Nobilissima (22 page)

“What do we do?” I asked Ataulf when he rode up to see me in the late afternoon.

“We have no choice but to keep going,” he said, keeping one eye on the clouds. “We’ll halt soon to camp for the night but there is no shelter here and no source of food.”

The horns soon sounded the signal to stop and the men lit some fires and rolled out blankets. Sylvia arranged pillows and covers in the carriage so that I would be able to lie down and sleep later, after a simple dinner of bread, cheese and olives.

I leaned out of the carriage window to watch the sun setting over the hills in the distance. To my surprise, I saw a group of men descending the mountain road, driving a herd of sheep in front of them. Pulling a cloak around my shoulders, I climbed down to meet them. Seconds later, Ataulf rode up and we waited together until the shepherds were in shouting distance. They were elderly, with sunburned faces, and hair the color of the rain clouds, but they were moving with surprising speed for old men, using their sticks to urge their flocks along.

“Bad weather up there,” called one. “Never seen it come in like this before. We had snow on the pastures four days ago so we’re coming down early this year.”

“Will it clear, do you think?” asked Ataulf.

The men looked at each other, shaking their heads solemnly. “No, not likely,” replied one. “The wind is bitter cold. You’re not thinking of going up there, are you?”

“Through the pass,” said Ataulf, nodding his head in the direction  of where it should be. It was impossible to see it. The clouds were descending, and a chill rain started to fall, soaking us all.

One of the men shivered and pulled a wineskin from the leather satchel he carried over one shoulder. He offered it to Ataulf, who refused with a shake of his head. Taking a long swig, the shepherd said they had better be going. “We have to get these sheep into the barns for the winter. Don’t go up there, my friend. There could be blizzards.”

Ataulf stared into the distance. His horse tossed its head and pawed the ground as though eager to be moving again.

He turned to look along the length of the caravan that straggled behind us, almost hidden behind the curtain of rain, and then ordered a unit of men to ride ahead and bring back reports on the weather and the state of the road.

“Go get some rest, Placidia. I will wait for my scouts to return and then we’ll decide what to do.”

Chapter 21

The news was not good. There was snow at just a few thousand feet, the scouts said, and the roads were slick with ice. I knew how reluctantly Ataulf made the decision to set up camp in the foothills and wait out the winter. But it was a wise choice. We’d all heard the stories of travelers found frozen to death in those inhospitable mountains.

The weather deteriorated quickly in the following days. Rain turned to sleet and black clouds obscured the mountains. Ataulf sent units of men down the treacherous path from the camp to the closest town, where they heard news that Constantius had lifted the blockade and food was beginning to flow into the region again. The Goth quartermasters made hazardous journeys to the ports to buy supplies and stockpile enough food for several months of confinement in the bleak countryside. Then, suddenly, the weather turned so cold that the camp was enveloped in ice. Snow began to fall, and Ataulf imposed rationing, to make sure that we did not run out of food before the weather changed.

I was in a tent that was comfortable and warm, and I lay on a bed covered with furs while Sylvia and Taiga slept on couches nearby. The lamps gave off a reassuring glow and the brazier in the corner circulated enough heat to fend off the bitter drafts of cold air that swept in every time the entry flap was opened.

I found it hard to sleep. The baby moved constantly, kicking me awake when I began to doze, but I loved the feeling of those tiny fists and heels, a constant reminder of the new life inside me. I folded my hands over my belly and, for the hundredth time that week, did the calculations in my head. We had been camping in the mountains for more than six weeks now, which meant the baby would come sometime in the next month. I was scared when I thought about the birth and terrified to imagine a newborn infant emerging into the icy world that would be its home for several more months. Taiga’s attendants smiled when I expressed my fears.

“Babies are born in the snow all the time. It makes them hardy and healthy,” they told me. Each day, they brought gifts of warm clothing and lambswool blankets for the child, trying to reassure me that it would be safe.

Taiga had brought a midwife to meet me. She was popular among the Goth women and she met with Sylvia’s approval, so I was glad of her services. But I missed Aurelia and wished my closest friend could have been there with me for the birth.

Shifting to get comfortable, I listened to the wind. The flags on the tents of the generals flapped incessantly, a booming counterpoint to the shrill notes of the wind that sang through the goat-hide walls and plucked at the ropes that held the tents to the ground. I sighed and Sylvia shifted on her cot. Rousing herself, she hurried to me.

“Are you feeling well? You look even paler than usual. Should I call the midwife?”

“I hope it will be soon,” I said. “I’ve had enough of this waiting.”

“There, there,” murmured Sylvia and ran her hand over my belly.

“It’s dropped, “ she announced.

“What?” I asked in alarm.

“It’s all right. That’s normal. It means that you’re close to delivering. We should prepare. It could be any day now.”

The night that my pains started was one of the worst we had endured. A blizzard raged outside, the wind whistled around the tent and it was hard to keep the lamps alight in the constant drafts. Snow drifted up against the sides of the tents and the temperature dropped lower as the night wore on. A small contingent of Goth women came to help, keeping the lamps full of oil, the brazier lit and ensuring that water boiled in the great pots over the fires in the kitchen quarters. One of them brought snow in a bowl and made compresses to keep my forehead cool. The midwife arrived with a birthing chair, and a basket of oils and herbs, which she calmly laid out on a table. She told Sylvia to sit with me and hold my hand through the contractions.

For a while, the midwife let me lie on the bed, but when the pain became so bad that I could hardly catch my breath, she helped me to move to the birthing chair. The wood was cold and stark after the soft comfort of my mattress and cushions but I grasped the arms of the chair, digging my nails into the wood when the contractions reached their peak.

The wind screamed in sympathy and I prayed. Prayed for a healthy child, for my own survival, and for it to be over quickly. The women moved around me, intent on their tasks and I was dimly aware of Sylvia talking to me and Taiga singing softly. At the point when I was beginning to think I could bear it no longer, the midwife smiled and squeezed my hand. “Almost there,” she said. “The baby’s head is crowning. Soon it will be over.”

Just after midnight, the baby was born.

“It’s a boy,” Sylvia said.

“A boy,” I said in wonder. The midwife held the infant upside down by his ankles and he yelled loudly. Quickly, she cradled him in her arms and counted his fingers and toes, peered into his eyes and pressed gently on his abdomen. Then she wrapped him in a large square of clean linen and began cleaning his tiny face with warm water.

Sylvia helped me back to my bed and wiped my skin with cloths soaked in olive oil. My pain and exhaustion had dissolved, already forgotten, replaced by pure joy.

“Is he well?” I asked.

“Yes, he’s healthy,” the midwife assured me.

“Let me hold him,” I begged.

“ Not yet, not yet,” said Sylvia. “I need to clean you up and bring you a new shift. Then you can have him.”

The baby’s shouts of indignation at being delivered into this hostile, chilly world brought Ataulf to the flaps of the tent.

“Can I come in?” he called.

“Not yet, my lord,” replied Sylvia. “Just a few minutes.”

The women cleaned the floor, and swabbed down the birthing chair. They set bowls of herbs around the tent and a sweet aroma filled the air.

Finally, the midwife put the clean, swaddled baby into my arms. His aquamarine eyes were open and his tiny hand closed around one of my fingers.

“Hold him for a while and then he must go to the nutrix,” she said.

She hurried the women out of the tent and told Ataulf he could come in. He rushed to the bed and leaned over to kiss me. “Thank God,” he said. “You are safe. Is the baby well?”

“It’s a boy, and he’s perfect.”

Ataulf stroked the infant’s cheek with his finger. “What shall we call him?”

“Theodosius,” I said. “One day he will be a great Emperor like his grandfather.”

Chapter 22

Theodosius enchanted everyone who saw him. He was a good baby, easily comforted and quick to smile. I tried not to worry about him as the winter deepened; the constant bone-numbing cold was a serious threat to us all. Snow blanketed the camp, making movement between the tents slow or impossible. The cooks struggled to keep fires lit to heat water and make food. Rations were low and tempers ran high.

One evening, I held the sleeping Theodosius on my lap and watched Ataulf poring over lists of supplies. Even on strict rationing, food was running out. Hundreds of people had already died of sicknesses brought on by too much cold and too little food. Ataulf’s face was lined with worry and my heart ached for him. There was nothing I could do to help but wait, like everyone else, for the winter to pass.

The guards announced a visitor and I shivered when I saw it was Sigeric. Like any bully, he had a couple of companions shuffling behind him.

Ataulf looked up him wearily. “Sigeric.”

Sigeric approached the table where Ataulf sat and leaned towards him. At once, four of Ataulf’s guards pulled their swords and moved closer to their king. Ataulf held up his hand. “Say what is on your mind, Sigeric, and then leave. I have a great deal to do.”

“To do?” asked Sigeric. “There is nothing to do. We sit in our tents playing games and waiting. All we’ve done since you took the crown is wait. We’re like a bunch of women, told to go there, come here. Wait. Wait some more. At least when Alaric was in charge, we were fighting battles. We’ve had enough sitting around.”

“You’re missing the point, Sigeric. We fought battles alongside the Romans in Gallia and won our right to be recognized as a sovereign nation. We’re on our way to exercise that right. Your time to fight will come soon enough.  This is just a breathing space.”

“Me and the others are thinking that maybe we’ll go back north. There’s good money for mercenaries up there.”

I held my breath. Please God, let him leave. To have Sigeric out of our lives would be more than I dared hope for.

“I would miss your services,” said Ataulf carefully. “You have fought bravely for the Goths for many years. But I understand that your desires may no longer be the same as those of the Goth nation. We want to settle and live peacefully. If you decide to leave, you would go with my blessing.”

“I don’t want your blessing. I’ll go or stay as I decide,” said Sigeric, clearly not happy with Ataulf’s response. “But you shouldn’t forget that you need us. You have to get thousands of people off this godforsaken mountain. There are thieves out there who will come out like birds in the spring once the weather clears. And then there are the Vandals, nasty brutes. You need us, Ataulf. Make no mistake.”

“I said would miss your services,” replied Ataulf. His voice was low and steady but I saw how he clutched the edge of the table as though restraining himself from hitting out at Sigeric. “It is your decision whether you go or stay. If you stay, then you will follow my orders and wait peacefully until the winter is over. The moment we are able to leave, we will. Then you will see your fair share of action once again.”

“So be it,” grunted Sigeric before turning and walking out of the tent with his two companions scurrying after him.

“I hate that man,” I said. “Can’t you order him to leave? If you can do without him, then why put up with him any longer?”

“The truth is that I can’t do without him. Not yet. He is a good fighter and his men will do anything for him. If he were to leave there would be many others who would follow. Perhaps once we are settled in Barcino, we can come to some arrangement that’ll encourage him to go away.”

“That day can’t come soon enough for me,” I said, stroking the downy hair on Theodosius’s head. I waited for a few seconds for the anger and fear to dissipate, then smiled at my husband. He carried such a huge burden.

It was another four long weeks before the first signs of spring came. A stiff breeze dispersed the clouds and patches of blue sky appeared over the granite grey peaks above us. The snow melted, sending hundreds of rivulets of water streaming through the camp. Everyone began to complain about the mud, which soon caked boots and sandals and clogged the hems of tunics and cloaks.

“It’s time to move,” said Ataulf one morning when he and I ate a small breakfast together. “The scouts came back last night. As we hoped, we are only a couple of days’ journey to the pass at Perthus. The road is clear enough of snow that we can get the carts and carriages through.”