“Good morrow, Brighid, Aemelia.” As Cara’s boots sunk into the muddy path down the bank, she forced her numb hand up.
“Look. It’s her,” a voice called from behind.
Cara twisted around.
“She’s the one that done it,” Brighid said, swishing her water jar.
At least five score women stood in various positions on the river bank, arms full of jars and buckets. Their noisy conversations hushed as they looked toward Brighid.
“Her almost betrothed was in the tavern last night, and he told the entire story.”
Cara stared at Brighid.
“An hour away from sliding the betrothal ring on her finger, and she tells him she’s with child.” Brighid tsked.
“His?” A tired looking woman with a child clinging to her skirts looked over.
A girl with a betrothal ring on her finger flicked the bead necklace around her throat. “If only. The little harlot slept with a patrician, a whole slew of them most likely.”
Those women couldn’t speak about… No, Conan loved her too much to tell. Right? Cara’s hands trembled.
“Who knew the blacksmith raised a strumpet for a daughter.”
Cara froze.
“Her father should throw her out on the streets. See how much she likes prostituting herself when she has no other option.” The girl with the bead necklace clucked her tongue.
“He won’t though. Softhearted. If he’d thrashed that girl years ago, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. I, for one, shall patronize another forge from now on.” The older woman glanced at Cara, then dipped her jar into the river.
“My husband, too. He won’t bring his business to a man who doesn’t even have the virtue to throw a harlot out.”
“It’s not true!” Cara heard herself yell. It hadn’t been a slew. It had just been him. Once, and his kisses had tasted sweet like wine. They couldn’t punish Father for it.
Brighid raised her shoulders. “That’s not how the carpenter told it.”
The girl with the bead necklace snorted. “As if we’d trust the word of a harlot.”
“Which patrician’s the father?” A woman with two babies in her arms asked.
“Probably Marcellus.” The girl flicked her bead necklace. “He’s to blame for most of the bastards this side of the province.”
Cara’s eyes bulged, heat flaming across her body in sickly waves. Marcellus? She’d never even said salve to Marcellus.
Brighid raised her pointed chin. “Tell me, did they pay you for your time?”
Cara’s breath came in gasps, her heart pounding inside her chest. “No! I never – ” Harlot, they’d called her a harlot.
Chills consumed her.
Darkness closed in.
A few paces away, submerged up to their knees in river water, stood the few men who had no woman in the house to do this chore. One looked up. “You sell yourself cheap then? I’ll buy.”
Dropping the buckets, Cara ran up streets and down alleys as the shame pulsed through her senses.
Everywhere, heads turned, tongues wagged. About her? Eyes blurring over, she burst through the door of Father’s shop.
A woman stood near the anvil. Grabbing the sack of nails Father extended, the matron held out a coin. “Heard your daughter’s growing a bastard child. Better she’d died in that fever with her mother.”
Father grabbed the woman. “Don’t ever say that!”
The woman ducked her head. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Let go of me, all right?”
Cara gripped the doorway.
A violence she hadn’t seen in years hung in Father’s eyes. Slowly, he opened his hand and the woman pulled away.
The woman’s gaze alighted on her. She opened her mouth.
Turning, Cara fled. Her boots made a thudding noise against the pavement as she dashed south to the forest.
More wagging tongues, more piercing looks.
Women gaped out of doorways as she ran past. Looking at her?
Finally, the forest closed around her, the dense foliage obscuring even sunlight. Shaking, Cara slumped down onto rotting leaves.
The way those girls had looked at her. They’d looked at her as if she was soiled and worthless. Cara swallowed hard.
No! She was the blacksmith’s daughter, a respected member of Camulodunum, with plans to travel the world.
No, not anymore.
Sinking down against a tree trunk, she sat there, trembling, as the sun moved up to its zenith, passed that point, and sunk down into the shadows below.
Harlot! Prostitute! The thoughts came in wave after wave. Her body trembled and shook and ached, but the spells allowed her no rest.
Harlot. Rejected. Unlovable. If only she could take a servant position with a merchant and leave for a new place that didn’t know her shame.
No one would hire her now that Conan had told the whole town, and even if she found an employer who didn’t know, her stomach would reveal the truth soon enough.
Father’s shop would suffer all because of her. The town would despise her child, too. She’d at least had sixteen years of God and man’s approval, but this child would enter the world in shame.
Standing, she walked through the forest until she came to the riverbank. She shifted her gaze out over the water, opaque now in the darkness. Her feet sunk into the oozing brown bank.
What was left for her? Nothing. Ragged breaths escaped her choking throat. She’d never have to fret about receiving more of those aggravating well-wishes that annoyed her at Conan’s party; the ones where all bequeathed her joy as an obedient wife and mother of many children.
No, now they called her harlot and wished her luck in finding a brothel short of prostitutes.
Remembering those women at the river, Cara shivered. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t think about that.
Hot flashes rose up her arms.
Would this moment never end?
Could she wake up and this all be a dream?
Heat seared through her legs, leaving them quivering.
Her heart pounded and she felt sick, so sick.
If she threw herself into the river, would it engulf her and make this go away? Father’s shop had suffered for customers this summer as things stood. What would he do now if no customers came because of her? He shouldn’t have to pay the price for her sin.
She gripped a sapling and peered over the high riverbank. One leap and she’d fall beneath the depths.
Overhead, a single star emerged from the clouds. It lit the path behind her to Father’s shop. If God hated her halfway as much as the pagan women drawing water did, choosing to see her Creator earlier than necessary was a lousy idea.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as her boots clinked across the rocks on the path toward home.
Chapter 12
Chin in his hand, Eric looked at the man speaking.
Sunset lit former legate Balbinus Maximus’ back as he motioned out over the roar of the Danube toward the Dacia wilds. “After Emperor Trajan’s decisive victory this month, Decabulus has fled for the mountains. We’ve also captured several of their gold mines.”
Eric raised his hand.
Balbinus Maximus swung his piercing gaze to him.
“Will that lower the price of gold in the provinces?” He hadn’t caught any smugglers that night at Victor’s farmhouse. Actually, he couldn’t even remember that night. Why couldn’t he remember? Had he accidentally gotten drunk?
Quidquid. Nothing too world-shattering could have happened. Though he should have taken Cara home. Hopefully, she’d reached home safely. She’d spoken truthfully. He could do this. He’d passed every test thus far. Barely, but he had passed.
Currently, he slaved over a parchment summary of Dacian war strategy to present to Father. He’d impress Father with his self-discipline, then ask him for the training school loan.
“Trade’s for the equestrian class. Patricians focus on defeating the enemies of the empire.” Balbinus Maximus looked down his thi
n nose.
Eric rolled his gaze heavenward and the former legate continued his monolog. This morning, he’d gained five paces on Victor on the run and Victor had won the footrace at the Londinium pentathlon three years and counting.
Setting up a large map of Dacia, Balbinus Maximus drew on it. “If Decabulus is five miles into the Haemus Mountains and we have four thousand five hundred troops spread over the width of two and a half miles, chart the best approach for Emperor Trajan.”
Eric stared at his wax tablet. Behind the former legate, the sunset painted the sky a brilliant orange as the golden globe slipped beneath the southern mountains. He drew the stylus down, mimicking the bold lines of the mountain peaks.
“Remember to account for the fifteen hundred auxiliaries, half of which are on horse. Here and here are mountain ravines, which are impassable once snow falls.” Balbinus Maximus drew more undecipherable numbers.
Between staring at the figures Balbinus had written, Eric drew a cloud on top of the sunset. Cara could probably plot those numbers into strategy in moments. Did she still win at tabula with him not there?
Eric glared at the wax beneath his hand. Cara shouldn’t attend those sorts of parties, and she certainly shouldn’t kiss men like Victor.
Eric ran his finger over the stylus. Kisses were for betrothed couples and he had a pentathlon to win, and a training school to start, and many more important things to ponder than girls and betrothals. That meant he shouldn’t have kissed Cara either, especially with the way her kisses lit him afire.
He sighed. He had no good justification for kissing her again, ever, yet he wanted to feel that fire over and over. A longer sigh slid through his mouth.
Very well, he’d not kiss Cara again, even if she started it. Which, in his defense, she had.
Scowling at the numbers on the former legate’s board, Eric tried to arrange them into some kind of order in his head.
No luck. He drew a raven flying across the sunset. If he ever got his training school, he’d engrave that over the doorway.
Finally, the evening grew too dark to see and Balbinus Maximus ordered his secretary to collect the work.
After the others had handed tablets in and headed for horses, Eric moved to the secretary. “Is this war forcing the price of gold down?”
Darkness cloaked the secretary’s makeshift table. “Yes, and it will dive further still when we capture Decabulus.”
Eric fingered the edge of his tablet. “Will traders make a profit, then, buying golden goblets and statues in Dacia and shipping to the provinces?”
“Absolutely. First equestrian to seize that opportunity will make a fortune, but I’m supposed to be collecting your figures.”
Eric shoved the wax bearing a picture of the Dacian sunset into the secretary’s hands. “Here, take it now, before I ruin it further.” He’d passed yesterday’s assignment with high enough marks that this failure wouldn’t ruin him.
With any luck, in less than a month, he’d not only break ground for his training school, but also impress Father. Two lifelong dreams realized.
Another week and they’d set sail on a Danube riverboat headed for Britannia. Eric walked out of his room at Victor’s villa.
If he chose a swift ship, he’d make the pentathlon in time. Thankfully, he had all Balbinus Maximus’ lessons summarized on parchment. Though Father would rather he’d become a tribune, and someday, consul, surely he would respect this training school venture?
On the horizon, the faint glow in the low-lying clouds promised dawn. He hadn’t beaten Victor on the run yet, but each day brought him closer.
Crossing the courtyard, Eric rapped on Victor’s door.
No answer.
Eric pounded his fist against the cherry wood again. “The babbler’s lesson starts in two hours. We won’t have time to train if you tarry much longer.”
A sleep-filled grunt emerged from the room. “Go away.”
Eric shoved the door open. “You’re wasting daylight, and – ”
In the bed, the sheets shoved down around her feet, lay a dark-skinned woman with long, black hair. The tattoo of a star marred her left cheekbone. Beside her, up on one elbow now, stretched Victor. Both were naked.
Moving his arm up over his eyes, Eric pulled the panel shut. “In truth?”
“You’re the one who barged through the door.”
“I’m running without you.” He had a pentathlon to win.
The smithy door hung open. With a furtive glance to ensure no one passed the entrance, Cara ducked into the main space and grabbed the dirty dishes from Father’s breakfast.
“I’ve got deliveries for you to do, Cara.” He pointed to the three small bags of nails on the hearth shelf. A month ago, he’d had five times that many orders.
Her fault. “Father, I can’t.” Gripping the water pail’s handle, she lugged it and the dirty dishes back to her bedchamber. If anyone walked in, she’d close the door.
“Sick still?”
She shook her head. Not today anyway.
“You’ve got to do it, Cara.” Father met her gaze. “I got the first large order I’ve had all month. I want to finish it today so I’ll get repeat business.”
Cara swallowed hard, the ever-present tears once again ready to overflow. The worst thing about people despising one wasn’t their disdain. The worst was when one began to believe them. She was vile and wicked and a harlot, just like all the townsfolk said. She’d ruined Father’s business.
Father lifted his shoulders, a physical pain in his eyes. “If I could make people stop talking, Cara girl, I would, but I can’t.”
Through a blur of tears, she looked at Father.
“I’d never turn you out, but I can’t fix this.” He swung up his hammer.
She lowered her head. “What can I do to fix it?”
“That scum of a patrician who,” a cacophony of curse words sprung from Father’s mouth, “is gone. Six weeks have passed and Conan still refuses to marry you. Heaven knows I’ve begged him.”
“So?” She lowered her voice to the smallest of whispers.
“There are deliveries to be made.”
“And the people? The shame?” She lifted her hands.
“You take their money. You give them their delivery.”
“But the way they look at me.” Shiver after shiver racked her body.
“I should have said ‘yes’ to Conan a year ago.” Father swung his hammer down against red-hot iron.
No, she should have followed the rules, but no one could fix that now.
The sack of nails tugged against Cara’s fingers. The morning sun shone brightly as people milled in the streets. From both sides, the whispers started.
“Almost betrothed and still harloted herself.”
“That carpenter’s lucky he found out when he did. She’d have given him a litter of illegitimate children even after he married her. Never know through the years which ones were his, and which another man’s.”
Shaking, Cara ducked down an alley. Even then, people stared out open doors and windows. At her?
A girl, who’d seen maybe eight or nine summers, rolled a hoop down the street. With a running leap, she sent the hoop flying. It wobbled to a halt in front of Cara.
The child smiled at Cara. “Aren’t I good at rolling?”
Cara smiled back. “You are.”
A woman rushed out of a back door. Grabbing the child’s arm, she yanked her toward the house’s yard. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t need her sordid ways rubbing off on you.”
Knees knocking, Cara stepped over the child’s hoop. Up ahead, a broken-down cart blocked the street. A man missing a front tooth bent over the cracked wheel.
He faded in and out as the darkness closed in around her.
Her head pounded.
The man put out his hand. “I hear you’re not averse to a little fun betwixt the covers.”
Cara broke into a run.
Finally, the white marble of the temple rose ahe
ad. One more street to cross before she could deliver these nails, and then she’d have to run the gauntlet home.
Then tomorrow, this again, and the next day.
That is if Father even got the blacksmith orders he needed to keep having deliveries. Winter would come upon them soon, and food and firewood cost money.
Shame washed over Cara in rivers.
She trembled.
In front of her, the Fides Festival lined the streets. The smell of incense wafted on the breeze, the bleating of goats rising through the autumn air. A knot of women shifted their gazes toward her.
“Look. It’s the blacksmith’s daughter.”
A girl with the plaited hair of a Celt crossed her freckled arms across her chest. “I wouldn’t dare show my face around respectable people if I’d ever done what she did.”
“Of course not, because you’re not a harlot.”
Hot chills ran up and down Cara.
Her heart pounded.
She couldn’t breathe.
From the west, hoof beats slammed against cobblestones. The festival-goers jumped back. As the horse galloped past her, Cara looked up and saw the man whose child she bore.
“Eric!” She screamed above the wind.
The hooves pounded on.
“Eric!”
Ahead, Eric pulled the horse to the side. He turned his head, searching through the multitudes on the street behind him.
She sprinted forward, dress flapping. At the feet of his horse, she stopped. All around her faces turned, people staring, but Eric’s eyes lit in recognition.
She stared up, past the steed’s high back to Eric, towering above her now.
The Paterculi crest marked the embroidered saddle blanket, the circular mark depicting an eagle locked in combat with a raven. She willed her shrunken voice to grow loud enough to reach him. “I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t. Headed to the garrison to meet my father and I’m late.” He dug his heels into the horse.
When would she see him again? What if he took another ocean journey? She raised her voice loud enough to reach his ears. “I’m with child.”
“You’re what?” He jerked in the horse’s reins, but he didn’t swing off the saddle.
When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2) Page 15