After the Fall(54)
Magnus took her hand, and together they left on the run.
• • •
Randegund exited the stuffy sick tent and took a deep breath, seeking revival in the cool night air. Overhead, the sky was coal-dark, the stars distant white fire. She felt shriveled, ancient, and weary, a husk of her former self and overwhelmed by uselessness, for Alaric was dying, and she knew not what to do.
Once she was well away from the camp, she halted and prayed to the ancient Goddess of Revenge, whispering to the night sky, “Mighty Nemesis, winged avenger, dark-faced Goddess of Justice! Fly through the night to the tent of my beloved chosen son, Alaric. Witness the evil done him, hear his agony. I ask — I plead — for retribution against Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus and his wife, Gigi, for they alone are responsible for Alaric’s pain, having denied him the nobility of a heroic end.”
Her voice was drowned out by the rising wind, and she swore she heard the deep whoosh of wings. “Implacable Daughter of Vengeance,” she said, raising her voice, howling to the roiling sky, “fly, fly to Alaric’s side! If it be your will, Great Nemesis, save him. But if he is meant to die, then hunt down his killers. Avenge him! Fly, fly!”
Bending into the wind, Randegund fought the weakness of her aged limbs and slowly retraced her steps to Alaric’s tent. Near the entrance, Verica stood with Gigi, Magnus, and the Roman whore, Placidia. The women were huddled together, holding each other, weeping.
Why had Verica called them here? Disgusted, Randegund drew back, hastening to the shadows. How could her daughter be so trusting, so utterly stupid? She shook her head, wondering why Verica loved these Romans — she leaned over and spat — wishing she could hear what they were saying to each other.
I may yet cut out Gigi’s impudent tongue, if she dares make another excuse as to why Alaric was left to flounder so long in the sea, when she and Magnus knew — they knew — he was drowning. And as for the Roman princess-bitch who has bewitched my Athaulf …
There was a sudden commotion from the tent, a deep moan of anguish. The need to be at Alaric’s side superseded her hatred and her aching bones, and Randegund hobbled forward as fast as she could go.
Sweeping past the small group, she pointed to her enemies, and cried out, “You are not wanted here! Go away!”
Entering the tent, Verica fast on her heels, she found Athaulf at the sickbed, his arm around young Theodoric’s trembling shoulders. The other children were huddled in a corner, silent and pale.
Randegund pushed her way to Alaric’s bedside and fell to her knees, taking his hand in her own. Alaric’s face was paler than before, the skin a sickly yellow, his hands and arms mottled, purple. Death was near.
With a great effort, he opened his eyes and whispered, “Athaulf.”
Then his chest was seized with liquid rattles and he struggled, wheezing, “Mother, I see her!”
A convulsion passed through him, then a shudder, and Alaric died, his final breath gurgling away to nothing.
Randegund raised her hands in tribute to the departing soul and began to chant. She could feel eyes on the back of her skull, but she kept her gaze locked on Alaric’s beloved face — his death-face. She knew what they were thinking, knew they’d forsworn such rituals as nonsense years before, but they were wrong. She reveled in the knowledge his death vision hadn’t been of his birth mother or of any other woman. He had seen Nemesis just before he crossed to the darkness of the Otherworld, of that she was certain!
The Otherworld! My Alaric! The sudden realization he was truly and forever gone struck hard and her arms dropped to her side. Randegund cried for him and for herself, feeling as she always had, that he was her blood son, her own flesh, sinew, and bone. In truth, he had been more important to her than anyone in the world.
And now he was gone, and she knew her life was over, the agony tearing through her, unbearable.
Weeping, she kissed Alaric’s lifeless hand, carefully positioning it with the other, folding them both on his chest, over his heart. With a final kiss to his brow, she closed his eyes. Rising, she looked around to see her wailing daughter, a widow too soon, the others sobbing in grief, and her heart filled with an icy, silent intent. She shivered, then wiped her eyes and shook herself free from fear, feeling curiously renewed, as if a divine power had entered her body.
There was but one thing left to do in her life, a final act of vengeance, and she knew Nemesis was with her, deep inside her breast, waiting for the right moment to strike.
• • •