She turned to the long-jawed patrician. He always seemed rough, but she’d endure any man to keep her son. “Will you, sir?”
He raised his sour voice. “No girl’s comely enough to cross Gnaeus for.”
Libya dropped her pleading hands to the table, but even the sturdy wooden slats didn’t calm their trembling. She knew better than to ask a man, any man for help, but she’d done it anyway. No help existed.
Cold enveloped her like mist, creeping around her scanty bodice and sneaking between the slits in her dancing skirt.
She had to have her child. Her mother had said the same thing when the old master had sold her off ten long years ago.
The tall man stood. Standing, he looked even more disapproving. He glanced to the master. “I’ll buy her and the boy.” He jerked his thumb to her.
“Well.” The master took a step back.
“Name your price.” The tall man advanced.
The master rubbed one greedy palm over the other. “She’s worth more than money to me, like a daughter.”
Libya kept herself from snorting.
The tall man clapped his hand on the table behind the master. “You’re the kind of man who has a price for everything. Name it.”
She froze, waiting to hear what her master would say, waiting to see if this man would pay it. Being bought could mean deliverance tonight. Being bought could mean years of horrors to come. Who was this man?
Didn’t matter. If she could keep her son, she could endure anything else.
The master shifted his feet. “Four thousand denarii.”
She flew forward. “You only need three thousand to pay the debt.”
The master shoved her. “None of your business, slave girl. And I’d only lose your worthless son to the other man, not you.”
Even now, after his own stupidity and drunkenness, the master looked to turn a profit.
Three thousand was twice the worth of a dancing girl like her. This patrician would never pay four. Libya’s voice quavered. “Just make him pay the debt.”
“Quiet, girl.” The master slapped her across the star-shaped tattoo on her cheek. “It’s five thousand now, and I’ll go higher if you say one more word.”
“Don’t do this.” Clasping the master’s hand, she fell to her knees. “I’ll die without my son. I beg you, Master, take the three thousand.”
“Six thousand.” The master’s voice fell like a gong, malice in his beady eyes.
Libya dropped her hands as her breathing came in ragged gasps. Too much. Even a patrician wouldn’t pay that on a whim. The master wished to punish her by taking her son. Horus needed her. She needed Horus. Blood raced through her body as chills overtook her.
Something clinked. The tall patrician struck the table. Gold shone on the wood.
She froze even as her breathing slowed. She’d been sold half a dozen times and still the abrupt change that the slap of coin against wood brought made her head spin. Seven years at this tavern, seven years of the same master, same slaves, same days and night all gone.
As she rose from her knees, she searched the new master’s face. Brown hair, close-cropped but wavy, framed his forehead. He had a handsome face, and his shoulders stretched broad above strong arms.
His gaze touched her, examining his new property, no doubt. What had possessed him to pay six thousand denarii? “Get your son.”
She held his gaze for a moment. No smile on his face. He looked stern. Would he prove a harsh taskmaster? She could only pray Horus gave up his mischief, because this man looked like he’d tolerate much less than the tavern owner had.
“Put some clothing on while you’re getting the boy,” the tall patrician said. Condemnation shone in his dark eyes.
Hypocrite. He didn’t approve of her displaying her half-naked body before all these common men, yet he’d just spent six thousand denarii for the use of that same body. Did he think making use of her was above the leers of these common men because he was a patrician? It wasn’t. It was worse.
She slipped through the kitchen before the new master or the old master had a chance to change their minds. Scurrying across the greasy floor, she slipped on vegetable peels.
Horus was asleep in the lean-to, only his dark hair showing over the top of the blanket.
She shook his little shoulder. “Horus, wake up. Horus, little one.”
The boy rolled tighter in his blanket. No matter. She tugged on her wool dress. She spared a glance around the hut, but a slave had little to call her own. She grasped the pouch Horus’ father had given her and slipped the cord around her neck.
Sliding her arms underneath her son, she picked him up. His sleeping form weighed down her arms.
When she walked into the tavern, the old master pointed through the door. “Out now, before I give you a beating to remember me by.”
An idle threat. She had a new master. As she exited, the chill night air blew around her, sending colder chills through her.
The man sat astride a horse, an Arabian by the look of it. He reached down through the darkness. She’d left the inn with Horus’ father just like this.
But Horus’ father had smiled at her.
Chapter 2
With a jolt, the ship scraped against the dock. Libya ran her hand down her son’s back. Horus hung over the ship rail, face contorted. He retched again. The majesty of sea green waves crested behind them as if Poseidon had struck his trident against the ocean.
The last four days they’d traveled so swiftly Horus had no time to make trouble, and she hadn’t opportunity to speak enough words to the new master to learn his name, let alone his plans for Horus and her.
The master swung a pack over his right shoulder and looked to the gangway that the sailors secured to this unknown shore. “Is your son sick?”
“No.” She scooped the boy up. She couldn’t have Horus making trouble and causing the new master to wish to sell him off. A warm breeze flapped the long sleeves of her wool dress and sweat gathered underneath the cloth. They must have traveled south.
The master looked at Horus’ white face. “We’ll stop there for the night.” He pointed up the hill, as much expression on his face as if Medusa had turned him to stone many years ago. The dark wooden walls of an inn rose high on the hill. “I have to meet Marcellus anyway.”
Her leather boots slid on slimy wood as she found footing on the swaying gangplank. Hitching Horus’ hefty weight higher, Libya forced her still unsteady legs up the sandy embankment.
The door to the inn swung open at the master’s touch. Noise surrounded her along with the stench of the many bodies that crowded the tables and common beds on the floor.
A Cyclops of a tavern keeper hurried closer.
“Private rooms,” the master said.
The tavern keeper massaged the scarred side of his face. “Only have my sleeping quarters private. I’ll rent it to you for a price.”
The master nodded. Coin exchanged hands. Did he never speak beyond monosyllables?
“I’ll bring some food to you.” The tavern keeper motioned to the back of the inn.
She picked her way around noisy tables and already-sleeping bodies as she followed him and the master. The tavern keeper set a steaming tray on a side table. The door swung shut behind him, barring out the pounding noise.
A fire lent a dim light to the room. She laid Horus on a pile of blankets on the floor. With a little groan, he rolled into the wool, eyes pressed tightly shut.
Without asking permission, Libya grabbed a roll from the tray. She massaged Horus’ forehead. “Try some bread, little man.”
He shoved it away, eyes still squeezed shut.
Perhaps sleep would treat him well. She tugged the blanket over him. Across from her, the master spread wax tablets on a table. She’d never spent this long in the company of a man who had looked at her so little. “May I know your name, master?”
“Oh, of course.” He glanced up. “Felix Paterculi. Yours?”
“Libya.” Unknotting her dir
ty bootlaces, she brought her feet underneath her on the wool blankets Horus slept on.
“And your son?” Still no expression on the master’s face. Did the man never smile?
“Horus.” So many other questions she wished to ask, yet this master scarcely invited dialog.
A knock sounded. A man shoved through the door. The white linen tunic he wore marked him as a patrician.
“Wryn.” The patrician grabbed the master’s hand at the wrist. “I expect great spying information from you after the sorry trip you put me through dragging me a day’s journey from Rome to meet you.”
Libya blinked. Wryn? The master had said his name was Felix. And Rome? Was she to see the city that ruled the Empire? Horus’ father had once described the forum there, towering white marble and self-important senators wearing those unwieldy Roman garments, togas.
For the first time in four days, the master smiled. He slapped the other patrician across the back. “Couldn’t just come to greet your brother-by-marriage on his triumphal return journey from his successful completion of a Moesian tribune post?”
A soldier? Libya nodded. That made sense. Barking orders would fit into his rocklike persona.
The patrician grinned and shoved the master. “I only barely tolerate you because Gwen insists. It’s not as if I’d actually choose to spend time with you.”
The light of a laugh shone in the master’s brown eyes. He almost looked human. “Ha. You know without my keen wits, you’d never bring down the Viri smuggling ring, Marcellus.”
“Nah, just trying to make Gwen happy.”
“An impossible feat, I’ll have you know.” The master stepped back to the table and caught up a tablet. “I lived with my sister eighteen years, and you’ve only been married to her for five.”
The patrician Marcellus looked right. His gaze touched her. He stiffened. “Is she a tavern slave? Many of them are connected to the Viri spy networks.”
“No, I brought her and her son from Moesia.” The master motioned Marcellus to the table.
“Brought or bought?”
“Bought.”
Marcellus’ shoulders remained taut, his gaze on her son now. “Why?”
The question she wondered. Libya strained her ears.
Wryn held up a tablet. “I met some of Consul Julius’ men the last night before I left Moesia at the Mithras’ Goblet tavern where we suspect the Viri has been meeting for years now. The men said they’ve received reports from Viri spies that Victor is planning a smuggling operation to eclipse all others. Has he mentioned anything about that to you?”
Marcellus nodded. “The date’s the Ides of Junio, but Victor hasn’t told me anything else. Next week, I meet him for a smuggling shipment on the Tiber. I plan to press him then. He’s the Viri’s second-in-command now. He has to know.”
Victor? Like Horus’ father? Libya traced the blanket fringe. Surely many Romans besides Horus’ father bore that name. Wait, what if Horus’ father still lived in Rome? If so, she’d find him, beg him to free his son.
“I shall bring Victor to justice after he tried to assassinate me and my father and brother.” The master clenched the tablet. “Seven years I’ve tried, and this time I will bring the full force of the law against him for murder, thieving, and adultery.”
“According to Rome’s laws, he’s not an adulterer.”
“I know.” The nighttime breeze ruffled the master’s wavy hair. “But the man has no morals around women. I could respect a principled villain who strove for some power-hungry province conquest a little more than that Epicurean degenerate.”
This couldn’t be the same Victor. Horus’ father wouldn’t break the law. Even if he did, she still wanted to find him. A criminal, if so inclined, could free her son same as an innocent man.
Marcellus groaned. “You haven’t even had to work side-by-side with him for the last eight years and watch him abuse the innocent.”
“All the evidence I’ve gathered suggests this Ides of Junio smuggling venture occurs near Rome, which means it will come through the Ostia ports. I want to spend some time at the taverns in Ostia collecting information.” The master lay the tablet down. “Come with me?”
“Yes, to keep you from getting yourself murdered. You have no subtlety.”
The master rolled his eyes. “Now that I’m stationed outside Rome, I can make the journey to Ostia at least on my one night off a week. Meet me the night after tomorrow?”
Marcellus shook his head. “Can’t. Consul Julius wants me in Spoletium all this week tracking a smuggled grain shipment.”
The master cut his broad hand through the smoky air. “Consul Julius should cancel all your other commitments so you can focus on Ostia. This Ides of Junio shipment could be the key to bringing down Victor and the Viri, once for all.”
“You tell him that. He doesn’t listen to me.”
The master raised brown eyebrows. “Why? You’ve worked with him years longer than I.”
Marcellus grimaced then strode to the door. “I’ll see you in Rome.”
“You’ve traveled all day. Don’t you want to rest?”
“Have to meet a Viri shipment at a dock up north yet tonight.” Marcellus gripped the door handle.
“Mea culpa. I wouldn’t have asked you to meet me if I knew you were working all night.”
Marcellus shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes. “I fear Victor suspects me. I need to defeat him and the Viri before I end up with a knife between my ribs.”
“We, Marcellus. I want at least half the glory of bringing down the largest smuggling ring in the Empire.” The master grinned. “I’ve also got plans to obtain a praetor post that the prestige of bringing Victor to justice would very much help.”
With a snort, Marcellus walked back out the door leaving the master and her alone.
He hadn’t touched her — yet. But there really was no other reason to buy a woman of infamia.
Unless he owned a brothel.
Felix “Wryn” Paterculi strode through the garrison gate outside Rome. He needed to report to his new duty station before he went to his domus.
A legionary swung the heavy wooden doors shut behind him, Libya, and Horus.
He looked to her. She was a loose woman, but she obviously loved her son. When he saw her tears, he couldn’t walk away and let the brutish Gnaeus separate them. Why had Gnaeus even wanted a five-year-old boy?
No matter. He’d free Libya and the boy as soon as he arrived home. “I won’t take longer than an hour. Horus can play anywhere inside the walls.”
Libya nodded. Libya, her name as exotic as her loveliness. Even the coarse fabric of her work dress couldn’t hide her form. The waves of her ebony hair hung loosely to her waist, swinging with every step she took. Only women of infamia and prostitutes wore their hair down for all to see.
A star-shaped tattoo blackened her cheek, also marking her as infamia. Yet she stayed up half the night with her son as the boy retched and she cleaned and calmed him. Libya took another step. Her wool dress slid around supple curves. Though her dress now covered her legs, he’d seen everything at that tavern. Her perfectly formed legs, the amber skin of her stomach curving around her navel —
As soon as he notified the garrison of his arrival, he’d write up her manumission papers and send her off. Spending four days and nights with this woman had obviously already taxed his self-control past all godly limits.
Turning, he moved to the peaked roof of the officers’ quarters.
The tramp of soldiers on guard duty sounded through the paved courtyard.
A legionary’s gaze swung right to where Libya sat on an overturned cask. “Look at that beauty.” He let out a catcall. The other legionaries turned to stare.
Yes, Libya surpassed the beauty of any vestal virgin or temple statue of Venus or Athena. Didn’t mean these men had the right to notice.
Wryn knocked the man against his helmet. “Leave her alone. That goes for the rest of you too. Or there’ll be troubl
e with me.”
The men’s gazes touched the tribune rank on his helmet and a chorus of “yes, sirs,” followed.
A decurion at the far end of the line kicked a rock, his grumble not quite low enough. “She’s infamia, not like I’m ogling some untouched girl.”
A legionary clashed his shoulder plate against another’s as he elbowed the other man. “She’s his woman, that’s why. Lucky cur.”
Couldn’t one just be a decent human being? Not in this garrison.
Wryn thudded along the walkway, past high barracks and familiar stone walls. He swung the door to the officers’ quarters open.
Half a dozen tribunes stood by the back wall, all men he worked with here and there through the past six years.
“Felix.” With a grin, Tribune Vitus stepped out of the knot. “Back in Rome at last.”
“Salve.” Wryn grasped his hand and nodded to the others. Yes, back in Rome, and he intended to have a praetor position to show for it this time because he grew thoroughly sick of drilling legionaries and wished to do something meaningful with his career.
The door hinges squeaked behind him. A courier held up a tablet. “Missive for Wryn Paterculi.”
Tribune Vitus took it. “Who’s Wryn Paterculi?” Vitus swung his dark-eyed gaze to him, the man’s voice all too loud. “That’s a barbaric tribesman name.”
Wryn grabbed for the tablet.
Vitus jerked it above his head, and now the other tribunes circled, all looking at him. “Your name’s Felix.”
Wryn glared at the tablet. “My familia calls me Wryn.”
“Wryn?” A tribune with a high-pitched voice guffawed. “Sounds like some painted savage. A berserker stripped naked and decorated in woad.”
Yes, perhaps his mother should have thought of that before saddling him with a Celtic name he worked years to avoid letting anyone he worked with know. At least Father had the sense to list something more normal in the official birth register. Wryn extended his hand. “Just give me the tablet.”
“Wryn. Wryn.” Vitus jostled him, smirking.
“Quidquid, Vitus.” Wryn flipped the wooden tablet cover open. His sister’s name etched the wax. A missive from Gwen, of course. Trust Gwen to get him mocked in front of every soldier he worked with. She wanted him to come to a dinner party at Legate Aemilli’s house tonight. Just what he didn’t want to do after five days of travel — talk to people.
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 2
