Nobilissima (28 page)

He raised his sword and his brutes quickly stabbed the other guards, leaving a growing pool of blood on the pathway. Sylvia looked at me in terror. We were alone and had yet again provoked the fury of this vicious beast.

“The good news for you is that I don’t desire your flesh any more,” he said, sliding the flat blade of his knife across my neck. “You are too much trouble. But you’ll still suffer horribly, lady, before you die, and wish you had run whimpering back to your idiot brother a long time ago.”

Sigeric ordered his men to tie my hands behind my back with their leather belts. The buckles cut into my wrists and chafed my skin.

“A few hours in the sun will do you good, woman.”

He turned to his men. “Guard her carefully and don’t fall for any tricks. I’ll be back in a while after I deal with the tribune and anyone else who was planning to help our Roman princess.”

He squeezed his bulk through the narrow gate, stepping over a body. He was laughing as he walked and I thought he must be mad. The hours wore on and flies gathered on the congealing blood that covered the bodies and the path. Sylvia buckled at the knees and she bent over with her forehead on the ground but a guard kicked at her and told her to stand up.

I began to protest but my lips were dry and my throat raw. I felt light headed and the sweet odor of death nauseated me. My mind was a blank. I could think of nothing and, although I tried to pray, I couldn’t remember any words.

At last Sigeric came back and ordered the men to take me to the plaza in front of the palace.

“Leave the bodies,” he said. “The crows and vultures will be happy today.”

“These men deserve a Christian burial,” I said, my voice cracking in my parched throat.

Sigeric ignored me.

Sylvia and I were pulled and pushed by his men back through the corridors along which we had escaped that morning. Sigeric strode ahead and soon disappeared from view.

Approaching the open doors at the front of the palace, I heard the sound of horns and the humming noise that emanates from a large crowd.

Emerging from the palace into the large square that fronted it, the glare of the sun was blinding. When my eyes focused again, I saw that a huge multitude of citizens had gathered on the far side of the square, and down each side of the road that led out of it. Held back by a line of soldiers, the crowd stood many rows deep. A few children sat on their fathers’ shoulders. I was reminded of the masses that used to gather outside the great arena in Rome during the gladiator fights. I swallowed hard, terrified to imagine what was going to happen next.

To my surprise, however, the guards pushed us towards the crowd. Relieved that we were to be part of the audience, I gave Sylvia an encouraging smile and grasped her hand.

At the sound of a blast from the trumpets, a procession of horses and riders appeared from the stables on the other side of the palace. Senior members of the Goth army wheeled and turned their steeds in the square as hundreds more riders cantered in to join them. The horses stepped perilously close to the edges of the crowd, causing shouts of alarms and screams from the children, and I watched anxiously while the riders continued to show off their horsemanship. When it seemed that the space could not hold another horse, a long trumpet call announced the arrival of Sigeric in an ornately decorated chariot. The riders and horses miraculously fell into straight lines behind the chariot, and another trumpet signaled the start of a procession. I waited for Sigeric’s chariot to move away, relieved that he was leaving.

Seconds later, however, an excited murmur rose from the crowd and my heart seemed to stop when I saw him walking towards me.

“We’re going for a walk,” he said. “ Well, you are at least.”

The guards pushed me forward, released my hands but then quickly retied them in front of me and secured them to a rope that dangled from the back of the chariot.

Sigeric jumped up into the driver’s seat and signaled for the advance. Four guards walked on each side of me with their spears pointing upwards and swords drawn. Behind me were lines of men on horseback.

We were walking into the sun and I could barely see anything through the glare. The rope tugged mercilessly at my wrists, forcing me to keep up with the chariot so that I wouldn’t be pulled to the ground and dragged. My bare feet kept catching the hem of my nightgown. Twice, I tripped and fell and rough hands pulled me back up.

Dimly I heard the people calling out from the sides of the streets. “Let her go.” “Are you crazy? Untie her!” But anyone who protested was beaten with the butt end of a spear by the guards that accompanied the carriage.

The procession passed through the massive iron gates in the city wall, and turned on to the great road long ago built by Roman engineers to connect Hispania to Gallia.

For hours, we marched around the walls of the city, passing near the camps that Ataulf had hoped would be temporary until real dwellings could be built. Children ran to point and shout when they saw the procession go by, and the people gaped at the spectacle.

Hard-eyed, close-mouthed soldiers stood to attention and I glimpsed a group of monks, standing with their faces hidden under rough woolen cloaks, and their hands held together in prayer.

My wrists were raw and bleeding, and my arms felt as though they were being wrenched from my body. The dust kicked up by the horses in front flew into my nose and eyes. Flies buzzed irritatingly around my mouth and other insects bit and stung but I couldn’t beat them off or wipe my face. Every step was torture as my bare feet swelled and bled.

Although I feared I would not survive this ordeal, I kept walking, refusing to die on that horrible dusty road, and left to rot in a ditch in oblivion. Under the layers of pain and thirst that pressed on me, I kept thinking of Ataulf. I wouldn’t die at the hands of the brute who had murdered my husband.

It was dusk by the time Sigeric gave the signal to return to the palace. We re-entered the gates, still watched by the crowds, whose shouts of anger at Sigeric swelled into a great plume of noise that echoed along the streets. Several groups of men tried to run to me to help, but they were all stabbed to death by the guards.

When we stopped in front of the palace entry, Sigeric told his men to untie me and Sylvia rushed forward to support me. I was in such pain and so exhausted that I no longer felt any fear. I knew I needed to drink water and tend to my feet, but more than anything I wanted to lie down and sleep.

Sigeric’s voice cut through my trance. “You survived,” he said, standing in front of me. “Pity. I’ll have to come up with some further humiliations for you. Luckily for you, I’m too busy to think about that now, but I will. For the time being, you’ll be a prisoner and the guards have instructions to kill you if you try to escape.”

He turned away but then swung back to look at me. “Oh, and I thought you should know that I am having the library burned to the ground. Written edicts and books are not the Goth way. I’ll make whatever laws I want and I’ll change them when I feel like it. I don’t need anything on record.”

My heart was breaking at the thought of the brutal destruction of all that Ataulf had created but I wouldn’t give Sigeric the pleasure of seeing my distress. I lifted my head and looked at him until, with a final twisted grin, he strode away. His soldiers prodded us along shadowy hallways and down flights of stairs until we reached the basement of the palace, where another soldier swung open a door made of iron bars and gestured to us to enter. When we were inside, he slammed the gate shut with a crash that echoed along the dark corridors.

Chapter 26

The room was small, the windowless walls made of bare blocks of stone. A few barrels were stacked against one wall, and some hooks hung from rafters in the ceiling. Cobwebs hung across the room like gossamer curtains. It was a food larder that had obviously been abandoned for some time. There was nowhere to sit and no bedding but I lay on the floor, grateful for the coolness of the stone against my back. Sylvia knelt next to me and tentatively touched my feet. She shook her head in concern.

“We need water and linens,” she said.

Getting up, she went to the bars and shook them, yelling at the guards to come back. One of them appeared.

“Less noise, woman,” he said, but he listened when Sylvia gave him a list of items she needed and he returned quickly with several baskets of supplies. Sylvia went to work, giving me a beaker of water to drink before cleaning my bleeding feet and wrists with oil and wrapping them in strips of linen.

The guard had brought several blankets and Sylvia used them as a makeshift bed on the floor. I found bread and fruit in one of the baskets and together we devoured everything he had provided. I began to feel stronger but, even as the physical discomforts receded, my emotions threatened to overwhelm me. The horrors of the day were too much to contemplate and I didn’t dare to think about my future or how finite it might be. It seemed that all the soldiers who had remained loyal to Ataulf had been killed and it was likely that no one outside the palace even knew whether I was alive or dead.

“So we’re at the mercy of Sigeric,” I said finally.

Sylvia nodded. “Not a good place to be,” she replied.

“But Wallia is on his way. He’ll fight his way into the city and take back the throne,” I said with sudden conviction.

“And most of the citizens will support him,” said Sylvia. “I stood in that crowd all day and heard them talk. They’re angry about what Sigeric did to you, and they mourn Ataulf. Nobody likes Sigeric. Even his own soldiers seem to either hate or fear him.”

“Then there is hope,” I said. I took another swallow of the clear, cold water. “For now, we need to sleep. We must stay strong and be prepared to escape at any moment.”

Sylvia smiled before taking the empty cup from me and putting it back in a basket. “Ataulf would be proud of you,” she said.

In spite of the hard floor, I slept well that night and woke to the sounds of a guard opening the door to push more baskets of food into the room.

“Wait!” I called and climbed to my feet. Pain shot through my legs and I stumbled. The guard hesitated but came into the room, placing the baskets on the floor.

“I’m sorry about what the general did to you,” he said.

“You mean the king,” I said, leaning against a wall to take some of the weight off my feet.

The soldier flushed. “Wallia is going to be king,” he whispered, and my heart leapt.

“What is your name,” I asked.

“Maldras.”

“Will you support Wallia when he comes?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

He nodded.

“Will you help us to escape?” I asked and wished I could take the words back when I saw him flinch. He took a step back towards the door. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Sigeric would kill me.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you,” I said. “But I am glad to hear that you will support Wallia. Are there others like you who can be counted on to fight when the time comes?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. The men in the palace are Sigeric’s closest allies. They’ll defend him to the death. They were all against King Ataulf right from day one. Him being so pro-Roman and everything.”

“I see,” I said.

He hesitated and then leaned forward slightly. “I can bring you news,” he offered. “I’ll let you know when Wallia comes. I’ll help you if I can, I promise.”

I nodded, trying not to feel too disheartened even though it was likely that Wallia would take several more days to reach the city. Who knew what Sigeric would decide to do in that time? I watched as Maldras secured the door and listened to the sound of his boots receding.

As soon as it was quiet, I went to the door and examined it. Several heavy padlocks held the door closed. The hinges were solid and unbreakable, tangible evidence of Hispania’s famed ironwork.

The day passed without incident and I hoped Maldras would soon return with more food and some information about Wallia’s progress, but he never came. The candles in the sconces in the corridor outside were burning low and the encroaching darkness felt sinister and threatening. Sylvia slept for a while, talking in her sleep and pushing away imaginary adversaries.

When the last candle went out, my heart sank. There had been no noise all day, no evidence that anyone was still in the palace. What if Maldras had been reassigned or killed? Even the arrival of some of Sigeric’s men would have been welcome reassurance that I had not been abandoned in the underground prison and forgotten.

It must have been the dead of night when I heard a sound somewhere along the corridor and saw a faint flicker of red light. Someone was approaching with a torch. I jumped up and stumbled across the floor to the iron bars, watching the light coming closer and praying that it was Maldras, not Sigeric.

“Sylvia,” I whispered and I heard her stir and gradually come awake.

Whoever was carrying the torch turned the corner at the end of the corridor, and I saw the light growing stronger. The face of the bearer was draped in shadows. With my heart pounding, I gripped the bars of the door, waiting.

Chapter 27