Authors: Morgan O'Neill
Placidia smiled when Verica entered the bedchamber. Her widowed sister-in-law and the Visigoth’s dowager queen, Verica was still in mourning after all these years, her husband, King Alaric, having gone to God some four winters past.
Placidia reached for Verica’s hand and then relaxed back into the pillows. Everything felt right and good. It was time she let her body take control.
• • •
With a smile of satisfaction, Ona prodded the queen’s birth passage, and then looked up over the sheet covering Placidia’s knees. “You’re well opened already, my lady, and your water’s not broke, which is a good thing, but rare.”
“Why is it a good thing? I thought the release of the water was the start of labor,” the queen asked.
Just then, Placidia screwed up her face as another wrenching pain gripped her. Ona nodded to a serving girl, who placed a thick strap of leather between Placidia’s teeth. The queen grunted and bit against the pain until it receded, then dropped back onto the pillows, breathing heavily.
“The body is trying to push the babe out,” Ona said. “Think of a wine skein. If it’s full, but you’ve got a plug blocking the opening, and you pounce on it, the wine gushes out, forcing the plug out ahead of it. If the skein is empty, it could take quite a while to work the plug loose.”
“So, my babe is a plug, you say, and I, the skein.” Placidia smiled.
Ona pulled up her stool and sat, then reached into her birthing satchel. She took out a long bone needle with a tiny hook at the end, and put it inside her patient. She glanced at Placidia, who had beads of sweat forming on her brow, and quickly used the hook to pierce the membrane. As she expected, only a little fluid came forth.
The queen noticed nothing, but Ona saw her fists clench around the sheets and knew another pain was beginning.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Time to start walking,” Ona told Placidia. “Vana, help her off the bed and be sure to support her arms.” With a bow, Ona addressed Queen Verica. “My lady, would you please follow at her shoulder and keep count from the start of each pain to the start of the next? Count out loud. That way, we’ll be able to keep track of how close they’re getting.”
“Of course,” Verica replied. “I well remember the importance of this task.”
Ona considered Placidia a moment, and then added, “See how her face looks? Start counting, nice and steady.”
“One, two, three, four … ”
“You’re doing wonderfully!” Ona cooed to Placidia, and then called over her shoulder, “Somebody get a damp cloth to wipe her forehead.”
Placidia heaved a sigh and slumped against Vana.
“Verica, continue counting. The gap between pains is of greatest interest.”
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight … fifty, fifty-one … ”
Ona watched and waited, then saw the signs again as Placidia’s brow furrowed, sweat beads formed, and her fists clenched. “There, Verica. Start counting again.”
“One, two … ”
Placidia labored on, bellowing with each new pain, walking back and forth, back and forth. Ona watched the shadows creep across the floor, keeping step with Old Chronos, Father Time. Morning passed into afternoon, and still the queen walked, writhed, and slumped against her maid, walked, writhed, and slumped.
“One, two, three … ”
As she had already done many times, Ona halted the process and probed again, then backed up and looked at her charge. She was startled and pleased at how far along Placidia had come since the last check. Her body was relenting, at last, and the babe was finally becoming impatient. The pushing would soon begin.
“Bring the birthing seat,” Ona ordered.
Her helpers dragged up the wooden, straight-backed chair. Ona was immensely proud of it. She’d designed it herself, and had her husband put it together. The back tilted slightly, and there were little “wings” to either side where the mother-to-be could rest her head between pains. The arms were narrow, but sturdy and long — perfect for gripping. The seat, also tilted back, was open front and center to allow the passage of the babe. The legs, too, had wings, to keep the mother’s body well spread.
“Vana, help me with the queen. It is time.”
Together, they guided Placidia, weak and groaning with pain, onto the birthing chair.
Once she was settled, her expression suddenly changed to one of intense concentration. Ona had been waiting for this. The pushing would start with the next onslaught.
God help the woman,
she thought. This was the moment when the lives of mothers and babes hung in the balance, and she prayed it wouldn’t last long. “Majesty, the pushing is about to begin. You must use it, go with it, aid it with all your strength, then take your rest in between. It won’t be long now.”
“I know. I can feel the change,” Placidia replied softly, wet tendrils of hair clinging to her face and neck.
Ona turned to Verica. “We are done counting. Thank you.”
Verica nodded, knelt by Placidia, and dabbed her forehead with a cloth.
Ona looked down, waiting, until next the contraction took hold. “Here we are — push!”
“Ohhhh!”
The queen’s maid was at her side, holding her forward, helping her push.
“Ahhhh!”
Ona watched the birth passage and gently probed. She could see dark curls. The babe was perfectly positioned.
“All is well, Placidia,” Ona said, emphatically. “You are doing beautifully. Your babe has brown, curly hair.”
Another pain, another pushing scream, and the top of the head was lodged in the canal.
“Rest and be ready. It is moving fast! The next push will expel the head.”
“Ahhhh!”
“Beautiful, so beautiful. The worst is over. Another push and we — ”
“Ahhhhhhh!”
Ona was ready as the babe’s bunched shoulders passed through and the skinny little body slithered into her waiting hands, propelled by a torrent of fluid.
“Well done!” she cried out, laughing. Even after hundreds of babies, it always stirred her emotions. Ona quickly mopped the red face and blue body, clearing the nose and throat of mucus, as the others tended the queen. Tying off the cord in two places, she quickly cut it, then laid the babe in her lap and began rubbing vigorously. Soon, the newborn was a healthy pink and squalling in protest over entering such a harsh, unfriendly world. The queen’s body tensed again, and Ona knew the afterbirth was coming, so she gave the little one to Queen Verica.
Chuckling, Verica wrapped the infant, trapping one tiny, flailing arm in swaddling cloth, and then the other.
As soon as the placenta was expelled, Ona checked it for tears or missing bits, but everything was as it should be. She was so intent on her business, she hardly noticed as the queen’s ladies lifted Placidia back onto her bed and covered her with blankets.
“Ona?” the queen asked.
Smiling broadly, Ona proudly took the babe from Verica and presented the weary mother with her tightly wrapped bundle. “Queen Placidia, you have a prince.”
• • •
Placidia awoke from a deep, healing sleep. It was warm in her bedchamber, the candlelight bathing everything in a soft, golden glow. She turned and saw Athaulf standing by the door, smiling at her and holding a small silk bag.
“I have sent your ladies off for a rest,” he said, coming to her side. “I have seen our son. He is perfect.”
She breathed in her husband’s scent, leather and lavender. How she loved him!
He kissed her lips. “You have given me a great gift, Placidia. And now, I have something to give you in return, something that is but a token of my love for you.”
He opened the bag and revealed a string of magnificent sea pearls, the largest she had even seen. “Oh, Athaulf!”
He dangled them before her, his grin a reflection of his pleasure. The necklace was truly exquisite. As a princess of Rome, Placidia had owned many wonderful pieces of jewelry, but this was beyond compare: the pearls as large as quail’s eggs, evenly matched, lustrous, and creamy white.
Athaulf placed the necklace about her throat, the pearls cool against her skin.
“Thank you, dearest wife. I cherish you and our children.”
Tears of joy filled her eyes. “I love you,” she replied.
He sat by her side and leaned in, kissing away her tears. “I love you even more.”
They laughed and held each other, thankful for God’s many blessings.
• • •
A storm had come and gone while Placidia lay in childbed, but now the early evening was calm and quiet. Inside, their room glowed soft and warm from the light of the fire, and Placidia lay against a pile of pillows, bathed and blissfully content. Athaulf sat beside her, a smile on his face.
His children surrounded the bed. Everyone had their eyes on the newborn, ooing and ahing every time he flexed tiny little fingers, yawned, or peeked open an eye.
“I’m done with my nap, Mama!” Three-year-old Margareta, the babe’s big sister, pushed her way past her half-siblings, undaunted. With the passage of time, it had become increasingly clear Marga had the look of her paternal grandmother, Randegund, who had ever been a bane to Placidia. But Placidia’s heart was not the least bit troubled by the resemblance, for there was a marked difference between the two: while the spark of deep intelligence was evident in both their eyes, Marga’s features were softened by a sweetness Randegund never possessed.
“Can I see him, Mama? Nana says he came out of your tummy.”
Athaulf laughed and picked Marga up, putting her on his lap. “Margareta, may I present your brother. What do you think of him?”
Marga studied her brother intently, a frown of concentration creasing her little brow.
Placidia looked up at Athaulf, her dearest love, and smiled, enjoying how he played with and adored all of his children. There were six by his first wife — may her soul rest in eternal peace — and their eldest child together, Marga, and now their son, whom, by custom, would be given his name nine days hence.
Marga continued to frown, then finally made up her mind and leaned in, her tiny finger leading the way. Worried at what Marga intended to do, Placidia held her breath, ready to grab the little girl’s hand, if needed.
Marga gently pressed her finger to his forehead. “That’s his head bone,” she announced and grinned at her mother.
Everyone laughed, and soon Marga was whisked off to play with her older half-siblings, leaving Athaulf and Placidia alone with their newborn.
Athaulf kissed her lips and gazed at her, a smile playing across his mouth. “Through you, precious wife, Rome and the Visigoths are bound together as no treaty could have done.”
A frisson of pleasure coursed through Placidia as she recalled Elpidia using almost the same language. “Pray God our great empires might be stronger for it,” Placidia responded. “Pray God our son will grow wise enough and strong enough to shoulder such a destiny.”
She reached up to caress Athaulf’s cheek. “I will never stop saying this, husband … I love you.”
Athaulf took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “And I, you, sweet Placidia.”
• • •
Nine days after the birth of her son, Placidia sat on a cushioned chair in the great hall of the
castellum
. Smiling proudly, Athaulf stood beside her, holding their sleeping babe. The rest of their family and friends surrounded them. Having just been given his formal name on this, the
dies lustricas
, or day of purification, the final ceremony commemorating the child’s birth was about to be performed.
“The
bulla
ceremony shall commence!” Leontius declared. “Long live the Crown Prince of the Visigoths, Theodosius Germanicus!”
Calm and comforted, Placidia watched as her steward held forth a gold locket and chain for all to see. She’d felt great joy when Athaulf agreed to allow his half-Roman son to wear the
bulla,
for the magical amulets and charms hidden within the locket would help ward off evil spirits and ill fortune.
She glanced at sweet Marga and then studied the bright faces of Athaulf’s other offspring. In time, she hoped he would relent and allow each of them to wear protective lockets, too:
bullae
for the boys,
lunulas
for the girls. For now, only Theo would be so blessed, for he stood to inherit both the Visigoth and Roman crowns. Athaulf, for all of his kind and considerate ways, could be quite stubborn, holding fast to his barbarian roots, especially where his older children, and even Marga, were concerned.
Gently, Athaulf placed the sleeping infant into Placidia’s arms, then took the
bulla
and settled it around Theo’s neck. It seemed quite large, but Placidia knew time would change this, for their son would wear it until he was deemed a man by his father, usually in his sixteenth or seventeenth year.
“Theodosius Germanicus, son of my loins,” Athaulf intoned, “may you live to see the dawning of your manhood, when this precious
bulla
shall be stowed away, along with your other childhood things. On that day, you shall wear a toga for the first time.”
Athaulf looked over at Placidia and winked. She knew her husband would rather their son wear the
dalmatica
favored by his people. She smiled back. Time would tell.
The babe awoke and gave a lusty howl. Placidia felt glad in this and prayed God he would stay strong.
“Our son has a warrior’s cry,” Athaulf said, grinning. “Thank you again, Placidia, for allowing me to share your life and your love.”
Proud to be his wife and the mother of his children, she nodded. “You are most welcome,” she said with a laugh, his joy contagious and wonderful to behold.
Somewhere on the Northwestern Coast, Italy
As far as Gigi knew, they were the only two people around for miles. They’d found a cave overlooking the azure sea, one large enough to shelter them and their horses. Gigi tended to them, while Magnus built a fire. The heavy layer of stubble on his face reminded her they were almost a week out of Portus, and she was anxious over their slow progress. Rain had bogged them down, but as evening came, the skies cleared, promising a quicker road tomorrow.