Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4
Love and Warfare Series book 4
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Without Love, a novel by Anne Garboczi Evans
Love and Warfare Series Book 4
Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without express written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed or broadcasted critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, places, locales or to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
PUBLISHED BY: Cavé Books™, an imprint of Olivia Kimbrell Press™*, P.O. Box 470, Fort Knox, KY 40121-0470. The Olivia Kimbrell Press™ colophon and open book logo are trademarks of Olivia Kimbrell Press™.
*Olivia Kimbrell Press™ is a publisher offering true to life, meaningful fiction from a Christian worldview intended to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Scripture quotations courtesy of the King James Version of the Holy Bible.
Cover design by iCreate Designs.
Interior Graphics by Amanda Gail Smith (amandagailstudio.com).
Library Cataloging Data
Names: Evans, Anne Garboczi (Evans Anne Garboczi) 1987-
Title: Without Love; Love and Warfare series book 4 / Anne Garboczi Evans
422 p. 6 in. × 9 in. (15.24 cm × 22.86 cm)
Description: Cavé™ digital eBook edition | Cavé™ Trade paperback edition | Kentucky: Cavé™, 2017.
Summary: A promised plebeian blacksmith’s daughter in 105 AD Roman Britain falls in love with a Roman nobleman.
Identifiers: ISBN-13: 978-1-68190-098-8 (trade) | 978-1-68190-097-1 (POD) | 978-1-68190-096-4 (ebk.)
1. Historical Romance 2. Ancient Roman Empire 3. 1st Century Roman Life 4. Love Story Family Saga 5. Suspense Thriller Mystery 6. Early Christian Church 7. Greek Olympic Games
PS3558.GE6132 F537 2017
[Fic.] 813.6 (DDC 23)
Dedication
To my husband and eldest son. Watching your father-son dynamic always brings a smile to my face.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Without Love Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
EPILOGUE
Translation Key
Paterculi Family Tree
Discussion Questions
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Cavé
More Books by Anne Garboczi Evans
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Province of Moesia, the Roman Empire, the Ides of Februarius, 112 A.D.
“Horus!” Libya gasped. Flour streaked the boy, turning his black hair gray and dusting his worn-out boots. The dusty powder covered the dirt floor of the hut and spread out to the inn beyond. “I told you to be good.”
Her son wrinkled his nose. “I love to be bad.”
The last rays of sunlight penetrated cracks in the rough boards. Seizing a cloth, Libya brushed at the floury evidence with frantic speed. “You can’t act like this. If the master finds out —”
The door shoved open. The master looked right at her son. A whip lay in his hand. The sleek leather ran between his thick fingers. “You ruined a week’s worth of flour, boy.”
Libya grabbed Horus and pressed back against the rough wall. “It was an accident, Master. He won’t do it again. You beat him yesterday.”
The master grasped Horus. He circled his fingers around Horus’ little arm. Her son had only seen five summers, and that whip looked like it could strip the skin off a legionary.
A stiff fall breeze snuck between the boards of this lean-to. She shivered as the wind blew apart the strands of her skirt, showcasing her almond-colored legs, just like when she danced each evening in front of the Mithras’ Goblet tavern guests.
She stroked her fingers against Horus’ cold ones. “Beat me instead, Master.”
“Mar this back?” The master ran his hand across her exposed skin where her scanty bodice ended long before meeting the waist of her skirt. The master shoved her. “Get in the tavern and earn me money dancing.”
Libya’s throat tightened. “I won’t dance if you beat him.”
Her son struggled against the master’s grip, flour still covering his little body. She’d told Horus a thousand times to behave.
“You’ll dance.” Releasing Horus, the master stalked toward her.
“No, I won’t. You can’t make me.” She spread her stance, and the strands of her skirt flapped around her exposed thighs.
The master flung her through the door, but he dropped the whip. “I’ll sell your boy off one of these days. Let that teach you a lesson.”
No, he couldn’t! Terror shot through her veins. She forced her breathing to calm. The master wouldn’t do that. He’d paid three times as much for her as for any other slave at his inn, and he tolerated more insolence than any of her previous masters had.
With one last look toward her son, who burrowed himself beneath a blanket on the dirty floor, Libya walked through the doorway. As she straightened the flimsy folds of her dancing skirt, the smell of warmed cheese and pottage set her stomach to rumbling.
Slamming the door behind Horus, the master glared at her. Master or no, he needed her to turn a profit at this miserable little tavern far off the main roads.
A dirt floor filled with tables stretched beyond the kitchen. The patched clothes of wanderers subsided into the dimness while the armor of a few stray legionaries caught the firelight.
White patrician linen glimmered by the inn door. Libya’s breath caught. Every other month or so, a group of a dozen patricians would come to the inn, rich men, mostly young, with the accent of the Roman elite. They would sit huddled in thick cloaks and speak in low whispers. They never stayed the night, just ate their food, talked, and left on expensive horses the likes of which this town never saw. Horus’ father had been one of them.
Libya scanned the men, like every time they’d come these last years. No sign of the face she looked for.
Wait, a dark cloak hung over one man’s face. The set of his shoulders looked like Horus’ father. She ran forward.
The man turned. A stranger looked back at her. Her shoulders slumped. Once again, Horus’ father hadn’t come.
She fingered the spot on her throat where the leather pouch he gave her hung
except when she danced. Someday she’d find him and beg him to free Horus.
The sound of Mara’s flute rose, the discordant notes further complicated by her complete lack of rhythm.
“Bring out the dancing girl. We want to see the dancing girl,” shouted the men on the other side of the room.
The master shoved his face into hers. “Start dancing.” His breath smelled of ale. He only drank when business fared poorly. That was all the more reason he should appreciate the money she brought in, not threaten to harm Horus.
“I can’t dance on an empty stomach.” Libya grabbed a piece of warmed cheese. Mara might play like a sick rooster, but she cooked excellent food.
“I said now, girl.” The master dug thick fingers into her shoulder.
“I’ll go when I finish eating.” In all too few moments, she’d have to go out on that floor and endure the looks and touch of so many, many men.
“I’m the master here.”
“You can’t make me dance, though, now can you?” She tossed back her black hair, which hung loose to her waist, caressing dark skin and brushing against the slender curves that brought more money to this tavern than all of Mara’s stews, breads, and flute playing combined. Libya reached for a bowl of pottage.
The master grabbed the bowl and flung it against the floor. The clay cracked, flinging pottage across the brick oven. “You’ll dance tonight, and you’ll dance well, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”
How? No master had touched her with a whip since she left a girl’s figure behind and her most marketable asset had become her body.
What if the master focused his revenge on Horus? A blade of fear sliced through her.
Dropping her gaze, Libya hurried to the empty space between tables. She forced her feet to take up the tune, and Mara’s beat steadied in time.
Working as a dancing girl made her infamia, but better that than prostitution like the previous master had forced her into. At least she liked this part of the dance when it was just her and the music on the open floor. Her feet found new patterns every night, and her body fit into them like she’d been made for the music.
Men didn’t throw their copper coins at her feet for this kind of dancing, and if she didn’t earn the master good money, his tolerance for her and Horus’ misdeeds would swiftly dissipate.
Eyes bore into her as she danced her way between tables. The gyrations she made grew more pronounced, and, instead of the supple moves of the former dance, she brought out those that drew attention to what her sparse dancing costume already exposed.
One man caught at her. He smelled like too much ale. Libya suppressed a shiver as she held out her hand. “A coin for the dance?”
“Show me what you can do girl, then maybe.” He cupped her insufficient bodice as he tugged her onto his legs.
Waves of disgust rolled over her, but the master truly would beat Horus tonight if she didn’t make him a profit.
“Let the dancing girl go. We want to see her dance,” a group of soldiers shouted from the next table.
Breath whooshed from Libya’s lungs as the man released her and she slid back into the dance. She danced from one table to another, collecting coins.
Then only the patricians’ table stood ahead. These men had enough wealth to throw more than copper if she played the dance right. Their hushed conversations had ended, and now they threw back cloaks and began to down wine and gamble. Good.
She surveyed her audience. She’d seen most of these patricians before. To earn the most coins, one had to correctly guess what each man liked. Bile rose in her throat.
All the patricians focused on her except one pair of eyes. The tall man she’d mistaken for Horus’ father looked down instead. He didn’t gamble either. Rather, he scribbled on a wax tablet and tried to engage the burly man across from him in conversation.
The burly man stood and walked to the master. He held up dice, and the master sat down with him for a game of chance — never a good thing.
The master gambled enough already, but when he drank, the stakes went up and more often than not he lost. That’s how it had all started with Horus’ father. A game of chance with her master losing a month-long bet of her person, but it had become the best month of her life.
Libya danced around the patricians’ table. Silver mixed with copper as these coins clanked around her feet. She forced a smile as men touched her and she brushed up against them, weaving in and out with the dance.
Still, the man in the cloak didn’t look at her. She danced closer to him. No reaction.
As the flute music ended, Libya stood over his chair, sweat glistening now on her scarcely covered bosom, her bare legs revealed by the slits in the dancing skirt. She held out her hand. “A coin, sir?”
Finally, his gaze rose from the wax tablet and brushed speedily up her dancing outfit to look into her face.
She sucked in a breath. That look, she’d never seen it in a customer before. It wasn’t disinterest, that she’d seen, though rarely. No, his gaze held disdain. Her voice faltered, but the master looked at her now, so she kept her hands extended. “A coin, sir?”
The man clashed his gaze against hers. “If you’ll use it for buying yourself decent clothing.”
She stiffened. If she had the choice, she’d veil herself like a Persian woman and never touch a man again. Besides, when had men ever objected to watching a dancing girl? Still, this man’s gaze met hers, condemnation in his brown eyes. A hot feeling rose across her skin.
The master raised his slurred voice as he slapped another piece on the gambling board. “How much do you have, girl? Bring it here.”
Libya bent to collect the coins then hastened toward the master. She held out the pile, a good sum. The patricians had proved generous.
The master slapped it from her hands. “I don’t need that pittance. I need real money.” His red eyes glazed over with strong drink.
She’d rarely seen him like this, and those occasions were the only times she feared him. Her voice trembled. “It’s more than I make most nights.”
He brought his fist down against the table, rattling the boards. “I lost three thousand denarii at the gambling table.”
She froze. A ringing noise started in her ears. The inn didn’t make that much in a good year. “Three thousand?”
“Yes.” The master slammed the game board shut.
The master could lose the inn. How would he pay to feed her and Horus if he lost his business? Would they go to the slave auction? A shiver passed through her. What if a new master bought her and not Horus?
The master raised another goblet of wine to his lips.
She dashed it from him. “How could you act so imbecilic! Those patricians can lose three thousand denarii. You can’t.”
The master lunged to his feet and for the first time in years she wished to cower in front of him. “I’ve had enough of your lip.” He balled his fists as if he’d punch her in the face.
That was a bad idea since she needed her face for dancing revenues.
The master grabbed her. “I’ll beat you. I’ll beat you ‘til you cry for death.”
A shiver passed through her. “Then I’d be entirely useless to you.” Hopefully, the master still possessed enough reason to realize he’d only hurt himself by scarring her with a whip.
The burly patrician shoved his chair back. “I’ll take the woman’s child. A boy, five years of age?”
The blood drained from Libya’s cheeks. How did this patrician even know about Horus? She stared at the master. Surely, he wouldn’t agree.
“No. I need her for the inn.” The master shoved her to the other side of the table.
Libya dared to take a breath.
The burly man kicked the table out of the way. “I don’t want the dancing girl, just the boy.”
A smile slowly spread across the master’s drink-sodden face. “Then certainly.”
“No!” Her voice came out in a scream.
The master shrugged. “I to
ld you I’d do it someday.”
Fear pounded in her chest with every heartbeat. She fell to her knees in front of the burly patrician. “Buy me too. Those three thousand denarii will cover my master’s price.”
He shook his head.
She couldn’t lose her son. Her gaze darted up. No leniency in her master’s face, just a smug smile.
She swung her gaze to the table of patricians. Unlike the other men in this room, patricians could pay a sum like three thousand denarii. Though three thousand denarii was far above the price any slave, even a beautiful dancing girl, should bring.
The patricians liked her. They saw her every month, talked with her, jested with her. Perhaps the young one with the light hair and the smile would pay the debt to buy her. He’d given her a silk scarf once, a nice one with a beautiful design. She’d grown angry when the master had taken it to sell at market.
Leaping up, she ran, her bare feet slapping the dusty floor. She touched the patricians’ table. Her heart thudded to her stomach.
What did she expect from this? Years ago, she learned better than to ask any man for help. If only Horus’ father sat at this table tonight. He wouldn’t let that burly man take her son away.
Behind her, the burly man grunted. “Bring the boy’s slave papers, and I’ll take him.”
She extended her hands over the patricians’ table. Her arms trembled. “Please, sirs. Buy my son and me. Don’t let that man separate us.”
Surprise crossed the men’s face as their conversation stilled. She caught the young patrician’s blue-eyed gaze. He smiled at her.
“Will you, sir?” She leaned toward him.
He reached out and ran his finger down a strand of her hair that fell into his lap. He touched her hip, caressing the curve. He’d buy her body too if he took her for his slave, but she could endure it for the sake of keeping Horus.
“Love to, dancing girl, but I’d no more cross Gnaeus than try to weather a Mediterranean storm in a coracle.” Something deep and dark shone in the young patrician’s eye as he said the name.
Gnaeus, this man that even the patricians feared, wanted her son? A shiver ran through her.