detestable widow, had come to Rome. Ruined and impoverished, she had dragged along her surviving children, her young son, Eucherius, and her daughter, Thermantia, the emperor’s discarded wife. Realistic about her own shortcomings, Placidia didn’t know if she would extend a helping hand if Serena showed up on her doorstep, but shrugged it off. She admittedly felt the need for revenge, after all Serena had done, but the need was a burden unto itself, and Placidia wondered how long it would be before guilt overwhelmed her.

  “Greetings, O most exalted Placidia,” Attalus said.

  “Welcome, O most excellent Attalus. Please take your ease. Have you any word from my brother? Or from Magnus?”

  “There has been no word from Magnus, nor any hint of his whereabouts. It’s as though he dropped out of Italia altogether.”

  She frowned. “No word at all? Not even rumors?”

  “None. But fear not, dearest princess, for Magnus is Magnus. He will survive. As for the emperor, I received a letter from him this morning, which is why I sought an audience with you. Although it is addressed to me, I believe it is meant for your eyes as well.”

  Attalus handed over the rolled parchment, and Placidia quickly opened it and read:

  “Priscus Attalus,

  We were most decidedly vexed by your unanticipated leave-taking from Ravenna, but we understand your fear, for we have received word the Visigoths have left Noricum and are heading south.”

  “His royal ‘we’ annoys, does it not?” Placidia asked, then caught herself, remembering her manners. It would be unseemly to speak more about Honorius’s conceit. She looked up at the senator. “Does this mean the Visigoths are on the march again?”

  “Indeed, I’m afraid they will spread like a plague of locusts,” Attalus said flatly. “But know this, I did not leave Ravenna with my tail between my legs because of the damnable Visigoths.”

  “I know.” She swallowed. “But … do you know where they are heading?”

  He shook his head. “I have heard they made plans to attack Ravenna by sea.”

  Placidia took a breath. Magnus had said that was a possibility. “Then the barbarians are fools. They will not succeed.”

  She resumed reading:

  “As to the main point of our royal message — we care not if the Roman citizens hate Serena. There must be no housing in any royal properties and no bodyguards given her or any of her family. MAKE SURE OUR SISTER PROVIDES NONE! We would not want the boy to grow up weakened by overprotection. As to our former wife, let her EARN her bread.

  With all esteem and sincerest regard,

  Flavius Honorius Augustus, Emperor of Rome.”

  Placidia frowned and met Attalus’s troubled gaze. Her brother had not changed, would never change, his selfish disregard for all but himself still paramount.

  Knowing Rome seethed with hatred for Serena because of her loathsome deeds, Placidia said a swift, silent prayer for the two remaining innocents of the family. Thermantia and Eucherius were not responsible for their mother’s desecration of pagan temples, her burning of sacred books, or her utter deceit. However, without bodyguards, their lives were as good as forfeit, for the mob would have its vengeance if they were ever recognized.

  She crossed herself. “I must help them.”

  Attalus looked surprised by this, and so, she realized, was she. But then, Honorius had not thought of everything.

  As to financial succor, he had said nothing at all.

  • • •

  The Avenue of Janus was hot, noisy, overcrowded, and stank of human sweat and garlic. Serena left the pawnbroker’s shop and eyed the street carefully, mindful of the purse of coins hidden beneath her palla. The last of her jewelry had brought this final pittance, and sh
e worried where she would get more money once it was gone.

  Slipping back to the doorway of her tenement house, she was relieved to see Thermantia waiting there with Eucherius. They set off together without a word, and Serena breathed easier when no one caught her eye, nobody looked suspicious or seemed to care about their presence.

  The crowds at the market had always terrified her. She didn’t trust the plebian hordes, and knew they would attack if they discovered her identity. Unwilling to leave her children unprotected at the tenement, her only other choice was to bring them along when she did the shopping.

  “Pull your palla close, Thermantia,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I don’t want the plebs recognizing you. Eucherius, keep your head down, and don’t draw attention. Now, come.”

  They moved down the street as one. Suddenly, the hair on Serena’s arms rose and she tensed, but there was no shoving, the sounds hadn’t changed, the faces around them wore expressions of boredom.

  All’s well, just keep moving, Serena told herself.

  They turned right, onto a better street lined with more prosperous shops, heading toward Quirinal Hill, to the Great Market. Serena saw Thermantia cast a longing glance at the window of an unguentarius, and she scowled at the girl — cosmetics were the last thing they could afford. She heard hawkers shouting from butcher and wine shops and smelled her favorite bakery’s delicious fresh bread and pulmentum, the scent of the rich barley cakes making her stomach growl.

  She had never experienced a time when she’d been so hungry, for so long. She glanced at her son and drew a deep breath. He looked thin and unhappy. She decided to visit the baker first, for the man was always happy when she flirted with him, and he let them sample his specialties before she bought anything. It was a good way to alleviate their hunger.

  Serena quickened her step. “Hurry, keep up, children.”

  “Mother!”

  “Hush, Thermantia,” Serena scolded. “Your accent gives you away. Can’t you remember a thing I — ”