Love, Eternally (8 page)

Engorged, he throbbed with hatred and lust as he stood before his bride. With his concubines’ seductive hands roaming over his naked body, he watched as shock and revulsion played across Thermantia’s features.

“Ah, divine cousin,” he grinned, “we would take such pleasure in raping you this very moment, ramming you until you begged for mercy, until you couldn’t walk for the pain of it.” He laughed in delight. “But we won’t touch you — ever. Just as we refused to touch your dear, departed sister.”

Her mouth dropped open, and he knew he’d just given her information she hadn’t suspected.

“Sweet Maria wasn’t barren. At least we suppose she wasn’t. The truth of it is, she went to her grave a pitiful virgin.” He leaned down, his face so close to hers he could feel the warmth of her skin. “You may not utter a word of this to anyone. If you do,” he scowled, “well, dearest, we’re certain you can imagine the consequences, most especially for your family, whom we loathe. Did you think we would give your mother the satisfaction of being the grandmother of an emperor? We hate your mother. She is a conniving bitch, and too self-satisfied to think we might see past her manipulations. We happily married her first daughter and wasted Maria’s life. Now we’ll do as much with you.

“But we would make sure you are aware of all you are missing. You shall watch us perform.” He took hold of himself, wagging it in her face. “You will see how this, our royal
fascinum
, pleasures these two and how they pleasure us. Come to think of it, perhaps one day we might pleasure you, because we know how you would fight it, how it would repulse you, but we shall
never
enter you. You will die a virgin and without issue. ‘Barren’ they will say sadly, shaking their heads, ‘just like her sister.’ ”

With a satisfied last glance at his bride’s contorted, weeping face, Honorius climbed into bed and onto the blonde.

• • •

Bone weary, Gigi turned the spigot, filled two buckets of water, and lugged both to the far end of the vegetable patch. What she wouldn’t give for a fifty-foot hose, a cold beer, and a viable plan to get out of this place.

One of the garden slaves had been sick for a week, and Gigi had been sent out in the afternoons to help with the endless weeding, pruning, and watering. The work was hard and she’d gotten a bit sunburned before asking for a wide-brimmed straw hat, but the fresh air lifted her spirits, and she loved being alone with her thoughts. As dirty as she got, it was like taking a peaceful, perfumed bubble bath compared to the odors and gore of the palace kitchen.

When she first began gardening, she was obsessed with escaping. But she soon learned that alert guards roamed every inch of the palace and grounds, keeping sharp eyes on the slaves. For now, it seemed hopeless and she couldn’t risk it.

The one bright spot was she understood Latin better and better every day, even though she still felt awkward trying to say anything out loud. However, in the garden she could ignore her troubles and enjoy the soft breezes, sweet-smelling herbs, and buzzing of the bees.

The gentle clop of a horse’s hooves made Gigi’s heart beat faster. Looking up in expectation, she put down the buckets and removed her hat. Magnus had ridden by several times since she’d begun to work outside, but he only nodded to her in passing. This time, Gigi’s mouth went dry when he dismounted. He tied his horse at the gate, then came inside.

She hurried toward him. “Senator,” she said, not trusting herself to say anything more for the moment.

He wore a light summer toga, which hinted at the muscled frame beneath. The skin on his arms and legs was smooth and bare, confirming a lively conversation among the slaves that she’d managed to piece together. They’d ridiculed the Roman fashion of plucking body hair, finding the practice weirdly disgusting.

“A hairy man is a real man,” Vana had pronounced emphatically.

Not necessarily
, Gigi thought, wondering just how hairless Magnus was beneath his toga.

“It is a hot day,” he said. “May I take a drink?”

She nodded and filled the shallow drinking bowl that hung near the spigot. “This water is, er… most cold.”

He smiled. “Ah, so you are beginning to learn Latin, Gigiperrin. Very good. Your accent is hardly discernable.”

“Thank you.” She held out the bowl, expecting him to take it from her, but instead, he cupped his hands around hers. They were warm, dry, and strong, and their touch, the heat of them, coursed through her body.

“You fill my eyes, divine Gigi.”

For one whirling second, she stood breathless, before he raised the rim of the cup to his lips. With her hands still cradled within his, she watched his lips against the edge of the bowl as he drank. When he drew back, droplets of water remained, then one broke free, running over his chin and down the arc of his throat.

An impulse to kiss away the trickle jolted her back to the moment, and she hoped he hadn’t felt the tremor in her hands, or noted how she’d swayed toward him. She closed her eyes.
No, I can’t fall
, she thought, the irony of the double meaning not lost on her.
It’s too soon, too dangerous.

When he let go, she opened her eyes and found him smiling down at her again. But now, she realized, his gaze didn’t have the same intensity. It held a trace of uncertainty, of hope superseding desire, and she was glad to see he wasn’t always in absolute command of a situation.

He touched her cheek, brushing at a wayward strand of her hair, and Gigi had an overwhelming urge to press her cheek against his palm, to remember what tenderness was like. She wondered how his lips would feel.

“We must speak,” he said. His expression turned serious, the air between them stilled with a deeper purpose. “I have told Silvia you are not to bear the slave collar.”

She was stunned. “But, what if … ” she fumbled and started again, “the emperor — ”

“Has thousands of slaves. You are but one woman in his vast menagerie, just one woman, and yet,” his voice wavered, “you are … ah, I would not see your beautiful throat marred for all the riches of Rome.” Again, he brushed the strand of hair, then, with only the slightest pause, traced the length of her neck, lingering in the shallow at the base of her throat.

She closed her eyes, her heart wildly hammering.

“Gigi!” Silvia yelled from the kitchen.

Magnus stepped back and glanced over her shoulder toward the building. “You are needed, it seems. Thank you for the drink.” His gaze found hers again, his expression intense despite the level smoothness of his words, and another spark leapt between them.

“Gigi, where are you?” Silvia yelled again.

“I, too, must go,” he said, then softly added, “Do not lose hope. You are not alone.”

Before she could respond, he bowed, mounted his horse, and rode away.

You are not alone.
Her mind replayed his words and she struggled to have faith, to believe it was true, but another strident cry from Silvia broke into her thoughts.
But I am alone, Magnus. I’m alone when you’re not here.

Shaking with frustration, Gigi wanted to run after him and beg him to take her away from all this, no matter the danger to either one of them. The strain finally caught up with her and tears threatened, but she fought them back, reaching deep inside to regain a semblance of control.

She lifted her chin and watched as the dust kicked up by his horse settled, the last trace of him gone. Her heartache resumed, but nothing like before. Touching her throat, she felt him still, the memory of his caress just enough to sustain her through her misery and fear, until the next time he came.

• • •

Clutching a scroll, Galla Placidia tried to suppress a giggle but failed as she ran through her chambers, past the darkened balcony, heading for the niche where her nurse slept. A single oil lamp lit the alcove. By flickering light, Elpidia glanced up from her evening prayers.

“Oh, my dear Elpidia,” Placidia gushed as she waved the scroll. “Forgive me for interrupting your devotions, but I do believe this is what we’ve awaited these many months. My brother has summoned me on the morrow.”

“It would seem so,” Elpidia chuckled, looking at the scroll. “Perhaps your brother’s new bride has prodded his memory toward your needs.”

Placidia let loose a deep, throaty laugh. “You think so, too? It is true then. Honorius has decided!”

She threw out her arms and twirled around to face the balcony and its star-flecked sky. She breathed in the deliciously cool night air, her mind buoyant, brimming with possibilities.

Who will he be?
Placidia wondered, remembering how Honorius had taken the time to go over a list with her, promising to consider her dreams and desires.

Who will be my husband?

• • •

The morning mist had burned off, and with it, the hope of any respite from the swelter of late spring. Honorius stood on his shaded balcony and gazed beyond the docks, canals, and lagoons, watching whitecaps on the Adriaticum. He breathed, catching a whiff of salt air, the sea beckoning him with enticing recollections of swimming at the shore.

He flinched as a hated memory insinuated itself into his conscious mind, a loathsome time, a seaside holiday, when his father was besotted with his new wife, and Honorius had been thrust into the care of Cousin Serena. She wanted him out of the water and when he dallied, she waded in, took him by the hair and pushed his head under many times, nearly drowning him.

“Miserable second son,” she hissed. “You will obey your betters when they give you a command!”

He was only six when the abuse started, only six, but the memories of those years were fresh, as though it had happened yesterday.
Second son, second son.

“Well,” he muttered, “we are emperor now and all must obey our commands.”

“O, brave Emperor Honorius,
Venerabilis
,” a guard intoned, “the princess Galla Placidia.”

Honorius submerged his bitter thoughts and forced a smile. His sister entered his chambers alone. This surprised him, for she usually traveled with an entourage.
But then
, he reminded himself,
we have many things to discuss, personal things. We would imagine she has heard the gossips and knows why she was summoned.

She curtseyed. “Greetings, Honorius, my dear brother.”

He noticed her cheeks redden as her gaze strayed to the erotic frescoes adorning his walls.

Honorius’s mood lightened and he chuckled. “Placidia, how well you look.” He studied her new sea-blue gown with satisfaction, recognizing the source of the silk. His steward had personally selected the bolt of fabric, straight off a ship from Alexandria.

Ah! She wears it as a signal she is eager to please
, he thought, confident she would appreciate his efforts at picking the best husband — not only for her, but more importantly for political and tactical needs, to preserve his grip on power.

He kissed her hand, then led her to a couch and bade her recline.

• • •

Placidia hesitated, not wishing to appear rude, but Honorius motioned her on.

“Little sister, you may take your ease before us,” he said affably. He busied himself before a table laden with exotic fruits and a golden wine service.

“I would like to once again congratulate you on your new bride,” Placidia offered. “Is she to join us?”

He shook his head, selecting fruit for their meal. Although this was his private balcony — and they were utterly alone — his lack of pretension here, in fact his dismissal of any pretentious behavior, took her by surprise. He was the emperor, after all, chosen by the Lord God to rule.

Placidia looked out at the distant sea, so blue, so beautiful. She turned back to Honorius. “Well, Thermantia was the perfect choice, of course, and, er, she will certainly be a salve for your pain in losing Maria. You will be able to mourn her together, before moving on to start a family.”

Honorius looked taken aback, then annoyed by her remark, but said nothing.

“I … I’m sorry, dear brother,” Placidia said as he set down her plate, heaped with grapes, apricots, and a variety of sliced melons, all drizzled with honey. She popped a grape into her mouth, savoring its sweetness. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. The loss is still too recent, too painful.” She wondered at his little smile as he went back to the table. “Brother, I just received word from Constantinople, a very cordial letter from Theodosius and Pulcheria. They send their fondest regards and those of their sisters — ”

“Do you even remember them?” Honorius asked. “We don’t care for any of the girls, especially Pulcheria. She is forever sticking her nose in everyone’s business.”

“I remember her for her intelligence, Honorius. I think it will be a great asset, now that she has been named regent for her brother.”

He shrugged and poured wine into two goblets. Placidia settled herself somewhat awkwardly, smoothed her new gown, and glanced about, wondering at the absence of his birds. He began to hum, something she had never heard him do before. This reminded her that she did not know Honorius very well, for he had been out of the nursery and care of women when she came along. Additionally, he and his full brother, Arcadius — so recently dead — were the sons of their father’s first wife; she was daughter of the second, her dear mother, Galla, who died when she was but four years old.

“We do believe you are pouting.” Honorius offered her a goblet, then took the couch opposite hers. “Smile, dear sister, for the day has dawned bright, and joyfulness awaits you. Why, we even called for an ancient amphora to be opened for our celebration. This is a rare Pollenzo wine, more than fifty years old.” He raised his glass and intoned, “Alas, alas, that wine should live longer than man — ”

“Brother, forgive the interruption, but,” Placidia’s heart raced, “but what celebration?”

“First this.” He sniffed his wine. “Drink. Tell us what you taste.”

Placidia did as she was told. The wine had a pronounced violet fragrance; she let it linger on her tongue. “It’s fruity, but not too sweet. Wonderful,” she sighed.