Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  The man acted as if his brother had taken some sullied woman off the streets and raised a bastard as his own. His brother’s wife had been an untouched woman. Eric and Cara had just gotten the betrothal and baby part out of order. Though the plebeian comment held merit; Cara’s birth had closed many political doors to Eric. Father had suffered politically because of Mother too. Yet, neither his father or brother’s marriages were topics this senator need hold an opinion on.

  “What’s next?” The senator took a swallow of wine. “Are you going to take some slave as wife?”

  Ha! He, unlike other Paterculis, followed custom. “I have no control over my father or brother’s choices. Give me advice on something I can do to secure this praetor post.”

  “Marry.”

  Numbness spread through Wryn’s fingers. Scarcely an unreasonable request. In truth, he should have suspected this is where the senator led. Yet marry?

  “Choose a well-connected patrician girl who will redeem the Paterculi name.”

  Wryn’s sword arm stiffened. “The Paterculi name doesn’t need redemption.”

  “Perhaps not —” The senator wiped his fingers. “But it doesn’t carry the sway it used to. The right marriage prospect could change that.”

  “Could?” Wryn raised his voice above stoic calm. “You want me to take a wife for the rest of my life for a could?”

  “All right, will.” Senator Porcii set his goblet down. “Come to me this week with a betrothal to a well-connected girl, and I’ll make you Prefect of Rome.”

  Wryn’s jaw dropped. Prefect of Rome? Two prefects, appointed by the Emperor himself, governed the city of Rome, enforcing laws and establishing justice for the greatest city in the Empire.

  “You declared your interest in governing cities as a praetor. I trust governing Rome would suffice?” A smile crinkled the edges of Senator Porcii’s mouth.

  “You have to be jesting.” Senators and consuls begged for such a position their entire lives.

  “The second prefect died this morning. An extensive list of men, more experienced than you, have already begun beseeching Emperor Trajan for the position. But Trajan owes me a favor, and I know the Paterculi reputation for honesty, which our city desperately needs.” The senator’s keen eyes held no mirth.

  The man offered him the Prefect of Rome post? Wryn’s hands tingled as he strove to keep his feet steady on the tile.

  The senator smiled. “What do you say?”

  “Yes, sir.” A dizzy sensation spun through his head. He’d fix the deplorable conditions of the poor sections of Rome, enact justice. Hold a position he only dreamed of obtaining, perhaps at the twilight of his career.

  “Salve.” The senator raised his hand. “Bring me news of your betrothal within the week.”

  Betrothal. Wryn swung his gaze to the women in the crowded room. They couldn’t all be vapid.

  Even if they were, unlike his father or brother, he wouldn’t sacrifice a position as Prefect of Rome for some ethereal feeling. His stomach churned. Lack of food, not indecision. He glanced across the guests to the still-empty food tables.

  Wait! He had a week to talk to all these girls and their fathers. His blood raced as the dizzy feeling heightened. Prefect of Rome, bringing justice to an entire city. He forced his breathing to calm.

  Tomorrow evening, Father and Mother would arrive to stay a few days in Rome on their way to Egypt. Tradition dictated a man’s family investigate brides and find the most prestigious alliance.

  He’d shove this task off on them.

  Wryn’s sandals smashed the grass as he paced through the gardens in the morning light. As prefect, he’d first need to —

  “Dominus,” The cook called through the kitchen window, “that fiend of a child you brought into this house bit me. You have to discipline him.” She held up her arm, flour-covered to the elbow. Sure enough, small teeth marks indented the skin.

  Wryn sighed. The cook had worked for the family long enough that she had no qualms about voicing her opinions. “Surely you can manage to keep one child in check without my aid? I have a city to run.” He’d gone over all Rome’s statutes last night. While the daily grain allowance for citizens kept plebeians fed, it did nothing for the foreigner or alien.

  Despite the success of Emperor Trajan’s campaigns, the wars had caused taxes to rise, and available jobs decreased every year thanks to fraud and incompetence. Creating new positions would necessitate establishing a just environment that would entice businesses to return to Rome.

  He paced past a juniper hedge.

  A small voice rose from the other side of it. “That mean cook slapped me.” Wryn peered through a space in the branches just in time to see Horus press his hand against his cheek. It scarcely looked red, which is more than one could say for the bite marks on the cook’s arm. “I only took one honey cake.”

  Dropping her broom, Libya kissed the boy. “Juvenal said many commit the same crime with a unique result. One bears a cross for his crime. Another a crown.”

  Wryn pushed a branch aside. “A treatise on the vices of Emperor Domitian, not an invitation for small boys to assault well-meaning cooks.” How did Libya even know Juvenal’s works?

  She stiffened as if she actually believed her lying son innocent of guilt. With a roll of his eyes, Wryn kept walking.

  Libya’s voice snaked through the branches as she spoke to Horus in a voice lower than a summer zephyr. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just an arrogant patrician, and Emperor Trajan’s worse than Domitian anyway.”

  Wryn whipped around. Had Libya just said that? He shoved through the greenery. His sandal struck the clearing’s walkway. “Tell me, what do you have against our good emperor?”

  From her seat on the garden bed, Libya drew a quick breath. Grass stained the arches of her bare feet. “Nothing, Master.”

  “If you’re going to commit treason, at least summon the boldness to offer a coherent defense of it. If you can.” She couldn’t. Emperor Trajan was the best emperor in a hundred years, and Libya was an uneducated woman of infamia.

  She raised her gaze to his, a flash of fire in those eyes despite the fact her hand trembled. “If I defend my assertion coherently, will you not punish me for it?”

  “As long as you don’t start a Germanic revolt, I don’t care how many idiotic opinions you hold.”

  “Emperor Trajan may be beloved by soldiers, but he’s spent all his time at war. The governance of Rome has suffered in his absence.”

  Wryn’s eyes widened. “An interesting hypothesis, but Trajan has used the gold from his conquests to start new building projects in the city.”

  “Bread and circuses quench all protests, but justice is neglected.”

  He stared at her. “How do you even know about Trajan’s policies?”

  She shrugged, moving her lovely shoulders up. “The patricians who visited the tavern talked.” Her eyes held a glint of triumph.

  “Rome’s mismanagement can scarcely be laid at Trajan’s feet. One of Rome’s prefects is a swindling thief and the other lay at death’s door for the last two years, allowing his inferiors to run the city.” When he became prefect, he’d fix that.

  “My mama’s always right.” Horus balled his fists.

  “No!” Libya cried, but Horus swung.

  Wryn sidestepped. “If that’s the case, why don’t you listen to her?”

  Horus jutted out his lower lip. “I hate you.”

  “I bear little affection for you myself, but you don’t see me pummeling you.”

  The boy glowered at him.

  Libya grabbed the boy’s balled fists. “I’m sorry, Master. He won’t do it again.”

  “Why do you even say that? Has he ever not done it again?”

  Color crept up her dark cheeks as she pressed her tongue against her teeth. “All who come in being as flesh pass on, and have since God walked the earth, and young blood mounts to their places.”

  A quote from the Egyptian Harper’s song, inscribed
on ancient tombs and sung across Nubia by Harpers yet. Wryn stared at her.

  “It’s a song, Mama. You have to sing it, not say it.” Horus scrambled on her lap.

  She shook her head at the boy, but as Wryn turned and walked on, the whisper of her voice filtered through the hedges. Each note possessed a haunting timbre as her lyrical voice filled out the chorus.

  The waters flow north, the wind blows south,

  And each man goes to his hour,

  So, seize the day! Hold holiday!

  Be unwearied, unceasing, alive,

  You and your own true love.

  Rubbish. If one spent every day in holiday pursuing love, no work would ever get accomplished.

  The notes tugged at him, slowing his step as he moved out of the hedges to the tablinum beyond. What would it feel like to spend a day watching the waters flow and winds blow stretched out by a woman he loved?

  Not that he’d get a chance to find out. Senator Porcii had ordered him to enter into a betrothal with an unknown girl by week’s end.

  Consul Julius Semproni struck the slave boy. The slave hastened to lift the consul’s rotund foot to a stool. His leg bothered him more and more these days.

  A burly man walked through the doorway.

  “Gnaeus, my friend. Happy travels in Moesia? You get the boy for me?” Consul Julius grasped a grape.

  Gnaeus scowled, showcasing his ropelike muscles. “No. Your own man, Felix Paterculi, bought him first.”

  “What!” Consul Julius shoved his heavy leg down, and it hit the tile with a thwack. Waving away the slave, he lowered his voice. “I’ve worked against the Viri for ten years, yet even after I caught their former leader, the Shadow Man, Emperor Trajan gave me no recognition. I’ve decided I could gain more by switching sides and working for the Viri. Victor Ocelli is the Viri’s second-in-command. If I have his son, I can force him to let me join them.”

  Gnaeus knit his broad brow. “Illegitimate son by a slave woman. I’m sure Victor has dozens of those.”

  Unlike Felix Paterculi, this brute Gnaeus didn’t have the wits to cross him. “I have it on good authority that Victor’s wife is incapable of bearing more children. Her dowry is colossal and since almost two years have passed since she last bore him a daughter, and he hasn’t divorced her yet, I’m assuming he won’t. Victor will be looking for an heir somewhere.”

  Gnaeus twisted his hand over. “Victor’s got dozens of mistresses. Why is this boy important? Even though he does look the very image of Victor.”

  “All the rest of his mistresses bore girls. So, go to Felix Paterculi and buy this slave boy.”

  Gnaeus clenched his fist. “Already offered him six thousand denarii for the boy alone while the slave mother went to fetch him. Felix refused.”

  “Why?” Consul Julius scowled. The Paterculi villa was impregnable.

  “After the way Felix looked at the boy’s mother, I can only imagine he refused in order to please her. Preferred a willing mistress to the teary-eyed woe of a mother separated from her child.”

  “I thought Paterculis were Stoics, held themselves above the desolate morals of the rest of us.” Consul Julius snorted.

  “You’ve never seen this woman.”

  Consul Julius chewed his bottom lip. He’d find a way to get his hands on the boy.

  Chapter 4

  The dim light of rush candles lit the tablinum. Victor Ocelli dragged the bound captive in front of the leader of the Viri, former Legate Aetius Soranus. “I captured this man five years ago. I gave him to Marcellus to kill.”

  The bound man trembled, his arms shaking like a woman’s. “Marcellus let me go. He’s betrayed you.”

  Soranus jerked toward Victor. “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know. I planned to tell Marcellus about the Ides of Junio plan this week. Do you wish me to kill him instead?” Who he truly wanted to kill was Wryn Paterculi.

  “No. When we kill Emperor Trajan and our allies in the Praetorian Guard name me emperor, we’ll wipe out the Paterculis. If I discover this man’s accusation is true, I’ll kill Marcellus then.”

  Victor sighed. Four more months until he could eliminate Wryn and his obsessive meddling in Viri business? A faster way had to exist.

  “I never had a child.” Frustration crossed Soranus’s long face. “Once I’m emperor, I’ll name you as my heir. You and your sons will someday rule the Empire.”

  Victor scowled. His wife needed to hasten and give him a son.

  “You will have a son soon, I presume? Naming you as my heir is pointless if your bloodline dies with you.”

  “I’m working on it.” Six years married, three children, all daughters. The youngest closed in on two years old and his wife still wasn’t with child. His mistress grew annoyingly large with child, and he tried to prevent that result.

  “Perhaps if you expended slightly more energy on your wife.” Soranus stared down the point of his nose. “Last Viri dinner party, when you ought to have been passing out smuggling locations to our leaders of ship captains, I discovered you in a back room with a slave girl. You’d also left the smuggling parchments strewn on the floor. Take more care.”

  Did the army not teach its officers to knock? “I’ll have a son to carry on your and my legacy. You needn’t concern yourself on that point when you name me your heir.” Victor smiled. Paterculi prestige would no longer eclipse the Ocelli legacy. He’d rule this empire.

  “Good.” Soranus gestured to the bound man. “Kill the ship captain.”

  Victor raised his knife.

  “Not in my tablinum.”

  Too late. The man’s blood spilled across the white tile. Victor bowed. “My apologies. I’ll summon a slave to clean it up.”

  Libya jerked the broom across fallen leaves, clearing the walkway as the cook had screamed at her to do. A warm breeze whipped at Libya’s suffocating dress. Stone walls towered high around this villa and the surrounding gardens, locking her in like the guards who paced the exterior. How would she ever find Victor?

  Horus ran in and out of garden paths chasing a locust. She’d lectured him for an hour about not causing trouble.

  A serving girl knelt weeding the path. Phoebe, the cook had called the girl. Unlike her, the girl was freeborn with a family outside these imprisoning walls.

  With a grin, Phoebe nodded behind her. “He looked at you twice.”

  Libya twisted in the direction Phoebe pointed her chin.

  Across the courtyard, the master moved through the peristyle into the interior house.

  “Most masters do.” Libya grabbed the neck of her work dress and yanked it up. Not that it’d help. She got lucky with her old master. He had a jealous wife, who he happened to somewhat like, and he feared losing her dancing revenues if she became with child.

  Phoebe grabbed a stubborn weed with both hands. “Not here. The Paterculis are different.”

  “How so?” Kneeling by Phoebe, Libya grabbed the other side of the weed and yanked.

  The bulbous root slid out from courtyard bricks. Face red with sweat, Phoebe plopped on her haunches. “They don’t involve themselves with the slave or servant girls.”

  “Stay faithful to their wives? This is an unusual household.”

  “Even the unmarried men don’t. Believe me, if they did, I’d be interested.” The girl pointed to Wryn’s departing back.

  He did have a handsome set to his shoulders, his body toned, but she’d never willingly seek any man’s touch. Relief seeped through Libya. “Why?”

  “The Paterculis follow a strange religion, the Way. Eastern I think, illegal too.” Phoebe looked down the long row of garden beds, overflowing with blossoms. “My father’s holding a feast in celebration of my brother’s new baby. My mother baked all day, and I’m going to miss it because that slave driver cook wants this all weeded.”

  Oh, to have that, a familia, a father for Horus. A cawing raven swooped from the branches overhead. Libya gestured to the villa. “Go. I’ll finish th
e weeding for you this evening.”

  “Gratias.” Springing up, Phoebe ran for the iron gate and the freedom outside these walls.

  The pounding of little feet sounded. Horus ran into the main house. Dropping the dirty roots, Libya hastened after him.

  As she entered the atrium, Horus slid through another curtain.

  Her boots made a pounding noise as she ran. Shoving through the curtain, she grabbed Horus by the shoulders. “Horus. I told you to be good.”

  The master sat at a table. His gaze caught hers, his body stiff. Ink stained his broad hand.

  Shelves overflowing with scrolls lined this office. Horus’ slave papers would sit on one of those shelves along with hers. Patrician blood flowed in Horus’ veins. Her son deserved to own a villa like this, not grow up an uneducated slave. He deserved a father too, a man who’d love him and teach him to put his boundless energies to good use.

  Instead, she couldn’t even prevent this master from selling Horus if he so desired.

  Ripping away, Horus dashed to a shelf. The child grabbed it and flung forward. The wood landed with a crash, scattering thousands of denarii worth of scrolls across the tile floor.

  The master leaped up, his heavy sandals crashing against the tile. His arms still bore the indentation of armor, his bearing as hard as any soldier. He stood a good head taller than her, the breadth of his shoulder manifesting a terrifying strength.

  The master’s face hardened. Horus ran.

  “I’m so sorry, Master. I’ll clean it up.” Libya scrambled for the scrolls on hands and knees. Her wool dress, too hot for Rome’s weather, bunched around her calves and gaped at the neck.

  “No. Leave it.” He pointed out the curtained entrance.

  She moved to obey his order.

  Just outside the villa in a grassy space, her son swung a fallen branch.

  At the tavern, Horus had run wild with the tavern keeper’s children while the master’s wife kept her busy cleaning and scrubbing. Prying the branch from Horus’ hand, Libya squatted in front of him. “Horus, you must never do that again.”