After the Fall by Morgan O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page B

burned?”
    Attalus shrugged. “There is one more thing.”
    “What?” she asked weakly. “What more can there possibly be?”
    “The Senate insists on your presence.”
    Placidia groaned.
    “And they want you to publicly give final approval to whatever sentence is demanded. They feel it is the only way for you to remain untarnished by Serena’s guilt, and the only way to keep order.”
    • • •
    The gray skies hung low, and the wind promised more rain. Placidia snuggled into her fur cape. Resigned to the inevitable, she sat in the imperial stands of the Flavian Amphitheater, surrounded by several senators, Attalus behind her. The sweet smoke of stone pine wafted from several huge braziers, set around the grounds of the great coliseum, not for warmth, but to mask the odors of gore and death.
    But on this day , Placidia thought, by my orders none have died, and it is not necessary to cleanse the air, at least not yet. She stared out at the arena floor. Six pairs of gladiators had battled over the course of the afternoon, the winners receiving laudatory palm fronds and pouches of gold. The rain had held off, and she sensed the games were a success, despite the restlessness of the crowd, still seething for blood.
    Now, only one event was left to be played out. Placidia quailed at what she was about to witness, her participation a necessary evil.
    There was a clatter of gates at one of the field entrances, and all eyes sought the reason. Placidia turned toward the disturbance and saw several legionnaires. They stood rigidly at attention, and behind them, two more legionnaires holding one diminutive woman with long, dark tresses falling loose over her shoulders.
    Serena. The moment had come.
    People started to hiss and boo as she was led out and made to stand alone in the center of the arena, her hands bound behind her back. She was clothed in a shift too light for the weather, and despite the cold, her chin was high, Placidia noted, a look of utter disdain her only expression.
    Near the front railing, the announcer rose in full make-up and blond wig, his clothing gaudy and crass, in the theatrical style. He lifted a hand to quiet the crowd, waiting a moment until everyone grew still. “We have before us, Serena, wife of the traitor General Stilicho!” he called, his voice dulcet, yet loud and clear, a wonder of contradictions.
    The crowd roared in blood-thirsty anticipation, and Placidia closed her eyes, feeling shaken and ill. Grabbing the arms of her throne, she took several gulps of air and prayed for strength, for a way out of this madness.
    It grew quiet again, and Placidia opened her eyes.
    “Serena was caught smuggling food into the city,” the announcer continued, “for her private and personal use, which she received through consort with the very enemy that hems us in and starves us these many weeks, and even at this moment, ongoing.” He pointed at Serena, who glared back. “We also deem it prudent to remind you, this woman is the very same who, some years back, made a mockery of the Temple of Rhea, the Goddess of the Old Ways, and still venerated by many among you. Serena desecrated Rhea’s temple and stole such gifts as had been given in tribute.”
    Placidia saw something fly out from the seats behind Serena, striking her cousin on the shoulder with enough force to open the skin and cause bleeding. Cheers rocked the stadium as Serena stumbled, but she managed to keep her footing, haughty, angry, ever defiant.
    The announcer raised his hand again. As silence fell once more, Placidia realized she was still gripping her chair. She let go and sat back, her fingers aching.
    “Citizens of Rome,” the announcer cried out. “Since the guilt of this woman is beyond question, we have decided to ask you, the people against whom this crime was committed, to bring sentence upon her!”
    Jeers and applause. The stands thundered with the stamping of feet.
    “What is your sentence?”
    “Death! Death!