After the Fall(29)

Yet now — O, ye gods — now, their tent was a smoldering wreck, perhaps her body, too, like so many others, burned beyond recognition, lost among the charred remains in the burial pit, gone, gone.

He gripped the silver ring she had given him, fell to his knees, and kissed the band. “Oh, my sweet,” he whispered, “where are you? I cannot believe the gods would be so cruel. Victoria, give me a sign.”

Tasting his tears, he remembered the first time he saw Gigi at the baptistery in Ravenna, when the air seemed to sparkle with briny splendor, when she appeared from the mists of time.

Magnus touched his chest, fingering the locket with Gigi’s hair and then he flinched, hearing the soft swish of parting grass.

He held his breath and listened, perceiving light footsteps on the path, the barest of sounds.

He let out his breath slowly, then reached for his sword.

• • •

Randegund crept forward. She felt a bitter wrath watching the despicable Roman holding his sword. Suicide was too easy. He must be made to endure all the torments of the world like her Verica, who was wasting away, inconsolable over the loss of her children.

“Magnus!” she shouted.

He turned, eyes widening as he beheld her face. But his gaze dulled quickly, his features the image of suffering.

She drew herself up. “Do not kill yourself, fool, else you will never find your wife.”

Randegund waited. He was still filled with pain, but truly — there it was, a look of confusion. She had his attention.

“She is alive, Roman. I saw her. She ran from your tent, knife in hand. But I fear — ”

He roared to life, leaping from the crags, running at her, grabbing her. “Why have you said nothing of this? Where is she, Witch of Rocesthes? Tell me!”

She felt shaken to hear her old name, the one used when she was young and vital, when she rode with the warriors, when she was truly alive.

Magnus pulled her close, until they were nose to nose. “Where is my wife?” he growled.

Cursed Roman! His strength shocked her, her body withering beneath his might. He had her under his power, and she knew she must regain control. Yet still, she could not find her voice, suddenly fearing he would hurl her against the rocks.

Randegund took a deep breath, then another, finally whimpering, “Release me! Do you wish to find her? Let me go!”

She looked into his eyes and saw his pupils, dark pinpricks, his hatred bared, but there was something else there, a spark of hope. It was no consolation that she should give him such a gift, however false, but it would buy her time. Her thoughts raced, scrambling for something to say. But what? What could she tell him?

And then she recalled a tale of old, and in it she found her answer. Send him away on an unending quest like Odysseus, keeping his hope alive, eternal, only to be dashed again and again, his suffering equal to his hope, and both without end.

She glared at Magnus as she shook herself free. “She was taken by the Romans as a slave. I saw her carried away on horseback. Someone said she would fetch a great price in Constantinople.”

Even in his hope he looked shattered, and she gloated in victory. He stared into her eyes, searching for the truth in her words, then turned his back on her and raced down the hill.

She looked up at the sky, thanking the gods for the gift of vengeance.

• • •

It was nearly sundown. Alaric had watched Magnus ride away from camp earlier that day, heading east, and still he was troubled by the whole situation.

“I do not trust my mother,” Athaulf said from over his shoulder. “Why did she not bother to tell us about Jolie, er, Gigi’s fate before this?”

Alaric felt uneasy. Athaulf had put voice to the very crux of his concerns, and deep within he agreed with his brother-in-law’s disquiet. He feared Randegund’s hatred for the Roman had finally steered her soul toward the dark pit of damnation and eternal hellfire.

He had to find her, to question her, for he knew a way to guarantee she was telling the truth, the only way.

Alaric walked away and was relieved 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.