After the Fall by Morgan O'Neill

when Athaulf did not follow. He spotted Randegund by the campfire, stirring something in a pot.
    “Mother,” he called out, “we must talk.”
    He saw the way she looked askance, as if seeking escape. His heart felt cold as he reached her side and noticed her face was already a mask of calm.
    “Mother, come.”
    He walked slowly, leading her away from camp, well past the last posts of his sentries. The men started to follow, but he bade them stay, for he needed privacy.
    Alaric halted by the river. Randegund had fallen several paces behind, and he waited for her to reach his side.
    “There shall be a full moon tonight, a blue moon,” she said, staring at the eastern horizon.
    He ignored her flight of fancy. “I shall ask this but once, Mother. Did you tell Magnus the truth? Was his wife taken by the Romans, to be sold in the slave markets of Constantinople?”
    She turned to him. Alaric studied her pale eyes, which reflected the violet cast of the sky. He saw for the first time a rheumy trace, the harbinger of old age.
    “Mother, answer me,” he deliberately made his voice a shade gentler, “and swear you told the truth. Swear it — on my life.”
    Randegund’s gaze did not waver. “My son,” she said, “on your life, I do swear I saw her alive, although I cannot say what happened to her once she was out of my sight.”
    He frowned and she walked away.
    Alaric realized his fists were tightly clenched, and he purposely flexed his hands. Once more, he looked toward the east, but Magnus had long since vanished on his quest, lost in the distance, and doomed to failure.
    He stood for a time alone, watching the coming night, until the moon rose cold and blue, a witch’s moon.
    • • •
    Shaking with fatigue and relief, Gigi grasped the children’s hands as they made the last, weary ascent up the Palatine Hill. Their clothing was filthy, stiff with their sweat. By her count it was nearly a month since the Roman soldiers had ambushed the camp, a month since they’d been left behind to find their way alone, unaided, to the only refuge she could think of after they’d lost all trace of the Visigoths: Placidia.
    Gigi kept her gaze on the ground. The people of Rome stared openly, even malevolently at them — barbarian beggars. It was mid-spring and the weather was growing pleasant, the days longer. The siege had been lifted only four months earlier, and Rome was still, understandably, seething with hatred for the Visigoths. But they kept their anger in their eyes, letting a bedraggled woman and children pass without persecution.
    Arriving at the palace gates, Gigi forced herself to stand tall and speak with determination. “I must see the princess,” she told one of the guards. “Call the steward Leontius. Tell him I am the one who bears the ring of Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus, Senator of Rome, so that he may vouch for my identity.”
    The gatekeeper’s expression passed from condescension, through indignation to uncertainty as she spoke, and he hurried off when she finished. Moments later, Leontius came forward, his eyes lighting up as he drew near.
    “Open the gates!” he ordered the guards as he hustled to greet Gigi and the children, escorting them inside. “I will be but a moment,” he said as he rushed off to find Placidia.
    Waiting in the audience chamber of the grand palace, the kids clung to her, terrified by their majestic surroundings. Berga buried her face in Gigi’s skirt, hugging her as if she’d never let go.
    “Look,” Gigi said, seeking to distract them, “if you look at the pretty floor, you will see your reflection.”
    Theodoric hazarded a glance at the highly polished green marble, then gaped. “Berga, look,” he said. “See that? It’s better than any mirror!”
    The little girl peeked out and stared. “I look dirty,” she said with a pout.
    “Gigi!” Placidia cried, her footsteps echoing as she ran toward them, her arms outstretched, Elpidia following close behind.
    The