“I just wondered. You weren’t dressed sufficiently.”
“Dancing girls aren’t prostitutes.” Her voice quavered. Ten years of infamia, three and a half of them as a prostitute, and she still woke in a cold sweat when she dreamed of those times. She didn’t want Wryn to ever think of her like that.
“And you have Horus.”
Because of Victor. She hugged her arms tightly around herself, yet she could still feel the sticky touch of brothel patrons, the sour smell of much-used sheets, the choking feeling as she forced smiles instead of screams. “I wasn’t.”
Wryn tilted his firm chin. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I? I’m sure Gwen would tell me I’m not supposed to ask a woman if she’s ever been a prostitute.”
She liked Wryn’s sister.
“I suppose it sounds even worse now if I ask you to teach me to flirt?”
The cold chills of seven-year-old memories still shook her body, but he was the master so he could order what he wished.
“I’m very sorry I assumed you were a prostitute. How’s that?” Warmth lighted his face.
Sorry? She parted her lips a fraction as she gave the slightest of headshakes.
He quirked one eyebrow. “What?”
Her shaking limbs stilled as a warmth like summer spread over her. “Masters don’t apologize to slaves.” He’d done it twice in as many days.
He twisted his mouth up. “I shall endeavor to remember that hereafter.” His broad hand touched the colonnade, the muscles of his arm tensing as he leaned up on it. “So, take me as a flirtation pupil ‘yay’ or ‘nay’?”
As if she had a choice?
“You can say no, Libya.” His dark eyes connected with her. “You don’t have to go to Ostia either if you don’t wish it. I know last night was traumatizing and I’m sorry for that.”
This was the third apology from her master and a choice. She had too few of those in her twenty-two years. If she did discover this Ides of Junio plot for Wryn, she might well work Victor’s downfall. She should tell the master “no.”
The feeling of heady excitement when she used her skills to discover something a man who led armies had tried and failed to determine swept over her. He called her an astute spy. She was good at something besides prostitution and sordid dancing — good at something that used her wits. He looked at her last night as if she had value for something besides her body.
Her gaze met Wryn’s, and her lips twitched up. “Of course, I’ll help you.”
His square hand gestured downward, his face as intent as if he diagrammed some movement of legions. “I’m in the tavern with you. On my right is a drunken man. On my left, a ship navigator who I wish to gain information from. In front of us is a rude boor who is making your life unpleasant.”
A laugh started in Libya’s chest. Wryn’s brow furrowed as intently as if an army of ten thousand soldiers stormed his garrison.
“I could punch the fellow, but this does not meet Marcellus-approved subtlety standards. Meanwhile, the ship navigator walks away from my table, losing me all opportunity to gather information.”
Her lips tugging up, she fought the urge to let the laughter come bubbling out. A bit of flirtation was not as difficult as he made it.
“Instead, Marcellus says I’m supposed to give the boorish man the impression that you and I are together, thus making him leave you alone so we can focus on spying.”
Her chest shook with suppressed laughter. She hadn’t misjudged him when she guessed iron flowed through his veins instead of blood.
“I could jump on the bench and yell, ‘this is my woman, prepare to be knifed if you so much as look at her.’ Somehow, I don’t think that’s what Marcellus had in mind.”
The laughter overwhelmed her. She needed to stop before he realized she laughed at him, but she couldn’t as peal after peal of laughter erupted from her.
“What’s so amusing?” Wryn stared at her, confusion on his tanned face.
Tears ran down her eyes as she fought back the laughter. She forced her smiling lips into a straight line. “Nothing, master.”
“What do I do?”
“To?” She tried to focus her thoughts.
“Flirt with you? Give those around us the impression you’re mine.”
His? Like Aulia was his. Lucky Aulia, she’d not deal with the unfaithfulness that most Roman matrons endured in a husband.
Wryn looked at her, his strong jaw just barely parted.
Such a pure look in his eyes, as if he didn’t even understand the ways of the night and raucous passion that a former master had forcibly educated her on ten long years ago. Her gaze fell. “It’s easy. A touch, a look. You don’t have to even flirt.”
He cocked his head. “What kind of look? What kind of touch?”
Was this man truly that inexperienced? For a man of his wealth and prestige, any inexperience would be through choice not lack of opportunity.
Her voice fell to a mumble. “You touch my waist. You move your mouth over mine. You glare at any man whose gaze runs over me.” The same way mongrels exerted possession over tree trunks.
“I wouldn’t want to take liberties with your person.”
She jerked her gaze up. He must know he wouldn’t be the first man to take liberties with her, yet he cared enough not to do it. Respected her, his slave.
“I don’t want to cause you any unpleasantness.”
With a shake of her head, she forced away memories of times gone by and focused on this moment. A moment when a man desired her intellectual abilities to bring down an enemy all the might of Rome had failed to conquer. “I don’t care. It’s just a game.” She let the light of a smile into her eyes. “Besides, what if the Empire fell for lack of it?”
His eyes narrowed even as his mouth twisted up. “You say that, but you’re not thinking empire-exalting thoughts.”
She kept her face blank, gaze on the ground as befitted a slave, but her words were any but what a slave should say to her master. “I wake every morning wondering how I might best serve the Empire.”
He laughed, as she hoped he would. “Just wait, I’ll make a statesman of you yet. A few months more and even Emperor Trajan will be honored by your empire-serving allegiance.”
As if the Emperor would care what a slave girl thought of his empire, but Wryn did. Very few people had ever cared about her thoughts. She knotted one hand around the other. “Thank you for not letting the man at the inn separate Horus and me.”
“I doubt I did much. Gnaeus would have returned Horus in a day or two after his villa burned down, his horses had their hamstrings cut, and he lost a few limbs to your son.” Wryn’s eyes laughed.
So even statues knew how to smile. He hadn’t hurt Horus despite all the mischief her son had caused here. Something flickered inside her, a strange feeling. Trust?
Victor wiped his bloody blade across the white cloth. Still, specks of brown spotted the gleaming metal. He scowled. Messy business, killing. Once the Ides of Junio came, and they assassinated Emperor Trajan, and he became second in line to the Emperor, he’d hire other men to do his killing.
He also needed a son to carry on his dynasty, preferably several. Dropping the bloodstained blade, he crossed the atrium toward his wife’s chambers. The physician he ordered here this morn should have arrived.
He shoved aside the curtain. His wife sat on the bed, her knees drawn up around their youngest daughter. The family physician, a gray-haired freedman with long fingers sat on a stool.
Victor gestured toward him. “You’ve had your examination. Why is my wife not with child yet?” After three daughters, the next child better be a boy.
The lanky man coughed. “As I said almost two years ago when your wife nearly bled out from childbirth, I doubt she’ll bear another child.”
“What!” Victor whipped to Iulia. “You told me after this girl’s birth, your body merely needed rest.”
The physician scratched behind his neck. “Nothing could be certain witho
ut time, but I told your wife after the complications last time more than likely she’d never bear another child. I told her mother and father too. I thought you knew.”
“Everyone knew this but me?”
The physician ran his fingers through his wispy hair. “It seems so.”
His wife crossed her pale arms, defiant as she’d become more and more often through the years. “You weren’t in the room. Off with a mistress even when I gave birth.”
The plop of droplets from the water clock echoed as Victor looked at his wife. “I’d have divorced you two years ago if I’d known this.”
Her arms clenched around his child, voice a whisper. “I know.”
Victor pointed to the physician. “Leave.”
The man scurried through the curtain.
Clutching his daughter tighter, Iulia looked up at him. “If you divorce me, you lose all the political prestige you’ve gained from my familia and will have to return my entire dowry, which I happen to know you’ve already lost. Good fortune coming up with that money.”
Victor narrowed his gaze. “Without a male heir, my bloodline dies. What’s a fortune without heirs?”
“Adopt another man’s son. It’s Roman tradition.” Iulia clenched the hem of his daughter’s dress.
“I want my own blood to inherit the Ocelli estates. If I have to sell off villas and lose connections to divorce you, so be it.”
“Adopt one of your bastards from your mistresses. You’ve had enough of them through the years.” A quaver sounded in Iulia’s voice.
He hadn’t heard that quaver since years ago when he first married her, a young bride straight from her father’s house. She was comelier now, grown into a woman’s body. He needed a son, though, so the divorce couldn’t be helped. “I can’t. They’re all girls.”
Her kohl-tinted eyelashes flickered up. “What?”
Yes, his thoughts on the matter too. “All my mistresses have had girls.”
“All?” Her hand rose from his child. “You must have at least a dozen illegitimate children in this city, and those are only the mistresses I’ve discovered.”
“All I’ve kept track of anyway.” In the last few years, he kept track of most of them because he wanted to know if he even could produce a male child.
“What if your next wife bears girls too? Why divorce me and lose all my dowry just to marry another woman who will give you more daughters?”
What if he was incapable of producing sons? He needed a male heir. Victor’s pulse increased, but he lifted his shoulders in a shrug and turned to the door.
“Perhaps Edna will have a boy this time.”
He whipped around.
“That is your mistress’ name, is it not? The one who’s with child?” Fire burned in Iulia’s eyes. “Or are you too busy taking your pleasure to remember the women’s names?”
With a roll of his eyes, Victor left the room.
Libya bent, scrubbing the atrium tiles. Digging her fingernails hard into the grout, she scoured the mold.
The porter ushered Aulia in. The lady’s guards hung back at the colonnades as the porter bowed. “I’ll go get the dominus.”
“No, don’t!” Aulia rubbed her thumb against her palm, her pale cheeks turning brilliant pink. “I mean, I don’t want to disturb him. I just…. You see, he said he’d come to my father’s house this morn. He didn’t, and I thought maybe he’d gotten injured, or fallen sick, or died. He is a tribune, a splendorous tribune.” Her eyes glowed. “But you said he’s well, so maybe I should just go. I don’t know.”
The porter blinked. “Whatever you wish, domina.” With an inclination of his head, he headed back to the gate.
Standing, Libya let her cloth fall into the dirty water. “Can I get you anything, Lady Aulia?” Soon the woman would move into this villa as its mistress. She’d do well to hide her dislike of the domina.
Aulia took a step forward. “You’re the one whose son Gwen’s children speak about.”
Libya raised her eyebrows.
Aulia’s appraising gaze ran over her loose hair and tattoo.
Most dominas did not enjoy having a prostitute as part of their household. Libya twisted her fingers together. She’d been sold three times because of it.
“Does he take after his father? He doesn’t look much like you.”
“Yes, domina.” Libya’s heart clenched. When she looked into Horus’ face, she saw the very image of Victor. If Wryn discovered Horus was his worst enemy’s son, he wouldn’t act half as kind to the boy.
“Did you love him so very much?” Aulia searched her face.
Gaze falling, Libya shrugged. “Love’s a luxury reserved for free women.”
Aulia laughed, a revoltingly pretty sound. “Free women? Do you know how many random men my father betrothed me to? Before Wryn, I mean.” She clasped her hand to her heart.
Ah, but unlike a slave, Aulia could go against her father.
Aulia took a step closer, tunica swishing. “You mustn’t tell him. Promise?”
Tell the master what? That his betrothed loved him? Scarcely an earth-shattering revelation. A woman could very easily love Wryn. “Yes, domina.” Libya inclined her head and knelt by the cleaning pail.
Victor had been easy to like also. She often thought of that month with him through the years. Drunk like a few weeks ago when Wryn bought her, the old master had played a game of chance. She stared into the pail of water as that evening six years ago flashed before her wits.
Victor lounged at the table. “You’ve already lost fifty denarii, what more do you have to bet?”
“A cow,” the old master said.
“Do I look like I want a cow?” Victor laughed. His laugh could make stone smile. Turning, he pointed to her. “How about her?”
She stood there frozen in the cheap dancing skirt and almost nonexistent bodice. No slave wished to be sold unless their circumstances proved truly dire. It was better to have an old master whose vices one knew than a new master who could do anything.
“The dancing girl?” The tavern keeper’s eyes narrowed. “She’s my primary source of revenue.”
“Then you’ll just have to win, won’t you?” Victor winked at her.
“No,” her master said.
Victor shoved the dice away and stood. “No game then. Subtract what I owe you for the wine from my winnings.”
She sucked in a breath of relief tinged by just one sigh of disappointment. Life would likely get worse if one were sold, but one always had some faint hope it would get better.
“Wait!” Her master put out his hand. “How long are you in Moesia?”
“Four weeks more,” Victor said.
“Then how about this? Four weeks to call the dancing girl your own against the money I’ve already lost.”
Victor glanced at her. She could still picture his eyes taking in the skin that showed between her bodice and her skirt, then moving up the curve of her half-covered breasts. She’d seen many men’s eyes do that, but he took a moment to look in her face, then he smiled at her.
Victor’s dice rolled high.
The master swore and upturned the game. “There goes my revenue for the next four weeks.”
Victor shrugged. “A bet’s a bet.” He held his hand out to her.
She stood frozen for a moment. He was handsome. Dark hair crowned a civilized-looking face, his deep eyes hiding mischief.
Her master shoved her. “Get out of my sight before I have a chance to rue my gambling habits more.”
She walked toward this stranger who owned her life for four weeks.
Victor wrapped his arm around her bare waist just above the soiled dancing skirt that hung too low on her hips. “Know how to ride a horse, dancing girl?”
She shook her head, and her waist-length hair swung against his bare arms.
He laughed. “Get ready to learn.”
A prancing Arabian, one of those horses only the patricians could afford, pawed the ground outside the tavern. Victor v
aulted up, the horse already beginning to move when he reached down from the saddle. “Jump!” He ordered.
He pulled her on top of the horse as the steed galloped into the darkness of the night beyond.
Her legs slipped on new leather, and she felt herself sliding from the fearsome beast to be trampled beneath its hooves. She screamed and threw her arms around Victor’s neck.
With a laugh, he wrapped his free arm around her waist as she plastered herself to him, clinging to safety. She felt the movement of his chest as he laughed again. “Horses aren’t that dangerous, but you’re welcome to stay right there as long as you want, dancing girl.”
His arm felt protective as he held her tight and the wind rushed by on either side, brushing her bare skin.
She slowly tilted her chin up to him, her eyes widening with all the questions she’d like to ask and couldn’t, because she was just a slave, and for the next four weeks he owned her.
He smiled at her. “What are you thinking, dancing girl?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Did she dare tell? He had commanded her to. “I wondered what you intended to do with me, master.”
“Forced labor, tilling the ground, digging trenches for the Roman army.” He flicked her hair over her shoulder.
She stiffened, and he laughed again. The horse slowed as he dropped the reins, keeping perfect seating on the horse. He moved his hand up and brushed the tangled hair from her face.
His fingers traced down her bare shoulder. “How about this then?” He slipped his hand to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He smelled sweet like new wine, not stale like the tavern customers in the brothel she worked at before becoming a dancing girl at this new tavern. Victor caressed her hand as he kissed her.
His touch was gentle, like flowing water, not the pressing burden of weight like all the others. Still, a tremor ran through her as memories of the brothel crawled across her skin.
“Care to kiss me back?” Victor straightened in the saddle, but he didn’t let go.
She looked into his eyes. “Master, I….” Was he asking her to lie and say “yes”? If so, did that mean he’d demand better acting than the brothel customers had? Wretched thought.
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 11