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Cosentia, Italy 410 C.E.
Ataulf took a last glance at his brother-in-law’s body before it would be interred. The fever had come quickly and left even more so, leaving the dead body of a forty-year-old leader in its wake. Suddenly Alaric the Visigoth was no more. The broad-chested, powerfully built man, with his wild mane of dark hair and shaggy beard, had struck fear into the hearts of his enemies on the field of battle. But now, death had diminished him. Gone was his fierce scowl, replaced with a calm serenity.
“You will be missed, brother.” With a flick of his finger he ordered his men to close the lid on the hastily carved stone casket. A man of Alaric’s stature deserved better, but it was not to be. The lid slid into place with a dull thunk, and the men began lowering it into the tomb.
In accordance with tradition, Alaric’s body was laid to rest in a north-south alignment. All around him lay the customary sacrificial meats: goat, mutton, poultry, and pork, along with cooked eggs. Offerings of drink were laid above his head, along with mugs, bowls, and other vessels. There was, of course, much more within the tomb, and it fell to Ataulf to ensure that no one ever found it.
“I wish I did not have to do this,” he whispered. But he knew what had to be done.
Although the funeral rites had ended, many people still lingered, most of them stunned in the aftermath of their leader’s passing but eager to please Ataulf, as he took the reins of power.
His thoughts were interrupted by a squat, waddling man. Gento was one of his best supervisors for all things non-military. Concern marred his craggy face. He nodded in the direction of the closed casket as he spoke.
“That last piece does not belong in the tomb, Ataulf. Let us have it.”
Ataulf glared menacingly. “You have plenty of treasure already, Gento.”
Gento hesitated but still had argument left in him. “But the most valuable...
“That belongs to God and will not be destroyed!” Ataulf’s face was red with anger. He expected his subordinate to turn and go at this point but, unbelievably, the man pressed on in even more assertive fashion.
“It is not my wish alone, Ataulf! Some of the men are threatening to dig up the grave if this goes with it.” Gento turned to gaze down at the casket while Ataulf’s hand went to the hilt of the sword sheathed on his waist. “And I am inclined to support them. With all respect, I simply cannot stand idly by while...”
He let out a grunt as his sentence was interrupted by the blade of Ataulf’s sword jabbing through his gut and very nearly penetrating through his back. He turned his head to look at his slayer, realizing now that he had made a fatal mistake in averting his gaze in the first place. But he had been lost in impassioned thought as he spoke his last words, far too lost. Disbelief flooded his eyes, quickly turning to fear as he watched his life’s blood flow from his body. His lips worked, but only a bloody froth oozed from the corners of his mouth. With a wet, ragged breath, he slumped to the ground.
Athaulf shook his head. The man was the first, but he would not be the last.
––––––––
The grinding of stone on stone was like comforting music to Ataulf’s ears as the tomb was sealed and covered over with earth and rock. He smiled while he gazed down at Alaric’s final resting place. Finally, it was done. His reverie was interrupted by the footfalls of a man running and he turned around. One of his warriors, a tall man drenched in sweat, came to stop in front of him.
“Ataulf...” He took a moment to catch his breath before being able to deliver his message. “All of the laborers have been killed. Their bodies were disposed of in the river.” It was clear from the distasteful expression on the soldier’s face that he was less than supportive of this action, but had carried it out nonetheless. Ataulf placed his hand on the soldier’s shoulder, a comforting gesture.
“The secret must be protected at all costs. You know this. You have done well.” Now Ataulf reached his other arm around the man as if to hug him. He pulled him closer in a heartfelt embrace, and then the soldier was saying how he understood, how it had to be done, how there was no other way. “I understand it, but that doesn’t mean I like it, Ataulf. But at the same time, I know trust is a weakness for us now.”
A dagger now protruded from Ataulf’s left sleeve. Its metal glinted once in the light as he drove it through his warrior’s heart.
“You are right,” he said.” I am truly sorry, and I thank you for your service, but even you cannot be trusted.”