Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Read online

  The rancid stuff ran down the boy’s brown trousers.

  “Myrrh perfume that costs two hundred denarii a pot.” Wryn tightened his jaw.

  “I’ll wash him off, master.”

  The curtain to the closet behind them ripped down the center. The myrrh perfume ran down shelves, hundreds of denarii ruined. Horus had tracked the stuff across the atrium floor too, the scent so strong he wanted to retch.

  Libya dipped her head. “I’ll clean the floor too.”

  “Good. And you,” Wryn knelt to Horus’ level and glared into the boy’s eyes, “I have to report to the garrison for night duty, but I’ll deal with you when I get back.” He stood and looked to Libya. “Don’t clean the closet.”

  As evening shadows grew longer, Libya knelt on the atrium floor, scrubbing the last vestiges of the ruin off. “Throw these away.”

  Horus balanced on one foot behind her. She had to scrub the boy a dozen times before the stench came off. Ra only knew how the master had succeeded in removing the stink from himself.

  Horus picked up the dirty clothes, jostling the new tunic the cook had provided with much grumbling. “Will he beat me like the fat man at the inn did?”

  While Horus’ back had often felt the lash, the old master hadn’t beaten him as hard as Mara’s children. She threatened to dance badly or not collect money time and time again to spare Horus, but she had nothing to hold over this new master.

  Horus had spoiled hundreds upon hundreds of denarii worth of goods. He also personally affronted the new master by streaking the stench all over him.

  Blood pounded in Libya’s veins as a sick feeling washed over her. Tomorrow would she have to see Horus’ little back bloodied by the lash, his tears falling down his tanned cheeks as he screamed?

  If the master thought that would cause Horus’ misdeeds to cease, it wouldn’t. The week after the tavern keeper whipped Horus, the boy would always come up with his worst villainies, even now at five too stubborn to submit to a master. What would he bring upon himself at ten? Fifteen?

  She grabbed Horus’ little hand. “Time for bed.”

  Wryn took his helmet off. The sticky air pasted his hair down in the dawn’s light. Another night of watch duty completed. Not only had Legate Aemilli given him all the worst shifts this month, but he also ordered him to supervise a latrine-digging project.

  No matter, he spent the night of watch duty pacing empty walls planning how he’d expand Rome’s carpentry industry to provide more jobs for plebeians. Abandoning this tribune post and starting as Prefect of Rome could not happen soon enough.

  Only he had to marry Aulia first.

  His sandals beat the cobblestones to Consul Julius’ house. Any luck and he’d arrive before Marcellus’ meeting with the consul had ended.

  A porter gestured him inside.

  Voices rose from the tablinum. Wryn pushed through the curtain. The consul sat, feet up on a stool. His unfriendly gaze fixed on Marcellus, who, rather than sitting as befitted equals, stood, a discomforted look in his eyes.

  The consul glanced up. Seeing him, the consul stood. “Welcome, Felix.”

  Wryn took his hand by the wrist and directed another glance at Marcellus, but now a mask had slid over Marcellus’ face.

  “What have I missed?” Wryn took a seat across from the consul and motioned Marcellus to the empty chair.

  With a glance to the consul, Marcellus sat. “Smuggled for the Viri last night again. Victor will tell me nothing about the Ides of Junio.”

  Wryn nodded. “Marcellus and I went to the Ostia taverns twice last week, listened to the ship captains’ talk.”

  “Learn anything?” Consul Julius leaned forward.

  “Apart from how to fake carousing?” With a grin, Wryn kicked Marcellus under the table.

  Rather than responding with his always-ready quips, Marcellus stayed stiff. His fingernails dug into the polished wood of the chair arm.

  Quidquid. Wryn lay a tablet on the table. “Summarized here. Several captains in the last two taverns hinted at something colossal brewing. Once we started asking questions, though, they ceased speaking. Marcellus and I plan to return this week.”

  “Good.” Consul Julius took the tablet. “We’ve less than four months to discover this plot.”

  Marcellus rotated toward Wryn. “Victor assigned me to smuggle a shipment on the Tiber three days hence. Here’s the map to intercept it.” He slid the parchment onto the table.

  Wryn leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure I should capture a Viri shipment Victor tasked you to meet? You’re already worried Victor suspects you.” Oh, what pleasure he’d take in bringing Victor to justice.

  Marcellus tightened his jaw as he dropped his voice. “The cargo’s illegally captured slaves. I want them freed.”

  “I’ll collect the soldiers needed to intercept that shipment then.” Wryn slid the parchment into his tunic. “Any new information you’ve gathered, Consul?”

  Consul Julius shook his head. He stood. “Thank you for stopping, Felix. Salve.”

  No farewell from Consul Julius to Marcellus? Perhaps Gwen spoke the truth that Consul Julius’ decisions risked Marcellus’ life. He needed to capture Victor before the villain made his sister a widow.

  Libya knotted her fingers over the broom handle so hard a

  splinter dug into her finger. Before dawn, she’d begged the cook to let her run errands outside the villa. The cook yelled her denials and the guards refused to allow her out that gate without permission. So much for her hope of convincing Victor to buy Horus before he had to pay for yesterday’s misdeeds.

  The sun poured through their room’s low window, bathing Horus with light. He sat cross-legged, playing with a knucklebones game.

  Flashes of heat skimmed her body. Her hand shook. The master would have arrived home from night duty at the garrison by now. His voice held anger yesterday afternoon. If he hurt Horus....

  What? She was a slave. She could do absolutely nothing if the master hurt Horus. Nor did the cook give her enough time free from work to forestall Horus from his inevitable retaliation, which would, in turn, earn him another beating. Ten beatings in a fortnight had preceded that evening Horus destroyed the flour at the tavern, each punishment leading to Horus planning worse mischief.

  She moved the broom in another stroke. Perhaps if she kept Horus out of the master’s way a few days, he’d forget.

  Someone pounded on the outside door.

  “Coming to the kitchen, cook.” She turned to Horus. “You stay here while I work.”

  The curtain flung back. The master stood in the doorway. He looked right at her son. “Horus, come.” He motioned with his hand, a firm hand leading up to a well-muscled arm.

  “It was an accident, master. He won’t repeat it.” Libya dug her nails into the broom.

  “Just as you claimed after he nearly burned down a garrison and threw a rock at my head.”

  Libya’s heart pounded. “He’s just a boy. He’s not old enough to —”

  He cut her off, his voice cold. “He’s plenty old enough to know not to destroy property.” Turning his back to her, the master motioned to her son.

  Horus pressed against the wall, gaze tilting toward the window as if he considered vaulting out. That would only make matters worse for him.

  “Go with the master.” Grabbing his arm, Libya pushed him.

  The cook’s sharp voice called through the courtyard. “I needed you in the kitchen an hour ago, Libya.”

  With one last look toward her son, Libya turned and followed.

  The most abominable child he ever had occasion to meet followed him into the atrium. The closet still lay in disarray as he had ordered, a rancid smell rising from the torn curtain.

  “Scrub this.” Wryn shoved a bucket and wash brush at Horus.

  “What?” The boy blinked, his dark eyes deceivingly innocent.

  “The mess you made yesterday.” Wryn stabbed his finger at the curtain. “You’re going to help m
e count the pots after too, and we’ll calculate how many you destroyed.”

  “Are you going to beat me?”

  “No, but you’ll wish I did after smelling that stench.” Wryn sat at the edge of the closet. The disgusting odor overwhelmed him, driving away all thoughts of sleep and the fact that he had only a few short hours before he had to report to the garrison for another night of work.

  Half a pace away, the boy dipped the rag into the bucket and pulled it out sopping wet. Water dripped across polished wood as Horus flapped the sodden rag against the shelf.

  “No, like this.” Grabbing a second rag, Wryn dipped it in the bucket and rang it out. “Then you scrub like this.” He wiped up some of the disgusting mess.

  “Like this?” Horus knotted his little fingers around the rag and water ran out over the tile.

  “That’s much better.”

  Horus spread his shoulders. “I’m good at scrubbing.”

  “Less boasting, more scrubbing.” Since he was stuck here anyway, far from sleep and anything he enjoyed doing, Wryn dipped the second rag back in the water. He cleaned off the higher shelf the boy couldn’t reach while Horus labored on the lower ones.

  An hour later, when they both smelled like a refuse heap, the shelves gleamed. Screwing up his nose, Wryn grabbed the now-filthy water bucket. “You need another bath.”

  Horus stuck his tongue out. “You do too.”

  Dumping the bucket out the window, Wryn scooped up water from the atrium pool and scrubbed his hands and arms. He shoved the bucket to Horus. “You next.”

  “I don’t like water.”

  “Should have thought of that before you spilled refuse everywhere.” Digging his hands in the bucket, Wryn flicked water across the boy’s tunic.

  A smile flashed across Horus’ face. Lunging forward, he cupped his hands in the bucket of water and splashed them up, drenching Wryn’s tunic.

  Wryn groaned. “I told you to wash your hands.”

  Horus dug his hands into the bucket, swished, then splashed still dubiously clean hands up, spraying wetness into Wryn’s eyes.

  A film of water covered the tile now. He probably should have cared, but he didn’t. Grabbing the bucket, Wryn emptied it on Horus’ head.

  Incomprehensibly, Horus grinned. He grabbed the handle of the bucket and tugged. “I want to do it to you.”

  “Pots to count.” Laying down the bucket, Wryn pushed the boy back to the closet.

  Horus touched his dirty finger to one after another. “Five.”

  “Write it here.” Wryn handed him a stylus and shoved a wax tablet at him.

  “I don’t know how.” Horus plopped onto the slick floor.

  “It’s a five, an easy number.”

  Horus shook his head.

  Had Libya taught the boy nothing? Likely so. Any master would have considered it wasted effort to teach a woman of infamia to read or sum. “You write it like this.” Kneeling by the boy, Wryn scratched a ‘V’ against the wax. “You try it.”

  Several attempts later, Horus succeeded.

  “See here. There used to be twelve. That’s the number for twelve. So how many did you destroy?”

  “Um….” Horus screwed his nose up.

  “Twelve minus five.” Wryn made tally marks on the tablet.

  Horus squinted as he ran his thumb over the marks. “Seven?”

  “Yes. Let that be a lesson to you. No more destroying property.”

  “All right, I won’t anymore.” Horus smiled. “I like sums.”

  “You haven’t done any to speak of.” Wryn shoved the stylus and tablet onto the side table.

  An alabaster jar of perfumed water used to mix the other oils lay on the bottom shelf. Horus reached for it.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Mischief danced in Horus’ eyes. He slid his fingers closer.

  Grabbing the boy, Wryn flipped him over his shoulder.

  Horus laughed. “Do it again.”

  He tossed the child in the air. Wryn’s sandal slipped on the film of water. He crashed to his knees, narrowly catching the boy before the child’s head could crack against the tile floor.

  A grin glowed on Horus’ cheeks. “Do it again. Again.”

  Something rustled in the doorway. Wryn’s gaze flashed up. Libya stood there, staring, her alluring eyes large.

  Swinging Horus up, he rose to a more dignified position. He crossed to her and dropped the sopping Horus into her arms. “Here, have your son, and in the future control him.”

  For some inexplicable reason, Horus laughed again, as if the last hour of punishment had been the most amusing game.

  Chapter 7

  Wryn followed Gwen and Marcellus and their loud children into the Paterculi triclinium. He had things under control.

  Last night he’d eaten at Gwen’s house where he saw Aulia. She asked him about garrison work, and he told her about the new sanitation groundwork the legionaries dug on the west side of the garrison. He needed to look over the diagram for that as Legate Aemilli had impatiently ordered.

  “Here.” Gwen shoved a parchment at him. “I recorded all the things that need to change in the city’s governance. The lack of work has especially affected women. Prefect of Rome’s a complicated position. I’m happy to help you govern our city.”

  “I’m sure you would be.” Just what he didn’t need.

  Alena scooped a rose petal from the finger-dipping bowl and slurped the water.

  Ignoring her and her mother, Wryn took his position on the dining couch across from them, and the meal progressed. Yes, he had things under control. Horus hadn’t burned, killed, or destroyed anything since the myrrh incident two days ago, though now the boy chattered incessantly to him. He ordered the cook to teach Libya baking skills so she could find work and leave.

  By spending as much time as possible either at the garrison, arresting Viri smugglers, spying in Ostia, or at the Marcellus residence discussing those things, he managed to lay eyes on Libya only twice in the past two days. Both excruciating times the breeze conspired to whip her black tresses around her face and sculpt her dress to all that lay beneath.

  Shoving the last fistfuls of food in their mouths, Gwen’s children darted into the other room.

  Wryn leaned on his elbow as his gaze moved to Marcellus. “Tomorrow night, I’m off-duty. Ride with me to Ostia again to see what Viri information we can discover from ship captains at the taverns. We’ve less than four months left to bring Victor to justice.”

  “You need to discover their plot faster than that. Victor’s going to kill Marcellus one of these days.” Gwen clasped Marcellus’ hand, fear in her eyes as she scooted closer to him on the dining couch.

  The sound of voices rose from the other room, proving Gwen’s children played with Horus and Libya. Thanks be, the cook had chosen Phoebe, not Libya, to serve the evening meal.

  “If smuggling for the Viri has become too dangerous, Consul Julius should pull you out.” Wryn moved his plate. “You have enough guards at your villa to preempt any assassination plot.” Even though they did look more like criminals than guards.

  He came across Libya singing in the gardens again with Horus this evening as the two of them wove flower chains and laughed. Her laugh sounded like the summer breeze, warming each green thing it touched.

  “Consul Julius won’t.” Marcellus’ glare dug into the table.

  “Tell him you refuse. You may ruin our cover for Ostia, not to mention my best chance at bringing down Victor —” Miserable thought. “But your life’s worth more than that.”

  Libya had created her own song, a fascinating mix of meter and verse that told of starlit nights and winter snows, lovelier even than the poems created by educated men. He had to rip himself away before she caught him listening.

  “You don’t understand, Wryn.” Gwen clenched her hand over Marcellus’.

  Wryn blinked. “Don’t understand what?”

  Marcellus glanced to the doorway. Wryn followed hi
s gaze. Marcellus’ daughter played with Horus. Libya hovered near them. Her dress rode up around her dark calves as she sat on the floor. Her soft hand touched her hip, drawing attention to other curves as she laughed into Gwen’s littlest child’s face. Cooing, the baby grabbed the neck of her dress as he pulled himself to a stand. The fabric gapped —

  Wryn jerked his gaze back.

  While spying, he’d leave the villa for hours. Focus his wits on catching Victor. He wouldn’t even have time to think of Libya. He had this under control.

  The double-wide couch groaned as Marcellus rotated. “We’d gather more information if we had a woman with us to distract the ship captains from the purpose of our prying questions.”

  Gwen bounced up beside him. “I’ll do it! I’d make a magnificent spy.”

  Wryn groaned. Had Gwen no propriety? Respectable women of any class didn’t enter the sort of haunts Marcellus, and he had searched out these last weeks. Paterculi women certainly didn’t.

  “You are, Gwen.” Rather than expressing the irritation her statement deserved, Marcellus caressed his hand across hers, a tender light in his eyes. “But do you want the Viri to kill me when you’re recognized? Bringing Wryn to these taverns stretches the fabric of credibility. That Caius Marcellus would allow his patrician wife to frequent those sorts of places stretches beyond any bounds of belief.”

  “Ecce, I’ve worked for five years to besmirch my reputation enough that you’d let me spy with you.” Wryn grinned. “Gambled at a horse race twice last year, just for you.”

  Marcellus rolled his eyes. “You’re still a Paterculi. All evening in Ostia, I waited for one of the ship captains to hold a knife to my throat and say ‘why is there a Paterculi here? Everyone knows they don’t drink.’”

  Wryn laughed. “I’ll tell them my brother-by-marriage corrupted me.”

  Marcellus snorted. “If I had corrupted you, I’d have done a better job of it. No subtlety, you interrogated those ship captains like a manacled bandit you’d imprisoned in your garrison.”