When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Standing, Eric moved his arm around her.

  They’d starve to death. Starve! Or maybe freeze. A mouse scurried across the edge of the room.

  He pulled her down to the pallet, his cloak over her, his arms circling her as his body heat seeped into her, but she didn’t soften into his arms. What would taking comfort in his arms prove? One day at the docks and he would hate her. Hate. Then they’d starve to death.

  She’d never sleep, but she must have, for the cold dawn wind woke her.

  Her heart started thundering and her insides threatened to heave. Cara wriggled out from the cloaks and Eric’s arms.

  A swollen welt leered up from her hand. She lifted her skirt. Three more rose from her leg. “Bed lice!” She’d not only have her dead body cast upon the snow drifts, but vermin bites would cover her corpse.

  Eric rolled over, shifting the cloaks. He half-opened one eye, his voice sleep-slurred. “In the pallet?” Rubbing his hand across his eyes, he stood. “I have to go work.”

  She held out the last of the bread. The last they’d eat before they died. He should have it. Allow him to live a few hours longer so he could hate her for killing them.

  His stomach rumbled. “No, you’re hungrier than I.” Throwing on his cloak, he walked out the door.

  To starve.

  Chapter 17

  One box stacked atop another, rising up to the murky sky above. A dozen merchant ships sat in the harbor, docked, waiting to receive the cargo.

  Eric groaned. Even he possessed a thousand times too much intelligence for this.

  The dock overseer, Atticus Orca, mounted a pile of broken boxes with as much pomp as a king. “Today, men!” He raised his right hand.

  The man spoke as if he led a war charge. This was dock loading.

  “You will line them straight. Any broken merchandise gets taken from your wages.” The man droned on.

  “If you stopped talking, we could get this done,” Eric muttered.

  The man swung his gaze over and ran it down Eric’s linen tunic and almost-new cloak. “Why are you here, rich boy? Lost a wager? Get off my docks.”

  “You can’t throw me out for no reason.” Eric crossed his arms over the thin linen the wind gusted through. He should have worn a wool tunic on his wedding day. Too late now.

  “I could, but I’ll wait for you to give me a reason.”

  Twelve hours later as the last rays of the sun sank beneath the horizon, only one box remained. Cursing, a Celt shoved past a man whose breath reeked and took his place to collect the day’s pay. A freed slave bearing the seared flesh of a former master’s brand moved to the back of the line.

  Weariness seeped to Eric’s bones. His arms ached, and unlike pentathlon exercise, this pain sprained, not strengthened muscles. As Atticus Orca handed out denarii, Eric hauled up the last crate. Poorly hammered nails protruded from the bottom edge. He once more thudded up the gangway.

  A wave rocked the boat and the box shifted. A nail dug into the flesh of Eric’s forearm. It tore forward as pain burned through cold flesh.

  With a grunt, Eric balanced the box on the ship rail and brought his arm up to the fading light.

  The nail point had dug two fingers’ width into the skin and then gashed through the muscle. Blood ran out.

  Not good, and he couldn’t work this job one-armed. He pressed his tunic sleeve against the gouge.

  Atticus Orca stepped off the dock onto the boat. The deck shifted. The box teetered. Blood spurted from Eric’s arm as he grabbed for the box.

  The wood slid through his numb hands and crashed into the depths below.

  Atticus Orca yelled. That’s all the dock overseer had done for the last twelve hours – yell. “What was in that box?”

  Eric shrugged and pressed his hand against the river flowing from his arm.

  The overseer stuck his head over the rail. The box bobbed back up, its stamped label floating above the surface. Breath whooshed from Atticus Orca’s lungs. “Rugs. You’re fortunate that wasn’t the crystal or pottery.”

  Fortunate? He hadn’t felt fortunate since Cara had stopped him at the Fortuna festival. Blood streaked his arm now, his entire tunic wet with the stuff. He tore a strip from his sleeve and used his teeth to cinch off a knot.

  “I can dry the rugs, but I’m taking all this day’s pay for it, rich boy.”

  “What?”

  “That was the agreement. You break something, you pay.” Atticus Orca leered the words through thin lips.

  “I gave you a full day’s labor.”

  “And threw my rugs into the Tamesis.”

  Eric shifted back. “It could have happened to anyone. You promised me pay.”

  “Also, I save my best shifts for men who do their job right. You’re on the early shift tomorrow.”

  “Earlier than the crack of dawn?” Eric rolled his gaze to the dark skies.

  Atticus Orca crossed flabby arms. “Four hours before sunrise. We have a full moon this week. If your disposition doesn’t improve by the morrow – ”

  Here he stood bleeding out from this man’s inane task and the overseer lectured him about disposition? “What makes you think I’m coming back to your work that you didn’t even pay me for?”

  The overseer shrugged, wrinkling his rabbit fur collar. “Your choice, but if you’re not here four hours before dawn, you’re discharged.”

  Quidquid, he’d find different work. He couldn’t lift with this arm anyway.

  Winter wind whipped around Eric, blistering his hands and chilling already-aching muscles as he walked up the dark streets toward Cara. Light slipped through holes in the hovel. He pushed the door open. The board his hand touched gave way.

  “Eric!” Cara ran toward him. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, a welcome relief from the blistering cold, but only water, not food, boiled in the cauldron over it.

  Eric moved his frozen feet toward the flames’ heat and pushed aside his cloak. The blood on his arm had crusted over now, but his muscles throbbed. He glanced around the room for a clean cloth.

  “I searched for money-counting work all day.” Cara’s cheeks glistened. Tears? “Only one merchant hiring, two score men who wanted the job, and the merchant said he wouldn’t even consider a woman. I tried, Eric, I tried.” Her breathing bordered on hysterical.

  Rejection for her gender surprised Cara? Even if they had hired her, they wouldn’t have paid her a fraction of a man’s wages. There was a reason townsfolk attached so much shame to an unwed woman bearing a child. Without a man’s wages, women starved. “It’s my responsibility, not yours. I’ll try again for a scribe position, too. I write three languages.”

  “Eric,” Cara’s dark eyes stared out of her ashen face. “I asked all day for scribe positions, for you, because I knew you’d like it better than the docks. There are none.”

  Not good. A week ago, four days of hunting had only turned up this dock work, which he was now too injured to do, even if he did wish to tolerate Atticus Orca.

  Eric’s stomach grumbled. “Let’s eat first, then think on it.” The docks bustled with so many ships, the overseer had canceled the midday break, and instead, gave a half-hour monolog about how many extra boxes they could load. While no one loaded boxes. He hadn’t broken his fast this morning either.

  Cara glanced out the decrepit door. “A few shops should still be open if we take your day’s wages.”

  “This is all I got for my work today.” Eric raised his arm, exposing the gash.

  With a gasp, Cara darted forward. The fire cast shadows on her face as she ran her finger over the blood. “I can clean it for you. How deep is it?”

  “Deep enough to keep me off heavy labor.” Properly, for a month to avoid infection, but they had to eat before that.

  Cara clapped her hand across her mouth, horror in her eyes.

  “What?”

  Desperation shone from her deep brown eyes. “Food.”

  He winced. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet. Let’
s go buy today’s food, and then think on it.”

  “We have no money.”

  “No, we have a denarius.” Head throbbing, he pulled his cloak back down over his arm.

  “I spent it on firewood.”

  He lurched back toward the crackling flames. A cold shiver ran down him. “But – ”

  Cara knotted her hands in front of her. “You’d freeze by morning without it.”

  He stared at her. She stared back. Shadows flickered on the low ceiling, reflecting off splintered wood. His stomach growled.

  She pressed her hands against her midsection as if to will hers not to follow suit. Firelight reflected off the murky depths of her eyes.

  He walked over to the bed-louse-infested pallet.

  “What are you doing?” Cara whispered through blood-drained lips.

  “Going to sleep so I can wake up four hours before dawn.”

  A full day and a half had passed since he’d last eaten. Eric’s arms trembled when he heaved up the box. Once again, pain surged through the muscles of his left arm, blood seeping through his sleeve.

  Standing on the dock, Atticus Orca cupped his hand to his thin lips. “Midday break. An hour for lunch.”

  “Sir,” Eric said to the man nowhere near worthy of that title.

  Atticus Orca raised his pale gaze.

  “May I collect half my daily wage?”

  The man stuck his thumbs into his belt, thin fingers draping over the heavy pouches hung there. “Why? Going to run off on me, rich boy?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll get paid when the day’s work is done”

  Eric’s sight swam from lack of sustenance, and his head throbbed. He wouldn’t beg the man, on the other hand. “I’d work faster, sir, if I ate.”

  Atticus Orca stared down the narrow bridge of his nose. “Oh, very well.” Digging into his pocket, he dug out a half-denarius, “but be back before the hour’s spent, or you’re discharged, and – ”

  Turning on his heel, Eric rushed to the market.

  A few moments of haggling and an exchange of coin later, he had bread and meat in his hands. He dug his teeth into his half of the mutton as he hurried down narrow streets.

  Finally, the broken walls of the hovel rose in front of him. He pushed the door open with his elbow.

  Cara sat on the filthy pallet, head buried in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

  Not glancing up at his footsteps, or even checking whether it was actually him rather than some bandit, Cara sobbed. Her chest heaved as hysteria exuded from her.

  Taking her hand, he placed half the meat in it. “Here, eat.”

  She dropped the meat and dug her fists into her eyes, her tears a river now.

  Breaking the bread in half, Eric shifted to his other foot.

  Cara drew her knees up and buried her face into her skirt.

  He laid Cara’s half of the bread beside her on the pallet and wolfed down the remaining piece. It wasn’t really enough, but it was all he could get for the money.

  Still Cara cried, her back heaving as she bent over double.

  “Are you all right?”

  For the briefest of moments, she glanced up at him, her eyes red, but then she fell back to sobbing.

  “Cara.” He knelt on the filthy floor beside the pallet. Wrapping his arms around her, he ran his fingers down her shaking back in what she’d hopefully consider a soothing manner.

  That, or he made the greatest mistake of his married life thus far and she actually wanted him to go away this instant and leave her crying self in peace.

  Turning toward him, she dug her head into his shoulder. Hot tears flowed down his tunic as her chest wracked with sobs. She was so small, essentially in his lap now, and her head only reached his shoulder.

  She lifted her tearstained face, her chest still heaving hysterically, a wild light in her eyes, as words tumbled out faster than a downpour. “We’re going to starve, our bodies thrown on the snowy drifts and my father won’t even know it. Or we might freeze to death. And I did it to you. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. I thought life as a carpenter’s wife would be restrictive, but I never even considered starving.”

  Eric stiffened. Realistically, the thought of her married to that self-righteous carpenter and not his problem while he completed the last touches for his training school should bring him joy, but he felt like hurling a discus at something.

  At the villa stables, Cara had said she hadn’t loved this carpenter. Then again, what was she supposed to say? Yes, I cry over my beloved every night. By all means, become angry enough that you’ll divorce me and send me back to Camulodunum shame? Even if Cara hadn’t loved the carpenter, perhaps she’d wanted to marry him. She seemed attracted by the idea now.

  Another sob wracked Cara’s body. The last thing Mother had said to him before that cringe-worthy wedding ceremony was “women with child cry a lot. You should probably know that.” His mother hadn’t lied.

  Cara shook, her hair falling loose from her trembling. Her locks were the color of chestnuts, glossy down each strand.

  He tugged Cara against his chest. He tangled his hand in her hair as he pressed her damp cheek against the shoulder of his tunic. “We have food now, and I’ll get the rest of the day’s wage for the night’s meal.”

  “But Eric, there’s rent, and what about firewood? We don’t even own a blanket. What about when our shoes wear through? The babe will need clothes.”

  He dug his teeth into his lip. He hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps Cara did have cause for hysterics.

  “I tried again for money-counting positions. Still won’t hire a woman. I asked everyone about scribe positions, too. Nothing.”

  “I’m not going to let us starve, Cara.” Though, now that Cara said it, when he’d judged apologizing to Father beneath his dignity, he hadn’t actually considered starving either.

  He’d soon have three mouths to feed. Three, all on him, because Cara could comb this town for days, and she still wouldn’t find work that paid a woman above a few copper asses. Why had he thought a tribune position irksome? He’d take it now. Only he couldn’t, not without Father’s backing.

  Cara’s lower lip trembled, but she ceased weeping for a moment. “You promise?”

  “Yes.” The word came out guttural. Even if it took pleasing imbecile overseers, staying up night and day, and building this house back up with just his two hands.

  As much as Cara might wish she had someone else for her husband, she didn’t. Any woman deserved better than a hovel without food or kindling, which meant he’d have to find a way to provide it because he’d never ask Father for anything.

  A cold breeze blew through the atrium into the open door of the Ocelli tablinum. Victor sighed as his father continued the berating.

  “Idiot. Eric can’t have disappeared into thin air.”

  “Apparently, he can.” He’d had the kidnapping planned for after the pentathlon, but by then Eric had disappeared. When he’d finally traced Eric to the Paterculi villa, Eric had left again.

  Footsteps sounded on the tile outside. Blue silk draped around the curves of Edna’s figure, her stomach almost flat again after childbirth. A moment of weakness really, bringing her here, but she’d begged him for six months and she was comely.

  Father swiveled his pointed chin disapprovingly toward the doorway. “You need to marry soon. There’s a girl from a well-connected familia in Rome whose father’s interested. She turned twelve last month so her father’s looking to get the betrothal signed.”

  Outside the door, an infant wailed. Edna bent over the wrinkled baby she said was his. Looking back at his father, Victor nodded. “The match should help secure me a position in Rome.”

  “Agreed. Therefore, if you want to keep her,” his father stabbed one finger toward the atrium, “get the woman her own house. Even a seducer can’t expect a wife and a mistress to live in the same villa.”

  “Splendid. I’m sick of living with you anyway.” Victor stood. “I’ll
take her to Londinium with me. When I lost Eric’s trail, all signs pointed toward him heading that way.”

  “Shut the door. There’s more.”

  Victor shoved the inlaid door shut. “What?”

  “Legate Paterculi’s heading for Rome for six months to pursue a consul position. The man he’s appointed to oversee the ports while he’s away is a disaster. Scrupulous, competent, not susceptible to bribes. We lost three shipments already this month, and we can’t afford any more with the Viri demanding payment.”

  “And?” Victor shivered. They were thousands of denarii short for the Viri already and the Shadow Man wasn’t known for mercy.

  “I want our man, Tribune Festus, appointed to the position in the legate’s absence. Festus agreed to turn a blind eye to our smuggling should we get him the position.”

  Victor raised one eyebrow. “Sounds lovely, except how do I get this Festus the position?”

  “That’s why I need Eric. We’ll capture him, then send our demands to the legate. Anonymously, of course. The Viri will ensure nothing’s traced back to us.”

  Victor shifted his feet on the cold tiles. “Why Eric? Legate Paterculi has three sons.”

  “You think I haven’t tried to kidnap the others? I’d take his daughter, too. He dotes on her as much as a son, but ever since his Celtic wife almost died at the hands of kidnappers twenty years ago, the legate’s had so many guards watching his familia I can’t even get an assassin to attempt the job.”

  The fish Victor had eaten an hour ago churned. “Won’t the legate have sent guards with Eric, too?”

  “Yes, but Eric trusts you, so you can lure him away from guards. If I’d been the legate, I’d have left those kidnappers to have his harridan of a wife. If you’d ever heard his wife talk, you’d understand why I cut the tongues out of my bodyguards’ mouths.”

  Victor pressed his fist against his stomach. Now he’d need a bowl to retch in.

  “It’ll make you weak, the desire to not shed blood.” For a moment, Father almost sounded kind. “It’s why I’m still a pawn of the Viri rather than leading the ring.”

  “You’re not ruthless enough for the Shadow Man’s taste?” Victor snorted. “Imagine that.”