Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “May I inquire about buying your and Horus’ freedom?” His voice had a predictable steadiness.

  She took a deep breath. Jacob seemed like a good man. She’d endure much worse than lying with a stranger for freedom. “Yes, I’ll marry you, if you can make it happen.”

  Chapter 15

  Sun beat on the wax as Wryn looked over another garrison tablet. Horus sat beside him, on his eighteenth day of glaring defiantly as he copied letters onto a wax tablet.

  Libya had thrown herself on him at that pool last night. Freshwater had dripped from her lovely face, her tunica stuck to every curve. How he’d wanted to —

  Yet, he hadn’t.

  The curtain swished. The potter from First Day services stood in his doorway. “Salve.” Clay stained Jacob’s hands.

  “I’m hungry.” Horus slammed his elbows on the table.

  “Very well.” Wryn pointed to the curtain. “Be back within a quarter-hour, not a moment later.”

  Horus stalked out of the room.

  Finger on a garrison tablet, Wryn glanced to Jacob. “I don’t have any more pottery work for you, though you might ask my sister. She spoke about purchasing more pots for her fuller’s shop.”

  “I want to marry Libya.”

  Wryn’s hand fell from the tablet.

  “She and I, we met at First Day services. Our children play together. She said she’ll marry me if you let me buy her freedom.”

  Libya agreed to marry this potter? Wryn’s gaze moved from the clay that stained the man’s thick forearms to his cleft chin and wiry hair. The man’s round eyes didn’t even look intelligent. He didn’t have to allow this. He should allow this. Wryn dug his fingers into the table.

  “When?”

  “I thought next month. How much to pay for —”

  “Don’t concern yourself.” As if one could buy a human soul. As if one could buy a soul like Libya’s. Though, of course, he had.

  “I’ll pay the full price.”

  No, he wouldn’t. Jacob would never come close to the six thousand denarii he paid to free Libya. Yes, he rescued her, not this potter. He meant to manumit Libya as soon as she had a way to provide for herself and Horus. Marrying Jacob certainly would accomplish that goal. Now he just needed to manumit her.

  Manumit Libya? Then she’d leave, bind herself to this revolting potter.

  The potter opened his mouth, revealing a missing tooth. At least a day’s worth of stubble covered his cheeks. Libya thought highly enough of this man standing in his tablinum to marry him?

  Wryn shuffled the tablets. “I’m busy. Come to me when you’re ready, and I’ll make it happen.” He would manumit Libya, just as he always planned.

  Jacob smiled. “In three weeks then.”

  No! Why was he agreeing to this? Wryn forced his hands flat on the table. “I wish you happiness.” Jacob didn’t need well-wishes to have happiness. He’d have Libya.

  Consul Julius motioned Marcellus into the dark stables outside of Rome. A single lantern flickered, illuminating the faces of guards. He kept the woman on his Gallic estates and allowed Marcellus to think his mother dead for eight long years, waiting for a moment like this.

  Marcellus moved across the packed dirt, his gaze wary. A woman gasped. His pace broke into a run. “Mother.” He clasped the woman in an embrace.

  Smiling, Consul Julius moved closer. With this leverage, Marcellus would deny whatever slight principles he might have grown in his five years of marriage to a patrician woman. Though Marcellus played the patrician so well that not even his brother-by-marriage Felix Paterculi knew the truth, Marcellus had been born nothing more than a slave.

  “Corann, is it truly you?” Tears ran from the woman’s eyes as she clung to Marcellus.

  A reunion after eight years of thinking the other dead, touching. Consul Julius scratched his nose. Stealing away Victor Ocelli’s son would do much to buy Victor’s goodwill. Once Marcellus delivered the Ides of Junio plot to him, he’d force Victor to give him a lucrative smuggling position.

  The woman stepped back from her son. “What’s this?” She pointed to the fine linen Marcellus wore.

  “I have the Marcellus estates now. I’m a patrician, or at least, so Rome considers me.” Tears wet Marcellus’ cheeks.

  Consul Julius smiled. Love, one could exploit that in so many ways.

  “Oh, Corann.” The woman’s hand trembled as she touched his jaw.

  “I have a wife, two children.” Marcellus clasped her hand. “You’ll like Gwen. She’s so full of life.”

  “Enough.” Consul Julius stepped into the light. At his nod, a guard grabbed Marcellus’ mother and dragged her back. “You want to see her again, alive, you’ll do as I order.”

  Marcellus spread his stance. “What do you want?”

  “Discover the Viri’s Ides of Junio plot. Then tell me only. Felix can’t know.”

  Marcellus narrowed his gaze. Despite his slave roots, the man was no fool. He guessed the only reason to hide the Ides of Junio plot from Felix was because Consul Julius planned to double-cross the Empire. “Will you use this information to harm Gwen, our children, Wryn?”

  “Wryn?” Consul Julius tilted his head.

  “Felix. What about Gwen — ?”

  “Shush.” Consul Julius waved his hand. “The Paterculi lives are safe. This merely concerns the Empire, an empire that enslaved your mother and you, I might remind you.”

  Marcellus stiffened almost imperceptibly. The expression passed.

  “I want my mother freed today.”

  “You know I’m not going to do that.” Consul Julius motioned to the remaining guards to bring his horse. “I’ll deliver her to you once you bring me the information I need.”

  Marcellus said nothing, but he didn’t need to utter words. He’d do it.

  Twenty-one days into this war and there was still no end in sight. Wryn rubbed eyes that hadn’t seen enough rest between all-night garrison duty and mornings and afternoons forcing that child to learn. Less than three weeks until Libya, of her own free will, married this Jacob.

  Entering through the gate, Wryn flicked off the buckle to his cuirass and yanked off his cloak. He shoved the armor at the porter. “Horus!”

  Little feet pounded across the atrium. “I’m tired of doing sums. Let’s play Romans fight the barbarians.” Horus stabbed a wooden sword at Wryn.

  Libya’s marriage was a good thing. He needed Libya long gone before he married Aulia. Wryn grasped the sword handle. Twisting it from the boy, Wryn tossed it on the side table. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you burned down your school.” Just like the last twenty-one days after he’d gotten off garrison duty, Wryn pointed to the tablinum.

  The boy smashed his sandals against the tile floor. Morning sunlight baked the table. “I don’t want to learn letters. I want to ride to the mountains.”

  Why would Libya marry Jacob? That loathsome potter would touch her, kiss her, lie with her. Wryn pointed out the window. “We could ride to the mountains if you went back to school.” Bribery, not his finest moment, but he needed sleep.

  Horus jutted his little chin out. “Never.”

  “Why in heaven’s name not?” Wryn shoved a stylus and tablet at the boy and took the three additional parchments Legate Aemilli had assigned him from his tunic. He didn’t have to allow Libya to marry.

  He could refuse to free her.

  Horus scowled. “They all knew more than me. They mocked me.”

  “Still not an excuse to burn your school down.” Wryn drew the alphabet on the top of the tablet. “Start copying.” Libya wanted to marry Jacob. How could she want that?

  “They said I didn’t have a father.”

  “Everyone has a father.” Wryn paused, stylus poised over the next tablet. What verse of stoic poetry did Horus most deserve to copy?

  “Mine left.” Horus swirled his stylus across the tablet, not even attempting copying. “Why did he do that?” The child had the strangest expressi
on on his face, more hurt than defiant.

  Wryn blinked. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think I was loathsome when I was a baby like I am now?” Was that a tear welling in Horus’ right eye?

  “You’re not loathsome.”

  “I burned the school and garrison, and threw a rock at you, and tried to ruin your party with that mean lady who visits you.”

  The betrothal party? How could anyone describe Aulia as mean? Her sweetness defied logic. On the other hand, he could find many choice words to describe Jacob the potter. “You’re not loathsome. I don’t know why your father left, but I do know this.” Wryn shoved the stylus back into Horus’ hand. “You’re going to copy these letters, then you are going back to school, and you are going to sit with those pedagogues and learn their lessons, and there will be no more fire setting. Because you’re going to grow up into a responsible human being, so help me.”

  For one moment, the boy stared at him. Then he settled cross-legged on the stool. “All right.”

  Why had he said that about growing up? Libya would leave as soon as he gave her manumission papers. She’d marry Jacob the potter. Jacob would be the one teaching Horus a trade and the values needed for manhood. Jacob would be the one running his fingers through Libya’s glorious hair, caressing his hand across Libya’s waist, hitching up her tunica —

  “Wait. You said all right?” Wryn stared at Horus.

  “Yes, I’ll go to school. Can I be done studying today? When can we go to the mountains?” Horus bounced on the stool.

  With a groan, Wryn passed his hand over his eyes. He had won. Now, finally, he could sleep. “Next time I go, I’ll take you. I promise.” Next time within three weeks. After that, Horus would live under Jacob the potter’s roof — like Libya.

  Shoving the tablets away, Wryn stood. He had a prefect post to start, the Viri to catch, Victor to bring down in flames, and statesman glory to pursue. He didn’t care that Libya would marry this potter who didn’t deserve her.

  His sandals made an empty thudding sound across the atrium as he headed to his room to sleep so he could wake up tomorrow and do what he did every day since he achieved manhood — work for the glory of Rome. Thanks to last week’s visit to Ostia and Libya’s spying skills, tonight he had three more Viri shipments to seize.

  Libya. Wryn shoved the curtain across his room aside. Libya. He jerked his sandals off and yanked the curtain shut across the window, blocking out the morning light.

  Libya. He could only hope that, unlike every other day this month, she didn’t torment his dreams.

  He kicked the bronze bed frame. The mattress shivered. If only he didn’t have enough integrity to compel him to free Libya. Then she wouldn’t be able to marry this idiot potter.

  Victor waited in an olive grove a quarter-mile from the Tiber for his men to report back to him.

  Marcellus shoved through the leaves. “Grain shipment secured.”

  Victor pressed his mouth together. Marcellus rarely lost a shipment, and five years ago the Viri leader had ordered Marcellus to spend time ingratiating himself with the Paterculis, so it’s not as if he could hold that against Marcellus. Still, something about him....

  Next time he met Soranus, he’d discuss if they needed to eliminate Marcellus.

  Three more men shoved through the trees. The thickest man shifted his feet on the dark grass. “Lost the shipments, sir. Mea culpa.”

  No! Victor stiffened. “Which ones?”

  “All of them.” A hairy man gazed at his sandals.

  Three shipments gone? A night of work for no profit? Victor fisted his hand. “Who?”

  “Legionaries from the garrison,” the thick-set man said. “Tribune Paterculi led them.”

  Wryn Paterculi. Again. Slamming his fist against an olive tree, Victor cursed.

  “Tribune Paterculi took three shipments last week and five the week before,” the hairy man said.

  Victor glared at the moon. When they were youths back in Britannia, he mocked Wryn’s brother Eric for his lack of ambition. Eric was a thousand times less infuriating than Wryn. For the last seven years, Wryn’s ambition had involved a personal war against the Viri.

  No one had seized as many Viri shipments as Wryn Paterculi had since he arrived in Rome. No one, and he, Victor Ocelli, had spent over seven years now working against the finest legates and tribunes Rome could throw at him.

  “You’re dismissed.” Victor raised his hand. “Better fortune next week.” Better fortune if Wryn Paterculi came down with the plague, that is. He’d hire an assassin, only the Paterculi villa had too many guards.

  If only he could find some evidence to get Wryn in trouble with the law. Yet, unlike him, Wryn never broke the law. Except.

  An idea flashed through Victor’s mind. Back in Britannia, the Paterculis had made no great effort to hide their allegiance to the Way. Eight years ago now, yet Paterculis were nothing if not persistent in their beliefs. He’d wager Wryn still followed that religion.

  Emperor Trajan, while not personally invested in hunting down these Christians, upheld the law that made following the Way punishable by death.

  If he could find indisputable evidence that Wryn swore allegiance to this Christus, he could have Wryn executed.

  The moon reflected off Victor’s hands as he smiled. He’d willingly oversee that execution.

  “What did Consul Julius say?” Wryn motioned Gwen and Marcellus into a room off the atrium. “I apologize I couldn’t meet him with you two days ago. Garrison duty.”

  Marcellus slammed down on the couch.

  Small feet pattered through the doorway. “I did extraordinary at school.” Horus held up a tablet. “Look, all good marks.”

  Wryn touched his gaze to the wax tablet. “Well done.”

  “You’re sending Libya’s son to school?” Marcellus’ gaze held accusation.

  Wryn scowled at the same accusing gaze Marcellus had given him last week in that Ostia tavern when Marcellus had caught him kissing Libya. He needed to kiss Libya for the farce to work. Besides, Marcellus had suggested they enlist Libya’s help for these midnight spying ventures. “The boy needed an education. How is this a problem?” He’d never kiss Libya again after she married Jacob in fifteen days’ time. His heart sank in his chest.

  Dropping the tablet, Horus lunged toward Wryn. “You promised you’d finish the spear you’re carving me if I got high marks. Promised.”

  “I will.” Wryn disentangled Horus. “Give me a moment.”

  “All right. I’m hungry anyway.” Horus scooped up the tablet. “Is the spear still under Mama’s bed where you left it after you carved it with us last night?”

  Cringing inwardly, Wryn nodded. Not a fact he needed Marcellus to know.

  The curtain swished behind Horus as he broke into a run.

  Marcellus’ glare held as much accusation as if he, Wryn Paterculi, had the morals of Victor. “Why are you spending time in Libya’s quarters?”

  Wryn raised his hand. “Carving a spear is now some mortal sin?” Yes, he spent all evening with Libya speaking of philosophy and poets by moonlight after Horus slept. He only had fifteen more nights with her. It’s not as if he kissed her, but oh, to have.

  Marcellus opened his mouth.

  With a groan, Gwen turned to her husband. “For once, I agree with Wryn. The boy doesn’t have a father. You know what that’s like. What would you have him do, reject the child?”

  Wryn jerked his gaze to her. “Marcellus didn’t grow up fatherless. He lost his father when he was twenty-five.”

  Gwen froze. Marcellus shook his head. Marcellus and Gwen exchanged looks. With a flop, she plunged onto the couch. “Forget I said that. Now hurry, Viri news. I left the children at home, and you, my brother, have a spear to carve.”

  “What did Consul Julius say?” Wryn looked to Marcellus.

  The muscles in Marcellus’ forearm tightened. “Nothing of note.”

  Wryn raised his eyebrows. “The Viri smuggling y
ou completed this week?”

  “I know Victor suspects me.” Marcellus kicked a potted plant. “I’m going to end up with a knife between my ribs if I can’t discover the Ides of Junio plot.”

  “We.” Wryn clapped a hand on Marcellus’ shoulder. “We’ll discover it. I’m not about to let my brother-by-marriage die at the hands of scum like Victor Ocelli.”

  Marcellus shifted.

  “I have a plan.” Now just to hope he didn’t get stabbed in the back because of it. “Victor’s attending a dinner party in three days’ time at one of the Viri men’s villas. I’ll attend and see if I can discover information there.”

  Marcellus jerked upright. “You shouldn’t.”

  “I’ll take care. You risk your life often enough. No reason I can’t.”

  With a flounce, Gwen drew her legs up under her. “Anyone think it’s about time you allowed me to come to Ostia with you? I wager I could discover the Viri’s secret plot.”

  Wryn groaned. “Gwen, you can’t go to Ostia.”

  “Why not? Marcellus says a good half of the information you find is thanks to Libya, a woman, I might remind you.”

  More than half, and Gwen needn’t remind him Libya was a woman. “You’re a Paterculi. Libya’s —” a slave, a soiled woman, a woman of infamia, “not.”

  Gwen waved her hand. “A trifling detail. Boadicea in her war chariot, red hair streaming in the wind, would never have left so small a thing as propriety keep her from driving a dagger through her familia’s foes.”

  “You are not Boadicea.” Wryn raised his hand. “Neither is Mother. Why do the two of you idolize that woman? She was a traitor to Rome as well as a harridan.”

  “You’re half-Celtic, same as I —” Gwen wrinkled her nose. “Much as you try to hide it, Felix.”

  “Father gave me that name on Rome’s name register. I have every right to use it.”

  “When we lived in Britannia as children, you went by Wryn.” Gwen tossed a loosened curl over her shoulder. “Though I can’t say you were any less pompous. I will go to those Ostia taverns.”

  “Gwen.” Marcellus touched her hand, pain in his green eyes. “If you’re recognized, you’ll get us all killed. I could never bear if something happened to you.”