Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Though the action rankled, she inclined her head, gaze downcast. “No, master.”

  Soon, Horus and her feet beat against the sun-warmed cobblestones.

  Horus skipped ahead. “Why do we have to go to the potter’s house?”

  “I thought you liked Seth and Rebecca.” With a glance to the sun, Libya increased her pace. Horus would have children to play with once she married Jacob.

  “I do.” Horus kicked a pebble. “But I wanted to play armatura swords with Wryn. When we get back, it’ll be too dark.”

  “Jacob has a pottery wheel. Perhaps he’ll teach you how to form clay on it today.” Libya turned down a side street, and Horus pounded after. Jacob promised he’d teach Horus things, same as his son.

  Useful things that would allow Horus to have a trade, support himself when he grew into a man — not like sword fighting and mapping the placements of a legion, things only a patrician heir needed to know.

  Libya pressed her fingers together. Horus carried the blood of the patricians in his veins, and in his time at school, he’d proven himself intelligent. If she’d been Victor’s wife, not infamia, Horus could have pursued those patrician skills.

  “I like pottery wheels.” Horus scampered even with her. “Are you sure Jacob will let me use it?”

  At her son’s smile, her own lips turned up. Though Horus would never claim his patrician birthright, at least now she would have what she only dreamed of in Moesia, a free life to offer him. He could thrive as a tradesman. She caressed Horus’ cheek. “Yes. If not today, soon. Jacob’s going to be your Papa. Seth and Rebecca will be your brother and sister.”

  “No!” Freezing in the middle of the street, Horus let out a piercing shriek. “That potter is not my father.”

  A cart hurtled down the road. Grabbing Horus’ hand, Libya tugged him left. “No, not by birth. But I’m marrying him, and then he will be.”

  “You can’t!” Another scream split Horus’ lungs.

  She stared at him. “Why not? Jacob’s nice.”

  Horus crossed his arms. “I already have a father.”

  Had she ever told Horus about Victor? She shrugged. “Now you’ll have another.”

  “I do not need two of those.” Horus glared at the road as he marched on.

  The potter’s district lay up ahead. The whirl of wheels and the smell of fresh clay filled the air.

  Rebecca and Seth played in the muddy yard by a house. The door swung in the breeze. Jacob sat inside by a pottery wheel, up to his elbows in clay.

  As Horus ran to the children, Libya crossed the threshold. “Sorry, we’re late. We have to leave before sunset too.”

  “I’m happy you could come.” Jacob smiled at her, a pleasant expression that wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “I’ll wash up.” He crossed out the door, leaving her alone in the tidy house. Mud-plastered brick made the main room, opening up to smaller rooms beyond.

  Water bubbled in a cauldron over the fire. A pile of vegetables lay on a wooden table.

  Catching up a knife, she sliced a carrot into the pot.

  “You don’t have to work when you’re here.” Jacob’s voice sounded behind her.

  Without turning, she continued to slice. “I might as well make myself useful.” Especially after what he’d pay to free Horus and her.

  Jacob leaned back against the table, both hands resting on it.

  “There’s more to life than being useful.”

  Dropping the last chunk of carrot in the broth, she forced herself to turn to the man who would be her husband. His sturdy frame weighed down the table. Clay smudged across his left eyebrow.

  “How was your day?” He brushed a sweaty lock from her face. Leaning forward, he touched his mouth to hers, the taste of sweat on his lips.

  So too, a man who smelled of Eastern spices had kissed her at that first tavern. Then he shoved her against a soiled bed. She recoiled from Jacob.

  “Did I offend you?” Jacob’s eyes grew large, concern on his broad face.

  He was a good man, and she needed to get used to this sooner rather than later. Libya stilled her shaking hand. “No, of course not. I should check that Horus isn’t terrorizing your children.” Forcing her breathing to slow, she walked into the yard. Mud now covered Horus up to his elbows.

  She felt Jacob’s presence as he stepped behind her. He rested one large arm on the doorframe above both of them. He wrapped his other arm around her waist.

  Horus and Seth made little mud bricks in the yard.

  “Not flat enough.” Rebecca tossed the one Seth had made. “More pebbles on top. They’re the raisins.” She stabbed a finger at Horus.

  “I’m pretending mine is a sweet cake with honey on top.” Horus reformed the mud.

  Jacob tugged Libya in front of him, both hands wrapped around her waist now, confining her. His breath blew into her ear. “We have some adorable children between the two of us.”

  Oh, to rip away from him! Why did men always want her body and as soon as they had that lose all desire to know her soul?

  Rebecca leaned on her haunches, her tunica a fair bit cleaner than the boys’ tunics. “Father said you’re going to live here, and he’ll be your father too, and your mother will be our mother.”

  Eyes intent on his mud, Horus shook his head. “I won’t come. I already have a father.”

  Libya’s ears heated. “I told Horus today. I don’t know why he’s acting like this. He never even met his actual father.”

  “It takes time.” Jacob pressed her closer to himself, his sturdy arms trapping her as he stood behind her. “Rebecca cried when I first told her, but she desperately needs a mother.”

  A shiver ran through Libya even as she nodded. If only giving Horus freedom and a father didn’t involve letting Jacob touch her. Not that Jacob bore the blame. She’d feel this way about any man touching her.

  Though she’d touched Wryn yesterday afternoon on purpose. When his arms had wrapped around her, his touch had felt tender. Unlike Jacob, rather than desiring her body, he wanted to know her soul.

  Little Seth cocked his head. “Why have I never met your father?”

  “You met him.” Horus stuck another pebble in his brick.

  “When?”

  “With my Mama.” Horus shoved another pebble in the mud. “He loves her so much. His name is Wryn.”

  Behind her, Jacob froze. His accusing gaze touched her. “Are you lying with your master?”

  “No! I swear it.” Heat flushed her neck, words spilling over themselves as her breathing came so fast it interfered with words. This is how things always went. Men had bought her from the brothel three times, and she had the hope of a normal life as a house slave rather than prostitution.

  Each time, within days, the master’s wife forced the new master to sell her back to the brothel. Of course, they accused her correctly. This time the accusation held no truth. Wryn didn’t see her as a prostitute.

  Jacob laid a hand on her shoulder. “I believe you, Libya.”

  “You do?” Her hands fell. No one believed a woman of infamia.

  “Yes.”

  She sucked in a mighty breath. For one moment, she laid her head in her hands. “I don’t know why Horus would say that.”

  “Children say many things.” Jacob wrapped his arm around her.

  “It’s getting late.” She extricated herself. “We have to reach home by dark. Horus.” With a hasty salve, she grabbed Horus’ hand.

  “I don’t want to go,” Horus yelled.

  She grabbed his other hand. “Come.”

  “No.”

  “Come, now, or I’ll….” As Jacob’s two children stared, she searched in her mind for a suitable threat.

  “You won’t tell Wryn I was bad, will you?” Horus’ eyes grew large.

  She tugged Horus’ arm and, miraculously, he followed. The sun’s shadows stretched long as they hurried down emptying streets. “You mustn’t lie and tell people Wryn’s your father.”

  Horus
slammed his sandals harder against the cobblestones. “I think he is my father.”

  “Wryn is not your father.”

  “I don’t even know what my father looks like.” Horus jammed his little fingers into his belt. “Why couldn’t he be Wryn?”

  “If Wryn were your father, you’d have met him long before you turned five.” Libya tightened her hand on Horus’. Wryn wouldn’t scatter illegitimate sons across the Empire like Victor had.

  “Maybe he’s my father, and he just doesn’t know it.” Horus kicked a rock, sending it soaring.

  “No.”

  Horus flashed his stubborn gaze to her. “I don’t know who my father is. Couldn’t Wryn not know who his son is?”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  Horus pressed his little lips down. “What works?”

  “Enough questions, Horus.”

  Victor stood in front of the apartment door. Inside, Edna’s labor cries rose loudly. “A son, oh great goddess Juno. Give me a son, and I will continually lay offerings on your altar.”

  Perhaps he should try beseeching the goddess Diana, or Flora. Because Juno certainly hadn’t heard his prayers about the three daughters his wife had born him.

  The door creaked. “You can come in.” The family physician held the panel open.

  Shoving past the man, Victor rushed into the adjoining room.

  Edna lay in a pile of coverlets, her face white. She held up a bloody bundle. “Not a boy. Not even healthy.”

  The scrawny baby lay limp, as if scarcely strong enough to draw breath. Her right foot curved under itself, the bone deformed.

  Sweat dripped from Edna’s brow as she clenched her stomach. “Are you going to expose her?”

  Exposing a child, leaving it for dead at the edge of the city until heat or carrion birds took the baby’s life. Many men chose exposure for a deformed child rather than pay the cost to raise it. Victor squirmed. “I don’t really do that.”

  Edna’s gaze fell to the baby, draped limply over her arm, the child’s face already blue. “She’s probably not going to live long anyway.”

  “Then it’s the gods’ choice, not mine.”

  “Can you send the physician back in then?” Edna lay the baby down and clenched her hands against her midsection. “I feel ghastly.”

  With a nod, Victor turned away. So much for Iulia’s plan that he should adopt an illegitimate son. He’d have to divorce her and roll the dice hoping that the gods favored him with a son by a new wife.

  He had to find a new wife too. A groan slid through Victor’s teeth.

  Chapter 17

  Libya hastened down the street she’d traversed only yesterday. With Horus at school and the cook suffering from too severe a headache to assign tasks, she had a few hours to visit Jacob. A week remained until she had her manumission papers.

  Chants rose. A wedding procession streamed down the street, waving ribbons and garlands. A flame-colored veil slipped from the seven braids the bride had wound around her head.

  Once, growing up, she saw a village wedding and made clumsy braids in her hair and draped a sheet around herself. The housekeeper had slapped her and told her to take it off. “Slaves aren’t brides,” she said.

  Yet, in a week she’d be a bride, not a slave — free. Libya hastened her step.

  Rebecca stood in front of the cottage, holding a broom, her tunica fluttering in the summer breeze.

  Libya smiled at the girl. “I’ll help you.” An answering smile lit the girl’s lips. She never mothered a girl child before.

  “I didn’t expect you.” Jacob stood from the potter’s wheel. He frowned.

  Across the stoop, Seth extended a purple rock.

  “Don’t interrupt your work because of me.” The more she focused on mothering Jacob’s children, and the less she contemplated serving as his wife, the more happiness she’d find in this marriage. Libya squeezed Seth in an embrace and looked at his rock. “It’s lovely.”

  “No, I need to talk to you.” Jacob’s heavy footsteps crossed the threshold. He gestured his children inside and shut the door. He turned his gaze to her, displeasure in those dark pools. “I don’t want to marry you.”

  Her head pounded. “What did I do?”

  “You won’t let me touch you.”

  “I would if we were married.” She should have hidden her revulsion better. She knew how to hide it completely. Ten years as infamia had taught her that.

  “Besides, I got to thinking.” Jacob narrowed his eyes. “Your infamia will taint my future children.”

  Libya shifted, moving the bronze clasps that held her tunica in place. The wide window revealed various new pots surrounding the now-still potter’s wheel. Jacob had offered Horus a trade and a life as a freedman. “You asked for me. Why change your mind now?”

  In Wryn’s household, Horus received kindness and an education, yet how long would that last once Wryn married Aulia? Only Jacob offered freedom.

  Jacob’s gaze met hers. “I think I lost my head for a few weeks.”

  Lost his head. Yes, she had a knack for doing that to men. Only a mad man would wish to join his name to hers. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “I found another woman. A carpenter’s daughter with a dowry as you suggested at first.”

  A virtuous girl. An untouched girl. Who she’d been at twelve.

  “I’m sorry to give you false hope.” Jacob rubbed a clay-stained hand against his tunic. “I got to thinking, though, I don’t truly wish to take on Horus either. I want my own sons, not another man’s.”

  Rejected. Again. Not good enough for marriage, not even to a freed slave. “Good fortune on your betrothal.” Turning on her heel, Libya plunged down the streets as tears clouded her eyes.

  Freedom, an elusive dream. Shattered desires, an all too familiar reality. Horus bore no blame for her infamia, yet he suffered for it too.

  Blood rushed through her veins as she increased her pace. Her legs trembled. At least she wouldn’t have to wed Jacob. Only, what would it feel like for a man to want her enough to marry her? She shook her head.

  No man wished to have a woman of infamia for a wife.

  A courtyard opened up. A flowering lotus tree held its blossoms up to the sun above. She collapsed on the low wall around the tree and drew in heaving breaths.

  Infamia. The memories flicked through her mind again. So many, many men. Times she longed to scream, yet had to summon a laugh instead.

  Despair tugged at her heart, burying itself deep as tears flowed down her cheeks. She jammed her fist across her tears. Roman laws notwithstanding, she’d leave the Paterculi villa long enough to find Victor and make him free Horus. Unlike before, now she had an opportunity to escape those towering walls patrolled by guards when she walked Horus to school.

  If Wryn discovered she went to his archenemy, he’d be far from pleased, but she didn’t care.

  Her life had ended ten long years ago, but her son would grow up free.

  Wryn tucked a knife underneath his tunic and pushed the tablinum curtain aside. “Tonight’s the dinner Victor will attend.”

  “What?” Dropping the bucket of dirty water, Libya twisted to him.

  “I told you yesterday before you started crying.” Yesterday when she threw herself into his arms and pressed her body against his. He’d wanted to kiss the color back into her blood-drained lips. By Pollux, he still wanted to.

  Her eyelashes swept up. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Oh, maybe I didn’t.” He hadn’t thought straight for hours after she jumped into his arms. “The dinner shouldn’t bring danger upon you because you’re not a Paterculi and thus not a Viri target. If you’d rather not go, though, I understand.”

  Libya’s dark eyes lighted. “I want to go.”

  Wryn beckoned her into the room. Taking up a parchment, he spread it on the table. “Here’s the layout of the villa. I believe the owner of the house is a Viri man, so I’d like to check these rooms for documents too.” He point
ed to the tablinum and the eastern bedchamber.

  Libya nodded. “I should leave now. They’ll want the servers there early.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” Wryn shoved another knife in his belt.

  Libya turned her almond eyes up to him, concern in those never-ending wells. “Is it very dangerous for you?”

  She wouldn’t have thrown herself in his arms if she didn’t care for him a little. His heart beat faster. “Depends on how many of the Viri’s men are in attendance. I wish Marcellus would have come tonight. He acted passing strange about it all. Tried to convince me not to go either.”

  Libya nodded, her body so close to his, her presence lending this room an air of mystery.

  Yet in eight days she’d marry that wretched potter.

  The servants jostled, filling pitchers and wide trays. Libya scanned the dark atrium as guests filtered in from the streets outside.

  A shadow passed across the back entrance. She looked again. The set of those shoulders, the angle of that nose, could it be? The man turned. Her heart stopped.

  “Victor!” Her sandals beat against the hallway as she ran to him. He looked the same as almost seven years ago.

  Victor’s arm came up. He peered through the darkness. “Who are you?”

  Her face fell. “You said you’d never forget.” Slipping her hand into her bosom, she pulled out the pouch. “I kept the rose petals.”

  Victor’s eyes widened. “Libya?”

  She nodded. Other guests moved through the atrium, but this darkened hallway lent protection.

  “Ecce, but it’s been an age.” He shook his head.

  “Did you ever marry that woman from Britannia?”

  “What?” Victor wrinkled his brow.

  Horus made that same expression, and she could see her son in every angle of Victor’s face. “Seven years ago when I asked you to take me with you, then you mentioned a woman in Britannia and that you would marry soon.”

  “Oh, Edna. She’s my mistress, not my wife.” Victor shrugged. “What brings you to Rome? That tavern keeper need a larger audience?”

  Libya’s gaze dropped. “He sold me.” The words fell against the tile, heavy as common brick. Buying and selling, all slave talk, a different world than Victor’s. When she spoke with Wryn, he made her feel like she could communicate with the free world.