Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 6

  Gwen’s eyes lighted. “And?”

  “He agreed we should focus on the Ides of Junio plot. Marcellus and I will ride to the Ostia taverns one night this week to pick up the latest rumors from drunk ship captains, see if we can discover anything else. Sorry to steal your husband again.”

  “Not at all.” Worry furrowed Gwen’s brow. “I’m glad you’re meeting with Consul Julius. Try to talk some sense into him. He keeps putting Marcellus in compromising situations. Victor’s going to discover his spying one of these days.”

  “Marcellus shouldn’t take those assignments then.” Though Victor Ocelli had tried to kill him before, he at least had strong walls and guards. As a spy, Marcellus entered Viri establishments as one of them, outnumbered thirty to one. If discovered, Marcellus would end up dead.

  “He can’t.” A haunted look hung in Gwen’s eyes.

  “Why, because he’ll lose the chance for a political promotion?”

  Gwen snorted. “He cares not at all for that.”

  “Then what hold does Consul Julius have over Marcellus?”

  Gwen shook her head, but the haunted look lingered in her eyes. The same haunted look that had lurked in Marcellus’ eyes.

  The curtain parted. Libya cradled Gwen’s baby as she crossed the room. She looked so innocent with a baby in her arms, not like a soiled woman of infamia in the least. She leaned over Gwen, speaking whispered words. Her ebony hair fell over her shoulders, a handbreadth from him.

  Wryn groaned. One more month, maybe two. He needed Libya out of this house long before Aulia moved in as his wife. A betrothal could last a year.

  Wait, Gwen had merely said Libya needed work before he freed her. If he could find Libya work, he could send her away this week before his betrothal even happened.

  Libya moved her lips. She smelled of greenery and flowering new life. Like her skin, her lips possessed the darkest hue. They glistened as they curved up. What would it feel like to touch his mouth to hers, stroke his hand down that shimmering hair and —

  A firm hand touched his shoulder. Eric. His twin brother moved his puzzled gaze from Wryn to Libya.

  Wryn jumped. “What?” Had Eric caught him staring at Libya? He shouldn’t have done that.

  Eric nodded to Libya. “She looks so familiar, but I can’t place her.”

  Wryn’s heart pounded to a stop. Not caught, this time. There would be no next time. “Ever visited the Mithras’ Goblet tavern when you were in Moesia six and a half years ago?”

  Eric shook his head.

  “Then I’m sure you’re remembering someone different. Lots of people look similar.” After all, who could forget Libya’s face?

  Chapter 5

  Libya stared across the dirt-strewn courtyard. All that remained of the beautiful garden where flowers and small plants had grown were holes, torn leaves, and upended roots. Her son stood in the center of the turmoil, holding a trowel.

  “Look.” Horus pointed to the towering pile of blossoms. “I made a funeral pyramid like you said they make for phar-os. It’s for the dead swallow I found under the juniper hedge.”

  “Horus!” Libya ran toward him. “You ruined the garden.”

  Her son blinked. “Will you teach me more about pharaohs?”

  “I don’t know anything else about them.” If only she could read and teach Horus the things free men knew. Dropping to her knees, she shoved plants into the ground with frantic haste.

  With a sniff, Horus started shoving plants back in holes. Dirt stained his too-thick trousers as sweat ran down his dirty cheeks. “The master said if I’m bad again, he’d punish me.”

  “You’d do well to believe him.” Grabbing her son’s chin, she forced his gaze up. “This master commands armies. I can’t protect you like with the tavern keeper.” She couldn’t bear to see Horus beaten and he’d only get worse after, like Mara’s son.

  Horus shrugged.

  Victor would free him. If she could find a way to get to the marketplace, she could ask directions to the Ocelli villa. “Sweep the courtyard path, Horus.” Libya pointed to a broom.

  The smell of smoke rose from the kitchen behind her. No! The cook had told her to bake bread.

  Leaping to her feet, Libya ran. Smoke billowed as she tugged the hive-shaped oven open. Charred remains sat on the clay.

  Heavy footsteps clapped against the entrance. The red-faced cook stood in the entranceway, her nose swollen.

  “Mea culpa.” Libya bit her lip.

  “Worthless slave.” The cook slammed her bony hand against the star burned on Libya’s cheek. “Guess I shouldn’t have expected any more of a prostitute.”

  Face stinging, Libya clenched her fingers over a towel. That’s all anyone ever saw, her body marked all too clearly as purchasable, not her wits, not her thoughts, never her soul. Forcing her voice level, she fanned the smoke out the window. “What do you need me to do for the betrothal party this afternoon?”

  “It’s at the Corneli house, not here. Get out of my kitchen and ask the master.” The cook shoved her.

  Dropping the cloth, Libya headed to the courtyard. The flowers now sat in their proper places, though angled crookedly, and the dirty courtyard stones showed Horus’ brushstrokes.

  The fall of footsteps sounded through the peristyle. The master crossed the courtyard holding a toga. How dare he compare Horus to the hound of Hades?

  The formal cloth bunched in the master’s hands. His gaze touched her. He stiffened, every muscle in his powerful frame taut. He was easily twice the size of the Dacian tavern keeper, and the old master had hurt Horus and her plenty of times.

  She dropped her gaze as befitted a slave. “Congratulations on your betrothal, master.”

  “What?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Oh yes, gratias.”

  “Do you need more servers at the Corneli house?”

  “Absolutely not.” An appalled look crossed his features.

  Had the cook already complained about her? “What work should I do? The cook needs no more help.”

  The master shifted his sandals on the stones. “Just keep your child out of mischief. That’s a Herculean labor itself.”

  An entire afternoon with Horus? Perhaps he’d behave better if she had more of those.

  “Are you feeling settled in Rome yet?”

  “I —” She searched his face. His cheekbones made strong lines across his visage, his eyebrows set boldly above his powerful eyes. “It’s very different from Moesia, dominus.”

  “How so?” He focused his brown-eyed gaze on her.

  More people, fewer trees, the weather warmer. What did he care?

  His hand holding the toga dropped, the edges of the white cloth brushing the courtyard stone. “Does Rome have the same sort of places to work as Moesia? What is your trade?”

  She dropped her gaze.

  “Your trade?” He raised the toga. Dirt that Horus had scattered across these stones now streaked the bottom edge of the white cloth.

  She chafed her thumb against her palm. “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t ask questions that I already know the answer to. I’m not a fool.”

  Would he truly make her say it, even now as he towered in front of her, gaze on her unbound hair and often-sold body? He saw her dance half-naked.

  Yet, he stood there like Coalemus, god of stupidity, awaiting an answer. He was the master and she his slave.

  She dropped her voice. “My trade is to please men.”

  “Oh.” Understanding and repugnance crossed his face. “Surely you have other skills?”

  “I was never taught.” Had this Coalemus only now realized he spent six thousand denarii on a worthless slave? She couldn’t even cook.

  “Gwen’s children liked you. I’m sure you’d make an excellent nursemaid.”

  Oh, with the master’s betrothal, babies would soon arrive in this domus. A smile lit her eyes. When she cradled a baby, she could forget the last ten years of infamia. “You wish me to tend your ch
ildren?”

  “No.” He jolted back. “Other people’s. Definitely other people’s.”

  Hire her out? She shivered. A different master at each house, Horus wreaking who knew what mischief here while she worked at another villa? “What domina would wish a woman of infamia to tend her babes?”

  “Oh.” His face fell. “You should learn to bake things. I’m sure the cook could teach you. She’s very good.”

  The cook, a free woman, ran the house and had the master’s favor. Libya touched her still-burning cheek. Not promising with how the cook hated her.

  Amaranths and crocuses decorated the Corneli villa, the smell of them intertwining around marble colonnades and lavishly set food tables.

  The folds of Wryn’s toga hung straight. He glanced at the wine chalice on the groaning table. Stoics didn’t often drink, but today he needed to make an exception. He spilled wine into the chalice as blood pounded through his head.

  Was he really doing this? Already betrothal guests milled the corridors as warm sunshine filtered through the spacious rooms. Mother entered behind him, that vaguely condemning look still dragging down her lips.

  A small hand slithered up the gilt tablecloth.

  Wryn spun. Horus. “Why is he here?”

  “He cried to be separated from his mother.” Mother tousled the child’s hair and handed him the sweet cake he reached for as if Horus was a well-meaning child rather than a conniving ruffian who burned down garrisons.

  “Libya’s here too?” Just what he hadn’t wanted.

  “Of course. The Cornelis needed extra servers.” Mother touched his shoulder. “The ceremony’s starting.” She passed through a tapestry to the gardens beyond.

  Grabbing Horus’ shoulder, Wryn knelt to his level and stared into the delinquent’s eyes. “Don’t do anything abhorrent.”

  A wicked grin twisted up Horus’ dark lips.

  Wryn thudded across the empty room, through the hall, then into the courtyard. Sun shone on the guests, a hundred in all perhaps. His bride stood by a flowering bush at the front of the courtyard, a blue palla hanging loosely over her brown hair. The betrothal papers, outlining dowry and other practical arrangements, lay on a stone table ready for the Paterculi and Corneli signet rings to merge into the seal.

  The master of ceremonies motioned to him. His tribune friends from the garrison, Vitus, Lucius, and the rest slapped him on the shoulder as he walked by.

  Taking his position half a pace from Aulia, Wryn reached for her white hands. She turned her pale eyes up to him. Her pinned-up hair tucked back behind her ears as he remembered from the many days she visited Gwen, but Aulia looked even less animated than usual.

  Hopefully, he hadn’t forced her into this betrothal as Gwen had suggested. He hadn’t spoken to her yesterday, just her father.

  The master of ceremonies droned about omens as he sacrificed doves and their blood spilled over the stone of a household altar. Though Aulia followed the Way, her father worshiped Jupiter, and none of his familia wished to advertise the religion they could get killed for.

  If Aulia detested the idea of a betrothal to him, she would have told Gwen and his sister would have raged at him.

  Instead, Aulia looked supremely indifferent. She’d been Gwen’s best friend for years. He spoke to her then and again when she visited their house, never much beyond salve, though.

  With the crinkle of parchment, the master of ceremonies let his scroll roll shut. “Now for the kiss that seals the betrothal.”

  Dropping his hands, Wryn swallowed. He never kissed a woman before. Of all the women in the world, Aulia did not inspire him to think of kissing. Let alone in public?

  The master of ceremonies coughed.

  Gwen and Eric stood in the front row. They’d both mock him if he didn’t do this right.

  Wryn glanced to Aulia. She stood motionless, pink tingeing her cheeks, not giving him one ligula of encouragement. This kiss would fail miserably, and he’d get laughed at by Gwen, Eric, and every single one of the tribunes from his garrison.

  He took a deep breath. He commanded armies. He could figure this out.

  He took both her hands in one of his. Touching her shoulder with his other hand, he slid his fingers across her shoulder blade. His signet ring caught in her palla. The blue fabric snagged around the elaborate brooch pinning the shoulder of her tunica together. He flicked his hand.

  The fabric twisted hard around the brooch. The clip strained. By Hercules, that brooch better not give way!

  He struggled to free his hand. The brooch strained again.

  The master of ceremonies gave him a meaningful look.

  Dipping his head, Wryn touched his lips to hers. Done. He struggled to free his hand.

  The palla snarled in the ridges of his signet ring.

  Reaching up, Aulia slid the signet ring off his hand. He got his hand free, and she lay the metal in his palm.

  Worst kiss in the history of man. He expected Aulia to slap him by now. Instead, she smiled at him, the expression warming her pale face. She truly was sweet.

  Tribune Vitus and the others moved forward, surrounding him as the women swept Aulia away.

  “Congratulations on joining the ranks of married men.” Vitus slapped him on the back.

  “I’m not married, just betrothed.” Wryn crossed to the betrothal papers. The actual wedding, dwelling in the same house part wouldn’t take place for months. Fortunately. The master of ceremonies dripped wax onto the papers and Wryn pressed his signet ring into it, forming the Paterculi seal next to the Corneli one.

  “A piddling difference.” Tribune Lucius smiled. “You’re promised, and the rest will follow.”

  True. The wedding ceremony was a simple affair compared to the all-important betrothal. Wryn’s stomach churned.

  “Congratulations, brother.” Eric punched him in the shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Finally!” Gwen grabbed his hand. She clasped Aulia’s hand in her other, dragging his betrothed forward. “You’re getting a better woman than you deserve.”

  Aulia blushed scarlet. “I’m sure he would deserve any woman.”

  Behold, she didn’t detest him. What did Gwen’s ‘finally’ mean? He planned this yesterday. Then again, Gwen rarely made sense.

  “I’m so happy for you.” Cara, his brother’s wife, threw her arms around Aulia’s neck. “I always wanted the two of you to have each other.”

  Always? This had happened yesterday.

  “You are a woman of character.” Father touched Aulia’s arm. “My son could not have found himself a more excellent wife.”

  Aulia dimpled into smiles.

  Mother grabbed his arm and motioned him left. She dropped her voice to a hiss. “You better make her happy. You might only desire political connections, but she’ll want love.”

  “I will, Mother. I pledge.”

  Aulia’s father strode to the front of the crowd. “Let us eat the bountiful feast in honor of the joining of two families. May the goddess Diana bless this union with many sons.”

  The crowd followed him inside. Food weighed down long tables, towering piles of fruit surrounding an entire roasted peacock.

  Something moved under the long tablecloth. Wryn whipped the fabric up.

  Knife in hand, a gleeful expression on his face, Horus sawed at the polished wood. His cuts zigzagged across the table leg’s expensive finish.

  Wryn grabbed him by the collar. The child kicked, setting the table wobbling, as he dragged him out.

  Unbound black hair flickered at the edge of his vision. Libya, good. Taking long strides, he crossed to her, Horus still pinned under his arms. “You and Horus are going home.”

  Libya set down a wine pitcher. “The Corneli housekeeper told me to —”

  “I don’t care. Get your son out of here before he lights this domus on fire too.” He shoved Horus into Libya’s arms. As he did, his arm touched hers. Lightning seared through his veins.

  She f
lickered her lashes up, her dark lips slightly parted.

  Aulia brushed her fingers against his shoulder. Her curious glance touched Libya.

  Lurching toward his betrothed, Wryn pointed his back to the siren who, despite his best efforts, would live under his roof months yet since she had no marketable skills. He looked to Aulia. “Shall we take our places at the dinner?”

  Dawn’s light had only started to flame the sky when Wryn crossed the Roman forum. He entered the Senate building.

  Senator Porcii sat in the back as promised.

  Wryn’s footsteps echoed across the empty building. “I did it.”

  Senator Porcii looked up. “Did what?”

  “Arranged a betrothal to Aulius Corneli’s daughter.”

  “The Corneli daughter.” Senator Porcii nodded, the large mole on his thin neck moving. “I’m suitably impressed.”

  “When can I start as Prefect of Rome?” He stayed up half the night talking to Father about his governing plans. Fraud and bribery permeated Rome’s justice system.

  “How permanent is this arrangement?”

  “Would you like to see the betrothal contract?” Wryn slapped the parchment on the table.

  “Isn’t this the girl whose father broke off five of her betrothals?”

  “Two of the men died, and two broke the betrothals off themselves.” Wryn spread the parchment flat before the senator.

  “Come to me when you’ve brought the woman into your home, then you can have the position.”

  “But —”

  Senator Porcii raised his hand. “The girl’s had five broken betrothals and is at least twenty. You can set a wedding date for the morrow and her father will let you have her.”

  Tomorrow! He needed a little more time than that to adjust to the idea of having a wife. “My betrothed will need time to prepare herself for wedded life. It would scarcely be considerate to force her to marry so soon.”

  “Dozens of men are begging Emperor Trajan for this post.” Senator Porcii dug his icy stare into him. “I’d suggest you marry swiftly.”

  Air stuck in Wryn’s throat, but it’s not as if he had a choice.