When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Behind her, she heard the buzz of voices. Blood pounded in her ears. Why didn’t he dismount?

  “Who’s the patrician talking to?”

  “That’s the blacksmith daughter who harloted herself, right?”

  Eric’s horse pawed the street. He sat on the horse’s back, so high above her, and he showed no signs of dismounting. He glanced down at her ringless finger. “Whose?”

  “Yours, of course.”

  Eric’s eyes bulged to the splitting point. “That’s impossible.”

  “After what you did with me in the stables the night before you left, all too possible.” She cringed as whispers started behind her. Why did Eric force her to say this in front of dozens of eager ears?

  “I’d never have chosen to do that.”

  Did he imply she’d seduced him into doing it? Yes, she’d started the undressing, but it wasn’t as if she’d forced him to shove her down against the straw. For, if she’d been in charge, she’d have ensured he’d done it with a much gentler hand, which didn’t leave her a fortnight’s worth of pain. “Nevertheless, I’m having your child.”

  “Are you sure it’s mine?”

  “You implying I do this with many men?” She fisted her hand. She’d lost her maidenhood to him. He could at least admit the child was his, regardless of what he chose to do after.

  Eric coughed. “No. I…”

  Behind her, whispers rose, whispers that would haunt her for long months after this spectacle, but she had a question to ask. Cara dug her shaking elbows into her waist as she looked up at Eric, so high above on the pawing stallion’s back. “What will you do about it?”

  On every side, people made merry, dancing and shouting, but a thick silence hung between the two of them.

  She looked up at him. Her bowels churned.

  He looked down at her. The ground shook.

  “I don’t know.” Eric pressed his heels into the steed’s flanks.

  Dust rose. Cara stood in the crowded street, alone. Shamed. What did “I don’t know” even mean?

  A young woman with a crown of flowers on her head turned to another girl. “He’s handsome all right.”

  “Ecce, but that noble will never marry her.” The girl shoved a roll in her mouth.

  The girl’s words pounded in Cara’s ears as Eric disappeared from sight. Disappeared. Forever? She spun around. “You know nothing, you selfish little prigs! He wants to marry me.”

  One girl laughed, another chortled, and a third snorted. “Fool girl.”

  The girl with flowers in her hair laughed. “Guess you don’t need any wits to be a harlot.”

  Cara lowered her head and her palla slid over her face.

  He’d been her friend. He’d shown her Macedonia on the map and spun tales about Theseus and the Minotaur. He’d ordered those other men to hold their tongues when they’d spoken to her like she was a loose woman at the first tabula game.

  Who did she hope to fool? Eric was a patrician, and according to Victor, Eric had done this with other girls before.

  Fresh morning light stretched into long rays of afternoon sunshine on the Camulodunum training grounds.

  Eric gripped the discus. Despite the autumn chill, the discus slid through his sweaty hands. He should have met Father at the garrison four hours ago and presented that summary of Dacian war strategy that he’d labored over for weeks. After he presented the proof of his diligence, he’d planned to ask Father for the training school loan.

  Falling back, then running forward, Eric released the discus.

  “Ha! Not fifty paces.” Victor ran up and threw his own.

  Two days until the pentathlon. Eric bent and grabbed another discus.

  “Race me.” Victor moved toward the chariot track.

  “Another time.” Eric tried to focus on the discus in his hand. She had looked so miserable, but how could it possibly be true?

  He had, perhaps wrongfully, kissed Cara, but babies don’t come from kissing. He remembered nothing from that night at Victor’s farmhouse when she claimed it happened. Surely, though, he’d never have done something like that.

  Frowning, Eric tried to summon images to his mind. He’d kissed her at the tabula board. Then Victor had forced wine, which obviously wasn’t diluted, on him, and all the rest turned into blackness.

  The next moment he could recall was when Victor shook him awake in the stable, saying they’d miss the ship if they didn’t hurry. As he opened his eyes, a baby goat had butted him in the backside.

  Eric kicked the dying grass. He’d never been drunk before, but surely drunkenness didn’t erase all memories? He only remembered drinking that one goblet, but there must have been more wine, or why would he recall only blackness?

  Furrowing his brow, he searched the recesses of his mind. Nothing.

  No wonder Stoics hated wine so much.

  Stepping back, then forward, he threw the discus. A paltry throw, not even forty paces.

  Still nothing. He remembered blackness and a sick headache afterward, nothing more.

  As the sun moved down its arc, Eric threw the discuses, one after another, went to collect them up from the field, and threw them again.

  Still nothing.

  This morning, she’d cried and asked him to do something about it. Father would never loan him money for the training school, let alone ever approve of him again if he stepped in and did something about this.

  How could anyone expect him to ruin his life over something he had no proof was true? To the right, Victor led chariot horses onto the track. Cara had come to that wretched party with Victor, and she’d admitted she’d kissed Victor before. This sounded like exactly the kind of thing Victor would do.

  The afternoon sun streamed down on Eric’s shoulders. The pentathlon competition met this First Day. He’d have to leave early tomorrow morning to get to Londinium in time to compete.

  He shifted his feet in the grass. He could at least wait until after the pentathlon. Maybe a few months more? Perhaps he’d remember something. The rumble of chariot wheels raised dust as Victor urged the horses faster.

  He could ask Victor what had happened that night.

  Ha! He trusted Cara’s word a whole lot more than Victor’s.

  Cara, who loved faraway places, and won at tabula every time, and begged him to show her maps of Greece. She was a follower of The Way. She was his friend. She’d not lie to him.

  If she said the child was his, it was his. His to do something about.

  By Hercules, he’d just landed in a cesspool.

  Chapter 13

  Afternoon sunshine faded fast. Swinging off his horse, Eric set the discus down. A servant took the steed’s reins and started wiping the horse’s sweaty sides.

  Oh to snatch that cloth from the servant’s hands and delay the inevitable by doing the task himself. Eric took a deep breath. He wanted neither a wife nor an infant, but he’d not let Cara suffer the price of his mistake. All too soon, he reached the path leading up to the Roman townhome.

  Father already thought him vastly inferior to Wryn. What would he say when he heard this news?

  Call him an irresponsible degenerate, veto all plans of a training school, and force him to take a tribune position. Yes, that summed it up, but by law, he needed his father’s signature to make the betrothal official. Besides, one couldn’t exactly marry a girl and not tell one’s familia. Wait, could one? Hope glimmered on the horizon along with the last rays of setting sun.

  He sighed. No, that wouldn’t work.

  Eric found his parents in the atrium. Mother talked rapidly while Father listened.

  “The villa sale went through, too,” Father said.

  “Just in time before we leave for Rome, and – ” When Mother saw Eric, she stopped and smiled. He’d only arrived home two days ago.

  Eric swallowed. “Father.”

  Father raised his gaze. “I waited for you at the garrison. I’m eager to see this summary of Dacian strategy that you chose to write up.
It sounds impressive.”

  Eric traced the edge of the tile with his sandal. He should savor Father’s adulation for it’d be the last he saw of it.

  “How was training?” Mother glanced at the grass stains on his tunic, her voice kind. Sometimes she had more patience, gave more grace than Father. Other times, she’d sear one’s ears off and going to Father was safer.

  Overall, going to Father was always safer. He’d be predictably displeased, and then mete out judgment. None of these gut-wrenching, “I’m disappointed in you” speeches that Mother gave.

  Eric cleared his throat. “Recall three months past when I went to the inn for the Dacia speech the night before setting sail for Moesia?”

  “Yes,” Father said.

  “I didn’t go.”

  “Wait, you lied to me?”

  Eric nodded. “I’m sorry, sir.” Might as well apologize, not that it would matter after the volcano eruption to come.

  Father raised his voice. “Paterculis don’t lie. We might purposely defy someone, but lie?”

  Eric rubbed one thumb against his other hand’s sweaty palm. Paterculis probably didn’t father children with village girls either, but he had, and he couldn’t even remember it. He wracked his wits once more. Victor had pushed a cup into his hands and said “drink.” After that, nothing.

  “Where were you then?” Mother touched an inlaid table.

  Splendid question. No matter how he honeyed this speech, Father would hate him, so why even try to mitigate the damage? “I was with Victor’s crowd at a Bacchus-style party at a farmstead in the North.”

  “Victor’s crowd? Those are all reprobates.” Father rested his hands on his belt, his mouth twisted down.

  Eric nodded. “And I got drunk.”

  “You did what!” Mother threw her hand up, almost knocking over a decorative table. “I thought I raised a respectable son, not one that lies and revels in strong drink.”

  Behold, this is why one should always tell Father.

  “I’m glad that you confessed this, son,” Father said. “I hope you realize that this is completely unacceptable. I don’t ever want you to lie to me again. And there will be consequences for this time.”

  Eric’s entire mouth went dry. If only that had been all to his confession. He’d only lied, or rather, omitted truth, and Stoics considered that lying, to Father so he could hunt smugglers at Victor’s party and impress Father by catching one. He wouldn’t have gotten drunk either, except he’d tried to make peace with Victor after almost thrusting a knife into him over Cara. How had one cup of wine made him drunk enough to lose all inhibitions and keep drinking?

  Then Cara, this morn….

  Now he had to marry her. Well, not had to, but intended to. Guess he should have worried less about protecting Cara from Victor, and more about protecting her from himself.

  “There’s more.” Eric tried to swallow. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “What?” Father leveled his gaze at him like a short sword.

  Actually, maybe telling Mother would be better.

  Father waited.

  “I got a girl ingravesco.” There, the words had escaped, and they sounded even more abominable than they had in his head. Now they hung in the room like Damocles’ sword, ready to impale him.

  Gaze on the tile at his feet, he didn’t want to look up and face Father, but he should. Summoning every ligula of courage he had, Eric lifted his gaze.

  Father just stood there, but Mother opened her mouth.

  “Eric Paterculi!” Face flushed, Mother yelled his name, angrier than he’d ever seen her, and she could get fairly angry. “What would you think of a man that did that to your sister? You are marrying that girl, and – ”

  If only the tile would open up and swallow him like it had with Amphiaraus at Thebes. According to mythology, Zeus granted Amphiaraus immortality after the swallowing. If he hadn’t already intended to marry Cara, did Mother think he would have invited her and Father’s ire by telling this news?

  Then, for an inexplicable reason, Mother stopped. Eric raised his gaze.

  Hand elevated, Father spoke firmly. “We need to talk, Ness.” He motioned toward the other doorway. Mother followed him.

  Oh good, they left, but he still needed the betrothal papers signed.

  “And you stay right there,” Father said.

  Eric caught a glance into Father’s eyes. Oh yes, Father raged, he could see it now. Father’s eyes flashed judgment fire, only his voice remained perfectly level.

  Fingers pressing into his palms so hard his knuckles went white, Eric shifted to his other foot. He could still hear Mother and Father’s voices from behind the curtain.

  “What is it Aquilus?” Mother’s voice was sharp.

  “We need to find out who it is first.”

  “What does that matter? He violated her. He’s marrying her.”

  “What if she’s already betrothed, married even?” Father raised his voice in question.

  No, none of that, thank heaven. Eric ran his gaze down the Celtic knot design woven in a hanging tapestry. Cara would never have kissed him behind the training grounds if she’d had another man.

  “Oh,” Mother paused. “I hope she’s not. I think that’s unlikely.”

  “Or if,” Father’s voice strained, “if she’s a slave?”

  “And?” Mother said.

  A long silence, then Father spoke again. “A slave, even if she was freed, wouldn’t be a Roman citizen.”

  “I’m not a Roman citizen.” Mother raised her voice again.

  “You had jus lati. For a freedwoman, Rome would not recognize the marriage, the children would not be Roman citizens.”

  So, in fact, impregnating a village girl he’d made friends with was not the worst thing Father could have ever envisioned him doing. At least he hadn’t fathered a child with a slave. Small comfort.

  Behind the curtain, Mother spoke even louder. “Maybe Eric should have thought of that before he – ”

  Eric cringed. What word about him would Mother use next?

  Father interrupted her. “I know, Ness, but to inherit, my heirs must be Roman citizens.”

  Then the curtain shifted.

  “Who’s this girl?” Father’s voice sliced through the air.

  “Cara.”

  Mother looked at him. “Which Cara?”

  “Uh – ” Eric sunk his teeth into his lip. Splendid. As if things needed to get worse? He didn’t know how to locate Cara.

  She lived somewhere off Light Street, but she’d said salve before they’d gotten all the way to her house that night he walked her home. “She goes to First Day services, has brown hair. She said her father served as a centurion.”

  Relief whooshed from Father’s lungs and he relaxed his stance. “If her father’s a former centurion, she’s a Roman citizen.”

  Insulting, really, that Father’s first thought had been that he’d done this with a slave girl, incapable of saying “no.” Though he had no remembrance of that night, Cara and he must have kept drinking and the kisses at the tabula game quite accidentally turned into something more. He could imagine her fiery kisses having that effect.

  Given Cara’s forward actions the two months she’d haunted the training grounds, she seemed to like kissing him, too. That would make marriage to her somewhat easier.

  “Oh, you mean Cara the blacksmith’s daughter,” Mother said.

  Tentatively, Eric nodded.

  “Now, behold, Eric Valens Paterculi,” Father raised his voice, loud and furious, “you will march to that blacksmith’s shop now, and ask her father for permission to marry her. Then, whatever he doesn’t shout, yell, or physically beat into your head, you’re receiving from me when you return.”

  A blacksmith? An image of the man from First Day services flashed across Eric’s mind. That was Cara’s father. He arrested a shiver.

  “Father,” Eric started in a voice that sounded smaller than he wished.

  “
What?”

  “I need your signature to seal a betrothal, so if you go to the blacksmith shop first …”

  Father cut off that last small hope with a shake of his head. “There is no way in this empire that I am going to an upstanding man and telling him that my son, who I raised, went, got drunk at a reprobate party, and sired his grandchild. You get that unenviable task.”

  Eric gulped.

  “Go.”

  Though Father yelled at him like the betrothal had been Father’s idea, he’d decided to marry Cara while he was still on the training ground fields this afternoon.

  Father looked at him. “And, in case you didn’t know, I’m disappointed in you.”

  Just what Mother always said, but it wasn’t Mother this time. It was Father, and that was a thousand times worse.

  Eric’s tunic, still grass-stained from the training fields, stuck to him as he rode through the Camulodunum streets. The sun set into evening shadows. On either side of Light Street, shopkeepers closed their doors while women dumped scraps for wandering mutts.

  To the left, one shop door still hung open. Inside, a carpenter bent over a board, plane in hand, scowling.

  The horse carried Eric forward all too swiftly. What would he say when he reached Cara’s house? A blank nothingness fogged over his brain. He glanced down alleys until he saw a blacksmith sign.

  Had she told her father and the blacksmith already knew? If she had, then he might as well step into a lion’s den as into that shop.

  On the other hand, if Cara hadn’t told, did that mean he’d have to explain it? Wretched thought.

  No, he’d lead off with “may I marry your daughter,” and then the blacksmith would know, and then the shop would turn into a den of man-eating lions. He swung off his horse. Hail Caesar, we who are about to die salute you.

  Inside the smithy shop, the forge fire still blazed. The blacksmith pounded his hammer against red-hot metal.

  Eric willed his feet to step inside. “Sir,” he said very, very respectfully.

  The smith turned. One glance at his patrician tunic and the man glared. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  Wasn’t telling his name like releasing a death sentence? Even compared to the parched desert of his mouth, Eric’s tongue felt dry. “Eric Paterculi.”