Marcellus jerked back, his foot jogging the table behind him. The first glimmers of dawn illuminated the unease on his face. “The assassination plot’s more important. If you turn this over to the Emperor before the Ides of Junio, we lose all chance of saving the target.”
“If we arrest Victor and Soranus, the Viri can’t complete the assassination plot.” His heart should pound with joy at this new development he discovered last night. Instead, he felt like retching. Libya and Victor?
“Trials take time. Even if we start the prosecution now, Victor could remain free long enough to carry off the assassination.” Marcellus rubbed his finger against his knife.
“True.” Wryn took the key from his neck and knelt at his lockbox. “I’ll keep this evidence another month then.”
Marcellus nodded and turned away.
The latch gave way, revealing garrison documents and a Revelations scroll, highly illegal. Wryn placed Victor’s scrolls on top. They brimmed over.
Taking the Revelations scroll, Wryn unfurled Victor’s scroll and wound the scripture one inside before placing it back in. The box latched tight.
A gentle breeze blew through his bedchamber window, carrying the scent of flowers, the same violets Libya had woven into her hair just weeks ago. He smashed his sandal against the wall.
How could she have chosen to do that with Victor?
He glanced to the twisted covers on his bed. He should sleep more seeing as he had to work at the garrison all night.
Sleep? Ha! Not in this frame of mind. He shoved the curtain open.
At the stables, Wryn jerked a saddle from its post. Dawn’s light streamed through the window. He kicked the stall door open.
Gwen had spoken truth two months ago. When he freed Libya, she’d go right back to the infamia of the cesspools.
Sandals clattered across the dirt floor. Horus. “Where are you going?”
“The mountains.” Wryn jammed his foot against the stable dirt. Try to out-ride these feelings.
Horus grabbed his hand. “Take me with you.”
“No.” Wryn tugged his hand away. Libya, Victor. Horus, the son of some other man. How many men had she’d lain with? No dancing girl, but a prostitute. Horus had the same eyes as Libya. Last night, her eyes had stared as matter-of-factly as if it didn’t matter. Then what she’d said.
“You promised if I went to school, you’d take me to the mountains next time you went. I’ve gotten all high marks at school.”
Promised. Wryn groaned. He kept promises. He turned to the servant filling horse troughs. “Tell his mother, Horus is with me.”
Wryn lifted Horus on the front of the horse and swung on after. The horse’s hooves pounded across the streets of Rome. Within an hour, they reached a grassy nook on one of the lower foothills.
A brook bubbled down the steep ground, but even its lulling sound brought no peace. Wryn looped the steed’s reins over a tree branch and crashed on the ground. Elbows plunged on his knees, he glared at the white clouds that blew up from the sea.
“When I’m angry, I throw rocks.” Horus bounded up, dirty fists full of stones. “The more angry I am, the bigger pile I need. I think you’ll need some more.” Dropping the rocks by Wryn’s knee, Horus scampered to the pebble-covered stream.
Taking a rock, Wryn hurled it against a pine. Bark splintered. He seized a second one. ‘What difference did it make?’ Libya had said. What difference!
If it didn’t make a difference, he would have been the one over Libya on that couch.
The rock fell from Wryn’s hand. Had he truly just thought that? What kind of cesspools had he allowed his mind to traverse these past weeks?
Behold, though, it wasn’t just pride, though it was that, which made him want an untouched girl like Aulia for his wife. Aulia would never so much as look at another man. Aulia would bear untarnished heirs with never a doubt about their paternity.
Taking up another rock, Wryn threw it. The stone sank into soft earth instead of bark. He hurled another, fingers clenched so tightly the blood fled his knuckles.
Wryn forced his hands flat against the dirt. Why did he waste so much anger on this? Libya’s sordid past didn’t concern him.
He’d find Libya decent work when he freed her, and after that, he washed his hands of it. Wryn’s stomach growled as his bleary eyes reminded him of the sleep he lost last night and the garrison shift he still had to work tonight. “Come, Horus. Time to head back.”
“I want to stay all day.” Horus bounded forward, fists full of rocks.
“I didn’t pack any food, and you haven’t broken your fast.”
“Oh.” Horus dropped the rocks. “The cook made sweet cakes yesterday. Do you think Mama will let me have some for breakfast?”
“I have no idea what your mother will do.” With a vaulting leap, Wryn flung himself on the horse.
Wryn halted halfway across the peristyle.
Libya sat cross-legged in the midst of crocus blooms. Horus perched at her feet, mouth moving eagerly. She reached out and touched the boy, her every movement graceful as the breeze tossed her hair against her bare arms.
A tenderness shone in her eyes as she bent toward Horus. Her dark lips parted, and even from this distance, he could still feel the taste of them pressed against his own at those Ostia taverns.
Why did she still captivate him? The image of his archenemy over her should send a wave of disgust through him to wash away all attraction.
When he looked at Libya, the only image from last night that seared through his mind was her in unclothed splendor.
She said it didn’t matter. Offered to jump in his arms same as she’d done thousands of times before. For months now, he’d done excruciating battle to honor his convictions, her, his God.
Given one opportunity, she’d thrown all that away to revel in a stranger’s arms, then shrugged off the deed saying it didn’t matter. Wryn kicked the pebbled walkway.
Perhaps Libya spoke the truth. Why try so hard? No one else in Rome tried at all.
Know how much less tortured he’d feel right now if he said “yes” to her offer? After all, she said it didn’t matter.
It did matter. He dug his fingernails into his palms.
“Play with us.” Horus grabbed Wryn’s elbow. “It’s a poetry game. You know lots of poetry.”
Wryn’s gaze ran down Libya’s loose hair. Last night she acted as a prostitute, and now she quoted poetry?
“He wouldn’t want to, Horus.” Gaze on the dirt, Libya sat stiffly.
“Of course, you want to.” Horus bounced. “Please, Wryn.”
“I have work to do.” No lie. Enough to last until sunset when he headed to the garrison for night duty.
“The one person points to something, then you have to think of a poem or song with that in it. If you can’t, you lose. I hate to lose.” Horus pushed at him.
Yes, he had dry paperwork to do. Or, he could bask in the afternoon warmth and talk of poetry with a woman whose thoughts never failed to intrigue him.
That would entail shoving aside what had happened last night.
Libya didn’t look at him. At least she was capable of some measure of shame.
“Please.” Horus yanked his arm.
Why punish himself with unending paperwork for her sins? “Very well.” Wryn walked over and sat on the grassy bed.
Libya’s almond eyes flicked up to his, surprise in those lovely globes.
“I pick.” Horus pointed to a raven in flight. “Now whoever thinks of a poem with a bird wins.” He scrunched his little forehead.
The words rolled from Wryn’s tongue with as much ease as when he’d learned the recitation with his pedagogue many long years ago.
Behold! Behold!
Now they come, they quit the nest,
On Parnassus’ topmost crest,
Hence! Away! I warn ye all!
Light not on our hallowed wall!
From eave and cornice keep aloof.
And from the
golden gleaming roof.
Herald of Jove! Of birds the king.
Euripides, Ion, and the Birds.
Horus twisted his mouth. “What’s Parnassus?”
“It’s a mountain in Greece above Delphi.”
“Will you take me to see it?” Horus grabbed his hand.
“Don’t ask such things.” Libya tugged Horus toward her.
Horus shook off her hand. “Now you have to pick the next one, Wryn.”
Wryn pointed to the pool. “Water.”
Libya opened her mouth, her teeth white against the darkness of her lips. “Instructions in Wisdom, the Rameses kings.
Swift is the speech of one who is angered,
More than wind over water.
He tears down, he builds up with his tongue,
When he makes his hurtful speech.
Libya pointed to the sun.
“I know.” Horus jumped up.
Meantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies:
Care seiz’d his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes.
But, when the sun restored the cheerful day,
He rose, the coast and country to survey.
Horus plopped to the ground. “It’s the Aeneid by somebody. I had to memorize it in school. I stuffed it in and in my head, and it kept falling out.”
“It’s Vergil, classic Roman literature,” Wryn said. “You’d do well to remember it.”
“I’m not actually Roman. More Nubian and… I don’t know.” Horus turned to Libya. “Where was my father from, Mama?”
Libya took one shallow breath. She switched her gaze warily to Wryn even as her hands tightened.
With how freely she shared her favors, how would she even know?
“What was he, Mama? What?” Horus yanked at her tunica. The saffron cloth slipped down, baring her enticing shoulder.
Libya clenched her hand over the curve of her knee, the shoulder of her tunica still sliding low. “He’s Roman.”
“Oh.” Horus grabbed a stone and threw it. The rock bounced across the garden path. Leaping up, he followed it.
Libya turned her almond eyes to Wryn. A single tear ran down her delicate cheekbone. “Thank you for playing Horus’ game.”
“I enjoyed it.”
“I hope Aulia knows she is smiled upon by fortuna.” Libya touched his hand.
Though he was master and she slave and a world of infamia separated them, she felt the same kinship of souls that he did.
Along with the filth that made her utterly unsuitable for marriage to any respectable man, let alone a patrician, she had a poetry in her soul, a grasping for meaning as she asked the questions by starlit nights that philosophers pondered. Though he’d marry Aulia within the week, he and Aulia would never have the kind of conversations Libya and he had.
Wryn traced his gaze down the waves of Libya’s hair, across the tunica that fell against her bosom, to her rounded navel that he’d seen in naked glory only hours ago. That navel leading down to perfectly shaped —
He stiffened. This was sinful. Then again, Libya certainly didn’t care if he looked.
Libya’s sandals clapped as she crossed the street toward Horus’ school. The shade of myrtle trees overhung the road, the air balmy on this perfect afternoon. The sun warmed her skin as she turned her face up to its light.
Another small temple, polished granite with pure silver trappings, rose to the right. That’s how Christus saw her? How Wryn saw her despite two nights ago? Her heart pounded.
Someone grabbed her.
She screamed.
Victor’s hand slapped over her mouth. “Shh. I’ve looked everywhere for you.” He touched her waist.
She yanked away. “My master told you not to lay with me.”
Defiling a temple, Wryn had called it, as if her body was precious gold, not too-often-used clay.
“What?” Victor raised his black eyebrows. “Oh, quidquid. Wryn has two parchments of mine. Get them for me.” His voice tensed.
She furrowed her brow. Was that fear in Victor’s eyes? “I can’t read. How would I find them?”
“I’m getting executed if your master turns those parchments over to the authorities. Much good I’d do your son then.”
“Oh.” She searched Victor’s face. No flippant smiles today, his every muscle flexed taut, trepidation in his black eyes.
“The two parchments bear my seal.” He held his left hand up. The sun reflected off his gold signet ring. On the circular ring, the sun god Apollo stood tall, in his hands a harp.
Horus would receive such a signet when Victor adopted him. Guilt tugged at her heart. Wryn had worked years to find the evidence to bring Victor to justice.
Victor grabbed her hand, his fingers digging hard into her palm. “This is no jest, Libya. Emperor Trajan will execute me if you don’t get those parchments. I’m not lying to you about adopting your son either. If I survive this, I fully intend to make him heir to all I own.”
Despite Victor’s lack of morals, he offered Horus something no other man would, and she needed her freedom before Aulia married Wryn. “You’ll do it at once after I get the parchments?”
Victor nodded. He stood half a head taller than her, the linen tunic stretching across his shoulders and the gold ring on his hand marking him as eons above her.
If she did as Victor asked, someday her son would walk these Roman streets, his head held just as high, the pride of generations of patricians resting on his shoulders too. Wryn was a better man than Victor. As much as she’d rather take Wryn’s side in this Ocelli versus Paterculi feud, Wryn, for all his kindness toward Horus and her, would never offer to make Horus heir to the Paterculi estates. That place of honor belonged to the sons that would spring from Wryn’s seed in his union with Aulia, a patrician virgin.
Gaze on Victor, Libya brought her chin down. “I’ll find the parchments.”
“Good. Meet me on the morrow before dawn outside the Paterculi gate.”
Libya nodded. More than likely, Wryn had locked the parchments in that safe in his room. He wore the key to the box around his neck.
Chapter 25
Wryn turned the key in the Paterculi gate lock.
Bare feet pounded across the hot stone of the courtyard. “Can I go with you? Please, please!” Horus shook the gate’s iron bars.
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“I know I want to go. Please!” Horus swung on Wryn’s arm, no doubt leaving claw marks.
Wryn looked at the boy’s exuberant face. He headed to the Regalia, then to see Aulia.
“I’ll be so good. I promise!”
Wryn snorted. “As if I’d believe that.”
“Please!” Horus raised his hands.
“Very well, go tell your mother and put on sandals.” Horus’ mother. Libya. Wryn’s gut twisted. The woman must possess some magical dust from Nubian shores because he should not feel this much kinship with a woman who he’d seen harlot herself before his eyes.
The walk across Rome passed in incessant chatter as Horus ran from one landmark to the next. At the gate to the Corneli house, the porter bowed and showed them into a sitting room.
Aulia rose from a couch, a distaff and spindle in her hands.
“Salve.” Wryn inclined his head.
Horus scampered between him and the doorway. “Look, a raven.”
He pointed out the window. “I want to catch it and eat it.”
“Who’s this?” Aulia lifted her brown eyebrows, no friendliness in her expression.
Hadn’t she seen Horus before at his villa? “Horus, he’s five.” Wryn grabbed the boy’s shoulder before he attempted vaulting out that window.
“Almost six.” Horus stomped his foot.
“I’m pleased to see you.” Aulia smiled at Wryn, not so much at the boy.
Perhaps he made a mistake letting Horus come.
“But why did you bring a slave boy?” Aulia’s white arms tensed, a spark of displeasure in her pale eyes.
Horu
s bounced on the couch and landed on Aulia’s weaving.
“He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Wryn seized him. “Horus! You’re ruining Lady Aulia’s work.” He certainly shouldn’t have brought the child.
“Wrestle me.” Horus grabbed him.
“Not here.” Wryn pulled him under one arm, and his cheekbones heated red. “I’m sorry. Do you wish me to come back another time?”
“No.” Aulia took one long breath, then brought a smile to her lips. “Here.” Aulia pulled a box of toys off the shelf behind her. “Do you play knucklebones, Horus?”
Horus nodded and slammed down next to Aulia.
Kneeling, she dumped the games onto the tile. A ball rolled away from her.
Wryn squatted by them. “I didn’t mean to make trouble for you.” He handed Horus the ball.
Horus hurled it through the air. Wryn shot his hand up, intercepting the ball before it smashed against the glazed pottery on the shelf behind him.
“You’ll make a very good father.” For once, Aulia looked right into his eyes.
Father? A pounding sensation started in his head. They planned to marry. That was the point of marriage, to pass on the family name.
Wryn swallowed through a dry throat. “I don’t know.”
Horus was easy. Gwen had forced him to hold her firstborn once when the girl was just a red-faced mite. The baby had opened its mouth and screamed so loud he almost dropped it.
Aulia leaned over Horus. She attempted to toss the knucklebones, though she likely hadn’t done that in years and her skirts hampered her. She’d be a perfect mother. One look at her anywhere near a child revealed that.
The curtains swished behind them. Aulia’s father shoved through the entranceway. “Salve, Felix. The porter told me you were here.”
Wryn stood. “Salve. I wished to speak with you, well, both of you, about setting a wedding date.” Senator Porcii had said within ten days. Would Aulia’s father even agree to such short notice?
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 25