She laughed. “That’s a nice rumor compared to others I’ve heard spread about me.”
It should bother her. The sun glinted off her tattoo. Around them, peddlers and hawkers’ gazes turned to her, looking at her as if she were a prostitute.
She could bind up her hair and cover it with a palla, yet that wouldn’t remove her tattoo, or Horus, or her infamia.
With the tiniest shrug, she turned her back on the lusting men as if she encountered this a thousand times before. Her lips parted. Her lips glistened in the light, the deepest red he’d ever seen. “Thank you for sending Horus to school.”
Of course, she had encountered this a thousand times before, and he was far from the first man to have kissed those lips, or to wish to progress further still. Only he hadn’t, and at least one other man, more likely several others, had.
Consul Julius adjusted his elegant robe. He waved to the porter. “Send Marcellus in.” Soon he’d kidnap the dancing girl’s son. He just needed the boy to leave those impervious Paterculi gates on an errand.
Sandal striking tile, Marcellus strode in, his gaze as resentful as these last five years. “May I ask why you summoned me on my first day off this fortnight? I will cease working for you once I bring down the Viri’s Ides of Junio plot, your threats to expose my past notwithstanding.”
“Your mother’s alive.”
The man went rigid.
Good. “If you’d like her to stay that way, I suggest you do exactly what I tell you.”
“I want to see her.” Marcellus clenched his dagger.
“No.” Consul Julius rubbed lotion on his hands. “And you won’t be telling Gwen or any of the Paterculis aught of this, or I’ll kill your mother.”
“If you don’t prove to me that she’s alive, I have no motivation to follow any of your commands.”
A temporary complication. Consul Julius sighed. “Very well.”
Chapter 14
Afternoon sunlight reflected off Wryn’s cuirass as he clipped his cloak to his shoulder plates. Today Horus attended school for the first time. He’d ask the boy about it when he got back from night duty at the garrison.
Taking up his red-plumed helmet, he strode toward the gate.
“Wryn!” Libya dashed through the villa door. Her hands shook, her breathing coming in gasps. “I went to fetch Horus from school. There’s smoke everywhere and charred wood. They won’t let me have Horus.”
“I’m coming.” Wryn shoved out the door, through the courtyard, past the villa gate.
Fast strides brought him swiftly to the lavish marble of the Collegium Academy’s forum. There was no sign of an active fire now or much structural damage, but flames had charred the cedar school front and smoke stained every stone.
No students or pedagogues gathered outside the school. The headmaster stood in the open doorway beneath a smoke-tinged marble inscription, a scowl on his face, his hand gripped tightly around Horus’ upper arm.
Horus better not have done what he thought the boy had. Wryn turned to Libya. “Wait here.”
She nodded.
Striding to the marble stairs, he marched up to the wide dais where the headmaster stood.
Smoke rose from the headmaster’s ears, his voice barely under control. “Your son, Tribune Paterculi —”
“He’s not my son.”
“Your son, Tribune Paterculi —” The headmaster raised his voice louder as he squeezed Horus’ arm tight enough to block circulation. “Lit this building afire. He almost caught the buildings around it aflame. He could have burned down Rome. I should throw him in the Mamertime gaol for flogging or death.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see his crime punished myself.” Wryn narrowed his eyes as he scowled at Horus.
The headmaster glared. “You said he’s not your son. I have every right to send a slave boy to gaol for attempting to kill patricians’ sons.”
“You’re not sending a five-year-old to gaol for capital punishment.” Wryn held his hand out. “Release the boy.”
The headmaster tightened his grip on Horus’ arm. “You owe ten thousand denarii for the demise of this school building. We’ll have to meet across the street for a fortnight before the marble can be cleaned and the wood repaired.”
“Very well. I’ll send my steward over with the money before Horus comes back next week.” Wryn reached for Horus.
“Comes back? That fiend is never welcome inside these doors again.”
“Your school is the best in Rome, and you rely on the patronage of the elite to stay that way.” Wryn quirked one eyebrow. “Truly wish to offend the Paterculis and all their connections?”
“Offend? You said yourself he’s not your son.”
“You’re taking Horus back.” Wryn moved his glower to the headmaster. “Or do you want me to undonate that wing my father gave you?”
The headmaster harrumphed. “Very well, but this better not happen again.”
“Oh, it won’t.” Wryn glared at Horus.
The headmaster dropped his hand from the boy’s arm.
The child skipped down the stairs, humming happily. “Mama, I’m never going back to school. Can we play flute music tonight?”
Libya ran toward the boy. Kneeling, she ran her hand over the rapidly swelling bruise the headmaster had given Horus. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, he’s all right.” Wryn thudded down the last step. “He tried to burn his school down.”
Horus crossed his little arms. “I told you I didn’t want to go. Now I don’t have to.”
Wryn locked his scowl on the boy from above. “You are going back to school.”
“You can teach me. I like when you teach me sums and reading.”
“Very well. I don’t report to the garrison tomorrow, I will.” Wryn glowered at the boy. “By the time I’m done, you’re going to beg to go back to school. Before that, though, you’re getting punished.”
Horus bit his lower lip. “I won’t do it again.”
“You, by Pollux, won’t be doing this again.” Wryn’s voice rose to fill the forum. Whatever philosopher had advised stoic calm in all situations had never met Horus.
Libya flashed her dark-eyed gaze to him. “Perhaps he didn’t mean to burn it?”
“Don’t defend him.” Wryn glared at Horus. “I’m an hour late for garrison duty already. I’ll see you when I get back.”
Twelve days, twelve, and still no peace in this villa. Libya carried the noonday food past the hedges out to the far end of the Paterculi gardens where high walls rose, locking her in this domus. She still had not found an opportunity to go to the Ocelli villa.
Before Horus ruined it, Wryn had offered him an education and the chance to choose his occupation as a slave. An educated slave could live a good life, but it didn’t compare to freedom. She had to find Victor.
Horus stomped his foot down on the shovel and launched up dirt. “I hate this.” Pace after lumpy pace of dug up and now planted garden soil proved the work Horus had accomplished in twelve days.
“You did set your school on fire.” Reaching for his dirty hands,
Libya brushed them off and placed strawberries and cheese in them.
Plopping to a seat on the loose dirt, Horus shoved food in his mouth. “Help me.” The child had slept well the last twelve days.
“Wryn will be angry with you if I do.” She glanced at the stone wall that towered high above her. Only a few more paces of unturned dirt until Horus reached the wall. Perhaps then they would have peace.
“Don’t tell him. You always helped me get out of punishments at the inn.” Horus licked some strawberry juice from his fingers.
“Unlike then, I think you deserve this punishment.” So much for her considering the Paterculi domus peaceful. Between the master and Horus’ glares, even the porter had his teeth on edge and the cook had struck her three times this morning.
“Wryn’s going to make me practice writing again when he gets back from the garrison.”
“I hate school.” Horus dug his foot into the loose soil.
“More than you hate digging garden beds?”
Seizing the shovel, Horus jerked up a scoop of dirt. “Tell Wryn, I’m not giving in.”
“I already did.” A week ago. She told Wryn perhaps Horus was too young, maybe next year. Pleaded more like.
“And?” Horus’ face lit.
“He said when Emperor Trajan surrenders Dacia to the barbaric hordes.” Libya dug her toe into the dirt. Wryn spoke the truth that she indulged Horus too much, and she appreciated the way he reined in Horus these last weeks, but it smarted that she had no power to influence the discipline of her own son. When Aulia entered this house and chose to beat Horus for no cause, she’d have to accept that too. Oh, to be free.
Sitting cross-legged on the dirt, Libya spread a map on her knees. “Do you know these letters?”
Horus stabbed a dirty finger at the heading. “T-I-B-E-R, Tiber.”
So, that’s what it said. These black dots on the river must mark the smuggling shipments Wryn had intercepted based on her information. She’d discovered five more Viri shipments this week in Ostia.
Tomorrow, they went to Ostia again. Blessed relief. An entire afternoon and evening without enduring the rage of every servant in this villa as they fumed at her that a prostitute’s son was ruining the master’s, and therefore their own, tranquility. Hillock after hillock of weed-covered soil stretched behind her. This couldn’t last forever. Someone had to give in eventually.
Didn’t they?
Moonlight flickered on the water. Libya dipped her toes in the garden pool, washing off the stickiness of the day. Horus had fallen asleep hours ago. Rolling up her tunica, she lifted a clay pot and spilled water down her half-bare legs. The water lent a refreshing coolness in the muggy night air. Still, the stone walls loomed high around her, penning her in these same gardens, villa, and pool she’d lived by for over two months.
“Still awake?” Wryn’s foot clipped the tile rim of the pool.
“No, dominus. I sleep.” Leaning on her hands, she tilted her gaze up to him. “This is a vision from your dreams, a water nymph torturing you as an apparition.”
“Water nymphs don’t torture people.” His body crumpled the grass as he sat a pace from her.
“So sure?” Dipping her hands into the pool, she splashed water at him. The water stained his tunic as it rolled down the sinews of his neck to his chest.
“Don’t do that.”
“Why?” Dipping up another scoop, she launched it at him. Water spattered across his face. She leaned on her hands, comfortable in her dry tunica as the moonlight shone on her half-bare legs. He might order her son and her, but statues didn’t stoop to splashing back. She kicked her toe in the water.
“Because I told you not to.”
“Oh, look at that nightingale.” She pointed to the dark branches overhanging them. “Impossible to hear a word you say above its song.” Grabbing the pottery, she dunked it deep into the pool and flung the water at him.
His tunic stuck to him as water rolled down his hair into his eyes. He caught both her hands in one of his, his strong fingers locking around her wrists.
She kicked the pool with her feet, spraying water up at him.
He touched her waist. She felt his hands around her as he stood, lifting her. Her gaze flashed to his dripping face. The pool water glistened beneath his sandals as he held her out. She grabbed his tunic. “You wouldn’t.”
He cocked one eyebrow, laughter in his eyes. He dropped her in the pool.
She hit the water with a splash and came up dripping wet. With a leap, she grabbed his hand and tugged him.
He braced his feet on the tile edge like some Adonis with the moonlight at his back.
“You can’t soak me and not even get wet yourself. It’s not fair.” She shook her hair and water splashed around her, making droplets in the pool.
“Who said I had to be fair?” His deep voice had the authority of the masters of the world, the Roman patricians.
Nor was it fair that some were born to privilege and she couldn’t even exit these high walls long enough to beg the father of her child to free him. Lifting one leg to the edge of the pool, she used the pressure of Wryn’s hands to spring up.
Launching herself against him, she knocked him off balance. “Look, you’re wet now.”
He froze, his one hand touching the grass as he half-sat, half-reclined on the grass, her hair and tunica dripping on him as she sprawled on top of him.
Reaching over his arm, she yanked up a handful of grass. She stuck her hand into his tunic and dropped grass down his back. With a self-satisfied smile, she brushed her grass-stained hands against each other and moved off him.
He sprang into motion. Catching her around the midsection, he rolled over, pushing her down against the grass. His fingers hovered above her tunica, his hand full of grass.
His chest loomed above her, the largeness of his body trapping her as his muscular arms pinned hers.
Her heart beat erratically as her nails dug into the dirt. She couldn’t roll away from him, just like when Victor had laid over her, and she forced herself to submit to what he wanted from her.
A clammy sensation slid across her skin as the hot touch of brothel patrons washed over her once again, their mouths shoving against hers, their heavy bodies forcing her legs apart.
Her gaze moved to Wryn’s face. Aulia would reach up and kiss that handsome mouth, wrap her arms around Wryn’s neck, and tear his tunic down from his broad chest, taking pleasure in every moment of it. Phoebe hinted she’d do the same. Uncried screams choked her. What was wrong with her?
She couldn’t even strike up with her fists for Wryn’s big hands gripped her wrists. She started this. However Wryn chose to end it, she could only blame herself.
His hands dropped from her. “You made a mess.” Rising, he grabbed for the piled towels under the peristyle awning.
Relief swept through her. He didn’t even want her that way — the one man in the Empire who preferred a wife to a harlot. She watched his turned back as he walked into the house by moonlight.
What would it feel like to be the wife, not the prostitute? To want a man and have him as hers the way Aulia wanted Wryn? Even a husband’s touch would set her skin to crawling as the old memories flowed back. Not that she’d ever get a husband anyway.
Even if she could earn her freedom and become legally free to marry a plebeian, no man married a prostitute.
Eighteen days into Wryn and Horus’ war there was still no end in sight. Libya brushed the broom against the atrium tile. Why had she said “yes” when Wryn asked if she wanted Horus to go to school? Why?
Horus had said “no,” and when he refused one couldn’t change his mind any more than move a mule. Did this master who commanded armies see that? Of course not. So, Horus dug dirt and glowered all day long. The master scarcely seemed in a better mood, and the cook blamed her. She had several bruises beneath her tunica to prove that.
Voices rose from behind the curtained tablinum.
“You told me I only had to dig one garden for punishment.” Horus’ whine penetrated the cloth.
“Have you decided to go back to school yet?” The master’s voice had an edge.
“Never!” Horus yelled.
“Then you’ll dig another one.”
“That’s not fair.” Even Horus’ voice had a glare in it.
“Fair? Do you want to talk about fair? Cincinnatus said the only fairness in this life —”
A thump sounded, likely from Horus stomping his foot. “I don’t care what some stulte dead man said.”
“I don’t care what you say.” Wryn’s voice lost any shred of calm.
“Well, I don’t care what you say.”
The sound of a tablet slapped on a table came from the tablinum. “Copy that lesson.”
With a sigh, Libya mov
ed to the front courtyard. She swept her broom across the dusty stones.
A man walked to the gate. Guards moved to the side as the porter unlocked the iron bars. Jacob, the potter from the catacombs, approached, his dusty hair an odd shade of brown. With a quick nod to the porter, he walked up to her.
“Salve.” Libya stopped sweeping. “Can I get someone for you?”
“Will you marry me, Libya?”
She stared at the man she’d seen perhaps five times in these last weeks. “Marry?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even raise an eyebrow at the impossible question.
“Slaves can’t marry.”
“I’ll buy your freedom. You can get to know me over the next month while I’m saving up the price.”
“Do you even have enough for that?” She stared at his clay-stained hands.
“Tribune Paterculi is a good man and a good customer. I’m sure we can work something out.”
She dug her fingernails into the broom handle. “What about my son?”
“I’ll pay to free him too, teach him the potter trade same as my own son. I can read, write, and sum. Under my tutelage, he’d have a future.”
“Why do you want to marry me?” She touched her unbound hair. As a freedman himself, Jacob ranked low enough her infamia wouldn’t matter as much.
“My children run wild. With all the new business I’m getting for my shop, I need a wife to tend them.”
“You could find one much more skilled than I. A free woman who would bring you a dowry, not cost money.”
Red rose across his cheekbones. “You caught my eye.”
Ah, the same reason any man had ever wanted her. A wave of disgust roiled her stomach. Still, he offered freedom. At present, life at the Paterculi villa proved pleasant, but that would change the moment Aulia entered this household.
Who knew, in her jealousy, Aulia might even insist Wryn sell Horus and her off. That’s how she and her mother had gotten sold ten long years ago. Jacob offered as much as Victor ever would to an illegitimate son: freedom, a trade, and a future.
She ran her gaze over Jacob’s sturdy face and calloused hands.
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 15
