Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  A few lengths outside the gate, Wryn looked to the woman who sat stiffly on the horse. “I ordered them to escort you to the Marcellus villa. You’re safe.”

  Her green eyes widened. “Gratias. Gratias!”

  “Now to see how good Marcellus is at barricading a palace with legionaries.” Wryn dug his heels into the horse.

  Libya held tightly to him as they galloped through the darkness.

  A few lights flickered in the imperial palace. Outside, members of the Praetorian Guard paced. Libya leaned forward on the horse, peering through the darkness. “There’s Marcellus.”

  Wryn yanked his horse right to where Marcellus, Gwen, and the guards disguised as Viri men lingered in the darkness. He shoved Marcellus. “Where’re the legionaries? The barricades?”

  “Shh, Victor’s only a street away.” Marcellus pressed his finger to his mouth. “Is my mother safe?”

  “Yes. Tell me those legionaries I told you to get are arriving in moments.” Anger tinged Wryn’s voice.

  Who was with Horus? Victor’s wife? Edna? Did Horus sleep tonight or cry for her?

  “I didn’t want to alert the Viri until I knew my mother was safe.” Marcellus glanced down the dark streets.

  “You didn’t send someone to the garrison?” Wryn raised his voice. “I ordered you to get legionaries and guard the palace.”

  “There’s still time.” Wryn’s sister moved up to him, her body enshrouded in a man’s tunic. “Send for them now.”

  Libya bit her lip. By the look of the moon, the second watch of the night approached fast. If Wryn wished his emperor alive, he had very little time left.

  “You didn’t do a single thing I told you to do.” Wryn gestured upward. “You do realize if Emperor Trajan dies, Victor Ocelli will take over the Empire and as his first act kill every honest man in Rome.”

  All the honest men in Rome to include Wryn Paterculi? Libya felt her body tighten.

  “I tried.” Gwen held her torch higher, illuminating her apologetic face. “Marcellus wouldn’t.”

  “You told me you could control him.” Wryn narrowed his eyes, frustration rising across his handsome features. “Also, you should go home where it’s safe.”

  Gwen scraped her finger against the rough wood of the torch. “I may have slightly exaggerated my abilities.”

  “Which leaves me to go fetch legionaries, doesn’t it? Because I don’t trust you,” Wryn stabbed a finger at Marcellus, “and Legate Aemilli won’t listen to a woman.”

  Voices sounded from a street over. Victor’s men most likely.

  Wryn swung up on the horse behind her. Libya sucked in a breath. She felt safer with him there, as if the events of this night would turn out well yet.

  A shout went up and horse hooves pounded behind them. Wryn leaned forward in the saddle, his chest hot against her as he urged the horse through the night. His gaze shot to the now-sinking evening star. “I pray we’re not too late.”

  “Marcellus won’t actually assassinate the Emperor.” She touched his fingers on the reins.

  “You think the Viri will rely on him alone? They already had archers set up outside the palace, and I guarantee they have some other means of persuasion planned to force Marcellus’ hand. My sister will be mourning a husband as Rome’s thrown into war by the ascent of the Viri if we don’t get these legionaries in time.” Wryn furrowed his brow. “You don’t think Gwen will be careless enough to get herself captured, do you? She should have returned to their domus.”

  Libya leaned back against his chest and slid her hand across his shoulder. “We’ll get there in time.”

  Familiar streets opened up, the girth of patrician villas on either side of the broad street. Wryn urged the horse.

  The Paterculi villa stood ahead, legionaries swarming outside it. Wryn pulled his horse left. “Legionaries. Splendid. “

  “Why are they here?”

  “No idea, but I’m taking them to the palace.” Wryn swung off the horse. “I’ve never rejoiced more to see you Legate Aemilli.”

  A sparse man turned. Torches illuminated his helmet’s tall plume. The legate grabbed Wryn’s arm. “You’re under arrest for treason.”

  “What?” Wryn yanked away.

  “It’s illegal to follow a religion that subverts the Emperor’s authority.”

  Wryn’s shadow fell across the stones as he froze.

  Libya’s fingers went numb. She hadn’t told Victor anything. Who had? Phoebe? The cook? She leaned low to Wryn’s ear. “What evidence do they have?”

  His voice slid through the darkness. “I can only hope none. Because the penalty for following the Way is death.”

  She touched his shoulder. The sinews of muscles pressed back against her hand. “Surely as a patrician they wouldn’t kill you.”

  “Unfortunately, precedent doesn’t back up your sentiment.” He stared ahead at the soldiers.

  “Wryn.” She reached for his hand. “You can’t let them hurt you.”

  The soldiers wrenched him away.

  Tears rolled down her face. They couldn’t kill Wryn.

  The horse bucked. She dug her fingers into its mane. The Emperor’s life still hung in the balance. Perhaps if she personally stopped the assassins, she could beg the Emperor to grant Wryn clemency.

  Taking hold of the reins, Libya swung her leg over the saddle. Her tunica rode up as she clasped her knees tight against the steed. She could do this. “Come on, horse.”

  The wind blew around her as the horse surged forward.

  The palace rose ahead. Libya tugged at the reins. The horse stopped. She slid down its matted back and ran.

  Marcellus and his bodyguards were gone. The Viri filled the empty side street. Libya scanned the palace walls. Guards marched back and forth in peaceful harmony as if unaware their emperor’s life hung in the balance tonight. Had Gwen and Marcellus escaped, foiling Victor’s plan?

  Perhaps Victor had already switched Viri men for the Praetorian guards.

  Chills pierced Libya. If Victor ruled the Empire, he’d kill all the Paterculis. Only, if Emperor Trajan did live, Wryn would die anyway because of that Revelations scroll.

  Hugging the brick houses, Libya snuck down the side street toward the Viri. The light of torches cast shadows across the men’s face. Libya pressed into the alcove of an apartment and scanned their faces. She choked back a gasp.

  Gwen sat by the edge of the group, her arms and legs bound. Tears streaked Gwen’s cheeks, and the man’s tunic she wore tore across her chest.

  Avoiding the marching guards, Libya slunk around the edges of the torchlight. She touched Gwen’s shoulder.

  The woman jerked.

  “Shh.” Libya knelt behind her and yanked at the knots binding Gwen’s wrists in blood-stopping tightness. The rope held tight.

  “Leg sheath,” Gwen whispered and pointed with her chin.

  Libya yanked at Gwen’s tunic and tugged out the weapon. She dragged the knife against the rope, severing one fiber after the other. A guard turned back and started marching toward them. Hunching behind Gwen, Libya yanked against the fibers with desperate strength. Gwen ripped her arms apart, and the rope gave way. The thud of the guard’s footsteps sounded louder through the darkness. Once he took half a dozen more paces the shadow of the apartment would no longer shield her from his sight.

  Bending, Libya pressed the blade against the ropes binding Gwen’s legs.

  Snatching the blade from Libya’s hand, Gwen cut the rope with one quick slice.

  Their feet made no sound in the darkness as they slid back along the edge of the apartments. Libya ducked into an alcove. Gwen grabbed her arm. “Soranus captured me and sent Marcellus inside to silence the Praetorian guards and open the gates on the south side for the Viri. Victor arrested Bruno and the rest and took them away. What if Marcellus fails and the Praetorian guards kill him? What if he succeeds, the Emperor dies, and the Viri take over?”

  A cry went up behind them. The Viri had discovered Gwen mi
ssing. Footsteps pounded behind them. Apartments blocked their retreat. The road led to the right, but they’d never out-chase men on horseback. The imperial palace stood in front of them. Inside the dark shrubs and colonnades, Praetorian guards marched back and forth.

  “We’re going into the palace.” Libya grabbed Gwen’s arm. If she could save the Emperor, she could beg him to spare Wryn’s life.

  “How are you going to get past the gates?”

  “As a woman of infamia.” Grabbing up her skirts, Libya ran into the torchlight that ringed the palace. Even the Viri dare not follow her there. Gwen pounded behind her.

  A single guard stood in the outer gardens, many other men further in. Dark trees rose above his head toward the starlit sky above. The guard looked young, and he kept glancing back as if new enough to this assignment to lack comfort in it. Fist-sized rocks lined the path in front of him.

  “Excellent idea. I’ve always wanted to impersonate one of them.”

  Dirt stained Gwen’s face, her coarse tunic torn up to her thighs. She shook out her black curls as she ran.

  Libya motioned her back.

  The woman charged up to the guard. “You should let us into the palace.” Gwen rested her hand on her hip. Thick mud streaked her white arm, staining her tumbling hair too. The fabric of the man’s tunic bunched around her.

  “No one enters.” The guard’s eyes widened as he stared at her.

  Gwen thrust her knife against the man’s throat. The guard swung with his gladius.

  Bending, Libya grabbed a rock and flung it toward the man’s head. He collapsed, unconscious. “You won’t even get past the palace grounds like that.”

  Gwen pursed her lips and glanced down at what she wore. “Switch clothes with me then.”

  “No. You hang back. I’ll talk.”

  Gwen combed her dirty hand through her curls. “I’m perfectly capable of playacting a woman of infamia.”

  Libya groaned. The patrician woman didn’t even know how to walk like a prostitute, let alone speak like one. “Did I tell you how to wield that knife?”

  A sigh slid through Gwen’s lips. “You have a point.”

  Dim candlelight flickered off marble sculptures and elaborate tapestries as they wound their way through a narrow hallway. Wax dripped from a gold and crystal chandelier above them.

  A spear slammed down in front of them. A thickset guard blocked their entrance. “Who goes there?”

  “The Emperor asked for me.” Libya moved her shoulder up. Her tunica fell down the slope of her shoulder, the saffron contrasting with her loose hair.

  The guard crinkled his heavy eyebrows. “At this hour of the night?”

  Libya shrugged. “Emperors are known to be capricious. Which room is he in?”

  “Down that way, up two flights of stairs, third room on the right.”

  The guard stabbed his spear in that direction.

  Something whistled through the air. The chandelier crashed down on the Praetorian guard. He fell to the floor, unconscious. Stepping forward, Gwen picked up her knife. She stooped over the unconscious man and started to unbuckle his armor.

  Libya’s heart pounded as she looked down that narrow hallway. If she could reach the Emperor before Marcellus let the Viri into the room, she could warn Emperor Trajan, and hopefully, he still had enough loyal guards left to put a stop to things.

  “Yes, I realize I just committed treason. But we don’t know which of the Praetorian Guard are working for the Viri.” Gwen tugged on the greaves, cuirass, and helmet. “I always did want to wear these.”

  Their sandals clicked against marble, through one hallway and up another as the smell of candle smoke wafted around them. Libya climbed the curving staircase. Here and there soldiers patrolled the halls, but no one looked twice at a “Praetorian guard” and a prostitute.

  A grand door opened ahead. Libya and Gwen slid through it into the dark room. An older man lay on a wide bed on the far side of the magnificent room, his breath slow in sleep.

  “Quick, we have to warn him before the Viri arrive, so he’ll save Marcellus before the Praetorian guards kill him.” Gwen dashed forward.

  The emperor was more likely to execute than save Marcellus, but the assassination needed to be stopped or Victor would kill all the Paterculis. Libya gripped the curtain.

  A dozen Viri men stood across the room behind a curtained colonnade along with Consul Julius.

  Gwen jerked to a halt, one last column still hiding her shadow from the Viri.

  Soranus stabbed a knife toward Marcellus, his voice a hiss. “Excellent work incapacitating the Praetorian guards to get us in here. Now kill the Emperor, or I’ll kill your wife.”

  Marcellus’ arms hung stiff by his side. “Why not kill him yourself?”

  “Because I’m saving my knife to plunge into your heart after the Emperor dies. Traitor.” Soranus fondled the curved blade.

  “If I’m dying anyway, how about I make as many of you bleed out in the attempt as I can.” The moonlight shone off Marcellus’ taut fingers as he gripped his knife. Too many men surrounded Marcellus for him to have much of a chance of fighting back, but he was still good with a knife.

  Libya dug her nails into the curtain. If Marcellus started a fight, Gwen, the Emperor, and she might live a few moments longer. Within the quarter hour, however, the Viri would extinguish each of their lives.

  “You can obey my order and kill your emperor, then die as a hero, and your familia goes free. Or you can die in a vain attempt to save your life. Your choice.” Soranus spun the blade between his fingers.

  Lowering his knife, Marcellus turned toward the Emperor.

  A gasp slid from Gwen’s lungs.

  “Who’s that?” A Viri man pointed through the darkness, his voice a whisper. Gwen’s stolen armor glinted in the candlelight. Rough hands grabbed Gwen as Libya pressed back into the curtain.

  “Is he one of the Praetorian guards on our side?” Soranus flared his nostrils.

  “The password.” Consul Julius gestured to Gwen.

  “I —” Gwen touched her tongue to her red lips as the men pulled her back behind the colonnades, away from the Emperor.

  A Viri man ripped off Gwen’s helmet. Libya circled left through the colonnades to the next room where the men stood.

  “Gwen Paterculi.” Consul Julius glared at her. “You’re supposed to be tied up and surrounded by Viri guards.”

  A thin smile slid across Soranus’s face, revealing sharp teeth. “No matter.” Gaze still on Marcellus, he stepped back and raised his knife to Gwen’s throat. “Go kill the Emperor.”

  The ridges of a marble column dug into Libya’s back as Marcellus stepped into the Emperor’s chamber.

  Wryn struggled against the legionaries. “Assassins are coming to kill Emperor Trajan. You have to barricade Palatine Hill.”

  “Ha.” Legate Aemilli motioned to the soldiers, and they threw him in a cart. Moldy straw gave off a rancid odor.

  “It’s true. You have to trust me.”

  “Trust the word of a lawbreaker?”

  Wryn struggled against the bonds. There was no give in the rope, and two score legionaries fenced him in, moving the opposite direction from Emperor Trajan’s palace.

  “I’d worry a bit more about your own life if I were you.” Legate Aemilli held up a parchment. “The penalty for owning one of these is death.”

  Chapter 32

  Firelight flickered in the backroom of the garrison. Wryn tested the bonds once again. Still, the rope held fast, and they’d taken his knife. The tramp of many legionaries’ feet sounded outside Legate Aemilli’s office. Even if he could get free, one didn’t escape a garrison.

  “Is this yours?” Legate Aemilli held up the Revelations scroll, the one he’d rolled in the Ocelli scroll that Libya had given Victor. The Paterculi eagle locked in combat with a raven stared from the wax.

  “You’re asking me to try to convince you that’s not the Paterculi seal?” Wryn raised one cynical e
yebrow.

  “You could claim the scroll belongs to your father or brother.”

  “It’s mine.” Wryn’s words bounced off the dusty shelves and heavy furniture.

  “Are you or are you not a follower of this Christus?”

  Death by execution? Would his blood spill on the ground, perhaps here in this garrison courtyard? His familia shamed as relatives of a traitor to the Empire? If he said yes, that would be his fate.

  “You only get to answer once. Think carefully.” Legate Aemilli slapped his hand against a short sword lying on the table. The metal gleamed by firelight.

  Execution or deny his God? Following the Way carried the penalty of death. He could argue no defense in court. “You have to save Emperor Trajan.”

  “I don’t have to believe a word you say. Now, are you or are you not a follower of this Christus?” Legate Aemilli’s hard eyes bore into him.

  He’d not gain mercy from such as Legate Aemilli. The rope scratched Wryn’s wrists. In truth, though, what other answer could he make? Wryn took a deep breath and met the legate’s gaze. “Yes, I’m a Christian.”

  “I admire courage. These laws against religions are a waste of time.” Legate Aemilli tossed the scroll into the fire. The flames licked up around the parchment as it disintegrated into ash. “I once believed drinking the blood of a bull killed by a scorpion would make me turn into a raven for the night. I came to my senses eventually.”

  Wryn stared at the man. Just like that Legate Aemilli handed him back his life?

  “Though, when you invented that rubbish about mysterious strangers assassinating Emperor Trajan to save your hide, I was about ready to throw you to the lions myself.”

  “It’s not rubbish.” Wryn yanked against the bonds. “Victor Ocelli plans to kill Emperor Trajan this night.”

  “In truth?” Legate Aemilli bolted to a stand.

  “Yes, in truth. Get some legionaries and come.”

  “Don’t order me.” Bending, Legate Aemilli slit his knife through the ropes. “Also, I still don’t like you.”

  As if that mattered when Gwen and Marcellus, as well as Emperor Trajan’s life, hung in the balance? If Victor Ocelli succeeded in taking over as emperor, a bloodbath the likes of which Rome had never seen would ensue.