Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 5

  “I don’t have to listen to you.” He yanked against her grip, so strong now. As a baby, he’d snuggled to her chest, his dark eyes bright with intelligence even then.

  She grabbed his other arm. “I’m your mother.”

  “Take me back to the tavern, then I’ll listen. I hate it here.” Horus kicked the dirt.

  “I don’t have the power to take us back.”

  Horus tilted his dark head, angling his chin. He looked so much like Victor when he did that. “Then why should I listen to you?”

  “Horus.” She stabbed her finger at the garden bench. “Sit down and don’t move until you’re ready to apologize.”

  “Libya.” The cook’s sharp voice carried through the kitchen window. “Pots to scrub. Now.”

  Her son ran.

  Tears formed in Libya’s eyes as she walked to the kitchen. She’d tried with Horus, in what limited time she had at the tavern. For the last year, he’d only grown more like this.

  Six months ago, he and the old master’s son had both gotten caught stealing from the neighbors’ fruit trees, and the tavern keeper had only beaten her son, beaten him bloody too. Horus has started his violent outbursts after that.

  “I’m running a household, not a brothel. If you want to eat tonight, work faster.” The cook launched a stack of rancid pottery into her arms.

  Libya dug her nails into the pottery, but the slurs against her didn’t matter. Horus mattered. She saw this same progression with Mara’s eldest son at the tavern. Every year he grew older he became angrier, and the old master beat him more, which made the boy more angry still.

  At thirteen, he’d gotten into a fist fight with the old master, and he sold the boy off as a field laborer. The farm overseer had chained the boy’s legs together, far enough apart so he could work the fields, close enough together that he could never run, those chains never again to come off until he died.

  She had to find Victor before that happened to Horus.

  Rain pattered through the opening in the roof above the atrium pool as Wryn crossed to the dining room. His familia had arrived last night. His twin brother Eric and his wife Cara had journeyed with Father and Mother and his littlest brother Paulus from Gaul to Rome. Eric traveled from Britannia to Greece, again. Father headed to Egypt after a few days in this villa.

  The smell of the evening meal rose from the kitchen as shadows lengthened.

  Horus dashed by, clutching what looked like flint and tinder in his grimy hands.

  Wryn grabbed for the child, bringing the boy to a skittering halt.

  The child stared at him, terror in his little eyes as if he hadn’t almost burned down a garrison and tried to assassinate him with a rock.

  Prying the flint and tinder from the boy’s hands, Wryn stuffed them in the pouch on his belt. “You need to stop acting like one of the Furies.”

  The child squared his shoulders. “What will you do to me if I don’t?”

  Wryn glared down. “I command legionaries. Thousands of grown men, they obey my every order.”

  “What do you do to them if they don’t?”

  Nothing. Because they obeyed. Wryn tightened his grip on the boy. “What’s your mother do when you’re abominable?” Like the last three times Libya had sworn she’d never let it happen again.

  “She just talks. I’m not scared of Mama.”

  Splendid, now he not only had to spend half the day averting his gaze because of Libya, but he also couldn’t trust her to keep her own son under control. He stabbed his finger at the boy’s chest. “If you’re bad again, you’ll be in trouble with me. Understood?”

  The boy crossed his little arms and glared.

  Wryn glared right back. Armies obeyed his orders. One not yet six-year-old slave boy would not succeed in disrupting his life. Footsteps sounded across the atrium.

  “Wryn.” Mother touched his shoulder.

  Horus scampered off.

  Mother embraced him. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you last. How was Moesia?”

  Wryn shrugged. “Dull, but wait until I tell you about the political promotion —”

  “All you do is work. Life’s not all about political promotions.”

  Easy to say when you’re a Celt whose greatest aspirations involved a good year’s crop. He was Roman.

  “What about love? Any girl playing your heart strings these days?” Mother smiled as she touched his cheekbone.

  She was a good mother, always had been, but she never understood his drive to rise in politics. “No.” Though he’d marry soon enough thanks to Senator Porcii.

  “Let’s eat.” Taking his arm, Mother motioned to the triclinium.

  Except for Eric, the rest of his familia already lay on the dining couches around the low table. Gwen and her children too, though not Marcellus. He met Victor tonight. With any luck, Marcellus would have more information about the Ides of Junio.

  Wryn tightened his mouth. He would bring Victor Ocelli to justice this time. Six years since that traitor had attempted to murder his family, and the cursed man still walked free.

  Eric’s oldest child, Lucia ran in front of him. “We’re going to see Greece. I went when I was a baby, but now I’m going again. Papa’s going to compete in the Olympic Games.”

  Strange, he always found the prattling of his nieces and nephews vaguely annoying. Compared to Horus, though, they seemed like truly responsible representatives of mankind.

  “I turn six next week. Aunt Gwen gave me a present.” Lucia held up a shimmering length of silk. “Mama’s going to help me make a dress. What are you giving me for my birthday?”

  “Um.” What did one give a six-year-old girl? Or any girl? Wryn took his place at the table and the sound of eating, chewing, and children’s cries started.

  The curtain swished behind him. A woman entered bearing a dinner tray. Libya. Her brown dress swished around her legs, her loose hair flicking against the curve of her waist as her body swayed.

  Why did the cook choose Libya to serve the meal? Why not any other woman in the Empire?

  Freeing her now and sending her away would prove so much less taxing on his self-restraint. Gwen spoke the truth though. He couldn’t throw the woman into the streets because she’d been endowed like a sprite.

  Libya met his gaze. How had she strung Juvenal, Egyptian poetry, and Emperor Trajan’s wars together so coherently out of snippets of conversation overheard from lusting men?

  Libya closed her fingers on Gwen’s goblet. “More water, domina?”

  “Yes, please.” Gwen smiled as she held up the silver goblet. “Was that your son I saw running circles in the gardens?”

  Gwen’s daughter, Alena, sat straight up, awe in her childish voice. “He looked as fast as Hercules.”

  “More Cerebus the hound of Hades than Hercules.” Wryn stabbed a beet.

  Anger flared in Libya’s eyes before she swiftly cast her gaze down. “Water, master?” She touched his goblet, her slender fingers curving around the etched bronze, but she didn’t quite hide the edge in her voice.

  “If you disciplined your son, I wouldn’t compare him to mythological villains.”

  Despite the accuracy of that statement, she pressed her dark lips together as she filled his goblet. Straightening, she moved to the far door with the empty pitcher. Her goddess-like shoulders stiff as marble, she shoved through the curtain.

  And almost collided with his twin brother, Eric. With a swift dip of her head, Libya left the room.

  As Eric approached the table, he grinned. “Who was that woman, Wryn? She just wished that Cerebus would take a bite out of you with all three heads.”

  Gwen parted her lips, no doubt to answer Eric’s question.

  Who was the siren-like prostitute in his home? Not a conversation he wished to have in front of his mother, or his brother, or his father, or anyone. Wryn pushed his plate away. “I plan to marry.”

  All eyes turned to him. Senator Porcii had better prove as good as his word about thi
s Prefect of Rome post.

  Gwen turned her red lips up. “Who’s the fortunate, or should I say unfortunate, girl?”

  “That’s your task as my familia. Ensure she has stellar political connections. I need the betrothal completed within the week.”

  Mother crashed her hand against the table, shaking plates. “Don’t you want to find love?”

  Wryn shifted on the dining couch, almost jabbing his littlest brother in the ribs. Love? Like the way Eric looked at Cara? Marcellus looked at Gwen? Father looked at Mother? He noticed many girls through the year — comely ones, intelligent ones, witty ones. He never loved one of them. “Senator Porcii offered me a position as Prefect of Rome if I married.”

  “Prefect of Rome.” Father’s eyes lighted. “Am I hearing you correctly?”

  Eric shrugged. “Sounds like a lot of trouble.”

  A full pitcher in her hand, Libya reentered the room. How could he not think about the way the waves of her hair fell around her body, the way each step of hers moved other curves?

  Gwen dropped her hand from her baby, a boy just old enough to walk. “Wryn Paterculi, you are a heartless brute. I will never help you force some innocent girl into a cold political arrangement.”

  Force? Not the impression he’d gotten from the daughters of Rome these last five years. Every other patrician male made an arranged marriage for political connections.

  “Not even to be Prefect of Rome.” A longing look burned in Gwen’s eyes. “How did you get offered that? I’m dying of jealousy.”

  Wryn raised himself on his elbow. “What’s wrong with this familia? Find me a politically useful wife, I ask. That’s what every other family does for their sons. But no, here I’m the outcast.” He looked to Gwen. “You should be the outcast running off with a man against Father’s wishes. Or you —” he pointed to Eric. “Marrying a shopkeeper’s daughter because —”

  “Are you insulting my wife?” Eric looked ready to strike him.

  Many childhood years of his twin brother pummeling him proved his brother would do it, too. Wryn shoved back on the couch. “You have a delightful wife, family, quidquid.” Even though Cara looked ready to laugh at him. “What I intended to say is my request is entirely natural.”

  “I see no issue with it, especially to earn a post like that.” A duly impressed look stretched Father’s face. “Congratulations, son.”

  Mother sat straight up, jostling the table. “Of course, you accept following Roman tradition, Aquilus. What about watching the stars fade together, eros, love —”

  “I don’t want that.” Or rather, Senator Porcii didn’t want that. Even if the senator hadn’t demanded an arranged betrothal this week, unless some mystical stars collided and he found himself magically in love within the next few years, he would have to do it eventually.

  What did Mother expect? That he’d follow in the footsteps of the Apostle Paul and let the decades roll by, celibate? He was a Paterculi, the firstborn son on his way to follow in the statesmen footsteps of his ancestors. He’d never become a senator like his grandfather if he didn’t marry a well-connected patrician girl who could produce some male heirs.

  Mother raised her hand. “You think the girl will accept throwing love off a cliff face?”

  “Apparently, since almost every Roman girl enters an arranged marriage.” Love her or not, he’d be a better husband to whoever the girl was than most Roman men were to their wives.

  “Only the patrician ones,” Eric said.

  “Yes. We’re patricians. Even though this familia seems to forget that most of the time.” Wryn yanked a napkin from underneath his plate. All patrician women married men their fathers chose. Most of the men didn’t even grow to love them, let alone love them at the start. It’s not as if he’d invented the custom.

  Eric stabbed a piece of meat. “Yes, family-arranged matches between a thirty-year-old man and a thirteen-year-old girl. You truly want a thirteen-year-old?”

  Revolting thought, thank you, Eric. Wryn caught up his water goblet.

  Mother slid back on the couch. “You wouldn’t marry a pagan, would you? She needs to follow the Way.”

  A girl could convert. He could draw another soul into the kingdom and become Prefect of Rome. “If you go through the list of eligible women and find one that will get me this political post and follows the Way, I’ll happily accept her.”

  Mother furrowed her brow. “That’s a hard task.”

  Gwen shifted on her couch, brushing against her daughter. “What about Aulia Corneli?”

  Wryn twisted. “Aulia, isn’t she already betrothed?”

  “The man died last week.” Gwen prevented her daughter from dumping an entire bowl of lentils onto her plate. “After five failed betrothals, her father’s looking everywhere for a new match.”

  A grin split Eric’s face. “You’re astute, Gwen. Aulia would be perfect for Wryn.”

  Why did Eric grin?

  Mother nodded. “She’s a follower of the Way.”

  “I like Lady Aulia.” Paulus, his youngest brother, grabbed a strawberry.

  Cara smiled, a knowing smile. Knowing what? “She helped us when Lucia was born.”

  Wait, now everyone accepted this?

  Father moved his firm chin down. “You can’t find a man more connected than Aulia’s father.”

  “Splendid.” Wryn grabbed a piece of meat. “Let’s get this done.”

  “Let us?” Eric’s eyes filled with mirth. “You’re on your own, brother. You have to talk to a girl, maybe use a few lines of poetry, and —”

  “No, I just need Father to go to her father, get his permission, then we can sign the betrothal and dowry papers.” Wryn scraped his fingers against the napkin. “Hopefully the Paterculi name is still influential enough he’ll consider it a good match. Especially since she’s getting older.”

  “I would think Aulius Corneli would rejoice.” Father set down his knife. “Since Aulia knows you, he would trust you to treat his daughter well.”

  Gwen snorted. “Her father doesn’t care one fig on that score.”

  Cara grimaced. “Aulia’s other betrotheds weren’t even men a father could imagine might make one’s daughter happy.”

  Dropping a roll, Paulus jumped up. “I’ll rescue Aulia and marry her.”

  Gwen motioned him back. “A noble thought, my brother, but you’re only thirteen.”

  “If Aulius Corneli hesitates, I can go lower on the dowry,” Wryn said. “I don’t care about the money, only the political connections for the prefect post.”

  “Wryn.” Gwen raised her shrill voice so high her baby yelped. “You can’t speak about a flesh-and-blood woman like that! Aulia has a heart.”

  “I’ll be a perfectly agreeable husband to her. Much kinder than that vulgar womanizer her father selected last time.” So why did he feel guilty doing this? He shouldn’t feel guilty about taking Aulia as his wife. He was rescuing the girl from her father’s terrible taste in betrothals, a veritable Haemon saving Antigone. Though Haemon had failed.

  Libya’s sandal clipped the tile by him. She leaned over him to fill his water goblet, her lithe form so close the edge of her dress brushed his arm. Why had he let Gwen talk him out of freeing her today?

  “Aulia’s my friend.” Gwen jerked to a sitting position, her struggling baby on her lap. “She deserves love, and —”

  Wryn cocked one eyebrow. “You think Aulia’s father would find her a better husband if I didn’t ask for her?”

  Gwen dropped her gaze. Voice sinking to a mumble, she shook her head. “No, he’d select another violent adulterer who has large villas.”

  Ecce, he was not the villain here despite these guilty thoughts his conscience attempted to foist on him.

  Gwen’s baby grabbed a plate with grimy hands and flung it on the floor.

  The boy’s older sister screamed. She was only three years old, yet Alena could let forth a shriek to shame a full-grown man. “He’s bad, Mama. I told you I wanted a sister,
not a brother.”

  Gwen reached for Alena. Her little boy slapped sticky hands across Gwen’s stola and burped up food.

  The idea of having heirs sounded pleasing until one realized they all started out life as violent urchins. At least none of these children had tried to burn down a garrison.

  Libya’s dress swished as she crossed to Gwen. She inclined her head. “I’ll take your children to the other room if you wish, domina.”

  Gwen smiled at Libya. “Gratias.”

  Grabbing a cloth from the table, Libya scooped up Gwen’s littlest in her arms and wiped at his food-covered mouth. Libya smiled at Gwen’s three-year-old daughter and extended her hand. Chattering away, the child followed Libya out of the room.

  The curtain brushed against the waves of Libya’s hair, catching against her elbow as it slid shut.

  Finally, he could focus again.

  Father swiveled on the couch. “If you are sure, Wryn, I can visit Aulia’s father, get the agreement arranged.”

  Eric erupted. “You’re not making him do it himself? You made me do it myself. That’s completely unfair, and Wryn should have to —”

  Father lifted his shoulders in a shrug. The edges of his mouth crinkled as he looked to Paulus. “Learn your lesson here, son. Doing things in proper order holds advantages.” Father gave a sideway glance to Gwen too.

  Eric coughed.

  Father turned to Cara. “Not that you aren’t extraordinary. Eric couldn’t have found himself a better wife.”

  A blush rose up Cara’s cheeks. “Eric’s considerably extraordinary himself.”

  Gaze on Eric, Father nodded. “I know.”

  Wryn placed his knife on his plate. “That betrothal paperwork?”

  “Yes.” Father pushed his goblet back and stood. “I’ll visit Aulia’s father now. We leave for Egypt in two days’ time and won’t return for at least a six-month, so I’m sure Aulius Corneli will wish to hold the betrothal ceremony tomorrow or the day after.”

  Tomorrow! Wryn forced a breath. “Very well.”

  As Father’s footsteps retreated, Mother directed a dissatisfied stare at Wryn. She opened her mouth, more than likely to ask him to justify himself.

  Abandoning his seat, Wryn crossed to Gwen. He dropped his voice. “I spoke to Consul Julius last night.”