Slaves brought plates of food, gazes lowered as they filled goblets to overflowing. Lying beside Eric, her head almost touching his shoulder, she felt strangely naked.
He pushed the dipping bowl toward her and she touched her fingers to the floating rose petals.
Others stuffed delicacies into their mouths and chatted eagerly. If she attempted that, she’d probably flip the table over and rip apart her stola’s brooch.
An older man took a stand at the front of the long hall. “Now the time has come for speeches. We have poets to enchant your senses and a messenger from Dacia with the latest war news, along with others, but first we’ll hear from the son of our province’s esteemed legate. Eric Valens Paterculi has a business venture to present for your consideration tonight.”
Eric looked at her. His knuckles white, his breath came faster than it ever had after a run. “I can’t give a speech.”
“Of course you can. Homer himself couldn’t weave a story better than you.” Twisting toward him, she laid her hand on his chest. His heart beat like a thousand galloping horses.
“Not in front of all these people.”
Her gaze followed his. At least fifteen score people crowded into these walls. “You’re a patrician. I’m sure you studied rhetoric.”
“Oh yes, studied, and failed every test.”
“You never fail.”
“The words all jumble together. All I can see is the eyes boring into me. My legs go stiff. I sound like a blubbering idiot.” He spoke as if, as if he wasn’t invincible. “I’ll tell Aulia’s father I changed my mind.”
Then Eric would stay at the docks. He belonged here, interacting with these men as master of the world, not servant of it. She’d ruined everything for him. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Are you crying?”
“No, I just, I want you to have this.” She tried to blink back the tears before they smeared kohl-tinted lashes, but now a scratchy feeling started in her throat too.
Behind Cara, a slave bowed deeply. “Pardon, Domina, but your babe cries for you.”
“Go to her,” Eric said. “I’ll fail whether you’re here or not. Failure’s a native tongue for me.”
The green silk wrinkled around Cara’s ankles as she stood. Touching his shoulder, she leaned close to his ear. “For a man who kept all three of us alive this winter, you speak madness a considerable amount. You’ve got a silver tongue, Eric, and I’ve never seen you fail.”
Up front, the host coughed. “Eric Valens Paterculi.”
“Eric Valens Paterculi,” Aulia’s father repeated.
Eric hauled himself up. First principle of oratory, exude confidence. Eric’s knees shook. The eyes bore into him, eyes everywhere. He forced his feet up through the narrow aisle between couches and tables. Silver-tongued? Had Cara perchance never met the man she married?
The toe of his sandal caught on an acacia couch claw. He stumbled, hand hitting a fat quaestor. More eyes on him.
He had the attention of the room anyway. As Eric reached the front, his heart pounded in his throat, sweat pouring down his forehead into his eyes. No podium here, only a pace-wide space. He stood there, towering over the hundreds of eyes facing him.
Aulia’s father, Aulius Corneli, gestured to him. “You may start now.”
Eric looked down the long hall, table after table holding so many eyes. The eyes stared at him. The meat he’d eaten for the first time in months threatened to erupt. Needed to get backing. Needed to talk about shipping. “My shipping venture.”
Aulius Corneli, likely the second most important patrician in Britannia after Father, frowned. “What about it?”
Eric moved his gaze to the left side of the room where heavy curtains hung between marble pillars. Cara touched the damask. On the other side of her, the curtains swayed, revealing a slave woman who held Lucia. His baby cried and Cara took Lucia into her arms.
Aulius Corneli coughed again, his gaze now boring into Eric along with the scores and scores of others.
Silver-tongued? Scarcely, but he’d be cursed before he let Cara and Lucia spend another winter in that hovel. Standing up to his full height, Eric met the eyes and stared back at them. “Since the Dacian invasion, the esteemed Emperor Trajan has conquered many gold mines. This has brought down the price of gold around Dacia and created a prime trading opportunity. I propose to charter a ship to buy gold vessels at a low price from Dacia and bring them here to sell at a profit. Questions?”
A portly man, a few tables from the front, pushed himself up to his elbow. “If it’s such a good plan, why isn’t your father backing it?”
Eric spread his legs. When one stared back at the eyes, they faded a little. “A man need not rely on his father’s fortune for every whim.”
“By Jupiter, that’s the truth.” A young man clamped his wine goblet on a table.
One man raised his hand. “What cut will you give investors?”
“Seven-tenths.”
“How much do you need to invest?” Another man asked.
“My goal is to send one ship first, at six thousand denarii for the cargo. I found a captain who is hauling grain to Rome next week for another customer. When he transfers the grain to wagons at the Dacian side of the Danube, he will load the gold goblets.”
Except for the movement of knives against meat, and the slurp of people draining goblets, silence hung over the room. In the quiet, the eyes grew larger again, staring at him from every angle.
A man with the purple-bordered tunic of one who has risen high in politics shook his head. “It’s a meager scheme. I have more important moneymaking ventures.”
“I leave trade to the equestrians.” A former legate yawned and sank back into his couch.
A middle-aged man stood, a newly-risen equestrian by the look of his tunic. “I’m Lycaon Vibianus and I’m interested. Come to my domus on the morrow, and we’ll speak more of this.”
Air whooshed from Eric’s lungs. He nodded and stepped off the stage.
His heart still pounded, the sweat on his palms exuding the familiar scent of terror as he walked back the narrow aisle to his table. A slave offered him a slab of meat, but Eric shook his head.
Is this how the Roman legionaries that invaded Britannia felt when faced by Celtic berserkers seventy years ago?
No, facing down Celtic berserkers had to come easier than this.
The stars twinkled above them and the moon had risen high in the sky by the time Eric exited the villa’s doors, a sleeping Lucia in his arms, Cara one step behind him.
All the other guests had already left, litters and horses cleared out of the yard now. Behind him, a shadow moved.
Marcellus stood underneath a tree’s overhanging limbs. No salve crossed his lips. Instead, he riveted his gaze on Eric.
Eric rolled his eyes and kept walking. Let the man stare at his Celtic clothes and plebeian marriage. He, at least, had integrity.
“What’s the babe’s name?”
Eric thudded to a halt, a pace in front of Marcellus. “Um, Lucia.” His daughter wriggled, and Eric settled her deeper in the crook of his arm.
Through the darkness, Marcellus shifted his gaze from Lucia’s face to his. “You’re a good father.”
Eric shifted back as he eyed Marcellus, looking for cynicism.
Marcellus’ eyes held only approval, and the slightest gleam of jealousy? “Lucia’s lucky to have you.” Making no sound, Marcellus glided forward over the cobblestone. He grazed his finger across Lucia’s cheek.
A length of bandage wrapped around Marcellus’ upper arm below his tunic sleeve. The same bandage he’d worn for months. An old battle wound?
Behind him, Cara’s skirts swished. She touched Eric’s arm and looked around it to Marcellus. “You lost your father three years ago, didn’t you?”
Such intense anger seared across Marcellus’ face that Eric drew his other arm up around Lucia.
“He died long before that.” Marcellus whipped on his heel and strode awa
y.
Alone with Eric in Aulia’s courtyard, Cara smoothed the worn wool of her dress. Before he married her, he must have spent many of his nights at wondrous events like this.
How he could not hate her for making him lose all that still baffled her.
Would Eric think differently if he knew he bore no blame for the events that lost him his inheritance? That she’d seduced him that night?
She gazed up into his eyes. If only she could confess it to him, but what if Eric couldn’t forgive her? What then?
“Wait,” Aulia called. Gliding down the marble stairs, she drifted noiselessly over the cobblestones. She held out a folded cloth toward Eric. “Keep the tunic. My father won’t miss it, and you can’t exactly do business with Lycaon Vibianus in those clothes.”
“Thank you.” Eric took it. “For everything.”
“Of course.” Aulia turned her pale lips up. “Say salve to your brother for me.”
“Wryn? I haven’t seen him since last summer.”
“Oh.” Aulia ran her tongue over her lips. “You know, with the Mesopotamian legate delaying so long, he might break off the betrothal altogether. Father would look for a new match then. If you happen to see your brother….”
With a cough, Eric glanced up at the moon before looking at Aulia again. “Wryn doesn’t deserve you.”
Aulia pursed her lips, a disapproving light in her eyes, though the lady was obviously much too proper to express it. “You’ll tell him, though?”
“I could, but,” Eric glanced at that moon again, “in all honesty, Aulia, Wryn’s not yet twenty. He won’t marry for years, and when he does, he’ll marry for political influence, not love, such as you suggest.”
“I know,” Aulia moved her chin up, “but my father has impressive political and military connections, and my dowry’s almost as large as your sister’s. If Wryn wishes political influence from his marriage, he couldn’t do better than me.”
Cara watched Aulia’s face. The girl kept her voice so calm as she sold herself off like a business deal.
“It’ll be five years at least until Wryn marries.” Eric touched his belt with his free hand. “Truly think your brute of a father will restrain himself from collecting what political capital he can gain from marrying you off for five years?”
Cara grabbed his arm. “You shouldn’t call a girl’s father a brute. You’ll offend the lady.”
Aulia’s eyes held sorrow rather than offense. “You’re right, I know. Wish me fortuna then in my bridal voyage to Mesopotamia.”
“You’ll need the angel Gabriel’s vengeful sword by your side more than fortuna if that Cretan’s half the man rumor has him to be.” Eric spat on the ground.
Aulia laughed, a pleasant sound. “Now why couldn’t I have had a brother like you?” She frowned. “Or a father like yours and Gwen’s?”
“Being my father’s son is not as easy as you’d think.” Eric turned on his heel.
Aulia looked to Cara. “Did I offend him?”
Cara shook her head. “No. Just a bad subject, and not all rumors are true. Perhaps the Mesopotamian legate is a kind man.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned Eric’s father after all the gossip, and don’t fear, I won’t tell the Paterculis.”
The night wind blew around Cara’s dress, flapping her skirts. Tell the Paterculis what?
Chapter 23
“Lycaon Vibianus will see you now.” A slave bowed and ushered Eric inside.
In the tablinum, Lycaon rested his elbows on the table. “Is your father going to have my hide for giving you the means to continue to cross him?”
“Sir?” Eric took a seat.
“I need no quarrel with the legate of the province.”
Eric furrowed his brow.
“Surely you know your father arrived back from Rome last month? He’s ransacking the province for you at present.”
No, he hadn’t known, but Eric shrugged. “Let him search.”
Lycaon scraped his stool against the tile. “When can you launch this shipping venture?”
“Now.”
“Excellent. I’ll fund it, but I want nine and a half tenths of the profits, and you’re responsible for paying me back whether the shipment comes through safe or no.”
“Nine and a half?” Eric rose.
“You have another backer?”
No, he didn’t. Eric swallowed. “Very well, but when this shipping venture succeeds, you’ll charter two more vessels and give me four tenths of their profits. Also, I’ll not take responsibility for the cargo I make no profit from.”
The man drummed his fingers on the table.
Eric held his breath in. Should he go lower? No, the man’s eyes had held interest last night, even when he spoke of seven-tenths.
At long last, Lycaon smiled. “You drive a hard bargain. I like it. The last trader I invested in got the wool pulled over his eyes by the ship captain he hired.” He held out his hand.
Eric took it at the wrist in pledge.
Opening the money box behind him, Lycaon handed him a bag of gold coins. “I want two ships.”
Two? He’d walk away with six hundred denarii, at least. Even in the unlikely event that one ship sank, the other would pay back his debt. Eric gripped the once familiar weight of gold. “I’ll get the vessels chartered.”
What had Father said about his “shiftless” son not lasting a month without the Paterculi fortune? Seven months had passed, and once this shipment came in, he’d buy Cara a decent house and new clothes. A few more shipments and he’d have the funds to run his own trading venture. Maybe then, he’d visit Camulodunum. Say salve to Father. See Mother, Gwen, Paulus. Wryn, too, if forced.
Not last a month without the Paterculi fortune? What about the rest of his life? Father could think on that.
Smiling, Eric pushed open the door to the hovel they could abandon in two months’ time.
Cara looked up from the kettle, a long ladle in her delicate fingers. On the pallet, Lucia miraculously slept. “Did you get the backing?”
“I did.” He slid his hands around Cara’s waist. Lifting her in the air, he spun her. “We’re doing this.”
“You’re extraordinary. I knew Lycaon would see that.” Cara threw her arms around his neck and her cheek brushed his. “Just think, it’s like Odysseus, you sending ships to far-off lands.”
Odysseus traveled to fight wars, a patrician virtue, not conduct trade. That’s why Father and Balbinus Maximus would find this business venture infinitely less laudable than any of Wryn’s accomplishments, but when he held Cara, he felt extraordinary.
He’d spoken to the ship captain already and agreed on purchasing arrangements for Dacia. The vessel would sail on the day after the morrow’s tide. Now he only needed to transfer the design he’d scratched on the hovel wall to a wax tablet so the ship captain could stamp the image on the crates.
Cara slid to the ground. “I don’t suppose we have money left to write my father? He’s probably worried sick about me.”
“As long it’s your familia, not mine.” Eric grabbed a half-burned stick, end blackened and as useful as any stylus, and turned to his design.
“Father hates patricians, so he won’t tell, but why don’t you want your familia to know where we are?”
He should tell her, shouldn’t he? She’d looked beautiful in silk last night. No woman would be pleased to learn she could take part in the six million sestertii a year of Paterculi wealth, but her husband was forcing her to live in a hovel to prove his father wrong. Guilt slithered through his veins, but pride was worth so much more than six million sestertii.
Would a woman see that? No, if Cara was anything like Gwen, she’d have his head, and he’d still not apologize to Father because he hadn’t done anything wrong. Looking back, he likely could have selected better friends than Victor and going to that farmhouse to hunt smugglers hadn’t been the most astute idea he’d ever had. All the same, Father hadn’t been the person he’d wronge
d, and he wasn’t apologizing to him.
As wretched as this hovel was, it would become infinitely more miserable if Cara no longer threw her arms around his neck and told him that he never failed.
Seven months married now, and she never mentioned her almost betrothed, but rather gazed into his eyes like he’d conquered empires. No one had ever stayed pleased with him this long. He truly didn’t want to ruin that. Eric turned to his sketch on the wall.
The flames played on the charcoal marks, a raven soaring over the mountaintops, the sun at its back. On the right, awkward charcoal lines scratched over his design, obscuring the mountain face. “What’s this?”
Ladle still in her hand, Cara crossed her arms. “I made the eagle undead and battling the raven, as it’s supposed to for the Paterculi crest.”
Stepping closer to the design, he peered at the scratched figure. Though the eagle looked much like a mouse with wings, it soared, very alive, over the mountains to sink its talons into the raven. Eric glared at it. “I’m not putting my father’s crest on my shipping venture.”
“It’s not just your father’s. The Paterculi heritage goes back generations, statesmen who fought for Rome.” Cara waved her hand.
“You’re not a patrician. You don’t care about statesmen fighting for Rome.” He continued glaring at the eagle.
“My father’s a centurion. The first battle of the Punic War was an epic success, establishing the Roman state. You likely had a Paterculi ancestor there.”
“The Punic Wars were Hannibal and Carthage fighting Rome.” Eric smudged his thumb across the eagle, but the image remained and blackened his thumb. He turned his glare from the picture to the one who’d subverted it. “Why do you actually care?”
Cara traced her finger down the handle of the cauldron ladle. “People admire the Paterculis. You could get wealthy customers.”
Despite himself, Eric smiled. He slid his arm around Cara’s waist, pulling her up to him. Perhaps, after all, she spoke truth. The Paterculi crest had endured for generations. He had as much right to it as Father did. “Mercenary?”
When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2) Page 27
