Love, Eternally (7 page)

Spoon Lady’s voice had a bitter edge as she fumed and sputtered in the other room. “
Ascendo tuum!
” she screeched.

Gigi frowned. Whatever she was saying, it didn’t sound pretty.

Ignoring the rants, Gigi replayed the harsh exchange between Spoon Lady and Magnus, trying to piece together what had happened. She’d understood almost nothing, but the anger in his voice probably explained the woman’s nasty mood.

Gradually, Gigi’s memory returned, and she relived the agony of realizing where she was. How could it be true? It was all so totally insane.

Gigi heard shuffling nearby, and didn’t let on she was awake. A damp cloth was placed on her brow, and she willed herself to listen and not overreact, knowing she must hold onto her sanity if she was going to get through this.

Still, Gigi felt her resolve slip away, her mind circling the drain. But then she heard some words she understood, things signifying importance and rank —
patricius, dominus, princeps
— and the word
senator
, mingled with
Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus
.

Magnus? A senator? Gigi opened her eyes and removed the cloth from her forehead. “Senator Magnus?”

Spoon Lady stood over her, nodding through her scowl, then snapped her fingers and called out, “Vana!”

Gigi sat up and looked around. She was in a dormitory with rows of cots, some empty, some holding slumbering women. She caught a delicious whiff, the aroma of sautéed fish. The girl with the brand — Vana? — arrived with a platter and placed it before Gigi. The dish was heaped with chunks of eel and cooked cabbage, and garnished with lemon wedges.

Her mouth watered, but she glanced suspiciously at Spoon Lady. She had to realize Gigi was very hungry. Was she playing some kind of trick?

“
Etiam.
” Spoon Lady nodded to Gigi, indicating the platter.

Wow, lady
, Gigi exulted,
Senator Magnus must’ve raked you over the coals.

She took a piece of eel and hesitated, visions of her first gross moments in the kitchen filling her mind. But she was starving, so she popped a tiny morsel into her mouth. It was delicious, and her stomach growled for more. She dug in, eating with her fingers, the eel tender and moist, tasting of lemon juice, olive oil, and vinegar, not fishy at all. The cabbage had been sautéed with leeks and something else, a peppery sweet-and-sour sauce.

Gigi puzzled over the strange mix of flavors.

“
Garum
,” Vana interjected, pointing to the cabbage, before she and Spoon Lady left the room.

Gigi turned back to her plate. She squeezed some lemon over a chunk of eel and wondered when she’d see Magnus again. He was kind, nothing like the others. And, to top it off, he was powerful, a bigwig. If anyone could get her out of this hellhole, he was it, her only hope.

Chewing thoughtfully, she took in the miserable state of the dorm room, with its rickety cots and threadbare bedding. She glanced at her shift, stained with eel blood, her manicure ruined, her ring finger empty.
Honorius, you prick! I want my diamond back, and my flute.

Her chest constricted, more from anger than grief, but then she caught something out of the corner of her eye. A huge, gray rat scurried across the floor and disappeared through a crack in the wall.

Shuddering, her appetite gone in an instant, Gigi pushed the platter to the foot of the cot and curled up. What was going to happen to her? Magnus might be a senator, but any security he might provide still wouldn’t get her home. Was he powerful enough to protect her from Honorius, who was obviously her enemy?

Homesick, she tried to fight her fears, the rising tide of misery, and the lump in her chest threatened to explode. No one knew where she was.

Everyone must be sick with worry. Had anyone seen her disappear? Or did they think she’d been kidnapped? Murdered?

Then a shocking thought supplanted the rest.
What if they believe I’ve simply ditched my life? That would be such a cruel thing to do, but what else could they think?

Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry.
Gigi turned her face into the tattered blanket and wept, not caring if the other slaves heard her. And then she realized she was one of them, collar or no. She was a slave.

Oh, God, help me!
Everything she knew was lost, forever beyond her reach. Her family. Her life. Everything, everything.

Stilicho gulped the last of his wine, trying to erase the vile, metallic taste on his tongue. The last few days had brought disaster after disaster, one heaped upon the other. He marked the beginning of these new miseries with the strange events at the baptistery, followed by Honorius’s insistence that Stilicho, as supreme general, be made personally responsible for an investigation of said events.

And if that wasn’t enough, now this madness — Serena’s incessant nagging about the fate of their sole surviving daughter. His head throbbed as he stared at his wife, still stunned by her words. He had always known her to be politically astute and ready to ensure power never strayed far from her grasp.

But this?

“Thermantia would be the perfect bride for Honorius, and you know it,” Serena said as she drained the last of her wine, “just as Maria was.”

He watched as she placed her golden cup on the table and then delicately patted her mouth with a linen napkin. She was meticulous in all things, most especially in her plotting, but he knew she hadn’t heard the rumors he had, hadn’t witnessed the incidents of sheer debauchery and sexual excess.

Stilicho frowned at an old memory of finding Honorius on a garden bench in broad daylight, his head thrown back in ecstasy while one of his whores sucked his cock. And this while Honorius was newly wed, and Maria, their daughter, his bride, was barely fourteen years old.

“Our dearest Maria is not yet cold in her grave, Serena,” he tried again, “and you want to give him Thermantia now? Maria was miserable with him, it was plain, and she had no will to live with a broken heart. Would you sacrifice our younger daughter to him as well? And after her, what about our son? I have not heard Honorius lusts after little boys, but would you also go that far if he did? Have you reason to think the emperor would treat Thermantia any better than he did Maria? Think, woman! You go too far.”

Serena’s dark eyes flashed with anger as she approached him. “No, it is you who goes too far, hairy Vandal. Remember your place, you Arian heretic, and who raised you to it!”

Stilicho raked his fingers through his beard and ground his teeth. Serena never failed, sooner or later, to throw his heritage or religion at him when she wanted her way. His beliefs were his own business, and Stilicho was devoted to his Arian Christian faith, which, simply put, held that Jesus, the Son, had a beginning, but that God, the Father, was without beginning. Stilicho was also proud of his barbarian roots; his Vandal father had been a chieftain among his tribe. Of course, it was always safer to remind people of his mother’s pure Roman, patrician forebears, and in this most Catholic court to keep private his cherished Arianism.

He touched his forehead, making the sign of the cross.
O, Lord Almighty, the Unbegotten, hear my plea for peace in this, my own house. O, Jesus, the Only-Begotten Son, help me in this, my hour of need.

He breathed deeply. Still, whatever the cost to him, his wife was promoting a monstrous plan, and he had to put a stop to it at once. “I refuse to allow it, Serena. Honorius sorely abused our first daughter. I will not condone throwing Thermantia under the tread of his golden-sandaled feet. I cannot believe you would condone such an action, and so soon after … so soon.”

Serena tenderly placed her hand on his forearm and smiled, but the gentle move quickly turned bitter, as her nails bit into his skin.

“Honorius will do whatever I suggest,” Serena said. “I beat submission into him well enough when he was a child.”

Stilicho pulled away, staring at her, feeling ill and drained. “But he is Emperor Honorius now.”

“It matters little, and it is no business of ours that he paid our Maria no court,” Serena continued. “An empress does not need wooing and lovesick odes in her honor. She needs to breed. If Maria died of a broken heart, as you seem to imply, then it was because she failed in her duty to produce an heir. Do you want Honorius fathering the next emperor on one of his concubines? He would surely raise a bastard to the purple, if he ever begets one, especially if he doesn’t have a legitimate wife. Thermantia is the only way to stop this. We must see her wed to him at once. We must! You would be grandfather to the next emperor. Think of that, Vandal. Think of our family’s future.”

God help him, she was right, and he hated her for it, hated himself. One path was open to him, just one path. Stilicho closed his eyes, not wanting to see the look of triumph on Serena’s face. Honorius would name one of his damned chickens to the purple, given half a chance. There was nothing for it. Honorius must be persuaded to wed his little Thermantia. So young. Would she be able to conceive? For the sake of the Empire, she had to.

She must.

• • •

Looking out upon the throng of guests, Honorius pondered the past week. It had been full of surprises, the greatest being when Stilicho approached him with a startling offer — Thermantia’s hand in marriage. Oh, how the old general had bowed and scraped, and said he would be most honored if the emperor would consider the joining of their two houses once more. Exulting in the manifold benefits the union would offer, Honorius had immediately agreed. Thermantia was even more beautiful than her sister Maria had been. Fair and slim, she had heavily lashed green eyes and the winsome smile of those still utterly naive.

Oho!
Honorius’s heart twisted as he considered the real source of this delicious offer: Serena. Her penchant for scheming and self-promotion was as much a part of her nature as her formidable conceit. She was obsessed with the notion of being grandmother to the next emperor. Honorius envisioned her gowned in imperial finery, the royal babe in her arms, a gloat of triumph on her painted face.

He sneered. It would never happen. Serena had caused him much trouble, not only in his personal life, but also in matters of state. Fervently anti-pagan, she’d personally desecrated the Temple of Rhea and ordered the torching of the
Sibylline Books,
the pagan works which some thought predicted General Stilicho would not defeat the Visigoths. During the uproar that followed, when pagans were rioting in the streets, Honorius’s troops had been hard-pressed to restore order. Stilicho prevailed on him not to punish Serena, publicly taking the entire blame for his wife’s actions. The woman was a bitch without shame, and Stilicho had no balls when it came to controlling his wife, or giving in to her every desire.

Serena would pay; the entire family would pay. How deliciously the means to this end had fallen so unexpectedly into Honorius’s lap.
Ah, dear Thermantia, if only you knew!
The marriage contract was agreed to with a snap of his fingers. The wedding would be a sumptuous affair, despite its hasty arrangement.

• • •

Smiling with contentment, Honorius grabbed hold of the arms of his throne and abruptly rose, taking the small, delicately boned hand of his new wife. The crowd of revelers parted before them as he led his bride off the dais and down the long corridor toward the royal apartments. A gaggle of courtiers, including Stilicho and Serena, followed in their wake.

Glancing at his bride, Honorius smiled, and she bashfully looked away.
She is so young, so deliciously nubile. It would be a sweetness beyond words to pluck her still-ripening fruit.

Guards opened the doors to Honorius’s outer chamber, and he turned to the crowd. “No need to follow.” He chuckled and winked at Stilicho, who wore his usual gloomy face, then at Serena, whose eyes gleamed with … what? Sentiment?

No, pure avarice, of course.

Honorius fought laughter. “Father, Mother, we shall treat your second daughter with all the respect we showed your first.” He looked at his guards. “Stay here, men. We are safe enough within the bedchamber. Stay here and keep vigil,” he clapped one of the guards on the shoulder, “for we would not have you getting any closer than the outer doors and listening in on us. Surely we shall raise a ruckus, and such things are not for your ears.”

There were murmurs of shock and disapproval among the throng. Thermantia blushed so deeply Honorius thought she might swoon, so he quickly made a great show of ushering her inside.

As the doors closed on angry faces, Honorius guided his bride through the vestibule, with its statues and frescoes of hunting scenes. He caught the girl eyeing a rare bronze of a nude Greek charioteer. He snorted, knowing full well the statue’s flaccid penis would soon seem minuscule in comparison with …

He stifled a grin. “Come, dearest love,” he said as he bade her enter his bedchamber, where the late afternoon sun still shone brightly, illuminating the interior.

Beside him, Thermantia gasped and recoiled slightly, but he took a firm grip on her elbow, and she had no choice but to take in the décor. Across the walls there were frescoes depicting men on women, women on men, women on women, even a few animals here and there, all in the throws of bawdy, explicit sex games, all the males amply endowed, unlike the puny Greek.

Honorius smiled at her horror, anticipating her reaction to his next surprise. A giggle, followed by movement beneath the bedcovers, drew her attention away from the frescoes, and he held his breath.

“Your Majesties.” A smiling blonde popped her head out from under the covers, then a brunette followed suit, throwing back the sheets and exposing their nude bodies. “Hurry and join us. We’ve been waiting so long.”

“Dear Lord!” Thermantia tried to twist from his grasp, to no avail.

Honorius’s pent-up breath exploded in laughter. He dragged Thermantia to a chair by the bed, then forced her to sit. “Do not move,” he ordered while he stripped.