Love, Eternally

by Morgan O'Neill

  “Do you know what is said about your father’s ambitions, O dearest wife?”

  “It is not true! My father is loyal to you. He has no designs on your throne, or on any other.”

  “Ah, so you have heard, have you? Of course, now we are forced to wonder what part you shall play in all this, especially since Cousin Serena dared to cluck at our royal person this morning. Your mother insinuated we spend too much time with other ladies, and we don’t attend seriously enough to fathering the next emperor. Have you been having little chats with her? Hmmm?”

  Thermantia moaned in fear, her pain nearly forgotten. Why would her mother say such a thing? How could she not know the harm she brought on her daughter with such barbs and insults against the emperor?

  “We are well aware of all the machinations, sweetness. Eucherius, to be raised to the purple in Constantinople, and one day our son ruling from Ravenna, with you acting as queen regent — and dear grandfather Stilicho the true power behind both thrones. Ah, but what becomes of poor Honorius in these lofty plans, we must ask? Should we be expecting the swift cut of a dagger from you in the dark of night?”

  “No, I am innocent — I would never — my father would never harm you! My mother … she is a fool,” Thermantia spoke through a burst of sobs. Would siding with him provide her a way out? “A bitter woman with a bitter tongue. Nothing more. Send her away. Send both of my parents away. They … Mother should not be allowed to rise in your presence, let alone speak to you so foolishly.”

  “Ah, but you see, she is right in one thing,” Honorius said, smiling down at her. “We have neglected you, and today we will see the promise fulfilled, that we made to you on our wedding night.”

  Thermantia tried to remember a promise amid the horror of that black night.

  “Pleasure, dearest — yours! This night will see you participate at last, whether you will it or no.” Honorius pushed open the doors and dragged her inside.

  Struggling, Thermantia noticed his usual women were there, the blonde and the brunette dressed in gauzy, transparent wraps of golden cloth. She searched for her viewing chair and saw it had been shoved to the wall. She glanced at the women, but their faint smiles gave nothing away.

  She looked up at Honorius, who still held her fast. His twisted grin was easy to read, savage, wolf-like. Thermantia tried to wrench her arm free of his grip, but he held on, and the women leapt in to help him. They bound both her wrists with leather tongs.

  “No! Honorius — no!” she screamed, as she was dragged to the bed, the straps fastened to the headboard. “Let me watch … let me watch … just untie me, please. Honorius!”

  “We must see to our husbandly duties,” Honorius said sweetly.

  “Please, dear God, please, do not rape me,” Thermantia whimpered, ashamed but desperate. “If they would but leave us, I … I am quite willing to — ”

  “Oho! Are you actually begging for it?” With a self-satisfied snort, Honorius bent over her and spoke in her ear. “Let us remind you we made three promises on our wedding night. First, that we would never spill our seed in you; two, that you would die every bit the virgin your sister was; and three, that we would force you to know pleasure withal, though you will surely resist such knowledge coming, as it were, in so base and public a manner.”

  One of the women giggled, while the other began to moan and move against the emperor suggestively.

  “Peel back her clothing slowly … Delos.”

  Still writhing against her bindings, Thermantia’s eyes flew open. Delos? Her sister’s Greek slave? The young man she remembered as a kindly servant in Maria’s household stood grinning at the foot of the bed. Thermantia looked at the object he held — an enormous wooden phallus, its black paint well worn at the tip. She glanced at Honorius with dread, but he shook his head and chortled, before facing the Greek.

  “The dildo!” Honorius cried. “Ah, but we will keep that for our use only, Delos. She must never know penetration as a woman, by anyone or anything.”

  The slave tossed the dildo aside. “Your will be done, Great One,” he replied, then clamped his hands on her knees, immobilizing her legs.

  Thermantia’s heart pounded with fear, for Delos held her gaze darkly, an evil gleam in his eyes. “Please, Delos, in Maria’s name, I beg you — ”

  “Oho, she evokes the name of her sainted sister now!” Honorius chortled. “Maria, Maria,” he taunted her in a sing-song voice. He turned to the slave. “Do you wish to go first, Delos? Or shall we and our dear ladies begin the games?”

  The Greek thrust up his chin. “No, my emperor. I shall go first.”

  “As you will, Lord Delos. You see, dear wife, here Delos is king, lord of the bedchamber,” Honorius said, jauntily placing his golden laurel leaf crown on the slave’s head. After bowing with a flourish, he turned back to Thermantia. “We have held him back, sweetness. Now, you shall see what we do while you sleep.” He glanced at the girls, then, licking his lips, gave the Greek a lewd, sidelong glance. “Show her why you are king. Show her now.”

  Still holding her knees, Delos grinned and stuck out a very long tongue, waggling it inches above her mound.

  In revulsion, she struggled against her bindings, desperate to escape, but his head dipped and she felt him part her body with the press of his hideous tongue.

  “No! God no!” She tried to squirm away, but he held her firm, licking, sucking, then probing her gently, until her own wet, pulsing warmth flooded her depths. Still, she fought him, kicking, yelling, but her body finally betrayed her. Eyes closing, she fell back and began to writhe, ashamed no longer, groaning for more. She arched her back, feeling waves of pleasure coursing over her and then building, ever building, until —

  “Stop! Delos, cease! Move off her!”

  Her eyes flew open as Delos pulled back. With her breath coming in gasps, the sensations subsiding, barely, she watched him wipe his mouth and grin at her. The girls stood near the bed, fingering each other and moaning.

  Thermantia’s face flamed with a heat even more intense than what she felt down below. “God damn you all!”

  Honorius threw back his head and howled with delight. “Well done, Delos!” He turned back to Thermantia. “You were close, eh, sweetness? So very close. Imagine what a cock would have felt like instead of his tongue? Speaking of which … Lord Delos, show her your other plaything.”

  The slave stepped back, then threw off his tunic, revealing all. Thermantia had never seen anything like it — the slave’s erect penis was almost as big as the wooden one!

  Honorius saw her shock, and it made him hoot with laughter. “Hmmm,” he finally said, wiping his eyes, “we might have had a change of heart. Penetration may be allowed, but only in the back passage, Delos.”

  With a grin, the Greek climbed into bed and thrust his arms under her knees, grasping her hips and forcing them against his.

  “No!” Thermantia screamed and kicked at him. “Get off me — noooo!”

  When the slave reviled her, she knew searing pain, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She heard Honorius howl again, right before he pushed Delos aside and mounted her himself, just before her world went black.

  • • •

  Stilicho paced within the confines of his study, furious, appalled, and racked with guilt over Honorius’s unspeakable behavior that morning. Why had he ever let Serena talk him into this debacle? How could he get his child away from that beast? There had to be a way, had to be something —

  The door crashed open and he spun on his heel.

  “Father!”

  “Tia!” Stilicho rushed to his daughter, but she collapsed on the floor before he could reach her. He tenderly lifted her slender body, laying her against the soft cushions on his couch. She was naked beneath a loosely wrapped blanket, her shoulders, her beloved face, bruised and bloody, her hai
r matted and stinking of sex.

  “Father,” Thermantia whispered, “you must kill me. I cannot go back, and I haven’t the strength to fight or flee. Maria awaits, she is there, calling to me from Heaven. I have seen her. It will be fine. We will be together for eternity. Please, Father, God will forgive you. Please set me free.”

  Rocked to his core, Stilicho knelt beside the couch and held his weeping child. “My Tia, my Tia. I’m so sorry. We will think of something. Your mother will be back soon and together — ”

  “No!” Thermantia replied, her angry retort sharp and startling. “She is no mother to me! She will never have a say in my life again! She destroyed Maria with her political maneuvering, and tossed me out as red meat to the wolf without any qualms, knowing full well … and this morning, this morning … ”

  “What? What did she do this morning? She has been at the baths all day.”

  “Honorius,” she spat out the name, “told me you were plotting against him — and I was accused of the same. And she … Mother stopped by this morning to scold him over his inattention toward me, over his apparent inability to father a child upon me. Until then, he had only held me as witness to his many debaucheries, but her words set him upon a different course. Today, he made sure I was involved, that I was the … the focal point, the sport, for one and all.”

  Stunned, Stilicho leapt to his feet. “She … ? Dear God! He … there was more than just he?”

  “They were four who played me, as I lay tied upon the bed,” she said, her voice distant, hurting. “Two women, Maria’s slave, Delos, and him.”

  Stilicho reeled at her words, and a blinding fury mingled with his pain. The very room seemed to burn red all about him. I have caused this, he thought, filled with shame and self-loathing. Never should I have listened to Serena, never should I have agreed to let Honorius near my daughters!

  He stumbled toward the hall, grabbing the hilt of his dagger before he slammed the door shut. Seething, he managed to control his expression well enough to get past curious eyes along the palace corridors, then past the hulking Germani guards standing at the emperor’s door by telling them he had been summoned for an urgent meeting.

  Inside, the room reeked of sweat and sex. The bed was bloody and rumpled, and leather straps hung limp at the headboard. On the floor, vile sex toys were strewn about and an enormous wooden phallus showed traces of blood as well.

  Sucking air through his teeth, Stilicho looked toward the veranda as the atmosphere around him took on a hazy aura. The sound of voices, laughter, of clucking chickens, drifted in on the light breeze. His knuckles whitened around his dagger.

  A few short steps and he was at the opening to the veranda, then through it. Before anyone could react, wine goblets were sent crashing, birds were kicked aside. Stilicho held the point of his dagger against the soft flesh under Honorius’s chin.

  “You chicken-fucking bastard!” Stilicho’s voice was barely above a whisper, and for an instant he enjoyed the abject fear he read in Honorius’s eyes.

  The women shrieked and backed off, but Delos leapt at Stilicho, whose response was automatic — one hard thrust up under the sternum, then down and away. The slave was dead from a punctured heart before he fell among his entrails, spilled out across the terrace, feathers drifting to the floor around him.

  But in the instant it took to kill Delos, Honorius screamed and scrambled clear of the fray. His guards appeared at the doorway.

  Stilicho knew he was a dead man, but refused to let them take him alive. He jumped over the balustrade. To his astonishment, his fall was broken by bushes. He ran, seeking sanctuary, believing God had preserved him for some purpose.

  • • •

  His chest heaving, Stilicho knelt on the steps before the altar to give thanks, hardly able to accept he’d made it all the way to his church, Basilica di Sant’Apollinare. He’d fought like a howling Pict, killing several of the guards to escape the palace grounds. Clasping his hands in prayer, he barely noticed the blood dripping from wounds on his arms or the pain in his joints from hard running.

  He heard noise outside, surely more guards, and he knew he would never be able to leave this place, this sanctuary, not in this life. For now, though, he was safe.

  Then, as the haze of his fury dissipated, he gasped, fear gripping his guts. But … my family!

  “Stop! You must stop!” a voice screeched near the main doors. “This is a house of God. You are desecrating God’s house!”

  Stilicho spun around. His priest was screaming and waving frantically, trying to stop a surge of palace guards pouring into the narthex.

  Rising, Stilicho bellowed, “Halt! I claim Sanctuary before God, and you must withdraw!”

  Suddenly, the priest went down on one knee, and Stilicho saw Honorius stroll in, grinning, his advisor, an upstart named Olympius, fast on his heels. He was followed by Heraclian, the Comes Africae in charge of protecting Roman Africa, and Stilicho’s friend, or so he had always believed. The emperor shoved the priest aside with his foot, then looked at Stilicho.

  “Sanctuary be damned!” Honorius roared, motioning to his men.

  The guards rushed forward and wrestled Stilicho to the floor. Stunned, he realized Olympius must have been the one who spread the evil rumors of insurrection against him, in an attempt to curry favor with Honorius. He glared directly into Olympius’s dark eyes.

  The man spit in his face, and Stilicho heard Honorius roar in laughter.

  • • •

  The throne room was crowded, stifling, and silent. Honorius mopped his brow with a bit of cloth, but kept his expression grim. He enjoyed the spectacle as he paced back and forth before a bound, kneeling Stilicho. His senators and generals were all present at the trial, as was Serena, Thermantia, and the little brother, Eucherius.

  It is a beautiful moment, he thought, as his glance swept over Stilicho’s bowed head, to see Serena’s furious cowering, Thermantia’s stony avoidance of him, and the boy’s fearful weeping. Beautiful! How he wanted to laugh!

  “So, we repeat,” Honorius intoned, “our faithful minister, Olympius, has truthfully testified before you all to having witnessed or heard firsthand the following traitorous acts: Stilicho’s issuance of an invitation to the loathsome barbarians to cross our borders into Gaul; his desire to see his own son, Eucherius, on the Eastern throne, by plotting to murder our dear nephew Theodosius; and Stilicho’s utter failure to stop the mutiny of our troops in Ticinum, during which several of our brave Roman officers and many fine soldiers were killed — and our own royal person placed in danger.

  “And we,” Honorius swung his arms wide for good effect, “know full well of Stilicho’s involvement and conspiracy with our sworn enemy, Alaric the Visigoth, having been subject many a time to his insistence that we owe both land and fortunes to this enemy for services rendered in the past. We say to you, Alaric forfeited any claim to our beneficence long ago when he attacked our borders, pillaged our countryside, and murdered our people.”

  A smattering of mumbled agreement swept through the crowd.

  “Senators,” he boomed, daubing his forehead again. “What say you? What is your decree upon this man, this proven traitor?”

  Not a sound. The room seemed frozen in the moment.

  “Priscus Attalus?”

  Attalus steadily returned his gaze. “Not guilty.”

  Honorius sensed the wave of shock sweeping over the gathering. How dare Attalus defy him? The miserable wretch, his pagan rebelliousness was intolerable. Honorius was God’s Anointed, His Chosen One. No one defied him and lived.

  He ground his teeth, making sure his demeanor showed unconcern, before continuing, “General Constantius, how do you declare in this case?”

  The man’s ugly, bulging eyes showed anger, as if he too would defy.

  Choking back his fury, Honorius
watched as Constantius exchanged a long look with Stilicho. The men knew each other well, for both hailed from the East and had fought together since the days of their youth in the campaigns of his father’s reign. Quickly assessing the crowd, Honorius saw the blatant scowls of the malcontents. He realized this was the moment; Constantius’s submission was pivotal.

  Honorius drew himself up, crying out, “Flavius Constantius, how do you declare?”

  The general turned, but wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  There it was — the unmistakable precursor, the mark of shame, Constantius’s defeat and his gain.

  “Abyssus abyssum invocat,” Honorius sneered. Hell calls to hell. Yet you must know this hell is preferable, he thought, for if you defy me, you bring eternal damnation upon yourself.

  Feigning impatience, Honorius tapped his foot.

  Constantius swallowed, clearing his throat, choking on his words, “He is … guilty.”

  Oho, sweet victory!

  Honorius called on every senator, every general, and to a man, the rest condemned Stilicho. The only blemish on the proceedings, besides Attalus’s defiance, was the absence of Magnus, under house arrest since his failure to capture the slave, Gigiperrin. How Honorius would have loved to force Magnus’s hand in this. Would he have been like Constantius and the others, siding with his emperor to preserve his standing at court? Or would he have defended his old friend and comrade-in-arms, General Stilicho, and so endanger his own existence? Oh, it would have been such an interesting moment.

  Honorius faced the condemned man. “Flavius Stilicho the Vandal, you have been found guilty of traitorous actions by your peers, and the sentence for that is death.” As Thermantia and little Eucherius wailed as one, Honorius continued, “and we decree the deed shall be done by your friend. Heraclian shall strike off your head tomorrow at dawn.”

  Very pleased with the drama of the moment, Honorius walked past Stilicho’s family, gloating. Serena glowered at him while her remaining children wept, making him reckless with glee.