This evening, he’d like to pour over the information he discussed with Marcellus last night. What would Victor Ocelli smuggle on the Ides of Junio? Grain to flood Rome’s supply and ruin the farmers? Slaves? No, Emperor Trajan would welcome an influx of slaves.
What then? He’d discover it and bring down his archenemy Victor Ocelli, the man who had tried to assassinate him.
“Come tonight.” Vitus elbowed him. “We’re all going to a party.”
Wryn sighed.
“It’s a perfectly reputable party.” Lucius, a tribune with long fingers, slapped his shoulder. “Nothing to offend a Paterculi.”
“I have work to do.” Wryn bent to sign his name on the garrison log. Why did everyone want him to talk to people? He much preferred work hours, orders, campaigns, building projects — all things he excelled at.
“It’s at Legate Aemilli’s house.” Vitus’ newly polished armor caught the glint of afternoon sunlight. “His daughter will attend. I hear he’d like a marriage alliance with you.”
Lucius knocked his bracer against Wryn’s tunic sleeve. “Though the legate might rethink that if he knew our Felix was actually the woad-painted Celt, Wryn.”
Thanks to Gwen, he’d have to endure weeks of this mocking. Wryn scratched the last “i” of his name on the garrison parchment.
Vitus winked at him. “You’re twenty-five, time to get started on those heirs.”
“My father’s signing the papers for the Valeri daughter this summer.” Lucius leaned against the wood wall. “You’ll come to my betrothal?”
“Very well.” Wryn rolled the parchment. More people to talk to, and call it the insanity of his mother’s Celtic notions, but he wanted to fall in love with a girl, not mindlessly make the political alliance of a marriage. Though, of course, she had to come from a politically influential family. As the Paterculi heir, he couldn’t choose a girl from one of the less-connected patrician families.
Yawning, Vitus scratched underneath his bracer. “Your sister flamed the ears of Rome in your absence. Rumor says she slapped an Aedile for belittling his wife.”
“Your brother entered this year’s Olympic Games.” The squeaky-voiced tribune turned his nose up. “Chose working in trade over politics, and now he’s competing in Athens like some Greek.”
Wryn tugged the garrison reports off the shelf. He’d read over these tonight and catch up on what he missed. Also, he knew his family was insane. Did he truly have to get ridiculed for it too?
What he would give for his familia to act like respectable Romans for once rather than some sort of Celtic barbarians who created gossip throughout Rome.
The door jolted open. The decurion dragged Libya into the room, his hand clamped on her arm. Her ebony hair caught in the soldier’s shoulder plates, her fast breathing calling attention to her bosom.
Wryn slammed the garrison reports on the table. “I told you to leave her alone.”
“I didn’t suppose you’d like the entire garrison burned down.” The decurion motioned behind him. A legionary wrenched Horus forward.
Libya shoved at the decurion’s cuirass, and his hand dropped from her. Her black eyes had an ethereal quality.
Wryn turned his gaze to Horus. The boy raised round cheeks, a smile turning up his small mouth. “You expect me to believe this child almost burned down a garrison?”
The legionary held up Horus’ little hand. The boy grasped flint and tinder with smoke-tinged fingers. “He had a barrel of olive oil alight. We only just got it out before the barracks could catch fire.”
Wryn stared at the boy. “You’re a violent —”
Libya fell to her knees. Her dress slid down over her sculpted shoulders. The sunlight glistened on the star-shaped tattoo on her cheek, and her falling hair caressed each of her curves, just like on that dancing floor five nights ago. “I’m to blame for not watching him better. Please don’t punish him.”
Wryn groaned and motioned to her to stand. “We’re leaving.” Only a few more hours remained until he sent Libya and her savage of son away forever.
Vitus’ eyes lighted. “Wryn, the Celtic berserker, brings a slave boy to the garrison and the boy almost burns it down. Your barbaric allies will congratulate you.”
“Don’t you have any other inane gossip to titillate your small mind with?” Wryn grabbed the garrison reports.
“Perhaps. Who’s the girl?” Vitus ran his gaze down Libya’s lovely body in the way he struggled not to allow himself to for the last five days.
Wryn stepped between Vitus and Libya. “No one.”
Lucius smirked. “She doesn’t look like no one.”
“A slave?” the squeaky-voiced tribune said.
“Your slave?” Lucius circled his finger around the gilt design on his scabbard as his gaze raked over Libya’s body same as Vitus’ had.
“Your mistress?” The squeaky-voiced tribune also looked overly long at Libya.
“Ha!” Vitus smirked, laughter lighting his pinched face. “Everyone knows the Paterculis are too stoically virtuous to stoop to mistresses. Though his sister ran away with a man who wasn’t her husband before they married. Guess those stellar morals only descend through the male line.”
In one stride, Wryn grabbed Vitus by his shoulder plates. “Don’t insult my sister.”
All the men’s eyes stayed focused on Libya.
“Then again, a siren like her could break down even Stoic morals.” With a grin, Lucius ran his finger down a lock of Libya’s all too available hair.
Wryn shoved Lucius. His gaze touched Libya. “Come.” Kicking the door open, he thrust a legionary out of the way, and Libya and Horus followed him out.
Chapter 3
The Paterculi gate swung shut behind Wryn, the villa empty except for servants these days. He’d only stay in Rome until he could obtain a praetor position.
Wryn motioned Libya into the kitchen. With a sullen glare, her son followed.
The sweating cook dropped a towel. “Welcome home, Dominus Paterculi. Will you need food tonight?”
Wryn shook his head. He was going to that inane dinner Gwen wanted him at. He needed to make political connections for his praetor post. “This is Libya and Horus.” He motioned behind him without looking.
Even when his gaze didn’t touch Libya, the image of her dancing almost naked in that flimsy skirt invaded his mind again.
He shoved the image away. “See that they’re fed and given a room.”
A childish grunt sounded behind him. Wryn twisted as Horus hurled a rock.
Wryn shot his hand up. The rock slammed against his palm, bruising flesh. The child would have cracked his skull.
“Please don’t punish him, master. He won’t again.” Libya fell to her knees in front of him, again.
He could see straight down the gaping neckline of her dress. Not helping matters. He’d free that woman and her ghastly child as soon as he got back from this dinner party.
Libya grabbed his hand, the skin of her hand so soft. Was the skin she flaunted five days ago dancing at that tavern as soft as —
With a groan, Wryn walked out the doorway, leaving the siren and her fiend of a son as the cook’s problem.
Dinner noise swirled around Wryn. Men lifted wine goblets high while women milled, the food tables still empty. Wryn’s stomach growled, proof of a much too troublesome day. He hadn’t eaten since he ate a pear this morning.
He made sure Libya and Horus had eaten the noonday meal. When he sat down to eat with them, her melodic voice quieted to whispered conversation with her son, her dark lips touching the water tumbler, each one of her movements calling attention to her sensuality. He fled the table to rid himself of those impure thoughts.
Why couldn’t he get his thoughts under control? Though the other tribunes attributed his morals to Stoicism, more than that, he followed the Way.
He shook his head. Simple solution, he’d free Libya and send her off before tomorrow’s light had time to warm the land.
&
nbsp; Legate Aemilli stood a few paces inside the room.
Now that’s who could get him a praetor post. Wryn swung around a colonnade. “Salve.”
“Felix Paterculi.” Turning from his other guests, the legate smiled. “Welcome back to Rome.”
“Gratias. Know anything about open praetor posts? I’ve served six years as tribune now, and I’d like to advance.”
The legate shook his head. “Speak to Senator Porcii.” He pointed to a gray-haired man standing at a tapestry of a half-naked Diana surrounded by sick-looking deer.
“My thanks.” Wryn turned.
The legate caught his arm. “My daughter has grown into a woman.”
“Uh-huh.” Now Senator Porcii moved into the peristyle hedges. Consul Julius stood on the left side of the room. He needed to catch him and discuss Ostia plans.
The legate’s round eyes bulged. “She is a virtuous and obedient daughter with an excellent dowry.”
Still not interested.
“I should introduce her to you.”
Wryn’s stomach growled. “I have to talk to Senator Porcii. Thank you for mentioning him to me.” When would the food appear? Was the legate’s goal to starve his guests into marrying his daughter?
“Of course.” An affable smile tugged up the legate’s thick lips. “We’ll talk more of this later.”
No, they wouldn’t. Wryn strode across the room to where Senator Porcii stood, not yet engaged in conversation.
Someone bounded in front of him. A girl, too young to deserve the title of woman, fluttered her eyelashes at him. The legate’s daughter.
Wryn suppressed a groan.
“How passed your time in Moesia, Tribune Paterculi?” The girl flaunted her bare arms, which looked more suited to playing with dolls than husbands.
“I’m not interested in marrying you.”
Red blushed her cheeks. “I wasn’t implying —”
“Then why did you father monolog to me about your dowry and virtues?” Wryn tried to move right to where Senator Porcii ambled out the colonnades, past a lotus tree.
Another girl slid in his path. “Tribune Paterculi.” She blushed.
Not again. This happened last time he visited Rome. “I’m not interested in you either.”
“Wryn Paterculi.” An outraged female voice hissed in his ear. His sister. Gwen dug her slender fingers into his arm. “You can’t talk like that to women.”
He believed the gossip about her slapping the Aedile. “I’m merely speaking truth. And that one’s a child, not a woman.” He nodded toward the departing legate’s daughter.
“Marriageable age starts at twelve. It’s custom in Rome. We all know how you love custom.” Gwen flaunted her shoulders, her black curls sliding from their pins with the movement, just like when she mocked him as a girl.
“The way that girl flirted, if I were her father, I’d lock her away for another ten years.”
“Wryn!” Gwen struck her hand against his chest. “You’ll never get a woman with that attitude.”
“Regrettably for me, half of Rome and their fathers don’t agree.” He headed into the gardens after Senator Porcii.
“I hear you don’t want a child as a wife.” A low voice slithered into his ear. Sparkling red silk glided over a woman’s body. Hermina, a woman he had the unfortunate occasion to know because of Gwen, sidled up to him. She ran her fingers up his arm.
Hermina’s brown hair piled in smooth waves around her sculpted head. Her pink lips were full, and any man would notice her ravishing face and enticing figure. Yet he didn’t have a problem fending off images of her when he tossed in his bed at night. Unlike Libya.
He met Hermina’s manipulative gaze. “Doesn’t mean I want you either.”
She moved closer to him, her hand still on his arm, her chest brushing up against him now. “My year-long mourning for my husband has ended. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t think I’m beautiful.”
“You know you’re beautiful. That’s how you had a string of affairs while married to that doddering old man.”
She pressed closer to his side, her tunica gapping. “None proven, and my husband never objected.”
“Not what I’m looking for in a bride.”
“I’m sure you could control me.” She ran her fingers around the collar of his tunic. “Surround me with your passionate embraces, claim me with your soldier arms. Besides, who’d look for another man when they had you?” She looked up at him, her kohl-tinted eyelashes raised high. Her other hand touched his belt.
“I don’t want a used-up harlot to be the mother of my heirs.” Those words made her remove her wandering hands. Finally! In all honesty, he mostly meant them.
She pulled back, arms crossing over her bosom. “I’m a perfectly respectable widow.”
“Doesn’t change how many men you’ve had.”
The faintest shadow of shame passed over her green eyes. “Only one proven, my late husband, rest his soul.”
“Half of Rome wants me. I can easily find an untouched girl.”
Hermina’s cheeks flamed angry red. “So, you do want a virginal child to tutor to your ways, awe with your manliness, impregnate with untainted heirs.”
Wryn met her gaze. “A woman, not a child. And I’d scarcely be the first man to want that.”
“By all means, then choose your innocent flower.” Cheeks still flushed, Hermina waved her hand over the crowd. “I’ll probably marry a doddering old fool again and be available after you get your virginal bride big with child and tire of her. Need some excitement.”
“I’ll never look for the kind of excitement you offer.” Never. In that, he was not like other patricians.
Crossing left past myrtle trees, Wryn searched for the Senator. The man stood by a potted plant, mosquitoes buzzing around his jutting ears.
“Wryn!” Gwen’s voice again.
Wryn groaned.
“Marcellus says you bought a dancing girl from a tavern?”
Wryn shrugged. He hadn’t even mentioned the six thousand denarii part.
“What are you going to do with her?”
“Free her. I need to write up the manumission papers tonight.” Get her out of his house and out of his head.
“Wryn Paterculi!” His sister’s voice had an annoying shrill quality, which made it incomprehensible to him why Marcellus’ eyes always lighted when Gwen spoke.
Now Senator Porcii moved farther on.
“You can’t dump her on the streets of a strange city with a little boy. What would she do?”
Wryn shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“She’s a woman of infamia. Use your imagination.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. In truth, he hadn’t thought of a lot of things when he laid six thousand denarii down for the most beautiful woman he ever saw. For example, almost having his garrison burned down, a near assassination attempt with a rock, the overwhelming need to take a dip in an iced-over lake every time he saw her.
“Give her a few months here to learn some skills. Then when she’s come to know Rome, perhaps she could procure a job as a cook or a nursemaid.”
A few months! He could not have that woman in his house for a few months. “You’re good at finding women jobs. She can work at your fuller’s shop or wherever you put women.”
“I don’t put women. I improve women’s lives. You’re the one who dragged her and her son away from everything they knew in Moesia. You should have freed her back there.”
All-surpassing wisdom! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Likely because not looking at Libya had consumed all his wits.
“Asking you to allow her and her son to live in your house for a few months is not unduly burdensome.”
Yes, it was! “No.”
“Have you no heart, Wryn Paterculi? If you throw her into the streets, you’re responsible for whatever villains take advantage of her.”
Men violating her? No other man better lay their hands on Libya. No other as in none at a
ll, because, of course, he wouldn’t. “Very well, I won’t free her yet.”
A glimpse of black hair caught Wryn’s eyes. His head swiveled. A matron walked across the path, her dark hair pinned up, not loose like the glinting locks of Libya’s tresses. The matron had a stout frame, not lithe and as graceful as the reeds that blew in the wind.
That woman probably had sturdy legs underneath her tunica, not like Libya’s when she danced around those tables, every sway of her hips revealing up to her thighs as the strips of her skirt swished. He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. He hadn’t even watched Libya dance, only caught a glimpse once by accident.
Maybe he could spend most of his time hunting smugglers in Ostia these next months. Crossing back into the main house, Wryn walked to the ever-pacing Senator Porcii.
The man looked up. “Is this about obtaining a praetor post? Legate Aemilli just put in a good word for you.”
Ecce, now he felt like a villain for his rudeness to the legate’s daughter. Wryn nodded.
“Why can’t your father, a member of the esteemed Paterculi line, get you this praetor post you covet?”
“He tried before. Couldn’t make it happen.” Wryn grimaced. If Senator Porcii refused, he’d be drilling dull-witted legionaries for the next year.
“I’ll tell you why he failed.” The senator crossed sun-mottled arms. “It’s the marriages your familia makes. The political alliances of a good marriage bring prestige and political posts. Your father married a Celtic village girl.”
Getting mocked for his familia’s choices? Story of his life. “Will you give me a praetor post?”
“And your father giving up a consulship for that career ender of a post in Britannia.” The senator struck his weathered hand against his forehead.
“My father’s a consul now.”
“Twenty years too late.” Senator Porcii caught up a wine goblet. “And the marriages, they keep getting worse. Your brother married a plebeian girl who was with child.”
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 3
