The emperor laughed, then reached down to pet his bird. “Ah, Rome dearest,” he said tenderly, “we think scullery work shall break her pride nicely, don’t you?”
• • •
Gigi’s desperation was beyond anything she had ever experienced. Two days since her concert for the mayor’s wife, two days since all the insanity started in the baptistery, and now she was up to her elbows in slimy eel entrails, trying not to throw up. The heat pouring from the cooking hearths was unbearable, and she swiped at the sweat dripping into her eyes. At least no one had put a slave collar on her yet. The thought made her feel sick. But there was something even worse.
Gigi glanced at a blond girl standing nearby. She’d been branded with an “F” on her forehead, the scar still an angry welt, swollen and red. Who could do such a thing to anyone, let alone a girl? But she knew exactly who could, and hazarded another glance at the poor thing’s face. Her features were twisted in permanent pain, all traces of youthful prettiness gone. She couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. Gigi’s heart surged with pity for her.
The other kitchen slaves were by comparison better off, but not by much. In the immediate area, Gigi was part of a wretched assembly line made up of four women and her. The first, the one with the brand, plucked eels from a barrel; the next, a short, swarthy girl with deep circles beneath her eyes, beheaded each eel with a knife, then slit it open; after her, a gaunt, older woman hung the carcasses over a basin to catch the blood; Gigi, fourth in line, tore the guts barehanded out of the drained eels; and after her, a gray-haired slave cut the eels into pieces.
One of the cooks already had several pans of eel bits sizzling in olive oil. Gigi noticed a delicious smell had started to replace the reek of blood. Her stomach growled.
She heard a sudden commotion at the door, a flurry of words exchanged between the guards and someone else. Gigi knew who it was and glanced up as he pushed past the guards and into the kitchen. His blue eyes searched everywhere until they locked on her face.
Gigi’s heart beat hard and fast. Magnus! His warmth reached out to her from across the room.
The moment was shattered when Spoon Lady hurried forward and rapped Gigi hard on the knuckles.
“Ouch!” Gigi yelped and lowered her eyes.
Magnus let loose a torrent of sharp words at Spoon Lady, and she replied in a sickeningly sweet voice. Gigi risked a peek. The woman cringed before Magnus, who glared back. She meekly gestured for him to follow her to another room.
Once they left, Gigi glanced sidelong at the other slaves. None of them dared look up, except for the swarthy girl, who gave Gigi a sharp nod, indicating she should get back to work. Gigi did just that. The woman next to her pushed another headless eel her way.
“Gigiperrin?”
She jumped, then turned and looked straight into Magnus’s eyes.
He stood several feet away. His eyes held no trace of warmth as he surveyed the dead eel, and her bloody arms and hands. Gigi noticed everyone in the kitchen stood stock-still, staring at the floor. After a moment of silence, she felt a touch on her sleeve. Gigi flinched, but this time Spoon Lady seemed apologetic and led her into another room. She indicated a bucket of water there and motioned for Gigi to clean up, then left.
Gigi was stooped over, washing her arms, when Magnus approached.
“Gigiperrin?” he repeated, smiling.
She straightened, studying his eyes. They were filled with the same caring warmth she had sensed when he arrived.
“Salve, er, hails, Gigiperrin,” he said.
His voice was gentle, a sweet caress to her ears. She closed her eyes, daring herself to believe he could help. He smelled wonderful, a powdery scent that reminded her of incense. She hoped the reek of blood on her own skin wasn’t too apparent.
She opened her eyes to his smile. “You smell good,” she said in English, then lowered her gaze, embarrassed she’d spoken out, and self-conscious about her appearance, especially in light of his perfect grooming: his well-manicured hands, his tanned skin devoid of hair and looking polished, his body chiseled like a statue.
“Gigiperrin?”
“Oh, my name is Gigi … Perrin. Don’t run it all together. Gigi … Perrin.” It was a relief to talk without the ever-present threat of the spoon, and she reveled at this bit of freedom. “Gigi. It was my father’s idea. He adored the musical. My real name is Geneviève, but you can call me Gigi.” She knew she was rambling, and that he couldn’t possibly understand, but she didn’t care.
He was silent for a moment. “Gigi,” he nodded, “Gigi.”
She laughed, thrilled he’d actually gotten something from her words. “Yeah, me Gigi. You Magnus.” She decided to ask him a question that had been nagging her, a crazy thought, something so weird, so unsettling she hadn’t wanted to face it.
“Quelle année est-elle?” she ventured in French. When he didn’t respond, she went for broke and added, “What year is it? Année?”
Magnus’s brow furrowed as he pondered her question, but then his eyes widened. “Anno?” he asked.
She nodded, listening to his rapid string of indecipherable words ending with Imperator Honorius.
What the — ? Did he mean … why mention that jerk?
Then Gigi sucked in her breath. Mind reeling, she recalled reading about Honorius at the baptistery. That’s where she’d first heard the name. Of course — Emperor Honorius.
And the brochure had mentioned something about the 400s.
A.D. 400? Gigi’s pulse pounded as she grabbed Magnus, her limbs rubbery. “This isn’t a joke, is it? Is it?” Her words tumbled out, frantic. “No, no, no!”
Almost fainting, she clung to his robe, then lost her grip, her knees buckling.
He held her, preventing her fall, and then pulled her to him. She felt the warmth of his cheek touching hers, heard him whisper, “Gigi.”
“Help me,” she whispered back as she sank into dark, blessed nothingness.
• • •
Magnus lowered the unconscious woman to the floor. He was struck to his core by her beauty, her features gentle and peaceful, as if innocent sleep had overtaken her and not the torments of the waking world. He touched her cheek — her skin was soft and warm beneath his fingers — and felt humbled by her vulnerability. What had caused her such panic? He hadn’t understood most of her words, or her questioning of the year, which was a strange gap in basic knowledge that seemed at odds with her obvious intelligence. Had his first instincts been right all along? Was she a divine being, newly come to Earth? That would explain much.
He studied her face. She was perfection, even in rags. She shifted slightly as he watched her, and a ring on a golden chain rolled out from beneath her clothes and onto the floor beside her head. He gaped. Was it — could it be his ring? He picked it up to examine it more closely, and his shock was justified. It was identical to the one given him by Theodosius — but that one had vanished six years before! His ring was unique, bestowed by his emperor. There were no others like it; no copies were made of such momentous gifts, ever. By the gods, how had she come to possess it, lost as it was, among the bodies and gore on the battlefield?
He could hardly breathe. Who was this woman? He had wondered if she might be Venus reborn. Or was she sent by Victoria instead? Was he back in the good graces of his goddess? Or, might Victoria herself have come to him in human guise?
Whatever — whoever — she was, Magnus vowed to care for her, to keep her safe. He didn’t dare touch the ring. Victoria would see fit to bestow it again, when — and if — she deemed him worthy.
Magnus lifted the mysterious woman in his arms, then glanced around for somewhere to put her. “Silvia!” he yelled. The kitchen overseer appeared at the door and he glared at her. “Where does she sleep?”
Silvia hesitated. “She has not yet slept
here.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Tonight. Show me where she will sleep tonight.”
Shaking, Silvia motioned with her spoon, leading Magnus to the slave quarters. Several women rested there — the kitchen night shift, he assumed — and they immediately roused upon seeing him, alarm replacing exhaustion.
He placed Gigi on a cot and then rounded on Silvia, “Woman, I shall hold you personally responsible for this one, and I will expect reports from you on her good health — daily reports. Treat her well. Her person is inviolate, as are her possessions. Touch nothing of hers.”
“Dominus, I am your servant.” Silvia dropped to her knees and kissed the hem of his toga.
The others watched their overseer in silence, but Magnus could see the hatred flashing in their eyes. Best not to encourage rebellion, he decided.
He cleared his throat and pointed to the slave women slowly, one by one. “You there, and you, I charge you, each and every one of you, with making certain she is not harmed or in any way abused. Tell the other slaves this goes for them as well. And by the infernal Styx, someone teach her our tongue!”
The looks on their faces told Magnus his orders would be followed to the letter.
He turned on his heel and left, hoping the next time he sought Gigiperrin she would be able to speak with him, for he yearned to know more about her, who she really was.
• • •
Gigi came to with a start. She felt disoriented and weak as she touched her chest. Her grandfather’s ring still hung beneath her shift and she sighed in relief. Her hand strayed to her neck, but she already knew the answer — no slave collar. She closed her eyes, listening to the conversation outside.
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.
Chapter 4
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 sh
e 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.”
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