Eric swiveled on his heel. “Do you plan to pay me for it?”
“I’ll let you off an hour early.”
“You’d have to pay a scribe a hundred denarii a month for that work. At least.” Eric looped one thumb in his belt.
Atticus Orca slithered his eyebrows down. “If you want to keep your position, you’ll do it.”
A groan slid through Eric’s teeth. “Very well.”
To the right, ships scraped against the docks, captains calling out orders as men pulled on oars. Dock loaders bustled with crates, swearing.
A man’s profile caught Cara’s gaze. He stood on a ship’s deck and spoke rapidly to a captain. Coin exchanged hands. The man looked like Marcellus. Cara touched Eric’s shoulder. “Does that man look familiar to you?”
“What man?” Eric turned.
Now the ship’s deck stood empty. “Nothing. Probably my eyes deceiving me.” The man had worn the rough brown tunic of a day laborer after all.
Beside her, Eric yanked at the sweaty Celtic wool pasted to his chest. “I want to cut these sleeves off.”
“They’ll fray out and I’ll never get them sewed back on when frost comes.”
“I suppose when on the docks, do as the Celts do.” He stripped the shirt off, leaving only his trousers, hung at his waist by a leather belt.
“Eric!”
He shrugged, bare chest rising with the motion. Dressed in trousers, chest bare, he looked like the Celts that wandered along the dock. Only they had blue tattoos and markings on their bare chests and curved Celtic blades rather than short swords buckled to their belts. Not a one of them was as handsome as her half-naked husband, either.
He should have fine linen and a patrician steed, not be forced to walk wearing barbarian clothes, less than rags really. Dirt streaked from the bridge of his nose to his ear, the stubble on his cheek thicker than seven months ago. Patricians had private baths to wash in, a strigil to scrape off dirt, and oil to massage into the skin. Patricians commanded armies, not served others’ whims in mindless toil. He’d have it all still, if not for her.
Atticus Orca’s shrill voice carried over the docks. “I expect you to get those barbarian trousers down here before dawn’s light tomorrow, rich boy. I need these scrolls translated.”
“He shouldn’t order you about like a savage,” Cara said.
“I am half barbarian blood.” Eric reached his bare arm around her shoulders and pulled her in front of him.
She twisted to look at him.
“Though how I got a good Roman girl like you to marry me, I don’t know.” Eric’s bare arms hedged her on either side. “Probably painted myself with woad and captured you on some berserker invasion of your village.”
She stared at the Roman patrician she’d married. How could he laugh at hard toil, bad food, and an unwanted marriage to a plebeian girl with child when he’d had the world?
He touched her hips, his long fingers spanning them regardless of the fact this busy dock bustled with people. Tugging her back against him, he leaned forward over her shoulder and moved his mouth over hers.
Cara gasped.
He stopped kissing her. “You didn’t like it?”
Hugging Lucia tighter, Cara felt her cheeks flame with heat. “I liked it, but it’s wanton.”
“I’ve worked hours on these docks. It’s not as if no one’s ever kissed a girl here.” A light sparkled in Eric’s eyes. He grazed his hand over her cheek. “Though never as comely a girl as you.”
She glanced about at the milling people – maidens holding hands with their betrothed, newlywed couples sitting on abandoned crates as they gazed deep into each other eyes. Eric would taste of summer sunshine if she pressed her mouth to his, but this time she intended to follow the rules.
Shifting Lucia to her hip, Cara took Eric’s hand. “I’ll kiss you twice as much once we round that hill.” She nodded toward where the city turned into trees.
He laughed. “Three times?”
She touched her finger to his lips. “Four.”
A squat dock worker on their right raised his voice. “Hurry up with those.”
“What’s the rush?” Another man stepped on the gangway, sinking it.
“The Corneli daughter ordered them delivered within the hour,” the squat worker yelled back. “Dinner party they’re having tomorrow night.”
Eric whipped around. “The Cornelis. That’s Aulia’s familia. I’ll find my backing at that party.”
“Who’s Aulia?”
“A patrician girl. She went to First Day services when her father allowed it, which wasn’t often. According to Gwen, she’s madly in love with Wryn, but last summer her father betrothed her to a Mesopotamian legate. The marriage mustn’t have happened yet if she’s still here.”
“She’d grant us entrance? Perhaps lend us clothes too?”
Eric nodded. “I think so.”
Oh, she hoped so. He deserved it. She’d do the money counting and anything else in her power to make it happen for him.
Once again, Victor stood in the shadowy oak grove, a pace away from Marcellus, the man who’d almost killed him last night.
“You were correct, Marcellus. The ship captain named him,” the Shadow Man pointed to a crouched man sniveling in the darkness, “as the one who revealed our plans to Legate Paterculi for profit. As for you, Victor, you have two more months, then I expect payment.”
The night breeze blew across Victor’s face. “The shipments we lost cut significantly into our profits. Can we pay you your percentage on just the ones that made it through?”
“If you lose shipments, it’s no concern of mine. I’ll expect the full payment.”
Full payment? Victor shuddered. That man currently cowering on the moonlit grass had better be the only leak then.
“About the enforcer position.”
Victor ran his thumb across the lines in his palm that some soothsayer had read once. “I’ve no taste for that much bloodshed.”
“I’ve hired many men who relished shedding blood. In the end, their stupidity got them killed. You, on the other hand, are intelligent enough to thrive, and bloodletting’s easy to grow accustomed to. Here.” The Shadow Man tossed a knife through the air.
Victor caught it.
“Kill him.” The Shadow Man pointed to the cowering man.
Kill? In cold blood? Victor dug his sandal into the earth.
“I ordered you to kill him. Would you like to die instead?” The evening breeze slithered over the Shadow Man’s cloak-shrouded frame.
Victor eyed the cowering man. So alive. So human.
Marcellus grabbed the knife from Victor’s hand and slit it across the man’s throat. Dark blood spilled as the man fell. “Weakling,” Marcellus hissed.
The Shadow Man ran his gaze over Victor, then he shrugged. “Or have your henchman do it for you. That’s acceptable, too.”
When another hand did the killing, it wasn’t so hard to accept. Victor looked at the Shadow Man. “You said you had something to tell me about Eric.”
“Yes. Kill him for me. That’ll ensure he can’t tell his familia anything he remembered from when you drugged him.”
How did the Shadow Man even know about drugging Eric? Victor lifted his hand, which looked ashen by moonlight. “I doubled the dose.” He couldn’t kill Eric.
“So your father told me.” The Shadow Man’s voice hissed through still air. “He also told me Eric married a girl that he got with child that night. Seems to me, the Paterculi boy remembered something.”
No! Victor’s heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t kill Eric. Couldn’t! He’d kill his father for repeating that. What was Father’s obsession with seeing Eric dead? The boy slaved away at the docks, doing no harm to anyone but himself.
Marcellus took a sharp step forward, crunching the grass. “I spoke with the legate’s daughter earlier this evening. The Paterculis still don’t know where Eric is. Why rush into bloodshed when perhaps this Eric could be of us
e?”
The Shadow Man twisted at his knife. “You have a point. Victor, you may hold off a few more weeks.”
Victor blinked. Marcellus relished bloodshed. Why would Marcellus bargain for Eric’s life? No matter. He didn’t have to kill Eric.
At least not yet.
Chapter 22
The cobblestone street broadened. A wrought iron gate stretched in front of them, enclosing the sprawling splendor of a patrician’s house beyond it. Cara clenched Lucia. This needed to work out for Eric.
He rapped against the iron.
A man poked his head around the gate. He ran his gaze over Eric’s Celtic clothes and unkempt hair. “Who are you?”
Eric stepped forward. “Eric Paterculi. I’d like to see Lady Aulia.”
The porter snorted. “You expect me to believe you’re a Paterculi?”
What if he refused them entrance? Eric deserved this shipping venture. Cara’s heart pounded against Lucia.
Eric spread his legs, thumbs hooked in his leather belt. “Yes.”
“I’m not letting some day laborer in this gate because he claims the Paterculi name.”
“If you’re wrong, and I am Eric Paterculi, which I am, do you want the responsibility of turning away a Paterculi?” Eric slid his eyebrow up.
The porter scowled, but he shuffled back to the main house.
A little later, a girl walked out of the villa. Orange silk blew around her legs, a gold necklace at her throat. Her eyes lit in recognition.
Eric nodded to her. “Salve, Aulia.”
Turning, Aulia gave the porter a severe stare. “Unlock this gate at once.”
With the creak of the key in the lock and a low obeisance, the porter swung the gate open.
“Eric, it is you. My father’s porter led me to believe a host of bandits stood at our gate.” Aulia stepped out. “And you, Cara is it? I’m sorry I missed your wedding. My father didn’t allow me to go.”
Cara squished her toes against the sole of her boots. Many more unpleasant things this patrician lady could have said about that wedding.
“Who’s this?” The girl curved her pale lips up as she stroked Lucia’s cheek.
Though her breath quickened, Cara met the patrician’s gaze. “Lucia.”
“May I hold her?” Aulia took the baby and tugged Lucia’s tiny body close against her chest.
“I wished to speak to the men here tonight about a trade deal, but I didn’t suppose they’d very well hear me looking like this,” Eric scratched the back of his neck, “so I wondered if …”
“If you could borrow some decent clothes? Of course, come in.” Still holding Lucia, Aulia stepped inside the courtyard. Her nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. “A bath, too. While you make ready, I’ll ask my father to let you speak during the after-dinner toasts.”
Eric knotted his fingers, his knuckles whitening. “No need. I can talk to the men individually.”
“There are more than a hundred men invited tonight, and a bustling evening planned. If you wish to gain their attention, you’ll need to give a speech.” With a friendly smile, Aulia walked through the front door. Still, Eric stood there strangely stiff.
“The bath house is that way.” Aulia pointed Eric toward a brick building by the gardens. “I’ll tell Eukleides to lay out a fresh tunic and shaving and hair cutting equipment.”
“I did shave,” Eric said.
Aulia raised her black eyelashes, her gaze ever so gently moving over the wild waves of Eric’s hair and the uneven stubble on his jaw.
“It’s not so bad.”
Cara clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress the peal of laughter. He looked like Theseus, and Hercules, and Odysseus, but if Eric called that shaven….
Meeting her gaze, Eric turned his mouth up, though he looked like he wished he hadn’t. “I take your meaning.” He turned and disappeared into the bath house.
“Come.” Snuggling Lucia closer to her chest, Aulia motioned to Cara. “I’ve a wash basin in my room and I’ll help you coil your hair.”
The patrician woman directed Cara into a room. Damask and velvet adorned the lovely space. Colorful mosaics decorated the tile floor that her soiled boot sole touched. Gold-plated combs lay on the mahogany table as casually as if they were wood.
Aulia pointed Cara to a stool. “Pearls or gold?”
Cara felt her eyes bulge as she sank onto the polished wood.
“To borrow for the night.” Aulia held up two necklaces. “I think pearls will look best with your coloring. Perhaps the green silk?” Aulia shifted a curtain, revealing pile after pile of tunicas.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Of course.” Lady Aulia smiled at her as if she fit in among this world. Lucia nuzzled against Aulia’s chest.
Cara reached for her. “She’s hungry.”
Aulia handed the baby to her. “I suppose I’ll have one soon.”
“With the Mesopotamian legate?”
Aulia nodded, a pensiveness in her gaze. “We should have married a six-month ago, only he delayed it.”
“How do you feel about that?” As Lucia sought sustenance like she’d starved for weeks, Cara looked into Aulia’s eyes. Something hid deep behind them. Sorrow? Resignation? Fear?
“He’s renowned for his temper.” With a little shrug, Aulia smiled again. “Green silk for certain, and I’ll have my old nurse watch Lucia.”
A half-hour later, Cara stood in the darkened atrium. Lights and noise spilled out from the crowded banquet hall. Attired in a white tunic, Eric strode forward, his broad shoulders thrown back, gait confident as he walked over mosaics that cost several times what he made in a year. Cara stared at her husband. Shaven and washed, Eric looked like a patrician again.
Though it seemed sacrilege here in this world of marble pillars and frescoed ceilings, she reached up and touched his jaw. “I like you smooth shaven.”
“And clean, and rich again?” Eric twisted his dark lips up in the same grin she’d seen by fading firelight in a falling-apart hovel for the last seven months.
She shook her head. “Back then, I served tables while you mingled with the great. I had to watch you flirt with that pink-silk patrician girl, too.”
“I never flirted with Livia. Or Claudia? Julia? Which of Gwen’s friends are we talking about?”
“They all flirted with you.” Cara skimmed her fingers over his hand. Oil softened his cracked calluses.
“Doubtful, and that’s scarcely my fault,” he said, voice more melodic than any lyre.
Oh, at this moment to kiss those dark lips that could speak with all the learning of Socrates. His tunic stopped halfway down his forearm, revealing muscles to put tribunes to shame. Still, someone might see. “It’s entirely your fault. A few moments in your company and cupid’s arrows would pierce any girl’s heart.”
He laughed, but his eyes glowed. “For a girl who can calculate numbers like lightning, you speak madness a considerable amount.”
She twirled, making the green silk swish around her hips. The pearls nested in the small of her throat as the gold bracelets on her wrists jangled. “So Dominus Paterculi, do you think I look comely?”
“Depends. Are you going to let me kiss you?” Eric slid his hand over silk as he tugged her forward. His eyes traced her every move.
She glanced around. Though servants moved to the left, the darkness would hide them. Standing on tiptoe, she clasped her hands behind his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.
Eric caressed his fingers against her cheek, hard against soft. “King Xerxes selected the wrong woman for his harem. Esther could never have compared to you.”
“Who?”
“It’s in the scriptures.”
He read the most scandalous sections of scripture.
Then Eric slid her hand onto his arm and, together, they walked through the atrium into the candlelit hall.
Silk and jewels glittered. White tunics filled the room as men who must be praetors, quaestors, and statesme
n mingled. Marcellus sat toward the back of the room, but no other face looked familiar.
“Salve,” one man said to Eric.
Eric nodded, then he swung his gaze to her. “These events are much less humdrum when one has a goal for the night. They’re also considerably more terrifying.”
“Humdrum?” A gasp slid through her painted lips. “Did that damask tapestry once travel the Silk Road by camelback? What tales of Persian legends and Arabian nights could it tell? What does that mosaic display? A Grecian legend?” She pointed to the colorful tiles cemented to the right-most wall.
“The second labor of Hercules, when he slew the nine-headed hydra. I wish you could turn that enthusiasm of yours toward telling one of the rich equestrians here about our shipping venture.”
She dropped her gaze to the tile. “I’m a woman, and not even a patrician one. They’d not listen to me.” She didn’t even belong in the midst of all this grandeur.
“Unfortunately, I know that.” A wry smile lifted Eric’s mouth. Then, with a sigh, he dropped her arm and stepped toward the patrician men. A pace away, he glanced back at her. “Don’t let anyone say anything too hideous about you.”
“What?” She stood alone as perfumed women with hair crimped and piled high above their heads swept by on either side. Already some gave her sideway glances.
“My mother’s Celtic. I know how cruelly the gossip wheels spin at these events.”
She held up her left hand. The iron wedding band caught the light. “But you chose me, so truly, what can their words do?”
Then Eric separated from her, mingling with the crowd of men, talking to one then another.
After some time, the man in the front of the room announced the dinner. Eric motioned to her. She trailed her way over polished tile, past low tables decorated with gold and crystal, until she reached the double-wide couch he stood by. She lowered her voice. “I’ve never reclined at table before.”
“It’s simple. Just don’t try the fish eyes.” He brushed his fingers over her hand before he stretched himself out on the couch. Other women and their husbands lay down at this table as if they found reposing by one’s husband on a couch a few handbreadths off the ground an entirely appropriate way to dine. She touched her body to the couch’s rich red cloth.
When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2) Page 26