Love, Eternally (11 page)

She sank onto the bench, her body aching, longing for what hadn’t happened. “
Vade in pace
,” she whispered to the air. Go in peace.

But she felt no peace. Gripping the ring, she looked up at the first stars winking through the trees. What had just happened? What exactly did he want?

What do I want?

With a ragged sigh, she rose and left the garden, thinking of Magnus, barely remembering Yves, excited, guilty, her emotions a jumble. She could see their faces, but Yves was indistinct, unfocused, whereas Magnus was all too clear, etched into her mind, and she recalled the way he walked, imagined his body, gleaming skin and all muscle.

Gigi sighed again, thinking of how disturbing her dreams were going to be that night.

Awake before dawn, Honorius paced, naked, along his eastern balcony. He looked out over the glimmer of earliest light dancing off the Adriaticum. With his most troublesome senators sent on a mission to the north and his riddlesome sister locked up in her villa, the month had been blissfully peaceful.

Damn them all to fiery hell!
he thought sourly. With the
calends
of Julius fast approaching, the senators were sure to return any day, spoiling his fun.

How bothersome was this Alaric, who fancied himself king of the Visigoths. Brutes and barbarians, they were uncouth and unclean — leaving their hair wild, unplucked, and stinking of foul things like grease and rancid butter — absolutely contrary to the hygiene of civilized men. Why, they even rapped on doors with their filthy knuckles, instead of their feet. Their manners were appalling.

He seethed. Alaric continued to demand Roman honorifics, all the while sending his squatters to live on the south side of the Danubius and pleading for sanctuary from that other vermin race, the Huns. Well, Alaric could also go to hell. He had troubled the Empire for far too long.

May God strike him dead for his impudence!

“Honorius,” a sweet voice called from within. “Come back to bed. I would not see your morning
fascinum
neglected for all the silks of the Orient.”

Still fuming, he ignored Adriadne’s sultry pleas.

“Mighty warrior of the bedchamber,” she cooed again, “I have become tangled in the bedsheets, and you must help set me free.”

He frowned. “Ask Britomartis.”

“She has gone off to bathe, my lord,” she said, her voice closer now. Soft, white arms encircled his chest from behind. Honorius felt the press of her bare breasts against his shoulder blades, the caress of her mound of Venus against his naked buttocks.

He smiled when she gasped, her hand having found his phallus well engorged and ready for the morning’s sport. He let her play with him, tease him to greater size, fondling his balls and shaft with mounting impatience, evidenced by the mewing sounds she made. He turned abruptly and pushed her against the wall. Seizing her thick, brown hair with one hand, Honorius pulled her head back and kissed her neck. She groaned, her fingers raking his back, and he grabbed her thighs, lifting her up against his hips. He entered her there, on the balcony, driving hard, making her cry out in ecstasy, uncaring that early risers might see his play from afar.

Proud of his imposing
fascinum
, he closed his eyes in bliss, ramming it home. Adriadne gripped his shoulders, demanding more, and he groaned in return. Then, from the direction of the barracks, he heard the beating of drums and started to pump in rhythm, for it seemed they were playing for him, a tribute to his power, cheering him on. When
Germani
pipers on their
utriculi
joined in, signaling the first call to duty, Honorius paused and opened his eyes, suddenly recalling the surly flute player, who had mocked his privy parts in front of everyone. His lust turned to anger, and he renewed his thrusts with vicious force. Adriadne shrieked and slapped his face, rousing him still further. He slapped her back and when she tried to bite him, he pulled out and turned her around, pushing into her rear. He pumped as hard as he could, wicked slams against her, and she started thrashing and grunting, deriving pleasure from her pain.

Closing his eyes, he heard a drum roll, then the pipers playing their finale, and he was brought back to thoughts of the flute-playing whore. What had become of her?

Adriadne began to writhe, to scream in climax, and Honorius smiled, knowing why he had ignored Gigiperrin these many weeks. He’d been too distracted by this little minx and her fair-haired sibling, fraternal twins of oh-so-twisted pleasures.

He pumped harder still, until the floodgates let loose and he bellowed in response. Then, as he stood gasping, collapsing against Adriadne’s beautiful, sweaty body, he decided it was time he summoned the bitch, Gigiperrin.

He would force her to play her music this very afternoon, and then he would take her, over and over, until she begged for the sweet release of death.
Today!
Before the senators came back, before their watchful, critical eyes returned to Ravenna, before life resumed its dull, drudgery pace.

He pulled away from Adriadne without a word and walked into his bedchamber, dropping onto his bed. When she tried to join him, he pushed her aside, for he needed to think. As she skulked out of the room, he closed his eyes and concentrated, waiting for inspiration, the perfect way to set his trap. Then, with a sudden clarity of mind, he saw Quintus Magnus watching Gigiperrin that day in the throne room, remembering the heartfelt look in her eyes when she pleaded for his help — and Magnus’s answering stare. Honorius was sure his instincts were right and that Magnus was taken with her. What a perfect opportunity to humble them both.

Hmmm.

Honorius wanted the bitch to willingly come to his chambers. But how? He needed to find a way to twist her thoughts with deception. Ah, a trap, he needed a trap. He ran his hand over his face, his mind churning, until the answer came and he grinned.

Oho!
He imagined how she would react when she found out — a wondrous moment in itself — but her body would still hold the wet heat of desire from false expectations when he finally ravaged her.

He suddenly recalled taking Gigiperrin’s flute and ring, and tossing them into the chest with the rest of his personal treasures. “We must find them,” he vowed, rising from his bed. “We shall dig them out and wear the ring … and use the flute when we take her.”

The trap would be readied, the bait so deliciously obvious. She would come and, afterward, Honorius would be merciless in his vengeance.
Indeed, our will be done.

Today!

• • •

Gigi scrubbed the rotisserie prongs with a linen rag and potash. Everyone thought she was odd because she insisted on cleaning the utensils, pots, and pans until they shone. All she needed do, so they said, was burn off the chunks left behind, or wipe away the grease with a bit of cloth. Good as new.

The cook fumed at her elbow. Gigi had never thought she’d find herself longing for rubber gloves, scouring pads, and a big bottle of antibacterial soap. Rinsing, she handed the prongs to the grumbling woman, who snatched them away, turned on her heel, and returned to one of the raised hearths, called a
hob
.

“You’re welcome, O Mistress Hob … goblin,” Gigi said sweetly in English, “for allowing me to protect everyone from botulism or salmonella or whatever.”

Sighing, she turned back to her stack of dishes. Nearly a month had passed since her encounter with Magnus in the abandoned garden. Having gone through various stages of daydreaming, passion, doubt, guilt, and crushing embarrassment, Gigi finally called a truce with her emotions, counting on the fact he would continue to protect her, and that was good enough.

Or at least he thought her Roman ring would protect her. But why? And how did he even know she had it?

It now hung in a pouch from a leather cord around her waist, out of view from prying eyes. She hadn’t needed it to fend off Honorius, thank goodness. In fact, she hadn’t seen anyone from the royal court, so even her fear of the emperor’s evil had faded with time.

According to a rumor among the slaves, he’d spent the month basking in one long, endless orgy of women, wine, and food. For a time, Gigi worried he would call for music at his parties and remember her, but if there was any music, he hadn’t thought to command her presence. Whatever the case, Gigi figured the rumors were true, because the kitchen workers had been pressed to redouble their workload for weeks on end.

“Gigi!”

Frowning, she turned at the call. What did Silvia want now?

A slim man with a long, narrow face stood nearby, his slave just behind, holding a wrapped package.

Silvia wrung her hands and explained, “You’re summoned to the baths, girl. This fellow’s come for you, says you must accompany him without delay. You’re to have the full treatment — a sweat and a scrape, then a plunge and some primping.”

Gigi could feel a hot blush cross her face as all the kitchen workers turned to gape. Why was she going to the baths? Who — ?

“He says it’s Quintus Magnus who called for you,” Silvia went on.

Overjoyed, Gigi’s fingers touched the hidden ring, wondering what he was planning.
Dinner and a movie? Maybe some champagne and caviar?
She grinned.
As if.

“Gigi, now! Drop the dishrag and follow the man.”

• • •

Gigi hadn’t been to a spa in ages, but none of her visits prepared her for Ravenna’s Roman baths. The building was immense, the entry hall a gorgeous combination of gleaming white marble and a deep purple stone with sparkling golden veins running through it, the floor covered with intricate mosaics of sea creatures, a whole host of shells, seahorses, and starfish.

A tall, red-haired slave woman with broad shoulders, muscular arms — and an upper lip with a five o’clock shadow — appeared and welcomed Gigi and her taciturn escort. After whispering a few words into the woman’s ear, he motioned for his slave to hand over the mysterious package, then turned and left.

Gigi wondered why all the drama, but then realized Magnus had probably taken great pains to make this a surprise. She tried to look blasé as she was led into the women’s section. They passed turquoise pools and rooms billowing with steam, before reaching a corridor of cubicles, the doorways closed off by tasseled curtains of green silk.

Stopping before an open curtain, the woman indicated Gigi should go inside.

“But … ” Gigi hesitated, suddenly unsure.

“Strip everything off. I shall return in a few moments.”

She lumbered away, and Gigi heard her muttering, “
Barbarus
.”

The room was bare except for a wooden massage table. It didn’t take long for Gigi to pull off her miserable shift and ragged underwear. But what to do with the leather pouch she kept tied at her waist? She didn’t dare leave her gold necklace and Roman ring lying about for someone to find or steal.

She stood there, wondering what to do, when she heard a soft cough, then movement at the curtain. Gigi turned, blushing as the big redhead burst back in with a stoppered bottle and some towels. She curiously eyed Gigi’s pouch and made the sign of the cross. “Ah, praise be to God, you are a Christian lady, then? Worry not, I shall take care to avoid getting oil on your little purse.”

Gigi had no idea what this had to do with being a Christian, but if it allowed her to keep the pouch on, so much the better.

The woman directed Gigi to lie down, then spent delicious, unhurried minutes using her strong hands to ease the knots out of Gigi’s shoulders and neck, coaxing olive oil into her chapped hands and cracked heels, even working it into her scalp, hair, and face.

Nearly asleep from the massage, Gigi was barely aware of the sounds in the room: someone opening the curtain, footsteps, whispering.

Gigi felt a touch on her shoulder and started.

The masseuse cleared her throat. “Forgive me, my lady.” She handed her a clean towel. “Please wrap yourself, and follow me.”

Gigi got up and looked around. “Where are my things?”

“They will be washed and returned to the kitchens. The master has requested you be given a new gown.”

Feeling a surge of anticipation, Gigi smiled.
New clothes? Thank you, Magnus!

The woman led her to a steam room, where she shared marble benches with several ladies. They eyed her with curiosity through the steamy air, but otherwise ignored her.

Soon, sweat and oil were pouring off Gigi’s skin.
Absolutely gross.
Just when she didn’t think she could stand it anymore, her masseuse returned and motioned for her to follow.

The next hour’s attentions were a combination of embarrassment and enjoyment: the scraping of Gigi’s sticky skin with a metal wand, followed by the shaving and plucking of her body hair — at least as much as she allowed. “Brazilians” weren’t for her, no matter how much they insisted her benefactor would prefer her that way. Afterward, she was immersed in a steaming-hot pool — so hot, in fact, she worried she’d be scalded. After a few horrible moments, Gigi hauled herself out of the water, her skin stinging and lobster-red. Next, the woman vigorously rubbed her down with a towel, then led her to another, smaller pool, where water cascaded through the gaping mouths of several bronze fish.

“No more swimming,” Gigi protested. “May I have something to drink?”

“That shall come later, my lady. This is spring-fed water, much cooler.”

Gigi looked forward to a more enjoyable swim and dove in. Cold exploded through her body, and she shot to the surface, gasping. After leaping out, she was toweled off once more and taken to yet another room, where the woman rubbed her with oil that filled the room with the sweet, heady scent of lavender.

Her hair was coifed and makeup applied. Her nails — what remained of them — were filed and buffed. Finally, she was dressed in a Grecian-style gown of yellow silk and guessed that was what had been in the package. Beautiful golden sandals and a long wrap of lightweight, red wool completed her outfit, except for one final touch: a tiny, golden mesh bag to replace her leather pouch, which was now a soggy mess.