When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  With a gasp, Cara swept her eyelashes high. “Candles everywhere?”

  “Like a maze of light.”

  A nail poked her thumb as Cara squeezed the sack of nails. Did she dare go? Edna had so much confidence. Even if passionate talking with that peddler had broken propriety, still Edna had the courage to do it. “Do you ever wonder if it’s true?”

  “What?”

  “If kissing and passion really do lead to babes, or if fathers invent that to keep us from talking to men?”

  With a jerk, Edna swished the wash basin. “I have six younger siblings. Trust me. It’s true.”

  Cara wrinkled her nose. Speaking of men, perhaps Eric would attend Victor’s event.

  Sweat dripped down Eric’s eyes and stuck his tunic to his chest. He stood by his horse as this Cara asked him yet another question.

  Today she wondered about the origin of silk. She puckered her pink lips ever so slightly as she asked.

  “They bring the fabric down from China on the Silk Road.” He rested his hand on the horse’s mane. “Some say they spin it from the mulberry tree, but no one knows for sure. When my familia was in Persia, we rode with one of the silk caravans a few days.”

  “You’ve seen everything.” Cara gazed up at him, an enraptured look in her lovely brown eyes.

  She acted as if the words that fell from his mouth were gold and silver. He was a lousy storyteller, nothing like Wryn. “Scarcely everything.”

  “Rome, Greece. The Seven Wonders of the World. What else could anyone possibly wish for?” She clasped her hands in front of her, the movement shifting her dress sleeves up. Her shapely wrists protruded, her skin brown like the amber that craftsmen shaped into jewelry.

  “To see them all again, of course. The Olympic Games are next summer. When I go, I want to stop at Mycenae, the city of the legendary King Agamemnon. They say a Cyclops built Mycenae’s walls.”

  “Oh, to see it!” Cara sighed and dropped her gaze. “Unlike you, my future years will only take me further away from my goals.”

  “What will the coming years bring you?” He tugged at the burr in his horse’s mane. He needed to brush Camulus before he fed the steed.

  Crimson rose across Cara’s sculpted cheeks, accenting the color of her lips.

  “What?” Eric smiled at her.

  For a moment, she hesitated, then she touched her hips and shifted her feet out. “Marriage and a fate like all the other girls. I’ll be tied down to some wretched man, bound to obey his every whim.”

  Eric laughed. “Quite the high view you have of men.”

  “Not all men. You’re wondrous.” She touched his arm, her delicate fingers so soft against his skin.

  He startled, but she didn’t remove her hand. The movement stretched the fabric of her dress.

  Admiration lit her clear eyes. Admiration?

  Tingles ran up his arm where her soft fingers pressed against it.

  She should save her compliments and touches for that shopkeeper or farmer she’d someday marry because he’d just broken Jesus’ commandment and let his gaze drop from her face to all the loveliness beneath.

  “Salve.” He swung up on his horse.

  A quarter of an hour’s ride brought him home. As Eric crossed from the stables to the main house, a mangy rabbit streaked by in mortal terror and his little brother hurtled after. Eric grabbed the child by his back legs and flipped him upside down.

  Hair falling over his face, Paulus wriggled and kicked his legs. “Gwen said she’d help me make bunny stew! Eric! Let go!”

  A laugh shook Eric’s chest. “Tell you a secret, brother. Gwen breaks promises.” He swung the child up onto his shoulders, and the boy squealed in delight.

  “The reason I refused to aid you with your military strategy course is because you didn’t take my side about Father letting me go to class with you and Wryn,” a feminine voice called through the colonnades. The column blocked all but Gwen’s black curls.

  “Rhetors don’t take female students. It’s not my fault.”

  “It’s all your fault!” Gwen yelled back.

  “You’re late, Eric.” Father’s voice carried down the hallway. Swinging Paulus to the ground, Eric headed into the tablinum. Shelves lined the room and Wryn sprawled on a couch, surrounded by scrolls.

  “I told you there was a lecture on Dacia tonight.” Fading sunlight glinted off the Paterculi signet ring on Father’s left hand. The ring bore the family crest of an eagle locked in combat with a raven.

  Yes. Yet another droning monolog by a graying man with an unpronounceable name who’d ridicule him when he didn’t know the answers. Looking through the stolid brick window, Eric eyed the raven that soared across the crimson horizon.

  “Now you don’t have time to prepare. The latest treatise on the unrest in the province arrived today.” Father held out a scroll. “I expect you to read it afterward. Shirk Dacia, and you ruin any chance for a political appointment.”

  “What if I don’t want a political appointment?” Sitting all day pouring over parchments while higher up men yelled at him for his mistakes? He’d rather fall on his sword.

  “And your plan for your life is what? Idleness? I won’t use the Paterculi fortune to enable sloth.” Father’s voice had an edge.

  “Does this sweat look like sloth?” He’d just spent two of the most grueling hours of his life trying to best Victor in the run because he’d need to beat Victor to win the pentathlon and start his training school. Camulodunum had no roofed training grounds, so he could attract soldiers in the winter months, make a good profit. If he asked Father for a two-year loan to build it, would he say yes?

  “If you want to focus on physical endurance, take the army appointment I offered you.”

  Had Father not seen his military strategy marks? If he took such a post, he’d likely get all his legionaries killed.

  With the swish of skirts over tile, Gwen swept into the room and slapped a wax tablet in front of Father. “Explain Pythagoras’ ignorant equation to me.”

  Father ran his finger down the wax.

  Gwen stomped her foot. “I’d learn so much more if I went to school. Discussion is an integral part of learning according to, um… Socrates, was it? You see, I don’t even know that.”

  “You can have any tutor you want.” Father scratched a stylus over Gwen’s tablet, correcting her work. “And you’re welcome to talk to your friends.”

  At the sound, Eric shivered. How many times had he done that with Father? His equations never came out correct.

  “My friends only talk about marriage and babes.” Gwen pouted.

  “I’m sorry.” Father looked like he attempted to summon remorse. “Nevertheless, you going to the rhetoric class with your brothers wouldn’t make your friends more intellectual.”

  “That’s all right.” With a grin, Gwen flickered her kohl-tinged eyelashes. “I like boys.”

  Father groaned and handed the tablet back to her. “No.”

  Leaning against a shelf, Eric winked at his little sister. “Don’t worry, Father. I’d strangle any boy who looked at her.”

  Wryn laughed. “I think Gwen’s fully capable of strangling the young men herself.”

  Gwen stuck her tongue out at Wryn.

  Grinning, Eric twisted. “No, Gwen prefers to use a knife.”

  “Our conversation wasn’t over,” Father said.

  As Eric turned back, he curled his toes inside his sandals.

  “You need to learn self-discipline.”

  Eric stood straighter. “I have plenty of self-discipline.” He’d prove as much to Father too, with his pentathlon school.

  Father coughed, clearly unconvinced. “You may have an opportunity to go to the Dacia side of Moesia for a few months.”

  Miss the pentathlon? Without a win there, he’d not have the credentials to open a training school. “No!”

  “I wasn’t asking your opinion. And what’s this I hear about you gambling at a chariot race?”

&
nbsp; Victor’s idea. Eric touched the shelf behind him, but no dust came off on his fingers. “Haven’t you ever gambled?”

  “Only once, and I won.”

  Eric ran his tongue across his teeth. Wryn would have won, not lost thirty denarii.

  “Gambling’s not only a foolish way to waste coin, it’s unprincipled. Money is to be stewarded for expansion of the future good, not wasted in the pursuit of dissipation.”

  Eric clenched his hand. Victor, and every other patrician son he trained with, belittled him as moralistic, but not Father. Oh no, Father labeled him a degenerate and mocked him for losing. “It’s not as if the political events you sponsor don’t incur expense.”

  “They have a purpose.”

  Yes, to bore all humanity.

  “Political events educate and help spread good government. Gambling wastes money on mere dissipation.” Father’s face was stern.

  “You serve wine there. Isn’t that against these Stoic dissipation principles?” No person should have to hear the word “dissipation” as many times a week as he had his entire childhood, and he was not given to dissipation.

  “That is merely for the sake of custom, not – ”

  Eric coughed. “Half a dozen people got drunk at the last event you sponsored.” Drunkenness was a cardinal sin in a Stoic’s eyes. At least Father didn’t know about that time Victor brought undiluted wine to training practice. It had made his head ache. He’d not try that again.

  Father narrowed his eyes. “You speak truth.”

  Truth? Did that mean Father took back calling him an undisciplined degenerate and realized that maybe his not favored son still had some redeeming qualities?

  “I don’t know why I’ve followed custom. There will be no more strong drink in this house.”

  Eric groaned. It was a vain hope to think Father would approve of him.

  “And that goes for you, too, Eric.”

  Eric brought his gaze up. “Sir?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  It had happened once. Imbibing strong drink once did not make him a degenerate!

  Chapter 3

  Squatting, Cara sank the last bowl into the water pail. Air bubbled back up. “I’m going out tonight, Father.”

  “Where to?” Father wielded a broom like a legionary’s sword.

  “A job serving at a dinner Edna’s baking for.” Maybe when Father saw how well she liked “servant” work, he’d reconsider letting her take a position with a merchant family.

  Father wrinkled his brow. “The merchant’s wedding? I suppose it would be neighborly.”

  “No, this one’s at the Ocelli villa.”

  “Absolutely not.” He clenched his big hands over the broom. “No daughter of mine need slave away at a patrician’s house.”

  The wet pottery slipped from Cara’s hand. “But I want to, Father!”

  “No!” His voice rose to a booming level. “You’re not a servant.”

  “Edna does.” On her feet now, Cara fastened a pleading gaze on Father.

  “She’s supporting her family. I earn quite enough in this blacksmith shop.”

  With a sigh, Cara plopped back by the dirty water. So much for seeing the lights. Did Father speak truth that she’d get knifed if she tried to travel to foreign lands? It didn’t matter because Father had commanded she stay in Camulodunum. She stared at the last rays of sunlight reflecting off the water pail. All too soon the sun would sink, leaving only a dreariness as dull as her life.

  Footsteps sounded outside. Edna crossed the threshold. “I talked to the housekeeper. She lost another server out sick, so you’re hired.”

  “My daughter’s not going,” Father said.

  Edna’s gaze shot to Cara.

  Cara raised her damp hands, palms up.

  Ignoring Father’s dark glances, Edna crossed to her. “Do you want to go?”

  “Yes, but Father said I can’t work outside his shop. Is it true there are statues and fish from the tropics? Does silk actually glimmer by starlight?” Cara raised her hand. This dirty shop marked the height of her exploration. The scent of forge smoke was the most exotic aroma she’d ever smell.

  Twisting her worn sole on ash-covered dirt, Edna turned. “Sir. I know Cara normally only works here, but she wanted to earn extra money for a betrothal gift for Conan this fall.”

  “She did?” Father turned to Cara. “I didn’t know you had decided to marry him.”

  Sunlight glinted off Edna’s chestnut hair. “Please let her go. Didn’t your wife give you a betrothal gift that she purchased herself?”

  “Yes.” Wistfulness drifted over Father’s face, like every time he spoke of Mother.

  “I’ll take care of her.” Edna wrapped her arm around Cara’s shoulders. Cara held her breath as she awaited Father’s answer.

  Father shifted his jaw as he looked to Edna, then Cara. “Very well, but come straight home after.”

  “Thank you, Father! I wanted to so much.” Throwing her arms around his neck, Cara kissed a smoke stain on Father’s cheek.

  He looked at her, his eyes wistful. “Does Conan know you want to get betrothed this fall?”

  She gulped. She’d have to murder Edna later for that lie. “No. Don’t tell him, please. It’s not amorous to tell.”

  “Very well.” Father caressed her cheek as if she’d seen but five summers. He might have said something, but she grabbed her palla and whisked through the threshold.

  Outside, the evening breeze smelled of freedom. Cara skipped ahead of Edna. “What’s it like inside a patrician’s house?”

  “This afternoon, I’ve only seen the inside of an oven, but some of the slaves said the garden fountains have candles floating in them and Victor’s father ordered a new statue from Persia.”

  Cara clapped her hand over her mouth. “They have slaves, as in fan-waving, silk-bearing slaves from faraway lands?”

  “Victor’s father has a houseful. Haven’t you ever seen a slave before?”

  “In the marketplace, of course, and working in the potters’ shops, but the villagers can’t afford slaves.” The wind caught her palla and Cara grabbed both ends to hold it on.

  Edna’s laugh cut through the cooling air. “Your eyes will bulge all night.”

  A maze of lights twisted through corridors. Marble pillars mixed with statues, winding their way on and on. Cara stared at the mosaics covering the never-ending walls.

  “Kitchen’s this way. You’re up there.” Edna jabbed one thin finger to the left. “The housekeeper will tell you what to do.” She rounded the next corner.

  Cara slid her boot across the polished tile. Her heart pounded, breath coming fast as she moved through the corridor Edna had pointed down. Would Eric come tonight?

  Inside, half a dozen women hovered over tables. Hundreds of candles blazed across the room, lighting it like day. On the far side, colorfully-clothed entertainers tuned lyres, melodic voices running through scales. Intricate mosaics depicting gods and goddesses dotted the plaster walls. Cara sucked in air.

  “You the new girl?” A squat woman immersed in a shapeless piece of cloth looked up.

  Cara felt her voice falter. “Yes.”

  “Those tables need decoration and prepare the cheese platters.” The squat woman, the housekeeper perhaps, pointed to a basket of cut flowers, piles of white cloth, and intricately carved tables. The woman wore the clothes of a slave, but she ordered everyone, slave and free. “You two, help her with that.”

  A curvy girl giggled as she and a dark-skinned girl jostled to the table.

  “You from Camulodunum?” The curvy girl hacked into an enormous cheese wheel.

  Pulling the gold border of the tablecloth down, Cara nodded.

  “Me, too. Down by the garrison.”

  “Oh.” Father never let her go there. Pruella’s mother would likely consider these girls even more disreputable than Edna. Cara smoothed a wrinkle from the tablecloth.

  The dark-skinned girl jogged the curvy girl�
�s elbow. “Want to hear about last night?”

  The curvy girl laughed, a boisterous sound. “Of course.”

  “The legionary….” The dark-skinned girl thwacked her knife down. Cara spread another tablecloth. The foreign-made cloth made a lovely swishing sound against the table. She’d never seen fabric quite so fine.

  “You mean the soldier you’ve obsessed on for the last month.” Tittering, the curvy girl plopped the glass of flowers on the tablecloth Cara spread. “He does have riveting blue eyes. I’ll give you that. Celtic maybe? Too quiet for my tastes, though.”

  “I stayed with him last night,” the dark-skinned girl said.

  The curvy girl arched her thick eyebrows. “How was he?”

  “Perfect.” Gaze far off, the dark-skinned girl neglected the cheese wheel and said another word, a coarse word she’d once heard used about breeding goats. The girl said the man’s name with the word as if she spoke about the same thing, only with people.

  Cara felt her hands stiffen on the tablecloth. Were they talking about that? No, they couldn’t talk about that. No one talked about that.

  “What’s little Big Eyes thinking?” Curvy girl elbowed Cara in the ribs as she swiped cut flowers.

  “Probably never shared a bed with a man.” The dark-skinned girl used a patronizing tone she didn’t at all like.

  “Of course not. I’m not even betrothed yet.” Stiffening, Cara shoved up her ringless left hand. They treated her like a staid bore. Pruella had never dreamed of Greece or begged permission to see more of the world. She had.

  A boisterous laugh rose from the curvy girl’s chest. “Ale for the man, pig’s blood for the sheets, my man will never be the wiser.”

  “Pasties here. Lay them out, and quickly.” The housekeeper raised her voice.

  Cara scurried to the doorway. Sweat dripped from Edna’s temples, her face red. She dropped the heavy basket into Cara’s hands and swiveled.

  Cara struggled under its weight.

  “Help the new girl.” The housekeeper stabbed a finger at a girl clad in a yellow tunic. The branded letters F-U-G seared into the girl’s otherwise shapely arm. F-U-G, fugitivus, the mark of a slave who’d run away.