The Wager Read Free

parents had gone out to view the sparks again before dawn washed away the extremes of color. A huge flaming ball of magma shot through the sky and struck them dead, though they were hundreds of meters from the crater. Such things happened. It was the will of God. There was nothing to be done.
    Nothing to be done
. He hated those words. He hated that thought. Not then, but later—in retrospect.
    No, Don Giovanni hadn’t reacted then, and he didn’t react now. It was as though time had stopped. The air of his castle pressed hard and hard and harder; his breathing went shallow; he wondered, without any trace of panic, if the pressure would grow so great he’d explode; blood would erupt from the top of his head.
    Rain came. Not a storm, like before, just sweet rain.
    Don Giovanni leaned from the window to let the water kiss his cheeks. But this water didn’t kiss; it jabbed.
    He jumped back and shook his head. His castle had been spared. He rushed to the windows that looked north. Then west, then south. He ran from window to window, searching for the homes of his guests the evening before, perched on high points, like his own. He could see several—he could reassure himself of their safety.
    But the city below was ravaged. And all but the highest farmlands were ruined. Doors, roofs, furniture, boats, livestock, and bodies dangled from treetops, where the raging water had deposited them as it retreated.
    How long had he been doing nothing? Long enough to be sure that the sea wouldn’t come back—like some hellish ball of flames. It was already nothing more than a sloshing tide, trickling away. The surface of the water in the harbor bounced gently. No boats in sight. The entire fishing fleet had disappeared. Gone with the sea.
    He raced outside and down the footpath to the nearest gate of the city. He stopped at the first wrecked house and helped the family lug stones and wood. They worked at a furious pace; fingers and knuckles bled as they dug into the ragged rubble. Eyes and ears strained for signs of life. They cradled the dying. They wept over the dead.
    The rain stopped and the sun came out like a mis-timed blessing. Light reflected off puddles, intensifying the ironic sense of glory.
    Don Giovanni lined up bodies for burial. He wasn’t sure he knew any of the dead, stuck there in the hardening mud. Was this the man who brought firewood last week? Perhaps if the fellow hadn’t been so crushed, Don Giovanni might have had a better chance at recognizing him.
    When all were accounted for, he went on to the next home, and the home after that.
    All the while church bells rang. Priests led processions in and out of the streets, holding sacred saints’ relics and praying for the living and the dead.
    It was late afternoon, and Don Giovanni was staring in dismay at the shattered leg of the man he had just rescued, when a young woman passed. She moved so quickly, all he saw was a high cheekbone, but ah, what a cheekbone. Her apron strings flew behind. Her winter shawl wrapped around her at least twice, but, still, he felt sure her body was lithe. And he caught a momentary glimpse of the back of an ankle—a slim, furtive animal his hands itched to hold.
    Blood caked on Don Giovanni’s clothes. A sleeve was ripped. Sweat stuck the silk of his shirt to his chest and back. His hands were raw from lifting rock. He reeked of blood, sweat, vomit. But he was still the handsomest youth of Messina. He dared anyone to challenge that. One look at his face was enough for any woman. And, despite all that had happened, his temples throbbed with desire.
    So he followed her.
    She raced along the footpath into the heart of town, skirting around rubble. Her hair hung loose, black, and wavy, and thick with clumps of something. Seaweed?
    Don Giovanni ran now.
    But each time the girl turned a corner, by the time he got there she was already turning another. No matter how much he sped up, she stayed the