After the Fall Read Online Free PDF Page B

Athaulf guessed the ordinary crockery was actually quite costly. And the peaches! He had tasted them but a few times in his life. They were exotic and very expensive, the food of foreign kings.
    The servant poured the wine. “Will you be requiring anything else, my lord?”
    Athaulf took a sip. It was dry, pleasing enough, like every other wine. “Fine, no, nothing more. That will be it for the evening.”
    “Ah,” the servant said, holding a finger up, “before I forget. Sometimes we must point out, I should say, you may well, er, as to one’s normal functions, I would be remiss if I did not make you aware of some of the modern conveniences that have been installed in the House of Livia. Quite different, I should imagine, than living in the wild, in a tent.”
    Athaulf frowned and watched the servant bustle toward a door he’d not previously noticed, since its outline was incorporated into the wall’s design.
    “Here, my lord, is the indoor latrine, and here,” he held up a stick with a small sea sponge affixed to one end, “this is your swab — for cleansing. The vinegar bucket for rinsing is just below, and there is a small fountain of running water for your needs. Please press the lever here by the sink, and water will issue from the fish’s mouth.”
    Athaulf looked at the golden fish faucet and frowned at the ridiculous waste of treasure. “Did you think I’d planned on using one of the potted trees?” he asked irritably.
    The servant stopped moving and looked terrified, perhaps realizing he’d stepped over his bounds. “No, my lord, no. Of course not. Not in the least.”
    “That will be all,” Athaulf said, and the man hurried out the door.
    Athaulf stared after him for a moment, then took off his tunic, balled it up, and threw it against the wall, admitting to himself he might well have used the potted trees had he found nothing else. The likelihood of his searching the room for a hidden privy would have been slight. Think, idiot! If you are but a crass barbarian to a Roman slave, what then to a princess of the Empire?
    He grabbed the flask and sloshed some wine into the mug. He drank the contents in one swallow, willing Placidia’s image from his mind, but found it an impossible task. Her dark eyes had crinkled at the corners when she smiled at him. Her hair, bound up in a knot on her head, so curly and lustrous-black, bounced when she argued her point.
    How long was it? If unbound, would her locks fall between her shoulder blades, or perhaps to the small of her back? Might they fall even farther?
    “Stop it!” he grumbled, then poured out more wine, wishing it were beer. He recalled her slender fingers gracefully holding her glass, bringing food to her lips. He squeezed his eyes shut. Great God, he could see them so clearly, those lips! How they moved when she spoke, when she smiled and laughed, or how they closed around a morsel.
    Gasts! he cursed to himself in Visigoth, then threw the mug and it crashed against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. He watched as the wine trickled down the face of a fancy-painted flowering tree filled with birds. It was a mess. Perfect. Now the oaf-barbarian had ruined her wall. Coming here was nothing short of torture!
    Athaulf took up the flask and went onto the balcony with its row of columns, gazing up at their ornate carvings. Such splendor. He looked out over the vista of the ancient, imperial city. Taking a swig, he leaned against a column, his eyes wandering across the intricate geometrical pattern on the mosaic floor, over the marble balustrade, then out again, drinking in the wine and the view.
    This was her world. This was her. Beautiful beyond measure. An agony of desire, worlds beyond his reach. How she had looked at him! He tilted his head back, banging it lightly against the stone. As though no one else lived. That was how she looked at him. He could tell. He could feel her desire reaching out to him from across the table. It had taken