Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Food heaped high in trestles, dice and gambling games spilling across tables. He glimpsed the flash of Libya’s tunica. What would he do?

  The sailor leaned forward. “Who’s the woman? Is she married? Someone you can’t get, who you’ll have to write unrequited love sonnets about? Catullus chose that solution.”

  He wouldn’t have pegged the sailor as one who read, though Catullus’ tawdry rhymes appealed to the baser elements. “No, a slave. My slave.”

  Libya walked across the room, skirt swishing around her legs. He needed to feel like this toward Aulia. He had to feel like this toward Aulia. If he didn’t, then what?

  “That’s easy. Marry the betrothed. Make the slave your mistress. You’re a patrician, aren’t you?” Voice slurring, the sailor pointed to his fine tunic. “You’re not supposed to swoon over your wife. You just need a chaste woman to uphold your family honor and get political connections and heirs from.”

  Wryn stiffened. “That’s not who I am.” He clenched his fist. “Well, not who I want to be.” It was exactly who he was. He kissed Libya tonight, not in this crowded tavern because their deception demanded it, but out back in the stables because he wanted to and had almost done a thousand times more. Even though he’d set a wedding date for the morrow.

  He couldn’t marry a woman like Libya, but oh, how he loved her. If he let her stay....

  He couldn’t let her stay. He’d manumit Libya in the morn and marry Aulia. Get the prefect post. Take what happiness he could from that. Aulia was an obedient Roman maiden. She’d do her duty no matter what he did or didn’t feel toward her.

  What would be the harm if he didn’t free Libya? She said it didn’t matter. The tribunes at the garrison said Aulia wouldn’t care.

  Surely, he wasn’t expected to go his entire life without love, some ascetic like the Apostle Paul?

  Wryn groaned. Why did the Apostle Paul have to be so accursedly virtuous? No other religion asked that of its followers.

  Sliding her eyelids shut, Libya leaned against the outside wall of the tavern. She should spy, but she couldn’t even look at Wryn.

  Voices spoke in the shadows. Libya’s chin jolted up. Marcellus.

  “This assassination plot on the Ides of Junio, who’s it against?” Marcellus stood next to a slight man.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this….” The little man rubbed his fingers together. “The rumor is, Emperor Trajan.”

  Coin exchanged hands, and the little man laughed. With a grunt, Marcellus moved back to the tavern.

  “You discovered it.” Libya stepped out of the shadows. That would please Wryn. Wait, she hated Wryn.

  Marcellus whipped around, knife drawn, a terrifying lethality in his eyes.

  “It’s only me.” Libya pressed back against the tavern wall.

  “Libya.” Though Marcellus lowered his knife, the look didn’t leave his eyes. “How much did you hear?”

  “Just about the Emperor.” Libya shoved against the wall. Marcellus looked as eager to stab that knife through her as if he knew she betrayed them to Victor. He couldn’t know that.

  “I need to talk to Wryn about this myself.” Marcellus’ hard gaze bore into her. “There are some important details you didn’t hear.”

  Libya nodded. Wryn had stopped the kiss. Perhaps he didn’t completely see her as a prostitute.

  Why had he kissed her then? Her heart constricted. Either way, she’d find out on the ride home.

  Fingers dug into her arm. Marcellus stood over her, a brutal look in his eyes. “I’ll have your pledge you’ll not tell him.”

  She tried to tug away. His hand gripped her too tightly. He always acted tenderly with Gwen and his children. She glanced at his face. “Why?”

  “You’re a good spy, but you’re no patrician like Wryn and I. Some things Wryn doesn’t want you to know. He’ll rage. I wouldn’t wish you harm.”

  The only man who looked ready to stab a knife into her was Marcellus. She nodded. “Understood.”

  The lethality dropped from Marcellus’ face, leaving desperation. Why desperation? “I’ll talk to him now. Wait here.” Marcellus slid into the tavern.

  Libya tapped her fingers against the rough wood. A squawking crow flapped through the darkness. How had she let her naivety blind her to Wryn’s desire? She was no innocent. She should have known.

  Yet, he never touched her, though he had every legal right. She learned to trust him, and all this time he merely saw her as a prostitute? No different than Victor, just more patient. Tears racked her body.

  She wiped her hand over her eyes. She survived ten years of infamia. Wryn’s betrayal wouldn’t kill her. Soon Victor would adopt Horus and free her. She could use Wryn’s desire to keep her son and her safe until then.

  Marcellus moved back into the courtyard. “I told him. I didn’t mention that you knew. His first words were to not tell you. He looked angry.”

  Libya blinked. Anger? Not the emotion Wryn felt toward her tonight. Perhaps Marcellus was moonstruck? One did well not to argue with the insane.

  “I’m leaving now. He said for you to ride back with me. The trip here strained his horse’s leg, and the mount can’t carry two.” Marcellus strode toward the stable.

  Libya frowned. She’d no desire to ride with a madman. She glanced at the light of the taverns. If she walked in there, she could all too easily convince Wryn to let her stay, even if they had to spend the night in Ostia because of the horse. Then again, she’d see more of him than she wished very soon.

  She followed Marcellus to the stables.

  Chapter 27

  Stretching the manumission parchment on the low table in his room, Wryn dripped wax on it. Morning light flashed off his signet ring as he plunged it into the molten stuff.

  The parchment crinkled and rolled back over itself. He’d never see Libya again after he gave her these papers. His heart sank.

  A rap sounded on his door.

  “Come in.”

  Libya stood in his doorway.

  “I need to speak with you.” He pointed across the atrium to the tablinum.

  She stepped into his bedchamber. The curtain slid shut behind her. This wasn’t where he planned to have this talk.

  “What do you wish to speak of?” Libya touched his hand. She traced her slender fingers up his arm.

  He drew back. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?” She lifted her shoulder up, a lovely shoulder that ran down to bare skin at her tunica neckline. Every sway of her hips said she’d jump into his arms if he let her.

  She pressed her palm against his chest as she sidled closer to him. She slid her hand underneath his tunic sleeve.

  She wanted him even though he was marrying Aulia this afternoon and because of Libya’s status, no marriage vow could ever bind the two of them.

  He wanted her too. He loved her.

  What she offered and what he very much wished to take wasn’t love. He sighed. “Because I enjoy kissing you much too much, and we both know where that’s going to lead if I let it.”

  “So?” She tilted her delicate eyebrows up. “All the patrician men do it.”

  “I don’t.” He pulled back from her and took up the parchment. “Here’s manumission papers for you and Horus. You’re free to go. If you need a reference for work positions, let me know.”

  “You’re freeing me?” Libya stared at him.

  He nodded. “Should have done it weeks ago.”

  She fell back. “You truly believe it then?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That Christus judges all the same?”

  He nodded. “There’s money for rent with the papers until you can find a job. If you need more, let me know, and I’ll provide it.”

  Libya’s gaze lingered on him a moment. “Gratias.” Turning, she slipped through the curtain.

  Silence surrounded him in this forlorn room, leaving him with a mountain of garrison paperwork and a sanitation ditch to dig.

  Oh, and his own
wedding to attend.

  A crowd filled the Corneli gardens. Wryn’s toga hung straight, the cloth stiff as a tomb in the airless afternoon. Gwen stood to his left with Marcellus and their children.

  Gwen had spoken truth that something ailed Marcellus. He came into the tavern late, a desperate look in his eyes, spoke nothing of the Viri, then said he’d take Libya home. Libya.

  “You’re late.” Gwen touched his arm. “Aulia’s already at the altar.” She pointed to where wisps of smoke rose from the marble platform where Aulius Corneli burned a grain offering to Jupiter.

  Wryn took a step into the garden grass.

  A smile on her lips, Aulia touched her flame-colored veil. “It was my mother’s. Do you like it?” An iron betrothal band, the one he’d given her, circled her finger.

  Aulius Corneli stepped behind Aulia. “Take my daughter’s hand.”

  Wryn took a deep breath. Once he married Aulia, he could abandon Legate Aemilli’s wretched sanitation project and become Prefect of Rome. He slid his hand around Aulia’s.

  Her eyes lighted as she blushed pink.

  He couldn’t imagine why. She didn’t even want this marriage, just got forced into it by her father.

  “Repeat after me —” Aulius Corneli cleared his throat. “Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius — where you are mistress, there am I master.”

  “Ubi —” Wryn met Aulia’s gaze. Her blue eyes fixed on him, so much trust in them as her small hands lay in his. Without her, he wouldn’t get that prefect post.

  At the betrothal ceremony, he promised his mother he wouldn’t just marry Aulia for the political connections, but make her happy.

  How could he make her happy when he felt nothing for her? What woman truly wanted that kind of husband?

  As much as he wished to become Prefect of Rome, not continue to deal with Legate Aemilli, he couldn’t do this to Aulia. He’d given his word that he wouldn’t.

  Even as disappointment descended over him, relief did too.

  “One moment.” With a glance to Aulius Corneli, Wryn led Aulia right behind a small tree. He touched her shoulder. “It’s a shame about the wedding feast going to waste, but this isn’t going to end well me and you marrying when neither of us wants the other.” Besides, she deserved someone who thought of her as the only woman in the world.

  Aulia stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  Wait, perhaps he phrased that in an insulting manner. Gwen would likely think so. Wryn gestured desperately. “You’re a wonderful woman. The model of what a Roman looks for in a wife. Dutiful, loving, beautiful, chaste. A different man would adore you.”

  Shock ran across the muscles of Aulia’s face. “You’re abandoning me at the altar?”

  “Well….” Even though she didn’t care for him, she’d seemed excited about the prospect of a wedding. He moved his tongue through his dry mouth. “Mea culpa?”

  “You gave your word in that betrothal.” She raised her hand, voice choking. “I considered you a man of integrity.”

  Oh, he’d hurt her now. He shouldn’t have waited until the wedding day to make this decision. He should have freed Libya and Horus weeks ago. He should have heeded Gwen and Mother’s advice and never pursued an arranged marriage. “I’m sorry, Aulia. It’s my fault. You’ll find someone much better than me.”

  Her cheeks flushed red. “Many criticized your brother for the way he married. At least he didn’t abandon her after. Didn’t break every promise he ever made —”

  “We’re not in that situation.”

  She pressed her thin eyebrows down hard. “If I’d had any foresight, I would have made certain we were.”

  Wryn stared at the girl. The demure Aulia hadn’t just said what he thought he heard. Had she?

  Gwen burst through the trees. She looked from him to Aulia. His sister threw her arms around Aulia.

  “All my life, I do my duty and how does God reward me? With this.” Aulia gestured across her garden full of guests. Tears ran down her face.

  One hand on Aulia’s shaking back, Gwen clenched her fingers and mumbled something vaguely comforting. Tears spilled down Aulia’s cheeks, her nose reddening as she cried. She turned to him. “Leave.”

  Not sure exactly what her other words meant, but never had he welcomed an order more. “Good fortune to you, Aulia.” With an inclination of his head, he moved back the garden path, past the crowds of staring people, to the outer courtyard.

  As the porter swung the Corneli gate open and he stepped onto the street, sandals pounded behind him.

  Gwen stared at him, her mouth sagging. “You left Aulia at the altar?”

  “You’re the one who told me to marry for love, not political connections.” Wryn raised one palm. He’d done the right thing. “Apart from me embarrassing Aulia in front of all her friends and wasting an entire wedding feast, which I admit makes me a villain, I’m sure she’s relieved not to have to marry me. Her father arranged the match.”

  “Ha!” Gwen slammed the Corneli gate shut in his face.

  He shifted his feet on the dusty cobblestones. “What do you mean? She said herself she was honored to please her father by doing her duty.”

  Gwen glared out the iron bars. “Girls lie.”

  What? He blinked.

  “I don’t even care you didn’t marry her.” Gwen threw both hands up. “It’s what hideous man her father will betroth her to next that terrifies me. Aulia won’t run away, much as I pressure her.”

  “I am sorry for that, but —”

  “I know, I know. It’s not your responsibility to fix the mayhem her father creates for her.” With a swish of skirts, Gwen turned away.

  He meant to say that for once he condoned Gwen’s Boadicea-worthy scheme.

  Chapter 28

  Wryn shoved his toga off the table and reached for another tablet. Empty space confronted him, the finished parchments piled on the right. Done? He never finished this early.

  The quiet house surrounded him. Afternoon sun streamed through the window. He’d taken leave from the garrison today and tomorrow thanks to the wedding that didn’t happen.

  Horus had begged him to go to a mountain lake for the boy’s birthday. He’d have shown Horus how to fish. Libya would have come. They’d have spoken of philosophy, music, and the stars as Horus fell asleep and the moon rose.

  If he asked, Libya would have stayed. He couldn’t legally marry her under Roman law, but they could have stayed faithful to each other for a lifetime. Concubinage, the law called such a monogamous relationship, but only old men did that. Old men who already had legitimate heirs and all the political prestige and glory they wished.

  He was a Paterculi, a statesman. A lifetime with Libya meant taking on the shame of infamia and slamming a host of political opportunities in his face. Thoughts of Libya flickered through his mind — the way she laughed, the way she loved Horus, the way —

  Ostia. He could go spy in Ostia tonight.

  Half an hour later, Wryn entered through the Marcellus gate. Marcellus sat cross-legged in the grass, his son on his knees.

  “I’m going to Ostia. Wish to accompany me?”

  “On my one day not working this week?” Marcellus tossed a ball to Alena. With a squeal, she caught it. “Though thanks to you, rather than enjoying the day with Gwen, now she’s off comforting the sobbing bride you left.”

  “The Ides of Junio approach swiftly.”

  Marcellus’ arms stiffened, something in his eyes. “Are you going with Libya?”

  Wryn shook his head.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Marcellus’ gaze fixed on him.

  “I freed Libya. She’s gone.”

  Breath whooshed from Marcellus’ lungs.

  “Were you always so protective of her because you’re the son of a slave woman and a patrician?”

  “Gwen told you?” Jumping to his feet, Marcellus slid out his knife. “If you tell —”

  Wryn rolled his eyes. “M
arcellus, I’ve spied with you for five years. You’re married to my sister and have two children with her. I’m not about to turn you over to the authorities for crucifixion any more than you’d betray me, albeit that you deserve such a fate with all the danger you’re putting Gwen through.”

  Every muscle of Marcellus’ body remained taut, his stance rigid.

  Gwen had spoken truth. Something haunted Marcellus. But what?

  Anyway, he’d not discover anything in Ostia on his own spying merits without Marcellus or Libya. At this rate, they’d never learn who Victor planned to assassinate.

  Which meant, Marcellus’ advice or no, he’d use those parchments to prosecute Victor now.

  He’d employ his time while off garrison duty building an irrefutable legal case against his archenemy and then drag Victor Ocelli to court. Now that would make this a good day.

  Free. Libya held tight to Horus’ hand as she walked down the wide street. Free. Never in all twenty-two years of her life had she been free. A brick apartment building loomed in the poorer section of town.

  After Libya had given her new landlord, a smiling matron with gray curls, a week’s worth of rent, the woman handed her a key. Libya fingered the bronze. Keys to her own dwelling.

  “Why are we here?” Horus tugged against her hand.

  “We’re going to live here.”

  “No.” Horus kicked the brick. “I want to go back to our old house. Wryn said he’d carve me a bow for my birthday.”

  Libya’s hands tingled as she refused to cry. Wryn would have married Aulia by now. Aulia would laugh with Wryn this day, hear his thoughts, smile with him. Oh, to be Aulia.

  The landlady smiled. “Reminds me of my daughter’s son. Died last year of the fever. I’ll watch him if you want to set up the house.”

  “Gratias, but I need to hunt work.” And meet Victor as he demanded. She held out her hand to Horus.

  Horus rubbed grimy fingers across his cheek. “If I’m good and stay here tonight, can I go see Wryn tomorrow?”

  The morning after Wryn’s wedding day? Not likely. Libya’s heart pinched. Neither of them would ever see Wryn again. All those times Wryn had laughed with her, yet never again. All those times Wryn played with her son. All those times —