Darkness fell over the Paterculi household. Still, people bustled. Libya glanced around the servants’ quarters as men tugged on cloaks and women laced sandals. “Is everyone going somewhere?”
Phoebe stabbed a hair pin in. “Yes. First Day service, the meeting for the followers of the Way to worship Christus. All the servants go.”
“Do they all follow this Christus?” Libya brushed a wooden comb down her locks.
Phoebe shrugged. “No, but you get the next day off work if you go. The master’s rules.”
The comb snarled, and Libya worked oil into a knot. “Even me, a slave?” What she’d give for an entire day to spend with Horus.
“I imagine so.”
If she asked a stranger at this meeting the location of Victor Ocelli’s villa, word would never get back to the master.
The darkness of night surrounded them as the little group of Paterculi servants and guards wound their way through narrow streets.
Libya clenched Horus’ hand. In front of them, the ground sloped leading to an opening in the earth below. “What’s that?” She glanced at Phoebe.
The master’s gaze touched her. The torch he held reflected off his face and glinted against the metal sword at his belt. “The catacombs.”
The tombs of the dead? Libya’s eyes widened, but the master ducked his head and entered the narrow passageway. All around, other people joined them. The Paterculi servants swept ahead as Libya held tight to Horus.
“Is it a cave? I like caves.” Horus tugged against her arm, propelling her on.
People jostled them on every side. Brown stone closed her in, the ceilings so low she had to stoop. She shivered.
Why follow a religion you have to hide in the haunts of the dead to even practice? The catacombs opened up into one massive tomb in front of her, the ceiling so high the lights of torches didn’t reach it. At the front of the gathering, a few people played instruments, raising a haunting melody of trumpet, timpani, flute, and lyre. Horus pulled right.
“No.” She grabbed his shoulders.
A gnarled woman dressed in plain wool raised a tablet. The eerie timbre of her voice rose through this tomb.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.
“What’s she talking about, Mama?” Horus yanked on her sleeve. Here at the edge of the assembly darkness covered the brick walls, but a chill breeze blew from passages beyond, hinting of tombs and ghouls.
She flipped her hand, palm up.
A man neither young nor old looked to her. Clay stained his hands. “The Apostle Paul wrote it about Christus, our God who came down from the heavens a hundred years ago.”
Horus wrinkled his nose.
“You’re new to this assembly, aren’t you?” The man held out a sturdy hand. A little boy clung to his leg, and a girl stood beside him.
Libya nodded. “And to Rome.”
“What brings you to this city?”
She struggled to keep a grip on Horus’ wriggling body as he strained toward the all-encompassing darkness. “A slave doesn’t need reasons to be sold.”
“To the Paterculis?” He motioned with his chin to where Wryn stood a few paces ahead.
She nodded again.
“I was a slave ten years ago. My wife bought my freedom. We had six years together before she died. I’m Jacob, the potter.” Jacob looked at her like he expected her name.
Horus jerked from her grip.
“Come back.” She pounded after him. Horus ran faster. Light vanished as the passageway Horus had chosen curved.
An oblong something lay on the floor, an even darker hole beyond it. “Come back.” Libya grabbed for Horus.
Horus jumped through the hole. He shouted. Something clattered. Then she heard the sound of falling and Horus’ cry cut off.
She screamed. Something rustled farther on, a ghoul of the night most likely. Her chest trembled as she scrambled through the darkness to the hole. “Horus!”
No answer.
“Horus!” Her cry bounced off the walls that pressed around her in the darkness. Blood pounded in her temples as she felt an all too familiar surge of fear.
A footstep fell behind her. Warm light flickered in the narrow corridor. Stepping across a granite block, the master held his torch to the hole. “He’s well, just got the wind knocked out of him.”
She approached one step closer. Horus sat in a pile of bones at the bottom of a shaft perhaps a man’s height tall. The light of the master’s lamp flickered off Horus’ face, giving his eyes a ghostly glow. She shuddered.
“Hold this.” The master shoved the torch into her hands and scrambled through the small space. With an oomph, his feet landed on the floor.
The master took hold of Horus and lifted him.
A shaking Horus emerged from the tomb’s opening. Libya grabbed him around his middle with her free hand.
He clung to her, his little arms wrapped around her neck. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I’ll never be bad again.”
She stroked her hand across his pale cheek.
Horus grabbed her chin. “Mama, do you think that God – Christus – that the man spoke about threw me down there because I ran away from you? I’ll never, ever run away again.”
The fear of a god motivated Horus to obey? She’d take it. “More than likely.”
“No.” The master’s arms bulged as he pulled himself up from the tomb. “Christus loves us.”
“I don’t think so.” Horus shook his mop of black hair. “No one even likes me. You don’t. Why would your God?”
The corners of the master’s mouth crinkled as if he could smile. “My God is considerably more longsuffering than I.”
The torchlight reflected in his eyes. The flickering light made even larger shadows of his already considerable frame. Yet here in these tombs his presence felt protective, not dangerous. Libya squeezed her hand around Horus’.
“No broken bones?” The master squatted by Horus as he took the boy’s ankle in his hand. His forearm brushed hers as he examined Horus’ leg.
As she sat, Horus on her legs, she met the master’s gaze. “Thank you. I feared Horus dead.”
He shrugged. “It was nothing.” Standing, he reached down for her.
“It was everything to me.” As she had no choice, she touched her fingers to his palm. The warmth of his hand surrounded hers. His powerful arm lent her strength as he helped her to her feet.
For one flicker of the torchlight, she could imagine how a woman might desire the touch of a man.
Chapter 6
Libya stripped soiled linens off now-empty beds the Paterculi familia had vacated. The free had the privilege of preserving family ties. If only she could give Horus a father, a familia. Arms full, she moved through the peristyle as the first glimmers of dawn lit the cool air.
“I’ll send those to the fuller’s shop.” The cook jerked the linens from her hands.
“I’ll take them.” At the catacombs, an elderly woman had given her directions to the Ocelli villa. Now she needed an excuse to get through that barred gate.
“Absolutely not. I don’t trust you outside of these walls.” The woman’s red eyes watered and her nose swelled to twice its normal size.
Libya’s heart sank with despair. She picked up a fallen sheet and handed it to the cook. “Are you ill?”
“It’s this wretched weather. Happens every spring.” The cook harrumphed. The poor woman looked like she was in pain.
“I’ve heard a mint drink helps. I can make you some.”
“Don’t need help from no prostitute. Keep cleaning.” With a grunt, the cook turned away.
Unfamiliar voices spoke from the room beyond. Dashing around the corner, Horus ducked into the room.
Not a good thing if
the master had guests. Libya peeked around the uncovered doorway. The master’s sister sat by Aulia, the woman from the betrothal ceremony. Gwen’s two children played on the floor.
“Thank you for inviting me to your father’s house.” Aulia settled her tunica around her legs. She shifted her gaze self-consciously to the atrium.
“My father’s house? He’s in Egypt. It’s my brother that lives here.” The master’s sister smirked. “And it’s you who suggested we meet here rather than the much more sensible solution of meeting at my house.” Her children scurried to the shelf where a knucklebones game sat.
Horus ran toward them. Masters’ and slaves’ children often played until a certain age.
Libya glanced at the master’s sister. She kept talking to Aulia, no objection in her countenance.
If Horus somehow terrorized these children, he’d earn a beating for sure. Libya moved into the room.
The master’s sister rested one hand on the bronze couch arm. “Aulia, you know Wryn will leave for tribune work any moment now. He’ll likely not return until sunset.”
Aulia pressed her white hand to her heart. “I would never stalk my betrothed.”
“No?” Gwen crinkled the corners of her mouth. “Not the impression I got at your betrothal ceremony when you spent an entire hour peeking out of windows looking for him.”
“My father has given his word to your brother.” Aulia held herself very straight. “I merely wish to do my duty well.”
Gwen sprang to her feet, flinging a cover to the floor. “No, you don’t. You’re bouncing with giddiness. If you didn’t have propriety, you’d throw yourself across the room into his arms.” Gwen moved her gaze across the room, past the door, over the atrium pool to the tablinum.
The wind blew the curtain, revealing a glimpse of the master.
Aulia blushed crimson. “He’s astute and talented, and so handsome. Oh, this is the happiest day of my life, Gwen! Remember my first betrothal when the old legate broke it because he already had heirs and he wanted to take his slave as concubine rather than marry a new wife? Now after all the broken betrothals to wicked men to get the man I’ve loved for years?” Aulia clasped Gwen’s hand. “To get
Wr — I mean Tribune Paterculi.”
A snort rose in Libya’s throat. This Aulia thought violent men treated their wives poorly? She should try experiencing how they treated prostitutes. The woman looked enviably respectable, her green-bordered palla pushed down around her shoulders, her thick hair bound securely behind her pretty cheeks.
“For heaven’s sake, Aulia, you’ve known Wryn since you were a child.” A smile turned up Gwen’s red lips. “You don’t have to parade around calling him Tribune Paterculi.”
“He’s my betrothed. It would scarcely be proper for me to so flippantly address him.”
Gwen sighed. “Wryn’s got enough ego already. With you, he’ll be unredeemable.”
Aulia widened her pale eyes. “Surely you wouldn’t desire your brother’s wife to cross him?”
“Yes, I very much would!” Gwen flopped onto the couch. Her littlest took a halting step away from her.
Libya held out her hand to the adorable boy. Taking another step, he closed his chubby fist over her finger.
Footsteps sounded in the atrium. The master glanced into the room. Metal armor covered his chest, his brilliant red cloak fell to his calves. “Oh, salve, Gwen, Aulia. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Didn’t you?” Gwen shifted back on the couch, chin in her hand, grin on her face. “I just always come here with my children while you work. The multitude of children pastimes here are astounding.”
The master stared at her. “I don’t think this villa has any games, except maybe knucklebones.”
Libya glanced at the disarray of the shelves’ contents. Would the master blame Horus for that? The master’s gaze touched her. He swiftly jerked his gaze away, no hint of the kindness he’d shown at the catacombs.
“A sad situation you should remedy, don’t you think?” Gwen nodded to the shelf that her daughter helped Horus empty. “I mean with you getting married, Aulia having your babes.”
The master turned scarlet. “I have to work.”
Aulia didn’t even blush. Instead, she fluttered her eyelashes. “I hope you have a pleasant day at the garrison.”
“Gratias.” The master’s voice was deep, but he turned on his heel fast as an untried youth.
At least one man in the Empire objected to such talk. Victor had always spoken so explicitly.
Scooping up Gwen’s littlest, Libya moved to the shelf and rescued a scroll from Horus’ unwashed fingers.
“Please promise me you’ll at least insist on something with my brother.” Gwen leaned her head on the couch back. “Porridge for breakfast perhaps?”
Aulia fluttered her hand up. “He doesn’t like porridge?”
“Hates it. Claims it scarred him as a child.”
Aulia clasped her hands together. “I’m so glad you told me. I have a generations-old porridge recipe from my mother, and I planned to prepare it for him the morning after our wedding. I can’t believe I came so close to disappointing him on our very first day together.”
“You’re hopeless.” Gwen sighed. She ran her gaze over Aulia’s still glowing cheeks. “I’m glad you’re happy, though.”
Aulia looked to the doorway the master had recently stood in. She clasped her hand to her heart. “Do you imagine underneath his tunic is as bronzed as his muscled arms?”
Libya rolled her eyes. Spoken like a virginal bride, what every man at those taverns and brothels talked about, even as they used her. She couldn’t help but hate the woman a little.
“Unless he does military exercises stripped naked like a barbarian berserker, I’d expect not.” Gwen picked up her baby. “Do we have to talk about this? He’s my brother.”
“I stole a copy of Catullus’ love poems from my father’s library, the most erotic collection. Catullus said that —”Aulia shamelessly described an intricate variation of the erotic act. “Is it true if Wryn and I did that, it would send tingles of fire —”
“Aulia!” Gwen lurched to the edge of the couch. “This is my brother. Once you create these retch-worthy images in my imagination, I cannot unthink them.”
“You’ve been married for five years.” Aulia grabbed Gwen’s hand. “You have to tell me.”
“He’s my brother. So no, I don’t.”
Aulia twisted. “Libya.”
Libya startled, swishing her loose hair.
“Tell me, is there as much pleasure in —” Aulia dropped her voice as she described a deviation of the most intimate of acts. “As Catullus would have us believe?”
A cold chill ran through Libya. Catullus, is that who those men at the brothel had read when they wanted her to do that? “I wouldn’t know.”
“Wouldn’t know?” Aulia ran her gaze down Libya’s unbound hair and across the star tattoo that marked her as a woman who’d done this a thousand times before.
Prostitute. The soon-to-be mistress of this house might as well speak the accusation aloud. Though she could neither read nor sum, she had ideas about the world, the meaning of life, the beauty of nature. No one ever asked her about those. Her prostituting talents, that’s what everyone wished to know about.
For certain she had talents. You didn’t survive ten years of infamia and violent men without becoming extremely talented at acting.
“No, tell me,” Aulia ordered her.
Libya lowered her gaze to the red wool carpet, voice low enough not to carry to Horus’ ears. “I’ve always hated the touch of any man. Catullus speaks truly though that the men like it.”
Aulia squared her small shoulders. “I intend to like it too.”
Of course, along with every other advantage the patrician virgin enjoyed, she had to emphasize that her ability to find pleasure with a man hadn’t been broken by ten years of infamia. Libya glared at the carpet fibers.
Wait, so
meone had asked her about her wits. Wryn had insultingly asked for her thoughts on Emperor Trajan. Still, he dialogued with her about it.
Wryn buckled his bracer with one hand as his gaze skimmed down the scroll. Elijah called down a fiery judgment against the Samaritans.
A powerful man, Elijah always won, unlike Ezekiel or Jeremiah, who got thrown into pits and had to cook with dung for months at a time.
After garrison work tonight, he’d meet with Consul Julius and tell him what he gathered from Ostia when he and Marcellus went last week.
“What are you reading?” Horus poked his head through the curtain.
“The scriptures.” Wryn bent to strap metal greaves to his legs.
The child slid into the room. Shoving his head over the table, he peered at the parchment.
Afternoon sunlight reflected off Wryn’s cuirass, matching his flaming red cloak. “It’s about Elijah. He was a prophet of the Most High God. Once a gang of young men attacked him, and he sent bears to maul them.”
Horus touched his hand to the page. Oil dripped from his fingers. “I never saw a bear.” Something slimy oozed from the boy’s legs, making a puddle on the floor.
Wryn grabbed him. “What did you —” He snapped his mouth shut as the smell overpowered him.
The oily substance on the boy smeared across his cuirass, wiping across the skin of his arms above his bracers. Myrrh perfume, myrrh that cost several hundred denarii a pot mixed with the most revolting refuse. He didn’t even dare to guess what it was.
He lifted the boy away from the parchment and held him extended between two hands. “Libya.”
Horus thrashed. The child’s movements sprayed the retch-worthy oil across Wryn’s legs, spattering over his hair and face.
The sound of light footsteps echoed through the courtyard. Libya slipped through the curtained entrance. “Master.”
“Wash your son.” Shoving the fiend into Libya’s embrace, Wryn wiped his hand against the fringe of his tunic. The stench rose to high heaven, and he had to report to the garrison within the hour.
Grabbing the child, Libya tugged him to the atrium pool. Dipping her delicate hand into the water, she splashed water over his arms. Her black hair fell around her shoulders, skimming over each curve as she knelt by the stone pool. “Horus. What did you get into?”
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 7