Love, Eternally (12 page)

Magnus had thought of everything.

Smiling, Gigi took the little bag. She had never felt so pampered, so beautifully relaxed. The makeup girl handed her a polished bronze mirror, and Gigi stared at her blurry, undulating reflection. She wore lustrous green eye shadow and her lips were a darker, more brilliant red than she’d ever dared to wear. Her blood pulsed as she gazed at her exotic image. Would Magnus like how she looked?

A smile crept across Gigi’s painted lips as she placed her ring and necklace in the golden bag. Yes, she would make sure he liked her new style.

She reentered the spa’s foyer several minutes later. To her surprise, the narrow-faced fellow who’d brought her stood in exactly the same spot, his slave absent. Such dedication to duty.

Expressionless, he motioned for her to follow. Racing after him, Gigi fumbled with her wrap, trying to settle its drapes and folds: over her left shoulder, under the other arm, back over the first shoulder. Annoying, but the slave girls had insisted she wear it over her gown — only whores went outdoors uncovered.

The slim man led her to the palace complex and across its grounds, onto a broad veranda, down corridors and up ornate stairways, through vast marbled halls standing empty and unused. The size and configuration of the palace was mind-boggling, and she wondered if she could find her way out, if given the chance. Finally, on the top floor, they followed a long hallway that led to a single pair of doors, guarded by a few of the bearded behemoths who usually surrounded Honorius.

These guys work for Magnus, too?
Gigi wondered. She hated them, no matter who they worked for. “You
are
taking me to Senator Magnus’s chambers?” she warily asked her escort.

The man smiled and nodded. The soldiers opened the doors for them without question, and they passed into a large room filled with art: marble and bronze statues on pedestals, walls covered with woodland frescoes. They headed for another pair of doors, and Gigi’s heart began to thump.
Okay, calm down. You know him. You know he’s a good guy. He’ll be nice — oh crap, this is going to be awkward. How’s it going to start? A late lunch with a couple of bottles of wine, maybe some nice conversation? How was your massage? Tell me about your parents. What’s your sign? Where are you from?

Gigi took a deep breath, wondering how she would answer that last question.

“Give me your
palla
,” her escort said, indicating her wrap.

“Er, all right.” Gigi slipped it off and handed it to him.

Folding it over his arm, he gently tapped his foot on the door, waited a moment, then called out, “The slave, Gigiperrin, Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty?

“Come in.”

Gigi shrank back at the sound of the hated voice. “No, no — ”

The man grabbed her arm, opened the door, and shoved her inside.

• • •

Honorius smiled at the bitch as the door closed behind her, relishing the look of fear etched into her features. She was beautiful! The
therma
slaves had worked miracles on her, and the gown he’d provided exposed, by its supple undulations, her exquisite peaks, and hinted broadly at each luscious valley.

She spun around and desperately tried to work the door handle, to no avail. He grew hard gazing at her shapely bottom, and the result was obvious as it pushed against his tunic.

“There is no way out until we give our royal permission, Gigiperrin.”

She turned and glared at him, hatred flashing in her green eyes.

He noticed then she did not wear a slave collar. It enraged him no one had followed protocol and affixed one to her neck, but then he realized he was glad her body was unmarred, her throat white and smooth, and beckoning for his attentions. He grinned at the thought of having a collar forced on her later that day, after he finished using her.

“We have been thinking about you recently,” he purred, as he raised his hand, her diamond ring twinkling on his pinkie, “and have decided that you must be brought to account for your refusal to play your flute, your rudeness before our ministers, and your defiant, haughty attitude. Do you still have no appreciation for the Great Emperor who stands before you? Have you learned humility in our kitchens?”

“I have learned some Latin,” she snapped, the sound of her fear audible. “That is all. Nothing else was worth learning.”

Honorius grinned at her attempted insult, relishing the idea of bringing her low. “Ah, and you are still a bitch, but perhaps not for long.”

She frowned, fists balling. “No one calls me that.”

“We do, slave.” He stepped to the bed, picked up her golden flute and was pleased when he heard her sharp intake of breath. Chuckling, he tossed it aside and grabbed a leather whip instead, letting its many lashes fall lazily through his fingers. He looked forward to her struggle.

“Bitch, we see your dread.” He laughed as she shrank away from him. The thought of what was coming made him feel positively jovial. “In the throne room, the day of your audience with us, you spoke of our royal
fascinum
— in front of everyone.” Honorius drew his tunic up, exposing himself. “It was an embarrassment at the time, but understandable. Most women long to see our great pride.”

Honorius saw her glance at him with horror, and the ache it caused in his loins was almost too much to bear. He needed to take her now. Sport, toying with her, whipping her, all that could come later.

He moved quickly across the room and grabbed her wrist, but she screamed and wrenched free. He grappled with her flailing arms and got a firm grip, then pinned them behind her in such a way that she was immobilized by the pain shooting through her body.

She cried out and he leaned forward, licking her skin from the opening of her gown between her breasts, up to her sweet throat, then to her earlobe. The taste of her was divine, and he used his teeth to pull the gown off one shoulder.

There! Her breast — by God! Glorious!
Salivating to taste more of her, he lowered his mouth, the tip of his tongue reaching, flicking …

Pain seared his being, and Honorius hardly realized he’d released her, that he was falling, so intense was the agony emanating from his balls.

• • •

She’d kneed the bastard, but it wasn’t enough. Once Honorius was on the floor, Gigi kicked him — hard. His eyes rolled back in his head, his contortions redoubling as he writhed and shuddered.

How do I get out of here? If he starts screaming, I’m dead.

She focused on the sheer, billowing curtains.

Gigi started for the balcony, then remembered her flute on the bed. She lurched, grabbed it, and ran.

• • •

The pain was more than Honorius could bear. He couldn’t catch his breath. He tried to cry out, but could only produce the tiniest of squeaks, whimpering like a wounded animal. Had she burst open his balls?

Fucking whore!
He rolled around, holding himself, wondering why his guards hadn’t come in, the idiots. Groaning, he suddenly realized they must think the sounds sexual, the result of his play. He tried again to call for help, but couldn’t, couldn’t force out a sound.

More moans, then, finally, he managed a pitiful, strangled, “B — bitch!” Tears filled his eyes. He shuddered, convulsed … and hoped someone would find him soon.

• • •

Panicked, Gigi clutched her flute as she rushed from one end of the large balcony to the other, desperately searching for a way down. She looked over the balustrade. The drop was too far, and she knew she’d break something if she tried to jump, but then she saw a possibility.

One branch of a gnarled, umbrella pine stretched toward her, about three feet lower than the balcony itself, and two feet distant. She swallowed, nervous, her hands sweaty. Why couldn’t the branch be closer? Uncertain she’d be able to make the leap, her reluctance vanished when Honorius moaned her name. Someone was going to check on him soon. She had no other choice.

Gigi removed her sandals, then dropped them and her flute onto the bed of pine needles below. Gathering her skirt, she swung one leg over the balustrade, then the other, toes gripping precariously at what tiny foothold she could find along the outer edge. Twisting into position, she stretched her free arm toward the branch and leapt.

The bark was rough and hard to hold, but the branch didn’t give way as she dangled ten feet above the ground. Hand over hand, she worked her way to the trunk, then, wrapping her arms and legs around it, shimmied down. She could feel the stinging of splinters and scrapes, but she ignored the pain. As her feet touched ground, she gathered her things and dashed off.

Gigi had no idea how she’d gotten off the palace grounds without being stopped. Despite being breathless with fear, she held herself together and somehow forced an appearance of outward calm. Head held high, she clutched her flute and boldly walked past the guards as if she owned the place.

Once off the grounds, she joined a group of pedestrians on Ravenna’s main thoroughfare, the Via di Roma. But, when a troop of Roman soldiers suddenly marched into view, fear spiked and she darted down a back street. She had no idea where she was going, yet her sense of survival remained paramount, her thoughts crystal clear. Placidia. She had to find her.

To her dismay, she ended up in an area near the canals and docks, obvious by the fishy smell. A princess would never live anywhere near here. Fully aware she’d chosen the wrong direction, she headed down another street.

The next block held a crowded fish market, the next a road bordered by rickety shacks. Wrong — and wrong. Gigi had to find a way out of this place. She didn’t dare stop and catch her breath, until she rounded the corner of a tumbledown shack and came face-to-face with a woman dumping a bucket of slop into the gutter.

The woman’s startled expression twisted to a scornful sneer as she gave Gigi the once-over. Her gaze hesitated on the flute, but then she scowled again. “Be gone, slut,” she uttered as she headed back to the shack.

Gigi looked down at herself and realized she didn’t have her
palla
. That omission, along with her revealing silk gown and golden flute, would attract the same kind of attention wherever she went — and had, in fact, as she recalled the sidelong glances she’d received on her way to this dead end. She needed a disguise.

“Please, sister,” Gigi called out, “may I, er, would you be willing to give me a good, practical dress? I’ll make you a deal; this gown, so luxurious, for something like what you’re wearing now. This silk is very fine and expensive.”

The woman turned and stared at Gigi, her expression cold.

Gigi fought her rising panic. She had to get new clothes. What was going to sway this woman? “Please, I am tired of my old life,” she tried again. “I have no more need of this and want to return to my mother. She would be shocked if she saw me like this.”

When the woman’s gaze wavered, Gigi sensed she’d struck a chord. “Please, allow me some measure of decency, for my mother’s sake, when I return home.”

She gauged Gigi once more, then, with a nod, motioned her inside. Gigi felt a surge of relief as she stepped over the threshold. The single room was humble and sparely furnished, but clean. An infant slept in the midst of a pallet bed in the far corner.

The woman pointed to some clothing hanging on a peg. “This is all I have.”

“Thank you.” Gigi took everything and quickly changed. She tucked the flute under her waistband, concealing it beneath a coarse
palla
, then wrapped her hair in a scarf. With a smile, she handed over her silk gown. “You have saved me. Thank you so much.”

Gigi was about to rush out when the woman touched her arm. “Your painted face,” she cautioned. “Your mother would not approve of it, either. Some olive oil should get it off, and your arms, something should be done about those. Here.” She poured oil from a bottle onto a cloth, dabbed at Gigi’s eyes and lips, then pulled out the splinters and bathed her scrapes with a mixture of honey and wine. She stood back, nodding her approval. “You look respectable now. Go on then, go home to your mother.”

Wishing she could, tears sprang to Gigi’s eyes and she looked over at the sleeping baby swathed in rags. Guilt swept over her. What was this woman going to do with a silk gown? Make pillows? She obviously couldn’t afford giving up her things, but then Gigi had an idea.

Pulling out the mesh bag, she removed her ring from the gold necklace. “Here,” she said, placing the chain in the woman’s hand. “Take this and care for your child.”

“What? No, it’s not necessary — ”

“It’s yours,” Gigi folded the woman’s fingers around it. “I insist.”

“But … thank you so much, sister,” she stammered, eyes wide in disbelief. “Thank you. God bless you.”

Gigi hugged her and quickly left the little home, pulling the
palla
up over her scarf, yet another layer of protection from prying eyes.

The town appeared more prosperous beyond the canal area. Still, she kept her head down and didn’t look around. Finally, coming across a bustling open market, Gigi slipped into the crowd, searching for someone who could give her directions to Placidia’s palace, without arousing suspicion.

She’d been to several markets with the other slaves, but not this one, and, thankfully, no one looked familiar. Who would know where the princess lived? Probably most people, but how could she formulate the question without drawing attention to herself?

She moved on to a square teeming with merchants’ booths. Just as she was about to ask for directions, imperial guards moved through the crowd, questioning people. Alarmed, she turned aside, pretending to be interested in melons heaped on a cart, and her presence went unnoticed.

Gigi cautiously watched the soldiers until they left the square, then took off in the opposite direction. Now where could she go? Where did she
dare
go? Still clutching her
palla
and looking down, she forced herself to walk slowly, calmly, hoping that to all eyes she was just a modest woman on a stroll.