After the Fall(57)
He released her. “Gigi, I must go.”
She felt sick to her stomach. “Magnus, please, tell me you’re not going to be a part of this. If you are … if you do this … don’t come back. Not tonight. I don’t know when I could face you again, but not tonight.”
“Athaulf commanded that I attend, but I will not participate in the executions, for they are Romans, and I could not do such a thing, not even for him,” he desperately searched her gaze, as if willing her to understand. “Gigi, know this … I am as appalled by this plan as you, but Athaulf is determined to keep Alaric’s tomb safe from dishonor. So, I will do my part and make certain the slaves get clean deaths. It is what we do for a soldier with a mortal wound, a merciful stab to the back of the neck.”
“Oh, God, Magnus, we can’t let this happen. I’m going to Placidia.”
“You will not!” He took hold of her arms, his grip unbearably strong. “In this I stand firm. Do not tell her, else I’ll be forced to — ”
“What?” she screamed at him in fury, struggling against him. “What will you do?”
He pulled her close, his muscles rock-solid. Breathing hard, she tried to wriggle free, but it was futile. “Magnus, let go of me!”
“I love you, but … ” His voice was low, implacable. “As your husband, I demand your obedience in this. Do not tell anyone, certainly not her. Ever.”
He released her. Blinded by tears, she fell sobbing onto the bed. Later, she could not recall how long it was before he left, or if he’d said anything more.
• • •
Night, that great dark beast, crept over the land. In the shadows, Randegund sat in her tent, stirring sleeping powder into a cup of blood-red wine.
Black thoughts hit her like wind gusts, tearing at her soul. O, Despoiler Romans, Most Hated Ones! You who stood amongst us when my beloved foster-son, Alaric, was laid to rest. Magnus! Gigi! Placidia!
She saw it all again, unbidden memories, the travesty of this day. How dare you act the Visigoth and carry his body, Magnus! Defiler! And you, Gigi, how dare you give Placidia your dagger, so the princess-whore could pollute my precious son’s grave with her filthy Roman hair! How dare you take Verica in your arms, Placidia, and declare yourself one of us! Athaulf’s true wife rests in her grave in Noricum. In my eyes, you are nothing compared to her. Nothing!
She balled her fists, squeezing them until the nails bit into her skin and she bled. But how could she get to them? Those three were too well protected by their guile, and by her foolish, misguided children, Athaulf and Verica.
By the Furies, she had to find a way to rid her people of the Roman infiltrators. Would that they were included with the slaves at the river and butchered this day. How she would have loved to do it herself!
Hands shaking, Randegund took up the wine potion, cursing as she spilt some on herself. Her daughter would have need of it in the coming nights and none must be wasted, for Verica was bereft, sick with grief.
As are we all, Randegund bitterly thought. Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes, and she let them course down her face, watching as they fell into the potion and mingled with its secrets.
What would you do? she asked, touching her breast.
But Nemesis did not stir.
Randegund almost flung the cup in outrage, but fought with herself for patience. The goddess would answer in her own time.
She took the potion and carefully placed it on a table. Verica, only daughter of my womb, who does not easily thank me or care for my regard any more. These days, you have other concerns, other loves.
And Alaric’s love was no more. He was gone. Dead.
All because of them!
Sitting in the gloom, Randegund placed her hands over her ears, rocking to and fro, repeating the names, hating the names. Roman filth! Magnus! Gigi! Placidia! Her anger redoubled, and she leapt up, her fury imparting a strength she hadn’t felt in years. A blood sacrifice would serve as a balm both to her and Nemesis.
With a cry, she reached for her knife and stormed outside.
• • •
Sergeric wiped his sweaty hands on his tunic, hating the creepy darkness of these southern woods, hating even more the Romans with whom he had been ordered to meet. Imperial spies — shit-eating Roman dogs!
He slipped unnoticed past the outermost ring of sentries, heading for an ancient oak, the meeting place according to his elder brother’s secret missive. Sarus must know what he is doing, he told himself, even if I do not understand why he would ask me to risk so much.