Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  How else did one ask questions? Wryn dug his teeth into his lip. He needed to work on that.

  Gwen flopped on the couch. “If I can’t be the female spy, then who?”

  Wryn blinked. His sister never capitulated. She must truly fear for Marcellus’ life.

  Marcellus moved his gaze to where the children played. “What about her? She’s not from here, so unlike with another slave or freedwoman we might find, we know she doesn’t have contact with Victor Ocelli. She’s comely enough to distract the men from our true purpose, and as a woman of infamia I imagine, unlike you —” Marcellus glared at Wryn, “she knows how to act a part.”

  Libya. Wryn stared in horror across the adjoining space. “You truly think she could change the course of our spying?”

  Please say no. He wanted to bring down Victor Ocelli, the man who almost killed him and his familia, but spending the entire afternoon and half the night going to Ostia and back with Libya — multiple times? Standing in the same tavern as her for hours on end?

  Staying silent under torture sounded preferable.

  “I need to discover the Viri’s Ides of Junio plot and soon.” Desperation tinged Marcellus’ voice. “What do you think, Gwen?”

  “Makes sense to me.” Gwen bit into an olive. “Women are better at most everything. What’s her cover for the evening?”

  “She could pose as my mistress, I guess. Simple, but believable and a lot safer for her in that type of environment. I’d like to start traveling to Ostia twice a week.”

  No! Spend two nights a week with Libya, horrendous idea. Wryn clenched the couch pillow, forcing his breathing to slow. He needed to discover the Ides of Junio plan. This was the way to do it. “I can ask Libya.”

  Maybe she’d protest. Not likely, she was his slave. By law, she and every magical lock of her raven hair, each one of her enchanting curves, belonged to him. He needed to stop remembering that. He could handle the ride back and forth from Ostia. She’d ride stoically on her own horse, not speaking so he wouldn’t be tempted by the melodic tones of her lilting voice. Then she’d mostly aid Marcellus with his questioning, and he could stay at the far, far end of the inn doing his own spying.

  Why did she have to compose poetry? And sing? And talk of starlit skies? Everyone considered prostitutes vulgar and ignorant. For certain Libya possessed no education, but her wits moved swift as a bird in flight, same as Horus’.

  “No, Marcellus.” Gwen’s voice rose. “She is not posing as your mistress.”

  “She needs some excuse to be at the tavern. I don’t see how a little acting is going to hurt anyone.” Marcellus bit into a piece of bread.

  “Remember our agreement. No more philandering, even of the show variety,” Gwen said.

  “I never did any other kind.”

  “I know you didn’t.” Gwen crossed her arms. “That doesn’t make it any less unpleasant when one’s friends gossip about one’s husband.”

  “How do you suggest we get the vital information from these men that we need?”

  Gwen shifted. “She could pose as a dancing girl. She knows how.”

  Marcellus clenched his fist. “I won’t let any woman be vulnerable in that way.”

  “I know, I know,” Gwen said. “Your mother. Though for the last five years, I’ve begged you to let me pose as one of those so I could spy at some of the events and you keep insisting I only attend the respectable ones.”

  Marcellus’ mother? What did a patrician woman have to do with any of this? As Gwen and Marcellus play-fought, like they always did before devolving into inappropriate displays of affection, Wryn turned to the room where the children played. “Libya.”

  She rose, her dress falling around her legs. Her body swayed as she crossed to him. “Yes, master.”

  “I want to ask you about a situation if you’re interested. Sit.” He motioned to the couch beside him. If only she were vulgar and simple-minded, he wouldn’t have this problem.

  At least he hoped not.

  Gaze moving between the master and Gwen and her husband, Libya lowered herself uneasily on the couch. Masters didn’t ask slaves to sit.

  “How about Wryn?” Gwen curved her red lips.

  Marcellus raised an eyebrow. The two of them and their children looked so happy, the kind of loving familia she only ever dreamed of giving Horus.

  “Libya could pose as Wryn’s mistress.” Amusement swam in Gwen’s dark eyes. “You’ve always wanted a mistress, haven’t you big brother?”

  Libya shivered. Phoebe had said Paterculis don’t, yet....

  The master looked utterly scandalized.

  “Look at that face.” Marcellus groaned. “He’s incapable of pulling it off.”

  “He’s got the same blood as mine running in his veins. Give the man a chance.” Gwen looked at the master.

  He turned to Libya. “I apologize about that. My sister has never had any sense of decorum, ever.” He glared at his sister. “Marcellus and I have been traveling to the Ostia docks questioning people at taverns late at night when they aren’t of a mind to be tight-lipped. It relates to piracy issues. We could use a female spy, and though Gwen would love to play the part, she can’t.”

  Libya’s breathing slowed. A respectable kind of work then if the master’s sister wished to do it.

  “We go about twice a week.” The master’s tunic sleeve cut across his upper arm, revealing muscles worthy of battlefields. Yet he’d proven gentle with Horus two days ago. His broad hand rested on the couch cushion, the calluses on his palm testifying his skill with weapon — or, no doubt, lash. According to Horus, though, he used those hands to teach her son numbers and sums.

  No man had ever taken any interest in her son. Only in her dreams did Horus have a father. Libya dug her fingers into the couch.

  “Do you want to spy for the Empire?” Wryn looked at her. “Help me bring down Victor Ocelli?”

  Victor? Libya’s breath quickened. Perhaps she could see Victor in Ostia. “Yes.”

  Wryn nodded, his strong jaw moving down. Her heart knotted. He proved kind to her and Horus. Still, she and Horus remained his slaves, and soon Aulia would join this household as its mistress. Who knew if the new domina would show Horus half as much kindness.

  Masters’ wives had a way of hating her, which often descended into beatings for Horus. If she wished to give Horus the protection of freedom, she had to choose Victor’s side.

  “Good.” Marcellus rose. “We go tomorrow. We’ll need to leave by early afternoon. Wryn will tell you what we’re looking for on the ride there.”

  “Mama,” Horus called from the other room.

  She glanced at him, then at the master.

  Wryn nodded, giving her permission.

  Standing, she went to Horus. Soon, she’d find his father, and now she’d have information Victor wanted. She’d use what she learned to force Victor to free and educate her son.

  Chapter 8

  Ostia tonight. Wryn shuffled the garrison tablets Legate Aemilli had ordered done by the morrow. Noonday light shone on weapon tallies, feast budgets, and more drawings for the latrine digging project. The man must hate him. Oh, to do prefect work instead. He could become prefect this week if he set a date and married Aulia.

  With the sound of pattering feet, Horus barged through the curtain and collided into the table. “Teach me more letters.”

  “Can’t.” The numbers blurred on the wax as Wryn ran his finger down yet another line of calculations.

  “I want to see the map again with the garrison.” Horus grabbed the edge of his chair and hopped up and down.

  “I’ll send you to school if you want.” The boy should get an education.

  “I don’t want to go to school. I want you to teach me.” Grabbing the edge of the table, Horus scooted on top of it.

  “I’m busy.” Wryn moved the tablets away from Horus’ dirty feet.

  “What’s this?” Jumping to a precarious stand on the table, Horus leaned to the shelf behind hi
m and touched his gladius.

  “Not yours.” Wryn grabbed the sword and bodily removed Horus from the table.

  “I want a gladius.”

  “Boys your age train with armatura swords.” Wooden armatura swords, so children like Horus couldn’t kill anyone.

  “I want an armatura sword.” Horus wrapped both his sticky hands around the gladius handle and tugged.

  Wryn groaned. “If I give you an armatura sword, will you leave me in peace?”

  Horus moved his chin up then down.

  Grabbing the household keys, Wryn led him through the gardens to the back storage shed. The little-used key grated in the lock. He shoved aside a barrel, old linens, and Mother’s seed collection. A box of games he used to play sat on top of Eric and his armatura swords. “Here, you can have these too.”

  The boy grabbed the box.

  Crossing back to the tablinum, Wryn settled into the chair. The last influx of smuggling shipments to come through Ostia’s ports included silks from the East. Victor’s Ides of Junio plot could involve luxury goods.

  Something whacked him across the arm.

  Horus held the armatura sword.

  Precisely why he hadn’t given that child a metal sword. “No hitting.”

  “Show me how to fight with them.” Horus shoved the other sword at him.

  “If I show you, then will you let me do my work?”

  Horus nodded.

  “Very well.” Dropping Legate Aemilli’s unending tablets, Wryn grabbed the other sword. A crack ran down the wooden handle where Eric had chipped his sword fighting him many, many years ago. He motioned Horus to the garden.

  The garden pool reflected the sunshine. A pace from the glistening water of the garden pool, Horus swung.

  “No.” Wryn took a soldier’s stance, one leg extended. “Guard your body with the sword.”

  Horus waved the sword up.

  Wryn blocked. Stabbing, he clipped Horus’ arm.

  “I need a shield.”

  “If you have good footwork, you don’t need a shield. Try to stab me.”

  Horus struck up then down. Wryn blocked the blows. The child put impressive force behind each swing. He’d make a decent legionary.

  Dropping the sword, Horus lunged and grabbed Wryn’s sword arm. Wryn caught him around the waist. The child pummeled forward with both fists.

  Wryn flipped the child upside down. Horus slammed his foot into Wryn’s stomach, and Wryn dropped him.

  Grabbing the armatura sword, Horus swung for his head. Wryn grabbed Horus’ arm. Driving with both feet, Horus dug his sandals into Wryn’s kidneys. Wryn grimaced, but the boy scrambled up on him again, fists flailing.

  Wryn tossed him in the pool.

  With a gasp, the child started spluttering and sinking. “Help!”

  The water splashed up around Wryn as he jumped in the pool. He grabbed the boy. “You don’t know how to swim?”

  Horus shook his dripping head.

  He should teach him before the child drowned himself in this pool.

  As he carried the child out of the waist-deep water, Horus wrapped his little arms around Wryn’s neck. “I like you.”

  Wryn glanced to the blue sky above. “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

  “What’s mutual?”

  Wryn groaned.

  The overhang of the Paterculi stables blocked the intense sun as Wryn took the reins to a black stallion. The stableman led the other two horses toward Libya and Marcellus.

  Marcellus glanced at Libya. He turned to Wryn. “You are by far the worst actor I’ve ever seen.”

  “We haven’t even made it to Ostia. You can’t criticize my performance yet.”

  “This.” Marcellus pointed to Libya’s brown dress. “If you’re trying to get a port to think a woman’s your mistress, you don’t give her a coarse wool dress.”

  “I didn’t give her anything.”

  “Exactly.” Marcellus turned to her. “I apologize, Libya. If Wryn gets you killed tonight, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Marcellus pointed to the market. “Go buy her a dress. And hurry.”

  Buy a woman a dress? Swinging on the horse, Wryn urged it forward.

  The dusty road gave way to wooden shops and the bustle of the marketplace. As irritating as Marcellus proved at times, he spied well. Dismounting, Wryn approached the first stall. He touched a tunica.

  Silk would probably look too fine for the role Libya played tonight. Fine linen seemed more the thing a man would buy a mistress. Red mixed with greens, blues, and oranges. A saffron-colored tunica flapped in the breeze. Libya’s black hair would contrast against that yellow, her dark skin lovelier yet.

  Buying her a dress seemed incredibly wrong, but Marcellus had insisted. “That one.”

  An old woman tsked her tongue against her missing teeth and started folding it.

  Gold flashed. The jewels slid through his hand. He’d never bought jewelry for a woman. He should probably buy some for Aulia. Marcellus could lose his life at Victor’s hand if he didn’t playact well tonight and discover the Viri’s plot.

  “See something you’d like to buy your ladylove?” The old woman held up a gold chain in her gnarled hands.

  “No, that one.” He pointed to another. A red ruby glistened in the golden setting as rich as Libya’s hair was dark. “And those.” He nodded to the gold bracelets by the chain.

  As the woman packaged the jewels and cloth, a guilty feeling twisted around his stomach. Libya had agreed to spy, and Marcellus had set the parameters of successful spying. He bore no responsibility for any of this.

  Though he sincerely doubted Aulia would see it that way.

  His coins clinked against the wood counter. Taking the package, he mounted his horse.

  Back at the stables, Wryn handed the bundle to Libya. A few moments later, Libya reemerged looking, apparently, like a man’s mistress would. How had Marcellus talked him into this horrible farce?

  Instead of offering Libya assistance mounting the gentle mare that stood in the courtyard, Marcellus tossed the reins to Libya’s horse to him.

  With a grunt, Wryn turned to face the now even lovelier Libya. The work dress had at least covered her arms. He held out his hand.

  “I can’t ride.” Her musical voice rose as when she composed that song.

  “Of course, you can.”

  Libya backed away from the horse.

  This could not be happening. He was not riding several hours to Ostia with Libya brushing up against him the entire way as she sat on his horse. “Try.”

  Slowly, she laid her hand in his. Her skin felt smooth as the blue sky above. His hand touched her waist as he lifted her on the horse.

  By Jove, he should have bought two-ply wool, not fine linen, because he could feel the warmth of her skin.

  Turning to his steed, he grasped the stallion’s saddle and vaulted up.

  The mare, which Libya had somehow spooked in the space of two moments, bucked. With a scream, Libya clasped her arms around the horse’s neck.

  Wryn cast his gaze to the scorching sky above. His problem, again. Squeezing his knees into the stallion’s sides, he drew even with Libya. “You truly can’t ride.”

  “That’s what I told you at first.” Her dark eyes sparked as if she blamed him. Aulia never blamed him for anything.

  He leaned right, and his arm circled Libya’s sculpted waist. The linen conformed to her skin as he pulled her onto his horse.

  Her hands clenched on his leg, her movement as she sat sidesaddle in front of him just as excruciating as on that ride from the tavern. Only then Horus had sat there to twist and kick and detract from the way Libya’s body pressed against him, her skin touching his.

  He would make Gwen teach Libya how to ride a horse, preferably before another sunset.

  Marcellus’ horse pulled ahead. Wryn spurred his horse on. Narrow city roads gave way to paved highways in silence. Then the smell of the Tiber rose from the river bank, encircling them with its fresh scent as
the sun sank.

  Libya tilted her dark eyes up to him. “What are we looking for tonight?”

  “Any whispers of what the Viri will smuggle on the Ides of Junio. Our information says it’s colossal, so hundreds of ship captains could be involved.” Wryn tugged the horse left, following the curve of the road.

  “All here in Ostia?” She nodded to where the port city lit the darkening horizon.

  Wryn nodded.

  “Wouldn’t a movement of that size expose them to capture? What smuggling venture would be important enough for that?” Her body relaxed against him, the edge of her shoulders skimming his chest.

  He stiffened. “I don’t know. Smuggling enough grain to swamp the grain supply and put legitimate merchants out of business? Slaver boats? Could be anything.”

  “Wouldn’t flooding the supply bring down the price the Viri receive too?”

  He stared at her. She spoke the truth.

  Libya shifted, saffron cloth sliding up around her dark legs. “What if, instead of shipping massive quantities, they’re smuggling one significant item?”

  “Such as what?”

  The corners of her eyes crinkled. “You’re the defender of Rome.”

  Was she laughing at him?

  Libya touched the horse’s mane and swiveled to face him. “When you go into the taverns, do you already know which are the Viri ship captains?”

  Wryn shook his head. “Looking for the most unsavory characters often gives one a clue, though.”

  Her chin moved down then up through the darkness. “I’ll do that.”

  His gaze stayed on her. He’d instructed patricians who had a less ready grasp of strategy than this uneducated slave woman. He shook his head, a wonder in his voice. “You have keen wits.”

  As her gaze darted to his, she pulled back from him, a relief. Shock shone in those alluring almond orbs.

  “What?”

  “I….” She slid her fingers through the coarse strands of the horse’s mane. “No one ever said that to me before.”

  “People are idiots.” A true statement. Tonight, he had to interact with an entire tavern full of such people.