Marcellus crossed the space in a bound.
The cold metal of Marcellus’ knife pressed against the bags of his own throat, much too close for comfort. Consul Julius shifted.
Marcellus’ knuckles clenched white, his breathing shallow. “You kill my mother, and I will kill you. No matter the time, no matter the place.”
Not an idle threat coming from a man with Marcellus’ skills. Since this Viri plot involved an assassination, Marcellus could prove useful. “Very well.” Consul Julius shoved the knife away. “Find me this plot, and I’ll give you your mother.”
While he waited on Marcellus’ spying, he’d kidnap the boy, Victor’s son. The child walked to school each day with only his mother for company, so this part of the plot should prove undemanding.
Wryn ducked under the archway leading to the Marcellus gardens.
Gwen sat on a bench, a wax tablet in her hand, chewing on one end of a stylus as her children played with dirt.
“Where’s Marcellus? I need to ask him what else Consul Julius said last night.” Afternoon sunshine made patterns in the grass same as it would at his villa. At this moment, Horus would be playing in that grass — with Libya.
Gwen jumped. “Oh, it’s you. Marcellus left for the night. Victor assigned him another shipment apparently.”
How he’d relish prosecuting Victor. Wryn clenched his gladius hilt. There were only a matter of weeks left before he could use those parchments.
“Has —” Gwen traced her finger over the bench’s arm. “I mean, does Marcellus seem preoccupied to you?”
Wryn shrugged. “He’s your husband. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I’ve tried. Marcellus says I’m imagining it, but I’m not.” Worry shone from Gwen’s black eyes. “Has Consul Julius made any threats against him?”
“Consul Julius? He’s the man aiding us in catching the Viri. If Marcellus fears for his safety, the threats will have come from Victor.” The wretch. Using the parchments, he’d ensure he won this court case against Victor and see him exiled, if not executed.
“If I tell you this, you must pledge not to tell.” His sister clenched the bench arm so tight her arm paled. Her shallow breaths lurched her chest in and out.
Wryn blinked. Crossing, he sat next to her. He touched her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Marcellus was born a slave.”
“A what!” Wryn leaped from the bench. A slave? No. He misheard. Patrician women didn’t marry slaves or former slaves. Legally, they’d lose their patrician status for that.
“He was the illegitimate son of the Marcellus heir.” Gwen fingered a fallen black curl. “His half-brother Caius Marcellus planned to spy for Consul Julius. When his father and half-brother died, Consul Julius chose to use our Marcellus for how much he resembled his half brother. The consul only gave my husband his freedom and the estates because I forced his hand five years ago.”
“You’re married to a freedman?” How dare Marcellus do this to Gwen? She’d lose her citizenship, status, and inheritance rights if news of this got out. “Does Father know?”
“Of course not. I haven’t told anyone. Do you think I want to become infamia?” Gwen scrubbed one hand against another. “He’s Caius Marcellus now. Only Consul Julius knows, and he’s held it over Marcellus these last five years. I fear Consul Julius has threatened Marcellus with something. He’s acting so different.”
“Perhaps he’s worried about, I don’t know, the wrath of the Paterculis when we discover the danger he’s put our sister in.” Wryn raised his voice. He looked to Gwen’s children who played along the garden beds. Marcellus’ secret put not just Gwen, but her children at dire risk. If news of this got out, neither he nor Father nor all the prestige of the Paterculi name could protect Gwen and the children she loved.
“Wryn.” Gwen struck her hand against the bench. “He’s your brother by marriage. Nothing’s changed.”
“An illegitimate marriage because of his freedman status.”
“Wryn. I love him.”
He groaned. Trust Gwen to get herself into this kind of situation. “You and he already worried aloud that Victor suspects his spying. Until we arrest Victor, Marcellus is in an unenviable situation. That explains any fear.”
“It’s more than that.”
“He’d tell you if something else had happened.”
“I’d have thought so, but….” Gwen rubbed the tail of her belt between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s lying to me about something. I didn’t use to be able to tell, but I can now.”
“Used to?” Wryn raised his hand. “Has he lied to you before?”
“Don’t rage at Marcellus. His life is in danger.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I’ll talk to him. See if I can help him in any way. Though —”
“I know. I know. Mayhem I created, not you.” Gwen clasped his hand. “And thank you.”
“I only meant to point out that if Marcellus won’t talk to you, I doubt he’ll talk to me. But since you’re thanking me so nicely….” Wryn grinned at her. Though he’d like to slam a fist into Marcellus’ face just now for the danger he put Gwen in these last five years.
“A rare occurrence, I know.” Gwen laughed. “I’ll make it up to you by helping you with your Prefect post.”
“Please, no.” That was the last thing he needed. Though, thanks to Gwen’s turmoil, he’d spent an entire half-hour without a single thought about Libya. A record this week.
As soon as he reached home, Horus would greet him at the gate. The boy would somehow drag him into talking to Libya. She’d turn her dark-eyed gaze up to him, and within moments she’d laugh, and he’d smile, and the conversation would turn to poetry and music and the great questions of life as her hair blew around her lovely body, begging him to run his fingers through it.
Though each thought Libya uttered would engage him in its own right as her lovely lips parted with the words, he’d also lose the ability to cease thinking about the taste of those lips. Then, once again, he’d spend a sleepless night, tossing and turning under the coverlets only to awaken the next morning to the guilty feeling that one less night separated him from the day he’d wed Aulia.
Wryn sat back on Gwen’s bench. “I’m consumed by an overwhelming longing to hear your plans for my prefect position and how you would run the post I earned.” Truth be told, she did have good advice on politics.
If Gwen could keep talking until after Horus went to bed, even better.
Libya scrubbed the cloth over the sticky dishes in the kitchen, which the dying fire still heated to overwhelming.
“Ostia tonight.” Wryn rested his hand on the doorframe, his raised arm tensed.
She nodded. Tomorrow he’d marry Aulia. Wryn hadn’t mentioned it to her. In truth, he barely spoke to her these last few days. At least he hadn’t mentioned the parchments, but would he take her side when Aulia tried to sell Horus and her?
As master of the house, he had the final say, but she never saw a master withstand a wife’s jealous demands long. Her own father had sold her to slavers. A month yet until Victor freed her and Horus. A cold feeling slithered over Libya’s skin.
“I’m ready.” Dropping a wet dish, Libya followed Wryn out of the kitchen to the stables.
The ceremony would take place at Aulia’s house, but the wedding procession would follow Wryn and Aulia all the way here. The sound of lyres and jubilation would rise through the air along with the flash of silks and scent of many flowers as all wished the couple joy.
Swinging on his horse, Wryn reached for her. She clasped her fingers around his wrist, and he lifted her onto the horse.
If the cook ordered her to help serve the wedding feast, she’d feign illness. Even holed up in the servants’ quarters, though, she wouldn’t be able to avoid the festive noises and loud congratulations of wedding guests.
She hated Aulia.
“Marcellus refused to ride with me tonight. Said he’d meet us there. I don’t know what’s wro
ng with that man.” Wryn spurred the horse on.
The sun sank low on the last night she’d ever speak to Wryn like this. Aulia certainly wouldn’t allow these moonlight rides to Ostia to continue.
A bird swooped from the darkening tree branches. “Look, a kite.” Libya smiled.
“That was a raven.” Wryn’s glum voice matched the encroaching darkness.
“I’m sure it was a kite.” She twisted on the saddle to face him, her hand on the horse’s neck. “Do you know the story of how Isis, wife of Osiris turned herself into a kite to bring forth Horus whose destiny was to avenge the evil in Egypt?” She’d heard that tale in the tavern the day before she gave birth to her son and named him after that deity who vanquished evil and performed justice.
“Yes, it’s the most absurd mythology I’ve ever heard. First, the king starts dicing his brother’s body. Then, the woman flies around the entire land like a bird picking up the rotting pieces.”
“Perhaps it holds no truth, but what would it feel like to soar through these lands like a bird?” She gestured to the darkening sky where the first stars began to appear.
“If I could turn myself into a bird, I’d pick an eagle, not some dumb kite.”
Her gaze flashed to him. Wryn’s eyes had a moody look, a dismal expression turning down his mouth. So much for having a conversation this last evening Aulia would ever allow them to spend together. Oh, to throw a piece of pottery, preferably an expensive one belonging to Aulia.
“Did you name Horus after that Egyptian myth?”
Libya nodded as her fingers knotted in the horse’s mane. What would Wryn do when he discovered the parchments missing? Surely, he wouldn’t guess at her involvement? If he did, he certainly wouldn’t oppose Aulia’s plan to sell Horus and her. A scratchy feeling started in Libya’s throat.
“I’m sorry I called it the stupidest myth. I’m sure stupider ones exist. Many legates still use auguries and decide when to go to war based on the pattern of the birds.” Wryn jutted his eyebrows down, his face rigid as a statue in its passive gloom.
She smiled. “Are you always thus complimentary?”
“You’re mocking me again.”
“Are you sure?” Tilting her gaze to him, she let her eyes laugh.
“No, I’m never sure with you. About anything.” He urged the horse on.
“Tell me —” Her head brushed his shoulder as she leaned back against his hard chest. After tonight, she’d never touch him like this again. “Why an eagle?”
“My family crest is an eagle locked in combat with a raven.” He held up his left hand. An iron signet encircled his finger. “Passed on for generations.”
“It’s beautiful.” She leaned closer to look at the markings. More austere than the Ocelli signet, the eagle and raven looked like something a soldier would wear. She pointed up. “I’d take the body of an eagle if only I could fly.”
“Rome’s conquered nations, built roads to span an empire, and brought water thousands of miles through aqueducts, yet King
Solomon’s words still stand. Four things we have not discovered, including ‘the way of an eagle in the air.’” Wryn looked far off, his voice somber.
She touched his shoulder, and the warmth of his skin penetrated her hand. “What are the other three?”
“The way of the serpent on the rock, the ship in the midst of the sea, and….” Wryn twisted his fingers tighter around the reins.
“And?” She tipped her chin up.
His gaze held hers, discomfort in his eyes. “The way of a man with a maiden.”
The way of a man with a maiden? A scoffing noise rose in her throat. No great mystery existed in that.
Preoccupation cloaked Wryn like the darkness that surrounded them.
Did he think of the morrow and his bride? Aulia had never dared Ostia or searched out smuggling shipments. She probably didn’t even know the Viri existed. This was not Aulia’s night, but hers. “What evidence do you hope to find tonight?” Twisting her knee tightly around the saddle pommel, Libya looked to Wryn. She’d not report anymore to Victor. She already saved his life.
“I need to know who Victor plans to assassinate. That’s the only goal now.” Wryn looked at her, frustration in his voice. “Though how I’m supposed to discover that, heaven only knows.”
“We’ll find it.” She touched his hand. “We work well together.”
“That we do.” Wryn’s fingers brushed the back of her hand.
“I’ll miss these rides.” A tavern loomed ahead, signaling an all too swift end to the ride.
“You mean that?” A light flickered in Wryn’s eyes.
“Of course.” She leaned back against him, her arms on top of his as if the action would cause the horse to slow and give her a few more moments. “Won’t you?”
“Yes.” He tugged the horse to a halt. Swinging off, he led the horse into the tavern stables. He reached up for her.
Taking his hand, she slid from the horse. The stable walls shrouded them in darkness, only the faint glow of moonlight visible through the gap between the eaves.
Wryn’s gaze lingered on her as her hands rested in his. In moments, they’d enter the Ostia taverns. Once more and never again. A harpist should strum a dirge, nightingales should raise their voices in warbling gloom.
Wryn pressed his mouth against hers. Her gaze shot to his. He circled his arm around her waist, tugging her against him.
She looked left then right, searching for a tavern guest or Viri spy who would necessitate Wryn playing this farce.
The stable door was closed, blocking sight, no noise in this wooden building save the gentle breathing of horses.
Wryn continued to press his lips against hers. His strong arms pulled her close to his chest. A sliver of moonlight illuminated his face.
Her heart dropped. All this time had he never seen her soul and only desired her, just like Victor had said?
Wryn held her tighter, his one hand hedging the boundary of her waist and what lay below. The movement of his chest against hers made her tunica shift at the neck. His breath came faster as the gaping cloth revealed what she had a hard time keeping covered anyway.
Her eyes sought his, but he didn’t fully meet her gaze. He kept kissing her, his hands hot on her dress. Instead of bringing soothing calm like moments ago, his touch scorched like fire.
Memories flashed through her body as the handprints of every other man who had ever desired her played across her skin.
No! Wryn couldn’t feel this way about her. If he kissed her like this, he had never seen her soul.
He toyed with the shoulder of her tunica, which only a flimsy brooch held in place. He traced the neckline of her tunica, just like every other man touched a prostitute.
Wryn had called this morally repugnant. Wryn had called her body a temple as sacred as the marble rising high over Juno or Diana’s shrines — as pure as Aulia’s body. He wouldn’t let another man defile Aulia.
Wryn had lied. He didn’t see her as a temple. He saw her as a prostitute. Libya’s knees trembled. Why did he speak of his God, moral virtue, and temples if he always intended to use her just like other men? He could have done it the first day. He was her master. She expected it. Why wait until now when she trusted him, loved him. Tears built in her throat.
Wryn pressed his mouth to hers. This Christus Wryn claimed to serve called this sin, even though she was a woman of infamia, not a clean virgin like Aulia. Perhaps he invented Christus to lure unsuspecting slave girls into trusting him.
A sick feeling twisted in her stomach. She trusted Wryn. All this time had he seen her merely as a prostitute? Perhaps he’d go no further than a kiss, not truly treat her as a prostitute. Wryn shifted his hands on her back.
Ecce, she’d have the answer to her question now.
Circling her arms around Wryn’s neck, she leaned into his kiss. All this time had his friendship and talk of poetry on starlit nights been a lie? Was all Wryn’s fine talk of a God who cared for s
lave girls the same as patricians merely a fanciful tale?
She balled her fist. Oh, to slam her fist into his face.
What would that prove? Masters took what they desired anyway. If Wryn had lied to her, she’d take Victor’s advice and make use of his desire, for she had no intention of allowing Aulia to separate her and her son this month. Even though she despised Wryn for his actions, he presented an all too simple way to earn his favor.
She thrust closer to him, ensuring she rubbed up against him. She hadn’t lived as infamia for ten years not to know exactly what men wanted.
She slid his tunic down and ran her hands across the muscles of his chest. Firm, smooth, no different than Victor’s, but if Wryn did this she’d hate him a thousand times more. Victor and all the brothel patrons hadn’t lied to her. Wryn had.
Tears welled in her eyes. This never happened. She could always control her tears when she did this.
Jamming her fingers into her brooch, she split the clasp. The fabric fell. His gaze followed the cloth as it slid. She yanked at the other brooch. It clung to one thread as her tunica hovered between covering and revealing nakedness.
Stepping back, he broke the kiss. “We have to go in.”
Why? Did he see her as some spotless marble temple or a prostitute? Did this Christus exist or no?
She tilted her head. “Finish what we’ve started later?”
Aulia might have a thousand hateful plans to wreak vengeance on her and her son, but the conceited patrician woman was mistress of the house, not master. That innocent virgin had no weapons to win this fight.
Libya ran her hand across Wryn’s chest.
He yanked his tunic up and walked into the tavern.
The tavern noise rose loud around him. Wryn stared across the square table that one sodden sailor occupied. Likely there were Viri ship captains in this mix somewhere, but his head swirled too fast to think. Libya moved among the tables. Libya. Always Libya.
He turned to the red-eyed sailor. The man had sunk much too far in his cups to remember anything by morning. “What do you do if you’re betrothed to one woman and in love with another?” Wryn looked away to the bustle of the tavern.
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 27
