Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

Brasher than in Britannia days, Victor strode across the room. No mark of greaves indented the man’s legs nor did an army-issue gladius grace his belt. The man was a sluggard as well as a murderer.

  With a sniff, Victor met his gaze. “I don’t recall you receiving an invitation.”

  Wryn squared his shoulders. “Paterculis have standing invitations everywhere.”

  “A pity I’ve never seen you use these alleged invitations.” Victor raised one scornful eyebrow.

  “Perhaps because, unlike you, I’m busy serving the Empire.”

  Victor laughed, a grating sound. “Ah yes, stoic ideals. I hear you haven’t advanced past tribune rank.”

  Tribune rank was nothing to scorn at his age, though as a Paterculi he wished for a higher position. “At least I entered the Army.”

  Victor shrugged. “I’ll get everything I desire with much less work. Everything you desire too.”

  “You have nothing I desire.” Voice low, Wryn spat out the words. “You’re a worthless excuse for a Roman, and I’ll see you executed.”

  “Only if I don’t bury a knife in your back first.” With a smile, Victor turned.

  Not an inconsequential threat at a dinner party like this, no doubt filled with Viri men. Wryn felt for his knife.

  “Felix.” Someone pushed him. “Let me introduce you to my betrothed wife since you skipped yesterday’s betrothal ceremony.” Tribune Lucius touched the hand of the young girl who clung to his arm.

  Oh. He had intended to go. Then he started playing the siege of Emperor Trajan against Decabulus with Horus in the back gardens, which had turned into talking to Libya until long past dusk. Wryn nodded to Vitus and the girl. “My congratulations and mea culpa, I forgot.”

  “No matter. Where’s your betrothed?” Tribune Lucius smiled, showing his teeth.

  “An excellent question.” Senator Porcii stepped through a knot of people. His tunic hung austerely from his weathered arms. “I haven’t heard news of your nuptials yet, Felix.”

  “Not a good time to talk.” Wryn scanned left. Victor stood in conversation with a senator. Marcellus had said for years that the Viri transacted much of their business at dinners such as these. The owner of the villa was likely a Viri man too, so he should search this house if he had a chance to steal off during the dinner. Or perhaps Libya would do that as she had easier access to the villa rooms from where she worked serving the feast.

  With a giggle, Lucius’ betrothed pointed right and the two moved on.

  Senator Porcii lowered his voice. “Set a date.”

  Wryn watched Victor’s mouth move in conversation, but from this distance, he couldn’t make out the words. “It’s more complicated than that, Senator.”

  “Many men more qualified than you wish to become Prefect of Rome. I’ll give you another ten days to marry the Corneli daughter. Elsewise, I’m giving away your post.”

  Wryn swallowed. “Understood, sir.” Could he truly go through with marrying Aulia? He never felt half the things for Aulia that he did for Libya. Marrying Aulia made sense. He wanted this prefect post.

  One visit to Aulia’s father could break off that betrothal. Aulia certainly wouldn’t care. She never expressed any interest in marrying him.

  Why even ponder this? It’s not as if he could marry Libya.

  Up front, the host launched into a flowery call for guests to take their seats. Servers entered, bearing trays. Wryn took his place at a crowded table as conversations rose loud. A half-hour more and guests would have fallen deep enough into feasting that he could steal away to search this villa.

  Cloth swished by his couch. Libya bore two pitchers close to her chest. She bent over him, her mouth close to his ear. “I haven’t found anything.”

  “Nor I.” Wryn gestured with his chin to the aedile on the couch next to him. Better to talk later.

  Libya straightened up. “Wine?”

  He shook his head. “I shudder to think what Horus would do if he saw those.” He pointed to the plump dormouse bodies stacked on the steaming tray in the center of the table.

  Libya blushed into a smile. Inclining her head, she dropped her voice. “Horus has been trying to catch them with that spear you made him. I found him stuck in the grain bin pursuing one.”

  “Mea culpa.” Laughter danced in Wryn’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have carved him that spear.”

  Setting the pitchers down, Libya served him from the tray on the table, her body over him as he reclined at table. “I doubt you’re very sorry because Horus says you’re making him a bow and arrow as well.”

  “Lies. As if I’d give that child the ability to kill me from a hundred paces.”

  She laughed as he meant her to. “More water?”

  “Gratias.” His hand brushed hers as he took the goblet. Her dark eyes possessed the light of star-filled skies.

  “I’ll take that wine, girl.” The aedile held up his goblet and Libya moved on, filling cup after cup.

  Wryn tore his gaze away from Libya. Could he truly force himself to marry Aulia in ten days?

  An empty pitcher in her hand, Libya passed through the dark hall toward the kitchen.

  A hand shot out.

  She whirled.

  Victor touched the curve of her waist. In his other hand, he held two scrolls. “You look lovely tonight.” Raising the scrolls, he brushed his fingers over the star on her cheek. “My wife’s not here.”

  “The guests are waiting for more wine.” Libya held up the empty pitcher, separating Victor’s body from hers as she pressed against the wall in this abandoned hall. A small table dug into her back.

  “This won’t take long.” Victor gestured with the scrolls to an open door farther ahead.

  “You took forever last time.” She tugged away from his free hand and hastened toward the kitchen.

  Yanking the table drawer open, Victor shoved the scrolls inside. His sandals clapped against the tile. In two strides, he caught her. “For your enjoyment.” His now free hands pried the pitcher away from her.

  A groan slid through her teeth. At least she only had to endure a brief amount of moments with the men that took their pleasure before she could scrub the scent of them off her skin and banish the sensations of thousands before them.

  “Come.”

  “I don’t want to.” Wryn said what masters did with slaves wasn’t right. That it was adultery the same as if a patrician woman lay with slaves. She never heard that before. Could he speak the truth?

  She made out Victor’s black eyes hardening through the darkness.

  “Perhaps I don’t want to adopt your son or buy your freedom.”

  “You have to. And soon.” Libya’s hands trembled. Before Wryn married Aulia and she made good on her threats.

  “Then come.” Victor smiled again as he slid his hand around her waist. He tugged her through the open curtain into the room.

  A single candle lit the space. Shelves lined the edges. A couch faced away from an open door on the other side of the room. “Very well, but another time, not here. The house is full of guests. What if someone walks in?”

  “No one will.” Victor yanked a shelf in front of the curtained entrance. He crossed to the open front door.

  The weight of resignation slid over her shoulders. She’d done this a thousand times before with so many, many men. As long as he didn’t get her with child, what was one more time?

  With a clang, Victor shoved the cedar door shut.

  Wryn’s sandals made a clapping noise as he passed through darkened halls. He moved into a room off the atrium. A dusty cabinet swung open at his fingers. A scroll lay inside. He picked it up.

  Only a collection of Ovid’s poetry. Wryn groaned. Marcellus excelled at this sort of work, not him. Why wouldn’t the man come with him tonight? Half the time, Marcellus balked at even accompanying him to Ostia anymore.

  Crossing to the next room, Wryn rummaged through a shelf. Various garden tools and a basin of mildewed water. He moved into the hall. A dusty ta
ble nestled next to the wall. He jerked the drawer open. Two scrolls lay inside.

  Probably household expenses. Still, he took them and circled right to where the light from the boisterous triclinium streamed into the atrium. A palm-sized oil lamp burned on a side table. Catching up the lamp, he glanced at the parchments.

  They bore the Ocelli seal. Blood racing, Wryn unrolled the parchment. A map and various numbers crossed the page. These documents might give him the ability to have Victor executed. Wryn stuffed the scrolls under his tunic. He needed Marcellus to look these over with him tonight before Victor discovered their absence.

  A man passed out of the triclinium and crossed the atrium toward the bath houses. Senator Porcii.

  “Do you have a wax tablet?” He’d send a message to Marcellus now, then meet him at the Paterculi villa.

  “Do I look like a scribe who burdens himself with piles of writing equipment at a dinner party? The host’s tablinum is there.” Senator Porcii stabbed a finger left to a cedar door. “You have ten days.”

  Striding across the darkened atrium, Wryn twisted the bronze handle. The hinges creaked as he held the lamp high.

  Victor Ocelli wrenched up from a couch, half-naked with a woman beneath him. No surprise. Victor couldn’t content himself with the heinousness of murdering innocents and stealing the Emperor’s tariffs. Oh no, he also had to possess the desolate morals of an Epicurean.

  With a groan, Wryn went to slam the door.

  The light of his lamp flickered on the woman’s face. The clay fell from Wryn’s hand. The lamp shattered against the tile, burning oil extinguishing in a sizzling eruption.

  Libya.

  He clenched the door handle as an anger more intense than he knew possible flamed within him. He jerked his thumb to the atrium. “Libya, out here now. With clothes on.”

  She rose, naked as the day her mother gave birth to her. The candle behind her illuminated her amber skin and flawless curves. Her navel reflected the light flickering against her thighs and casting shadows across her bosom. She reached for her tunica. Victor shifted off the couch, removing his weight from the fabric.

  The linen slid over her body. No emotion crossed Libya’s face as she bent for her belt then walked into the atrium where he had ordered her.

  Wryn’s hand fisted, his voice barely under control as he glared at Victor. “Is it legal to lay with another man’s slave?”

  Still bare-chested, Victor slid his black-eyed gaze to meet Wryn’s. “Why so much wrath? Those legendary Paterculi morals finally break, and you’re lying with her too?”

  “She’s a slave of the Paterculi household and I can and will prosecute you for this.”

  With a shrug, Victor tugged his tunic back up. “I’ll buy her from you. Two thousand denarii?”

  “May you fall dead and worms devour your body.” Wryn slammed the door.

  Libya stood two paces from him, her tunica still hanging loose, her hair tangled.

  He stared in disbelief at the woman before him. “Do you even know who that was?”

  For a moment, Libya stiffened, then she parted her lips. “No.”

  “Victor Ocelli, the Viri leader we’re pursuing.”

  “Oh.” With a click, Libya refastened her belt.

  “What was that?” Wryn shoved in front of her. “Did he force you?”

  “No.” She brushed the crinkles out of the linen he’d bought for her.

  “Then why?” His teeth clenched on the word.

  “I don’t know.” She met his gaze, not a hint of shame for what she allowed with a stranger in her eyes. No pleasure in those eyes either, just casual indifference as if he walked in on her scouring a floor. “It happened. What difference does it make?”

  What difference does it make? Wryn’s head pounded. Victor was a smuggler, a murderer, and the bloodiest lecher… Wryn’s fists tightened.

  Libya bent and washed her hands in the atrium pool. “May I go back to my duties now?”

  He walked in on that and this is what she had to say on her behalf? Nothing!

  “The servers are waiting for me.” Libya’s voice had the same inflection as when they sang together, danced at that bonfire, and watched the stars rise.

  “No. You’re going home.” Him too.

  She clenched her fingers, but she followed him when he exited to the dark streets.

  As well she should. He would prosecute Victor. For though Rome had debauched morals, especially with slaves, it was a fineable offense to lay with another man’s slave without his permission.

  He certainly had not consented to what happened in that cursed room.

  Dark buildings closed in around her as Libya walked a pace behind Wryn. He was furious with her. His white knuckles and rapid breaths showed that.

  Her shoulders tensed, her body taut. Victor had been the best of ten years of infamia. Now he offered to adopt her son, same as the offspring of a patrician woman. She should feel exultation. Thanks to Wryn, she felt the sick taste of shame as strong as at any of those tavern brothels. She slammed her sandals against the road, raising dust.

  Like Jacob, Wryn had accepted her, yet only for as long as he forgot who she was. She never lied.

  She scraped her fingers against her tattoo as she flung her unbound hair back from her face. Those things screamed her status to the world. Yet these men lied to themselves, then blamed her when she wasn’t what she never claimed to be.

  In a stride, she caught Wryn. She slapped her hand against his shoulder. “You knew I was a prostitute.”

  “A prostitute?” He spun, his frame so large in the darkness. “You said you were a dancing girl.”

  Oh, she had lied to him about that. She bit her lip, but instead of casting down her gaze, she glared at him. “I’m also a prostitute.”

  Disgust shone from Wryn’s eyes. She disgusted him.

  Libya fought back tears. “It’s why I can spy for you so well. A skill you’ve used to your advantage. I caught most of those Viri ships and found out about the assassination attempt.” She turned that information over to Victor. A wave of self-loathing washed over her, but she planted her feet on the cobblestones. “Why disdain me for it now?”

  “It’s wrong.” Wryn’s voice cut through the darkness, no hint of the friendship they shared when they talked of lyre and flute music.

  “Is it?” She crossed her arms tight against her chest, though she still felt naked. Wryn had seen her as a prostitute tonight, thanks to Victor’s idiot demands. Now, Wryn would never look at her the same. Tears shook her chest. “I’m no betrothed woman, no clean virgin like Aulia.”

  “You are never to do that again.” Anger bulged Wryn’s forearms.

  A patrician over a slave, scarcely remarkable. Nothing that hadn’t happened a hundred times before to every other slave in that household, infamia or no. Yet Wryn despised her for it. A lump built in her throat, her eyes misting over. Libya stiffened her back and shoved away these emotions she felt many times since she became infamia. Shame had never helped her. Chin high, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll do as I wish.”

  “As long as you’re a slave in my household, you’ll at least follow the bare modicum of Roman morals and not harlot yourself with other men.” Aversion tinged his voice. “And if I ever see Victor —” Wryn’s voice died off in a mixture of threats and oaths.

  Masters had stripped her innocence at far too young an age. If she chose to use the shell she had left to get what she needed from those masters, Wryn, a man born into nobility and privilege, had no right to judge her. “Who did you think I was? Aulia?” She flung herself in front of him. “I’m not. And I can show you right here on this street corner. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  His gaze held hers. The wind whistled through the streets as a stench rose from the brick apartments standing like walls on every side. His hair waved back from his forehead, the moon lighting his strong nose. “Your body’s supposed to be a temple of the Holy Spirit.”

  �
�What does that even mean?”

  “The Holy Spirit, God. His temple is inside His followers.” Wryn glared at her.

  That made no sense. She kicked a jutting stone. “Your god doesn’t even have a temple. Has his people meet in dank tombs.”

  Wryn looked ready to throw a punch into the brick wall beside them. “He doesn’t dwell in temples made of marble or gold because He values those who believe in Him more than artifice. Immorality defiles God’s temple.”

  She could see a god wanting someone like Wryn for a temple. His broad shoulders bespoke his soldierly career, confidence in his very stance, as befitted a man who would someday rule provinces. “You needn’t worry I defiled your God’s temple. He’d not see fit to dwell inside a prostitute.” A lone tear splattered on the ground.

  For one moment, Wryn met her gaze. Though anger still burned in his eyes, a shadow of pity crossed his features. “That’s not what the scriptures say.” Stepping around her, he walked on.

  Her hands dropped from her hips. Hundreds of nights of uncried tears choked her as her body shook.

  A temple, spotless as polished marble adorned with gold purged of dross, is that how Wryn’s God saw her soul? Even ten years ago, before she became infamia, she’d been but an oft-whipped slave, surely no one a god would live inside.

  Reaching up, she yanked the thong off her neck. Opening the pouch, she cast the crumbled rose petals onto the dirty stones beneath her feet.

  She lifted her gaze to the stars above. They twinkled in the darkness. No matter what she did, all those around her would always see her as infamia. If a God existed who didn’t see her like that, then she’d follow that God.

  A gentle feeling wrapped around her, much like water seeping from the cracks between stones to trickle down a waterfall.

  A woman in the catacombs said Christus always forgave sins. That’s why He died.

  She glanced ahead. Wryn stomped on, not even glancing back to see if she followed through these dangerous streets. She dropped her gaze to the wet stones.

  Wryn would despise her forever.

  Chapter 24

  “What do you think?” Wryn spread the two parchments in front of Marcellus. One mapped the Tiber with dots and lines marking next month’s smuggling shipments. The other contained a brief missive directed to Soranus, evidently the head of the Viri, on smuggling profits. “We have enough to bring a case against Victor to Emperor Trajan.”