Love, Eternally

chapter 3




Hours passed while Gigi paced her cell. Two yards wide by three long. Filth, stench. Stone floor, stone walls, straw mat and a thin blanket, everything crawling with insects. Finally exhausted, she sat in a corner away from the bed, sleep overtaking her.

Waking in the dark, Gigi had to go, but where? She knew, of course, but hesitated before gathering up her dress and crouching over a bucket near the door. Then, retreating again to the far corner, she wondered what had brought her to this.

Despite her creativity and her quest for the ethereal in her music, her lawyer parents had raised her to weigh all the evidence and think logically. So, Gigi ticked off a mental list of the evidence. She’d played the “Minute Waltz” duet with the unknown flutist, then her vision blurred and her ears felt blocked and roared with noise, all at the same time. Next, she’d felt like she was falling, and then there was the handsome man — Magnus — staring at her. The baptistery was filled with “Romans,” all the birthday guests were gone. The frescoes and mosaics were missing, the walls and ceiling bare. Then, she’d been beaten and hauled to this disgusting jail. To top it off, everyone spoke Latin, and neither Jack nor the mayor was anywhere in sight.

What conclusion? Her mind hovered on the idea of sudden insanity, but veered back to the only arguable solution: She was being Punk’d. It was a new TV season, and they were getting bolder, more elaborate in their stunts. That’s why it all seemed so peculiar, so much more violent. What else could explain it? It had to be a miserable hoax, and she was even more determined to sue every last one of them.

But … wasn’t the sun shining when they forced me into this hellhole? She rubbed the nasty bump on her forehead, her face still sore where the soldiers had landed their punches. Nothing made sense. Nothing. When she was playing for the mayor’s wife, it was evening. Then — wham — it was daytime? And what about the door of the baptistery? She may have been out of her skull with pain and terror, but she knew something was different because they dragged her down some stairs and then outside, through the old door, the ancient one that had been half-buried, but which opened for them. What the … ? Frustrated and scared, she spun and smacked the wall with her palm. What was going on?

She froze. Time travel? No, that was absurd!

Heavy footsteps in the corridor interrupted her thoughts and torchlight filtered through the bars. She leapt up when a key turned in the lock, and the door creaked open. The two brutes who’d manhandled her earlier stood there, motioning her forward.

She glared as they marched her outdoors, one on either side. Shading her eyes against the sun, she was led through some alleys, then down an avenue lined with plane trees to a broad plaza and into a terraced garden of fruit trees, laden with blooms. Row upon row of laurels trimmed into shapes of animals and birds richly scented the air.

She walked on toward gleaming marble steps, which rose to a large veranda, backed by a colonnade of arches painted red, blue, and yellow — the façade of an enormous building. Gigi and the soldiers moved up the stairs onto the veranda, where colorful marble statues seemed to follow her with their painted eyes. She glanced at her dress, which was torn and filthy, and she was sure she neither looked nor smelled any better. Another group of soldiers announced her arrival.

Finally, this was it, she tried to convince herself. Pretty soon, they’d tell her it was all a big joke. Big ha ha!

She entered the spacious interior. At any other time, she would have admired the beautiful room, with its gray-and-white marble floor and rose-colored walls, but now she felt a desperate need to find where the camera crews were hidden. Dozens of men stood waiting, dressed more formally than the people she’d seen at the baptistery, wearing white tunics bordered in gold, green, or purple. No one spoke, but she could hear chirping and clucking and looked around, expecting to see chickens again.

Glancing over the crowd, Gigi spotted Magnus — he was hard to miss — resplendent in a crimson cape clasped at the shoulder with a golden brooch. She felt as stunned seeing him now as she had that first time in the baptistery. His features were set in a mask, yet his blue eyes were filled with concern, his gaze intense and for her alone.

Gigi didn’t believe this was a result of her stressed-out imagination. He cared about her. She could read it in his eyes.

But her anxiety returned when she looked at Bug-eye, who wore a polished metal breastplate and short leather skirt, his legs crisscrossed by thongs coming up from his boots. Scowling, he glared back at her with a fierce, scornful air, his chin thrust out, his beefy hand gripping the short sword on his belt.

The soldiers pushed her forward, and Gigi found herself standing before the creep from the previous night. He lounged on an ornate throne, with a golden laurel wreath crown on his head. At his feet, pigeons and chickens pecked at the bits of grain he let fall from his fingers. Bird droppings were everywhere.

Furious, she saw her flute lying across his lap, her diamond on his finger. Sudden squawking erupted from behind the throne, and she could see ugly guinea fowl nervously darting around, their raucous screeches filling the room.

• • •

Magnus frowned as Honorius hushed his ridiculous birds and handed off the golden feed bowl to one of his servants. He noted the emperor’s contemptible joy as the golden-haired woman was led to him, then forced to her knees on the soiled carpet.

Honorius smiled at the woman. As he reached toward her, a fat brown hen raced forward and crouched, tail down, wings splayed. Honorius continued to smile as he turned his head sideways and considered the bird, which stared back at him with her right eye and clucked.

“Ah, Rome, dearest pet, do you think this lady will finally deign to speak to us? Will she tell us whence she came? We must learn her identity, mustn’t we?”

Listening to the emperor coo to his bird, Magnus averted his gaze. Half-wit! He watched the woman as she knelt there, mute, shaking, yet boldly staring down Honorius. He recalled the strange name she gave: Gigiperrin.

When she glanced at him, Magnus saw the light catch her green eyes, making them flash. Ah, what a woman! Even Venus cannot have such eyes. His mind whirled. Venus had risen full-grown from the ocean’s foam. This woman had appeared likewise, born of the misty air. He recalled his first impression of her. Could she actually be a goddess?

He noticed the stain of tears on her cheeks, the tremor in her hands. Now she seemed fragile, frightened — and so very human.

He sensed he was being watched and turned to see the simpering Honorius staring at him.

Would that your father had not died young, Magnus thought. Would that Theodosius sat there instead of you.

The old emperor had been a proselytizing Christian, yet he had given Magnus leave to follow his own path, even bestowed upon him a ring bearing a pagan image. Theodosius had respected his beliefs.

Despite the forced calm of his expression, Magnus’s thoughts railed, You threaten this woman now, Honorius, because she frightens you, because she is different. You strut and bluster, but you are utterly without courage.

• • •

Gigi needed to get a grip, and figure out once and for all what was happening.

She watched as Toga Guy smiled and waved her flute, her ring sparkling, then said something that sounded pleasant, even tender — but she was sure, by now, he was altogether insane. Okay, this had gone on long enough.

Her anger defeated all common sense. She pointed at him. “Give me back my stuff! I’m sure you think playing this mind game is fascinating, but — ”

Cries of outrage erupted from the crowd, stopping Gigi short. Scowling, the creep crossed his legs and quickly folded his tunic over his lap.

“Meretrix!” shouted Bug-eye, stepping forward and pressing his blade against her throat.

The metal felt icy cold, and Gigi froze in terror.

“Constantius, desino!”

Heart thumping, she recognized Magnus’s voice as Bug-eye withdrew his weapon.

Stepping in front of her, Magnus went down on one knee and said, “Augustus Maximus, Imperator Honorius, clementia.”

A memory flashed through Gigi’s mind. Honorius? She’d heard that name somewhere.

Toga Guy’s eyes blazed, but then he waved a dismissive hand and let loose a torrent of Latin.

What had he said? She looked to Magnus and saw the grim line of his mouth, then felt the guards’ rough hands on her bruised arms again. As she was yanked up and hauled away, she glanced back and shouted, “What are you doing to me? Where are you taking me? Stop!”

Struggling against her captors, Gigi was hustled through the courtyard and gardens to a vast brick building. Inside she saw dozens of emaciated women standing shoulder-to-shoulder along two long tables, chopping at bits of bloody flesh. Beyond them were countless other work stations, where women bent over their tasks. The room pulsed with the heat of ovens, open fires, and overworked bodies. Everyone was dressed in rags and wore crude metal collars, so tight the skin beneath was chafed raw, the open sores oozing, looking every bit as disgusting as the meat on the table.

Oh God, where am I?

Several of the younger women looked up, and Gigi sensed their pity, but the soldiers pulled her along, past barrels filled with dark water, and — something alive, roiling, writhing in the murky liquid.

Shuddering, she was forced to her knees before a stout woman with a big, wooden spoon.

One of the soldiers grumbled an order, then he and his comrade left. The woman placed her hands on her hips and considered Gigi, sizing her up with a cunning smile.

Gigi felt a rush of anger, but this time she held her tongue. No longer searching for hidden cameras, she assessed her surroundings, looking for any way to escape.

The woman touched the spoon to Gigi’s chest, then under her chin, lifting it, and looking straight into her eyes. She let fly a jumble of words.

“I don’t understand you,” Gigi said flatly.

The woman yelled back. The rest was a pain-filled blur as the spoon connected with Gigi’s skull, as someone yanked her hair and others pulled at her gown. Kicking, screaming, she fought back, but was quickly overwhelmed and stripped down to her underwear.

Stunned, she curled up on the floor.

“Cave, cave.” Someone hovered above her, clucking her tongue. Gigi protectively grasped her grandfather’s ring, still around her neck, and focused on a wrinkled face. The old woman eyed her keepsake with curiosity, but didn’t make any comment. She took Gigi’s arm and helped her up, then gave her a lump of scratchy cloth.

The fabric was coarse burlap, a dishrag gray. Gigi unfolded it. It was a shift, just like the rags everyone else wore. Trembling, she slipped it over her head and let it fall. It barely passed her knees. Now the woman gave her a length of rope, indicating she must tie it around her waist.

In disbelief, Gigi looked down at herself, then at the woman who’d given her the shift. “I, I look like a slave.” Saying the words redoubled her fear and she stared at the woman’s hideous collar. No, not me!

The old woman nodded as if she understood. “Slav,” she said as Spoon Lady pointed toward the gross things thrashing about in the barrels.

It dawned on Gigi she was supposed to go over there. To do what?

She took a step backward. “I can’t.”

Spoon Lady plunged her arm into a barrel and pulled out a large, gray, nasty eel.

Gigi realized nothing mattered now, nothing, except finding a way out of this nightmare.

• • •

After Gigiperrin had been taken away, Magnus spent most of the day at the baths, although without any thought of pleasure or relaxation. On the contrary, it was demanded that all courtiers now keep to a strict protocol when it came to grooming. Honorius had decreed they must stay immaculate, to the point of having thrice weekly sessions to remove all body hair. In the past, Magnus had looked forward to luxuriating in the baths, but no longer. The only saving grace now was the excellent wine, which he drank to excess as the slaves plucked and shaved him.

He willed his thoughts away from the moment, his mind returning, as it had over and over that day, to Gigiperrin. He needed to help her, but how? The palace kitchens would keep her away from the emperor’s immediate attention, but Magnus knew it was only a matter of time before Honorius was reminded of her, and she would be further abused. He closed his eyes and bunched his fists, silently imploring the gods to grace him with a solution, some way to free her.

“Senator, please hold still.”

Blazing pain shot through Magnus’s groin and his eyes flew open. By Jupiter’s cock!

“Dominus,” the man stood back and bowed from the waist, “forgive my poor skills.”

“Steady your hand, man. A less charitable client would have had you crucified for such rough treatment,” Magnus grunted as the depilatory slave nervously resumed his plucking.

Another slave entered the room with a flask of red wine, and Magnus motioned him over. He tasted it, appreciating its dusky, mellow richness, then downed the cup, then another, his thoughts growing sour, despite the fine wine. He knew the Visigoths were to blame for Honorius’s damnable obsession with hair; each time the emperor met with their envoys, he was filled with revulsion at their full beards and shaggy locks. Two meetings had occurred in the past several years, each resulting in a new round of asinine imperial demands: the first being the requirement of hairless limbs, bare chests, and armpits; the second, the pubes. And although Honorius had not insisted anyone display actual proof of this final travesty, Magnus knew the slaves sent weekly reports on his courtiers, and woe to him who did not submit.

Despite his bizarre obsession, Honorius was not completely blind to the necessities of state, realizing he could not insist on imposing his hair fetish in two quarters. His palatini guards and his two most talented barbarian advisors, General Stilicho and Namatianus, were given leave to retain their body hair.

Magnus rolled his eyes as the slave dusted him with the final touch, an expensive powder made with cassia, horn of rhino, and myrrh, this last added not only for its scent, but to curb the interminable itch. He stood, downed the final drops of wine, then flipped the man some coin. There. Done. Damn Honorius to Hades! His skin was already prickling as he dressed and headed back to the palace.

When he arrived, the throne room was less crowded than usual, and he cursed under his breath. He much preferred larger crowds, for he was less likely to draw Honorius’s attention. The emperor pranced about and gossiped with his favorite courtiers, doting on every syllable of rich praise they offered. More people entered, and finally the room began to fill, until, at long last, Honorius deigned to sit on his throne.

The emperor held up his hand and the crowd grew silent. Magnus heard someone clear his throat in a bid for attention, but Honorius waved him off and called out, “Slave, where is our Rome?”

A servant hurried forward with a fat, brown hen, setting it before Honorius’s feet.

“Ah, our baby,” the emperor clucked his tongue as he fed the bird bits of apple. “Dearest Rome, such beauty, you must stay close and help us through this tedious business.”

The man cleared his throat again, and the crowd shifted just enough for Magnus to see it was Stilicho.

“Business.” Honorius’s tone was flat with boredom. “Whatever is so important?”

The general came forward and went down on one knee, holding out Gigiperrin’s blue dress for inspection. Magnus’s guts twisted, and he hoped the bloodstains were only from her beating in the baptistery, and nothing more.

“Great Emperor Honorius,” Stilicho said, “I believe the woman is a high status barbarian, not only because of the silk, but because it is unusually and beautifully sewn, the stitches so regular and fine that even your royal seamstresses were filled with amazement. Look here, these round fasteners are made of mother of pearl — and of an ingenious design. They fit into small slits sewn on the opposite side, closing the seam. And there is a patch of fabric tucked inside with strange words — Vera Wang.”

“Wang?” Honorius screwed up his face. “It sounds absurd. A barbarous word, to be sure.”

General Constantius stepped forward, eyes protruding from his broad head. “We must address the woman’s wanton vulgarity. Your Majesty, I could barely stay my sword when she, when she mentioned — ”

Honorius raised his hand, cutting Constantius off.

As Magnus watched, a flush crept up the emperor’s neck. Magnus guessed it was not from embarrassment, but from pure anger. Was it justified? He recalled how Gigiperrin looked when she was dragged before Honorius. Her vulnerability and fear were apparent, and he speculated at her use of the offending word. There was another possibility; “fascinating” might not mean fascinum in her tongue. And yet, word of what she’d said was already circulating in the streets. Returning from the baths, he’d seen graffiti depicting Honorius with a huge, erect, horse-like fascinum, which he’d quickly ordered erased from several walls near the palace. In the coming days … well, Magnus knew it might be best to keep the emperor occupied here, so he did not travel about Ravenna, see the outrageous drawings and seek out Gigiperrin for more punishment.

“The woman is a beautiful enchantress, Constantius,” the emperor continued with a sly smile, “possibly a professional. We heard her playing wonderful music before she appeared at the door, and we are determined to hear more. Besides, there are many mysteries in need of answers. We would know where Horace went and if she had some part in his disappearance.” Honorius waved his hand. “And what of her golden flute and this marvelous ring? They are of a very fine and curious manufacture. Our imperial jewelers are unable to say how the gem was shaped with so many planes and angles. In fact, everything about her is quite unusual.” He glanced around, then honed in on Magnus. “You questioned her. What have you learned?”

Magnus wondered how much he should reveal. He walked forward, then hesitated, eyeing the bird droppings on the carpet. He bowed and was relieved when Honorius didn’t motion him to his knees. “Imperator Honorius, Serenissimus … the woman does not speak Latin. Therefore, I — ”

“Come, come,” Honorius flipped another chunk of apple toward his hen, “you speak Greek and several of the heathen tongues. Surely, you understood something she said?”

Give him a crumb, Magnus told himself, watching the bird peck. Anything to gain more time. “I believe I have learned her name.” He paused.

“And?”

“Gigiperrin, her name is Gigiperrin.”

“My God, how do you pronounce such,” Honorius laughed, “such tripe? That name is more barbarous to our ears than Wang.”

“Your Majesty?” Still on one knee, Stilicho shifted uncomfortably. “I would question her alone. You charged me with the investigation. Might I humbly remind you that I, too, know the old tongues of Gaul and the Burgund lands?”

Honorius stared for a moment, then said, “No, we think not. We shall leave that task to our friend here.” He nodded to Magnus and smiled.

Although Magnus kept his expression neutral, his heart exulted. “Great Emperor,” he said, “with your permission, I will visit her again after this meeting.”

“Please do. Find out how much she is enjoying her kitchen duties. Perhaps scullion work will convince her to play for us, eh? Just make sure you don’t use the opportunity to sample her charms.” He turned and peered at the others. “That applies to all of you. She is ours.”

Magnus nodded with the rest, even as he ground his teeth at the man’s foul insinuations.

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.