Love, Eternally

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 she 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.”

God help him, she was right, and he hated her for it, hated himself. One path was open to him, just one path. Stilicho closed his eyes, not wanting to see the look of triumph on Serena’s face. Honorius would name one of his damned chickens to the purple, given half a chance. There was nothing for it. Honorius must be persuaded to wed his little Thermantia. So young. Would she be able to conceive? For the sake of the Empire, she had to.

She must.

• • •

Looking out upon the throng of guests, Honorius pondered the past week. It had been full of surprises, the greatest being when Stilicho approached him with a startling offer — Thermantia’s hand in marriage. Oh, how the old general had bowed and scraped, and said he would be most honored if the emperor would consider the joining of their two houses once more. Exulting in the manifold benefits the union would offer, Honorius had immediately agreed. Thermantia was even more beautiful than her sister Maria had been. Fair and slim, she had heavily lashed green eyes and the winsome smile of those still utterly naive.

Oho! Honorius’s heart twisted as he considered the real source of this delicious offer: Serena. Her penchant for scheming and self-promotion was as much a part of her nature as her formidable conceit. She was obsessed with the notion of being grandmother to the next emperor. Honorius envisioned her gowned in imperial finery, the royal babe in her arms, a gloat of triumph on her painted face.

He sneered. It would never happen. Serena had caused him much trouble, not only in his personal life, but also in matters of state. Fervently anti-pagan, she’d personally desecrated the Temple of Rhea and ordered the torching of the Sibylline Books, the pagan works which some thought predicted General Stilicho would not defeat the Visigoths. During the uproar that followed, when pagans were rioting in the streets, Honorius’s troops had been hard-pressed to restore order. Stilicho prevailed on him not to punish Serena, publicly taking the entire blame for his wife’s actions. The woman was a bitch without shame, and Stilicho had no balls when it came to controlling his wife, or giving in to her every desire.

Serena would pay; the entire family would pay. How deliciously the means to this end had fallen so unexpectedly into Honorius’s lap. Ah, dear Thermantia, if only you knew! The marriage contract was agreed to with a snap of his fingers. The wedding would be a sumptuous affair, despite its hasty arrangement.

• • •

Smiling with contentment, Honorius grabbed hold of the arms of his throne and abruptly rose, taking the small, delicately boned hand of his new wife. The crowd of revelers parted before them as he led his bride off the dais and down the long corridor toward the royal apartments. A gaggle of courtiers, including Stilicho and Serena, followed in their wake.

Glancing at his bride, Honorius smiled, and she bashfully looked away. She is so young, so deliciously nubile. It would be a sweetness beyond words to pluck her still-ripening fruit.

Guards opened the doors to Honorius’s outer chamber, and he turned to the crowd. “No need to follow.” He chuckled and winked at Stilicho, who wore his usual gloomy face, then at Serena, whose eyes gleamed with … what? Sentiment?

No, pure avarice, of course.

Honorius fought laughter. “Father, Mother, we shall treat your second daughter with all the respect we showed your first.” He looked at his guards. “Stay here, men. We are safe enough within the bedchamber. Stay here and keep vigil,” he clapped one of the guards on the shoulder, “for we would not have you getting any closer than the outer doors and listening in on us. Surely we shall raise a ruckus, and such things are not for your ears.”

There were murmurs of shock and disapproval among the throng. Thermantia blushed so deeply Honorius thought she might swoon, so he quickly made a great show of ushering her inside.

As the doors closed on angry faces, Honorius guided his bride through the vestibule, with its statues and frescoes of hunting scenes. He caught the girl eyeing a rare bronze of a nude Greek charioteer. He snorted, knowing full well the statue’s flaccid penis would soon seem minuscule in comparison with …

He stifled a grin. “Come, dearest love,” he said as he bade her enter his bedchamber, where the late afternoon sun still shone brightly, illuminating the interior.

Beside him, Thermantia gasped and recoiled slightly, but he took a firm grip on her elbow, and she had no choice but to take in the décor. Across the walls there were frescoes depicting men on women, women on men, women on women, even a few animals here and there, all in the throws of bawdy, explicit sex games, all the males amply endowed, unlike the puny Greek.

Honorius smiled at her horror, anticipating her reaction to his next surprise. A giggle, followed by movement beneath the bedcovers, drew her attention away from the frescoes, and he held his breath.

“Your Majesties.” A smiling blonde popped her head out from under the covers, then a brunette followed suit, throwing back the sheets and exposing their nude bodies. “Hurry and join us. We’ve been waiting so long.”

“Dear Lord!” Thermantia tried to twist from his grasp, to no avail.

Honorius’s pent-up breath exploded in laughter. He dragged Thermantia to a chair by the bed, then forced her to sit. “Do not move,” he ordered while he stripped.

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.

Honorius sipped and nodded. “It is sublime, is it not?” He gulped down the rest and burped.

“Brother, remember your manners,” Placidia teased. “You sound like those ghastly ambassadors from Syria Palaestina.”

He laughed. “And now, dearest sister, let us return to the reason for our little celebration. Today, we have but one wish, Placidia — to make you happy. You are finally of marriageable age, and, we dare say, in need of a husband.”

She felt herself blush.

“Hmmm, we have been thinking … ” His expression grew melancholy. “We consider you our closest kin, even closer than Arcadius was, for we were separated from him so long ago. As such, dearest sister, we would always keep you near, and we intend to do just that.”

She was instantly aware of the significance of what he had said — he was being quite personal with her, very intimate in tone. But he’d also just eliminated several potential husbands, the sons and nephews of Christian foreigners. What was his aim?

He rose, walked to the table, and poured himself another glass of wine. Upon rejoining her, he sat on the edge of her couch and looked into her eyes. “Father honored you greatly, Placidia, when he raised your status beyond that of mere princess of Rome. As Nobilissima Puella, you are almost our equal in power and wealth — almost,” he winked, “and long have we pondered how we could surpass — ”

“Honorius,” she cut in, “please forgive my rudeness, but who shall be my husband? Please, the suspense — ”

“Is maddening? Hmmm, you are so very different from Pulcheria, aren’t you, dearest sister?”

Placidia frowned in puzzlement. “How? What has she to do with this?”

“Surely you’ve heard she declared perpetual virginity for herself, in order to rule as regent,” he glanced slyly at Placidia, “and so she could never be forced into a marriage of state.”

“No,” Placidia’s voice was low, “I had not heard. Still, what has her decision to do with me?”

“Ah, but you are eager for a husband, a virile man, one to warm your bed, your body, aren’t you, dear sister?”

She suddenly felt hot, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

Honorius chuckled. “And what, pray tell, what clue should we first reveal, as to the identity of the one who will have the honors?”

“Brother!”

He laughed, then leaned toward her conspiratorially. “We have found a way to pay tribute to you, Most Noble Girl, by giving you something even Father could not. Your future husband is a military genius, a great commander of men.”

Military genius? Placidia searched her memory, trying to recall the remaining names on her list. But there were no soldiers … unless … Magnus had fought many battles against the barbarians. Yet, she had not put his name down, for at thirty-two he was too old for her. And besides, her brother would never call him great again, not after his capture by Alaric.

Smiling, Honorius sipped his wine. Placidia suddenly wondered if her reasoning could be wrong.

“Brother, I am sincerely perplexed by your reference to a military man.” She hesitated. “You did not by any chance mean Magnus, did you?”

“Bah!” Honorius looked as if he’d swallowed poison. “The witch’s phallus? We think not.”

Blushing again, Placidia ignored his vulgarity and kept her voice low. “Magnus is not the kind of man to consort with his enemies, certainly not a witch.”

Honorius looked bored. “Enough talk of Magnus. We swear it gives us a bellyache.”

“But, if not Magnus, then who?”

His lips twisted into a little smile. “Ah, patience has never been one of your strong suits, has it? Well, we have concluded that our cousin and mother-in-law, Serena, has given us the best suggestion, and in spite of our loathing of her, we have approved of her reasoning, and, therefore, her choice is ours as well.”

Placidia froze at his words. Serena had raised them both, but had never shown any interest in them beyond what they could do for her. A surge of foreboding swept through her, and sweat sprang onto her brow. What had they done? Whom had they chosen?

“The lucky fellow,” Honorius continued, “has himself reassured us he has harbored tender feelings for you for some time and shall strive to be a good husband to you. You are young and strong, and he is anxious for sons. Flavius Constantius — ”

“Constantius?” She drew back in horror. “Oh, Honorius, how could you? He is so ugly — and old. When he looks at me with those bulging eyes … God save me! How could you listen to Serena’s advice? He must be at least fifty. I cannot — I will not marry him!”

His mouth dropped open. “What did you say?”

She swallowed. “Honorius, he is repulsive, a mockery of my wishes and my status. If you insist upon this folly, then I will do as Pulcheria and remain a virgin.”

He lunged, hurling his wine straight into her face. She was stunned, as much from the cruelty of the act, as from the fearsome stinging in her eyes, the blinding insult to her dignity.

Suddenly, her scalp was blazing with pain as he grabbed her hair and wrenched her off the couch. This was not her brother. No, no, this was a stranger, a mad man! The transformation was startling, overwhelming — and the pain, the pain! She heard herself shrieking.

He dragged her across the room, roaring, incoherent, until he stopped before the doorway. “By Christ’s wounds, you will marry him,” he seethed. “No one disobeys our royal commands. No one!”

He flung her down, her jaw whacking against the floor, teeth clattering.

“Guards!” he yelled.

Placidia was barely aware as brutal hands grabbed and lifted her. She was limp, so far gone she could hardly whimper, let alone struggle against them.

“Henceforth, dear little sister,” Honorius’s hot breath filled her ear, “you shall be confined to your villa under heavy guard. You shall not leave until you acquiesce and marry Constantius.” He moved off, ordering his men, “Remove her from our sight!”

She had never cursed anyone before, never. But now, she was like a creature caught in a snare, a prisoner of her humiliation and despair, and she lashed out.

“Damn you, Honorius, damn you to hell!”

• • •

“In the name of Jupiter, what happened to her?”

Placidia could hear the anger in the man’s voice. But who … who was speaking?

She opened her eyes. Her jaw ached, and she moaned. Magnus’s face hovered above her.

She drifted off, whether for moments or hours, she could not say. When she reawakened he was still there, sitting by her bed, holding her hand. Elpidia stood nearby, her lips tight, her eyes burning with hatred.

For whom? Whom does Elpidia hate?

“Placidia,” Magnus said, “I cannot forgive your brother for what he did to you.”

With her tremulous hand, she gingerly explored her jaw. “What … do … I … look … like?” she implored.

“You are bruised and swollen, my sweet child,” Elpidia said, “but you shall heal. Your physician has assured us there are no broken bones. And you still have all of your teeth.”

Magnus’s eyes sparked in anger, but then he forced a more kindly expression. “I must go now, dearest Placidia, but I will visit you again soon, and we shall talk at length.” He locked eyes with Elpidia and then returned his gaze to Placidia. “I am on your side, my dear. I am your friend. Remember that. Always.”

He kissed her brow and left, Elpidia following behind. The door closed, and Placidia was alone.

Honorius. Her wretched brother. She stared at the ceiling, her face throbbing, remembering his sneer as she was being hauled away.

Everything had changed. You hurt me, Honorius. You betrayed me. You shamed me and ruined my future. Never will I forget what you have done.